"So you own this place?" He knew she didn’t.
"Lock stock and fish barrel, been at this since I was a little girl."
"Do you know why I'm here?"
"Most likely Senator Towson, it’s all over TV. What happened to our quiet little town?”
“How do you know him?”
“He made reservations and brought guests here. Not often, but enough for me to know who he was."
"Where do you live? I couldn't find you in the directory?"
"Been living in my cook's place, nice condo, and she's never there."
"Give me her name. I need some kind of address for you."
"Elena Duarte, on Banyon Street,” she said with some hesitation. “But this is really my address. I’ve an office here, get all my calls, and mail here. On nights when I’m exhausted, which are most nights, I even sleep here."
“Where were you last Saturday, the day Towson was killed?”
“Saturday? I would have been grocery shopping, and every day back here by four.”
“Ever been in Towson’s apartment?”
“No!” She nervously crushed her cigarette in the ashtray. “Be right back.” She slid out of the booth.
After she disappeared into the kitchen, he picked up her cigarette butt with a napkin and slipped it into his shirt pocket.
Minutes later she returned. She stood with her arms folded across her chest and announced, “I’m too busy to talk with you. I know nothing about any murder. Please don’t bother me again.”
“Better here, Mrs. Martin, than down at police headquarters.” That line was always worth a try.
“As a matter of fact, it isn’t better here, but I can’t talk to you anyplace. Please leave.”
Back in his vehicle, he flipped open his notebook. He had met a tense Norma Martin and possibly had DNA from her cigarette. She mentioned her cook, Elena Duarte. He brought up the address search on his patrol-car computer, nothing for Elena Duarte. Next, he tried Norma Martin. She was in there and on Banyon Street. Why had she tried to deceive him about living with her cook?
He knew if some Tampa Cuban-Americans were connected to the murder that Norma Martin would now alert them. And they just might be the link to the bigger plot that Moran suspected and hoped for.
Towson had enemies in the Cuban community. He had publicly opposed amnesty for refugees after the 1980 Mariel boatlift. Also, he opposed legalizing casinos in Florida, and South Florida is sympathetic to the old-time families involved in Havana’s casinos before Castro kicked them out.
Goddard felt uncomfortable in this unfamiliar situation. He knew that a small town cop couldn’t run around the state checking out money trails and motives. And Moran didn’t want to bring in state investigators. Didn’t want them butting in, taking over, and taking credit.
So, far, Norma Martin was the only link to a possible Tampa connection. An important link if DNA from her cigarette puts her in Towson’s apartment.
Ray Reid was still the best suspect so far, although he seemed an unlikely professional hit man. Goddard needed more background on him. What did he really do in Philadelphia? It wouldn’t hurt to see if his sister could fill in some blanks. Interesting woman. Who was he kidding? He’d just flat out like to take another look at her.
He phoned attorney Jerry Kagan and after brief pleasantries asked for the cell number of Reid’s sister. Kagan was surprised with the request and said he must check with her first to see if she wanted it given out. Goddard told him, “Then just have her meet me at the Coffee Spot on the barrier island—thirty minutes, no later.” Kagan wouldn’t promise she’d show up.
Kagan relayed the request to Sandy. Her response was, “Wants to see me?” She was in jeans, no time to change. She looked in the rearview mirror—could be better but she didn’t need much daytime makeup anyway.
What was this all about? Was he going to serve a summons or a cease-and-desist order? He wasn’t the type to try to hit on her—or was he? For good or for bad she had gotten to Detective Chip Goddard.
Chapter 16
Sandy Reid crossed the Intracoastal Waterway to the barrier island and drove on east to Highway A1A. Goddard had said meet at the Coffee Spot, and she knew about where to find it.
She had driven around the same area when she first arrived in Park Beach. It was late that day, but after driving a thousand miles and getting warmer by the hour, she wanted to see the ocean immediately. She went directly to the beach from I-95 and left her car in a small beachfront park.
A pleasant onshore breeze caught her hair as she walked over to the water. She walked barefoot in the pale sand along the wavering water’s edge, daring the warm hint of tide to catch her feet and slap around her ankles. A carefree moment. She could get used to this place called Florida.
This afternoon, looking for the Coffee Spot, she headed for the beachfront area again. She remembered the arrangement of low-rise condos and beachfront hotels on one side of Ocean Drive, and the boutiques and restaurants facing them. She found the Coffee Spot down a few blocks away from the expensive beachfront hotels.
She liked the retro fifties décor—a neon-light clock above an old fashioned jukebox—like an old-time diner without all the stainless steel. She sat at the counter on a red-topped stool. The waitress was filling her thick mug when Goddard came in through the swinging kitchen door directly in front of her.
“I parked in back. Let’s move over to that last booth,” he said. “I’ll sit on the far side.”
Sandy nodded and picked up her coffee. “Remember the old movies—never sit with your back to the door and never trust a skirt.”
He grinned. “Of course, everything I needed to know I learned from old movies.”
A pretty good line, she thought. And she loved the grin. How bad could he be? She raised her coffee mug, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
“How do you like Florida, Miss Reid?”
“If they ever had a day like this in Philly, they’d write a song about it.”
Nice smile, smelled good, taller than she remembered. His jaw was slightly large, no, on second thought just right. So far, so good. She had yet to see his eyes. “You going to sit there and watch me through those cop glasses?”
“Sorry.” He took them off.
Now, up close, she got a good look at him. His steel-gray eyes were set a little deep but nicely spaced. She felt slightly timid looking at him. He was more interesting than she had anticipated, more appealing. She should have changed before meeting him; she wished she came across a little more put together right now facing this guy. “How come you don’t walk and talk like a cop.”
“How do I walk and talk?”
“More like a lifeguard.”
“I was, right here on this beach. Summer before I went off to college. But we’re not here to socialize.”
“I hope not, Detective, because I’m busy with a murder investigation.”
“Call me Chip, and you’re Sandra.”
“Sandy.” She reached across and shook his hand. It was softer than she expected. Her hand felt small.
The waitress was quick with his coffee. He waved the cream away. Sandy said, “You’re a plain black coffee kind of guy.”
“What kind is that?”
“No frills, nothing fancy added. Hold the cream and sugar, baby, take me straight to the caffeine.”
“Am I being judged here?” he asked.
“You betcha.”
“You’re an interesting girl. Your mind is always turning, isn’t it?” He blew on the coffee, took a sip, and glanced up at her. “First of all, I’m sorry if I came off overbearing when we first met.”
“I expected it. It’s in the cop manual—raise your voice to keep control. What’s with the parking in back?”