Whispers of the Dead (Tom Gabriel #2) Page 11

  ‘Me? Why me?’

  ‘You don’t expect me to take charge of a two year-old, do you?’

  ‘She’s your granddaughter.’

  ‘Yes, but it was your idea that her mother kill her father, and anyway I’m totally unsuited to looking after children.’

  ‘And you think I’m not?’

  ‘We’ll just have to put her up for adoption then.’

  ‘Seems like a sensible idea.’

  He began looking through Harrison’s itemised cell phone records. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Don’t you know what an “unlisted number” is?’

  ‘How am I going to find out who has that number?’

  ‘You could try ringing it.’

  He could do that, but they probably wouldn’t tell him who or where they were. ‘What about these numbers?’ he said, pointing at seven numbers that she’d printed “PAYG” against.

  ‘Pay-As-You-Go.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘People buy a cell for a couple of bucks and then add credit to make calls as and when they need to or can afford it, or they can simply throw the phone away and buy another one.’

  ‘Throw it away?’

  ‘Can’t be traced.’

  ‘You’ve tried these numbers?’

  ‘Unobtainable. The numbers don’t exist anymore. What you should be more interested in is why a bank manager is ringing untraceable numbers.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Only people with something to hide make calls like that.’

  ‘Mmmm!’

  ‘Didn’t you do this stuff when you were in the police?’

  ‘I had people.’

  ‘People?’

  ‘And Mona. Mona was good with all this stuff.’

  ‘You really need to . . .’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes. You’re preaching to the converted.’

  ‘Hallelujah! Well, it just so happens that they’re running workshops for OAPs down at the Community Centre.’

  ‘I’m not an OAP.’

  ‘You’ll pass. I’ll book you in for a course.’ She grinned. ‘Anyway, I have some news for you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Mr Franchetti liked what I produced for him and he’s going to put the first part of my serialisation in today’s late edition. Make sure you buy a copy. It comes out at four o’clock.’

  ‘You’ll soon be famous. I might buy two – one for posterity.’

  ‘Not only that, but he’s going to put it on the paper’s website as a blog.’

  ‘I’m pleased for you.’

  She stood up. ‘Right, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘You’ll ring me?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘To let me know how things are going.’

  ‘I’ll be seeing you tonight.’

  ‘And to let me know you’re safe?’

  ‘I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Ring me.’

  She shrugged. ‘Okay.’

  ‘See you later.’

  Chapter Nine

  After breakfast he knocked on Sara’s door.

  ‘Morning, dad.’

  ‘You’re dressed.’

  She turned and went back into the suite. ‘That’s what people normally do in the morning.’

  Her bags were already packed in the hallway.

  ‘Your bags are packed.’

  ‘If I think about it, I might change my mind.’

  ‘If you’re not sure . . .’

  ‘I’m sure, dad.’

  ‘I’ll drive you to the airport.’

  ‘I have a cab coming.’

  ‘I could . . .’

  She touched his arm. ‘I know.’

  He hugged her. ‘Tell what’s-his-name that if there’s a next time I’ll be coming up there to slap him around a bit.’

  ‘Like Mule Mulligan?’

  The corner of his mouth arched up. ‘Exactly like that low-life.’

  ‘There won’t be a next time, dad. And if there is . . . Well, I’ll slap him around myself with a divorce attorney.’

  ‘You’ll call me?’

  ‘Or you could call me.’ Last night she had added her number to his phonebook.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Are you going to say goodbye to Rochelle?’

  ‘Goodbye, Rochelle,’ he shouted through into the living room.

  ‘You know that’s not what I meant.’

  He walked through, picked up Rochelle and kissed her on the cheek. ‘It was great seeing you, Rochelle.’

  Rochelle stared at him.

  ‘See, she doesn’t understand a word I say.’

  The cab driver took the bags.

  Carrying Rochelle, he followed Sara down the outside steps.

  Sara hugged him again. ‘Goodbye, dad.’

  ‘You know I’m always here for you, don’t you?’

  ‘I know.’

  He handed over Rochelle.

  And then they were gone.

  He stood there watching the cab disappear for what seemed like a round trip to eternity. Yesterday his life had been filled with joy and happiness, today it was cold and empty. The worst thing in the world was people leaving.

  ***

  On his way to the Riverside Shopping Centre he called into the station to see Mona.

  ‘You’re just picking up where you left off five years ago, aren’t you? You still think I’m Mona the gopher.’

  ‘It’s just like the good old days, huh?’

  ‘I have news for you – those days were not so good.’

  ‘I’m shocked.’

  ‘Especially towards the end, after you’d found out that Cassie was ill.’

  His face sagged. ‘No, they weren’t good old days, were they?’

  ‘You were the worst partner a girl could ever wish for.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His face lit up. ‘But you’re in luck. I’m here to make it up to you.’

  She laughed. ‘You must think I was wheeled in here on a carnival float.’

  ‘Two little favours and then it’ll be as if I was never here.’

  ‘How is that making it up to me?’

  ‘By doing me these miniscule favours you’ll feel good about yourself.’

  ‘What?’

