It all started to fall into place. The poker group had figured out that Styles was a scam artist, and it made sense that he would be the one to steal the money. But off a dead body?
“So, the next day, after the cops left, Stan, Henry, and Sailor came to see me. I had a little tent, and they pulled the flap back and asked me to come out.”
“Threatening?” Em seemed to be more engrossed than before.
“Not at first. It was just after dinner that night, and I’d had quite a bit of business. I thought they were asking me to come down early to the poker game.”
“That wasn’t it?”
“No.” Styles gazed at the trailer, as if anxious to get inside and find the fabled computerized records.
“What was it?” I needed to know. If I was putting myself on the line, I wanted an answer.
“I came out and they surrounded me. First of all, Stan said they were concerned about my background. I told him I was concerned about theirs too. That didn’t go over too well. I could tell I’d pissed them off.”
“Never pays to be a smart-ass when there are three to one.”
“No. Then Henry, who is usually real laid back, says, ‘Did you have anything to do with Michael’s drug overdose?’ ”
“And you said?”
“Of course I said no. I’d seriously thought that his group, the full-timers, may be responsible.”
Styles had been with the group for two days. He’d already figured out they were capable of murder? Then it hit me. In two days, James and I had come to the same conclusion. This could be a group capable of almost anything.
“So Sailor, who never says a thing, walks up and literally bumps my chest with his and says ‘Where’s the money?’ ”
“They thought you killed this guy and took his money?”
“I was the new guy. They didn’t know me. The other vendors who weren’t full time had been there more than once. The other guys were local, trusted, and the full-timers knew who they were. I was the one they didn’t trust.”
We were whispering, but getting louder. Em shushed us, putting her finger to her lips.
“Somebody may be guarding this place or listening. Let’s keep it down.”
Softer now. “Anyway, I tried to move away but they wouldn’t let me. They kept crowding my space. They wanted to come in and search the tent.”
“For?”
“What do you mean ‘for’? For drugs and money.”
“So what happened?” Em asked.
“I was getting a little noisy, hoping someone would come out of his tent or camper and scare these three guys away.”
“Didn’t happen?” I asked.
“No. Not right away.”
“So what happened?” Em was in his face, asking her same question again, anxious to get to the end of this tense story.
“They told me they believed I may have had something to do with this guy’s death. And they thought I probably lifted his cash. He’d been found not more than twenty yards from my tent.”
“Did they threaten you?” I needed to know.
“That’s when they said that this entire scenario was being recorded in Thomas LeRoy’s electronic diary. His organizer. And that I should leave and never return.”
“So you got thrown out by the vendors and the FBI? No wonder Cashdollar gave you a nasty look. Nobody wanted you back here.”
“Yeah. But it’s a free country, Skipper.”
“It may be, but you certainly take advantage of it.”
He smiled at me. “I’ll admit it. I do.”
We were all quiet for two minutes. I was even more aware that we were in deep shit. And James was down at the poker game, with these threatening people, probably losing his ass.
“So,” Em wanted closure. “Did they ever find out who killed him?”
Styles shook his head. “No. There’s never been anyone even suspected to my knowledge. Other than me, and they had absolutely nothing to go on when they looked at me. You want my guess?”
“If that’s the best we can do.”
“I figure it was one of the full-timers. He’d done something to piss them off. I’m not sure what, but they wanted him gone. This guy wasn’t a drug user. At all. He very seldom even drank.”
I tried to grasp the entire story. “And yet — ”
“He died of an overdose. Somebody set him up. No question.” I saw Styles pull his hat down over his forehead.
“Which one did it?”
“Skipper, I told you. This is all a guess.”
“Who?”
“One of them who didn’t show up at my tent. I think whoever it was sent them up to talk to me.”
It was obvious that he was getting anxious to go into the trailer. But not to find out if Em was in LeRoy’s computer. Not to find out about the FBI. He wasn’t going in to see who shot our tires out. Styles wanted to know what had been said about him regarding the death of Michael Bland. He wanted to know if Thomas LeRoy had actually accused him of being a murderer in the precious, tell-all computer diary.
“So, did they search your tent?”
“No. I’m not sure why. I thought for sure they’d come into the tent and tear it up. Maybe they were afraid the people around me would start to be suspicious about what was going on. Maybe they figured I would have covered up any evidence. I don’t know. But they gave me the warning and walked away.”
If they already knew who had killed Bland, they would have no reason to search Styles’s tent. Whatever had happened, it had happened a long time ago and by now any evidence had probably disappeared. I asked the question casually. I didn’t want to sound accusatory. “You never saw these notes that Stan and LeRoy took?”
“No.”
“But you’re sure they exist?”
“I’m sure.”
“And you don’t know for sure what these documents say about you?”
“This has nothing to do with me.”
I didn’t believe that for a minute. I looked at Em, in the dark shadows, and I could tell she wasn’t buying into it either.
“I want to find out what they know about you two. And James.”
“And you’re not interested in knowing what LeRoy says about you?” Em called him on it.
“Maybe, a little.”
“Uh-huh.”
I realized something else had to be addressed. It was important. “Daron, one more question.”
He was digging his toe into the damp dirt, his eyes watching the trailer. The padlock was hanging off the latch and the structure appeared to be open.
“Did you kill Michael Bland?”
He did a double take, snapping to attention. “Holy shit, no. Where did you ever come up with that idea?”
“I had to ask. I don’t know for sure who I’m dealing with.”
“Ah, I take a couple bags at the airport. I sell some stolen stuff now and then, but kill somebody? Are you crazy?”
I was glad I’d asked. Just by his reaction, I was pretty sure he was telling me the truth. Of course, with Styles, you never knew.
Em cleared her throat. She put her hand on my arm. “Daron, I have a question too.”
“Shoot. But make it a short one. I want to get in there and see if I can find this thing.” He seemed to brace himself.
“Okay. Here goes. Yes or no question.”
“Those I can answer.”
“Did you take his money?”
In the dark there were crickets, the call of a night bird, and the gentle lapping of water coming from the Intracoastal Waterway. In the distance I could hear a boat horn, a long mournful moaning sound.
“Daron?”
“Whose money?”
“Don’t play with me. Michael Bland’s money?”
Back to digging his toe into the moist earth. “Yep. I did.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
W hen I was about twelve, I found a wallet with a couple of bucks in it. That was it. Two bucks. The wallet was on a park bench and I figured it had probably worked its way out of some guy’s pocket. I didn’t bother to see who the wallet belonged to, I just slipped the two dollars out and put them in my pocket. My first heist.
I remember the situation because about twenty minutes later I went back to the bench to put the two dollars back. I had a bad guilt complex and decided I needed to return the stolen loot. The wallet was gone.