  He’d come prepared, and passed her a slip of paper with the unlisted number written on it in pencil. ‘Who does it belong to?’

  She logged onto her computer and soon had a name for him. ‘Rosalind Winter.’

  He nodded. ‘I guess I already knew it was her.’

  ‘Wasn’t she the name on that crash report you asked me to do a search for the other day?’

  ‘Her name keeps bobbing up to the surface.’

  ‘Next?’

  ‘Last known address for Johnny Betcher.’

  ‘Still looking for him?’ She did a database search, wrote the address on the reverse of the paper he’d given her and passed it back to him.’

  ‘Thanks, Mona. I’m going up to New York tomorrow, but when I get back I’m going to take you for a slap-up to that Mexican place in the old town.’

  ‘Los Rancheros?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Bribing an officer of the law is a serious offence, you know.’

  ‘Arrest me afterwards,’ he said on his way out.

  ‘And don’t think I won’t,’ she shouted after him.

  He made his way along Highway 1, filtered onto the State 312 and immediately hung a right into the Riverside Centre car park where he parked up outside Hobby Lobby. As he strolled into the complex, he saw two cameras at the top of poles covering the car park.

  An arrow to the security office directed him along a corridor between Harbor Freight Tools and Pizza Hut.

  He banged on the door.

  A black woman with half a cake in her mouth opened the door. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Good morning, Ma’am . . .’

  ‘You got the wrong office, fella. Salesme
n gotta go to the office down by . . .’

  He produced his PI’s Licence. ‘Tom Gabriel from Tom Gabriel Investigations.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ She stuffed the last of the cake into her mouth. ‘I hope you ain’t gonna ask Missy to give you information she ain’t entitled to give you?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘So, you just come here to chew the fat with Missy?’

  ‘We could do that if you’ve a mind.’

  ‘Missy got a mind all right. What you want, Mister Tom Gabriel?’

  ‘First of all, you should know that your boy Leroy’s doing just fine.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘What you know about my Leroy?’

  ‘I know he killed that girl at the gas station in Tampa, Missy.’

  ‘It weren’t his fault.’

  ‘Deep down, you know it was his fault. He went out looking for trouble, and he found it all right. It was just a shame that Norma Jean Mesler had to die in the process.’

  ‘My Leroy should never have done that.’

  ‘Well, Leroy told me to tell you that he’s doing just fine now.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘How come you know that shit?’

  ‘I see and speak to them, Missy.’

  ‘You’re shittin’ me.’

  ‘Leroy’s sitting on your desk.’

  ‘Now I know . . .’

  ‘He’s wearing that grey and blue NFL top you gave him from the lost property.’

  ‘Mister Eagan said we could help ourselves. I didn’t . . .’

  He touched her arm. ‘I know, Missy.’

  ‘Sitting on my desk, you say?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What’s he doin’ there?’

  ‘He just wanted you to know that he’s doing okay.’

  ‘What about that poor girl?’

  ‘She’s doing good as well.’

  ‘I’m glad. Anyways, besides spooking me, what else you come here for?’

  ‘I’m investigating a man’s disappearance. I know he was here last Thursday at two-fifteen.’

  ‘And you want me to show you my CCTV recordings?’

  ‘If you’d be so kind.’

  ‘Mmmm! I don’t suppose it’ll do any harm – as long you don’t tell no one.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘Just as long as you don’t do it.’

  She went to sit down, but hesitated. ‘Where’s he sittin’?’

  ‘He’s gone now.’

  She sat down and began accessing the computer files. ‘Last Thursday, you say?’

  He was standing behind her. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Here it is. Two-fifteen, you say?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Okay. Two-fifteen. Here we go.’

  He leaned over and pointed at the screen as the white BMW entered the car park. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Nice.’

  They watched as the car parked between a Volkswagon Beetle and a Chrysler 300. The sun was bouncing off both windscreens and creating a glare. As a consequence, he couldn’t make out either driver.

  A hand came out of the Chrysler holding an envelope and thrust it across the space between the two cars. From the BMW, another hand took the envelope, and it disappeared back inside the car. The Chrysler drove off, and shortly afterwards the BMW followed it.

  ‘That what you expected to see?’

  ‘I don’t know what I expected, Missy.’ What had he expected? Nothing really. A lead maybe. He was simply following the breadcrumbs. At the moment, he had nothing. What was in the envelope? It was A4 in size – too large for money. Information perhaps? Who was in the Chrysler? One thing was for sure – Roger Harrison was up to something.

  ‘Can we see it again?’

  ‘Sure, that’s what I’m here for.’

  Missy moved the recording back and they watched the drama unfold again.

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed,’ Missy said, ‘But that’s a woman’s hand.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She shifted the recording back and played it again at half speed. When the hand came out of the Chrysler she stopped it. ‘Take a look for yourself.’

  Squinting, he leaned in closer.

  ‘That’s an engagement ring if I know my onions,’ Missy said.

  After a handful of seconds he said, ‘You’re right. The hand is slimmer than the other one.’ A woman’s hand! It hadn’t even occurred to him that it could be a woman. His preconceptions and stereotypes had got in the way of seeing what was actually there.

  He took out his notebook and wrote down the Chrysler’s number plate – Mona was going to kill him.

  ‘Thanks, Missy.’

  ‘That all you want?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘You see my Leroy again, you tell him to make it right with that Norma Jean Mesler.’ Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Whatever it takes, tell him.’

  He squeezed her shoulder. ‘I’ll make sure and tell him, Missy.’

  ‘You do that, Mister Gabriel. You do that.’

  He let himself out.

  On his way towards the exit he passed TGIFridays and against his better judgement was tempted in by the smell. Inside, as well as copious amounts of coffee, he ordered the hibachi chicken skewers, jasmine rice pilaf, fresh broccoli and grilled pita.

  What the hell was going on? Why was Roger Harrison – a respected bank manager – having clandestine meetings in a shopping centre car park with a man in a Chrysler 300? Why did the man in the Chrysler pass Harrison an A4 envelope? If it wasn’t illegal, why hadn’t the man in the Chrysler simply walked into the Harbor Bank and handed the envelope to Harrison? Where were the contents of that envelope now? Probably in Harrison’s briefcase. Had Harrison disappeared of his own volition? Or had someone abducted him?

  He had a few jigsaw pieces, but none of them fitted together yet. In fact, it wasn’t dissimilar to Rae’s John Doe case. Talking of which, why hadn’t Rae called him yet?

  ***

  The Sunshine bus depot was located on North Eleventh Street in Palatka, which just happened to be the Palatka Train Station as well. She’d been surprised that Tom hadn’t found that out when he’d been talking to the bus driver yesterday. If he had, they could easily have dropped into the office then.

  She parked her less-than-beautiful 1975 partially-customised Volkswagon Beetle in the car park and made her way into the depot. “Depot” was, however, hardly the right word to use for the small office she entered. It had a wooden counter that was in desperate need of a lick of paint; the vinyl on the floor next to the door was worn through to the hessian fibre that held it all together; and on the back wall was a Justin Bieber calendar swinging on a nail. It was open at October and had blue and red scribble in the spaces for each of the days. There were also a couple of centre-fold magazine posters of male models showing bulging muscles and rippling six-packs.

  ‘Yes?’ The woman behind the counter said, which appeared to be more of a challenge than a question. She was probably in her mid-forties, wore a reversed baseball cap, chewed gum like a drug dealer, and although she had on a white short-sleeved blouse tucked into dark-blue slacks, it was stretched to breaking point across globular breasts which were held in place with a red patterned bra.

  ‘Could I speak to Mandie Pidgley, please?’

  ‘Here in the flesh. What can I do for you?’

  Rae showed her press card. ‘I’m an investigative reporter with the St Augustine Record . . .’

  ‘Can’t stand reporters.’

  ‘I’m writing a story about the man who was found dead on Porpoise Point last Friday morning . . .’

  ‘Can’t stand dead people.’

  ‘The man arrived here by train, and then travelled to Porpoise Point using either the bus or a taxi.’

  ‘How the hell would I know something like that?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting you would, but the drivers who were on shift on Thursday
last week might know if I show them his picture.’

  She put her elbows on the counter and rested her breasts on her forearms.

  Rae could see the hint of a tattoo through the white blouse as the woman leaned forward.

  ‘So, you want me to look at the roster to find out who was driving that route on Thursday, and then give you their names?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘And then you’ll want to know where they are today so you can speak to them, I guess?’

  ‘That would be ideal.’

  The corner of her mouth creased up. ‘I’m sure it would, little lady, but it ain’t never gonna happen.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Unless, of course, you have a stack of money to compensate me for the time and effort I’ll have to throw at finding out those details.’

  Rae pulled a ten dollar note out of her bag and slapped it on the counter.

  Pidgley’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘You’re trying to insult me, aren’t you?’

  She removed the ten and replaced it with a twenty.

  ‘Keep going, you’re not even close yet.’

  Rae removed the twenty, but didn’t replace it with another bill. ‘How much do you want?’

  ‘How much have you got?’

  She stuffed the twenty back in her bag and zipped it up tight. ‘I guess I’ll just have to find out the information some other way.’

  ‘Playing hardball, huh?’

  ‘You got a tattoo under there?’ Rae said, nodding her head towards the woman’s chest.

  ‘Put the catch on the front door.’

  Rae did as Pidgley asked. When she turned back, the woman had unbuttoned her blouse and lifted up her bra, which wasn’t a red-patterned bra after all, but a plain white bra that had come out of a wash cycle as a red tie-dyed disaster.

  Her breasts were like large hard pomegranates with hairy nipples. The tattoo was a black tarantula – its hairy legs spreading out across her breasts.

  ‘Neat,’ Rae said, but she was being polite. The breasts were unattractive mounds of pitted flesh, and a hairy black tarantula did nothing to improve the situation.

  ‘Wife of a Hell’s Angel in the Tarantulas for fifteen years.’ She pulled her bra back down and buttoned up her blouse. ‘Let’s see yours then.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘You’re not chicken, are you?’

  She looked behind her at the door.