“Elizabeth Phillips. Last name is now Walker. What’s this about?”
Wayne placed his coffee on the bench. A fishing boat raced by and the roar of its three engines fractured the air. A floppy-eared dog rode the bow, its nose searching the air and it ears vibrating wildly behind it. When the sound diminished, Wayne said, “I need to know what he said before I fill you in.”
“Horseshit. You want to know what I know before deciding how much to tell me.”
“That is correct.”
The man was an infuriating blend of manners and honesty. I recounted every word that Andrew Keller had told me. Almost. I left out the part about Elizabeth Walker telling Andrew that she needed to tell him about a trumpet. I don’t know why, other than Wayne’s presence indicated that Andrew’s visit was more than what Andrew had led me to believe.
“Did he mention that Mrs. Walker is married to Charlie Walker, the influential NRA lobbyist in Tallahassee?”
“No. I didn’t know that.”
“And they didn’t exchange any words at the Vinoy?”
“Not that he said.” I lied. I justified it by telling myself that Wayne wasn’t there on a social call and, based on our previous experience, he knew I played with my cards tight to my chest.
Wayne gave a single nod of his head, a move he favored. “Did he indicate that he had talked to anyone else?”
“He did not.” And then, because I’d been so patient and cooperative, I added, “Your turn.”
“I’m sorry to tell you this. Andrew Keller was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Two days ago. A convenience store a few miles north of here. An armed robbery went bad. He took a bullet. Two, actually.”
“Two?”
“He passed away.”
I’d read about the robbery—a glance-over article in a homicide-a-minute world. It had mentioned that an unnamed victim was in critical condition in a hospital. I thought of Andrew as he slumped out of my house. A man I’d opened my cheapest bottle of wine for. A man I didn’t invite to stay for dinner even though in another life we’d talked music until the waking sun put us down. A man of pummeled emotions and parched love who I refused to help tilt at windmills. But my thoughts were void of emotions. Those would come later. They would gather in the distant valleys of my conscience and then ambush me just when I thought I was free of my transgressions.
“Why me?” I said, forcing the words out.
Wayne rubbed his chin and placed his hat back on his head. He slanted it over his face, his gaze drifting across the jagged and glinting water of the bay. Soon, the tarpon would run, their silver bellies rolling and thrashing on the surface and glistening under the strengthening sun. Men in boats would drop lines hoping to hook a 110-pound thrill. You knew when they caught one because they would mark their anchor with a float and the big fish would pull the boat, and the men in it, out toward the open water.
“I’d like to ask you to investigate Mr. Keller’s death,” Wayne said. “Quietly.”
“What happened to being in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“We have a tape. The armed robber wore a mask. It is our opinion he wasn’t there to empty the cash register. He was there to kill Mr. Keller. The robbery was an amateur ruse to disguise his true intent. We want whoever did this to think he got away with it.”
“Do the police see it that way?”
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. What did the man expect when he dressed as if he were preparing for a January cattle drive? “We asked them to give us a little time. It is important that the official release is that Mr. Keller was an innocent victim and the police have no leads.”
“Who sent you, John? This isn’t your playground.”
The U.S. marshals are under the jurisdiction of the federal courts. They oversee the witness protection system and hunt and transport fugitives. Someone might have called in a favor and he said he knew a guy who owed him. But Wayne wasn’t the type of person to leverage a friendship.
“We have an interest in the matter,” he said.
“Why would someone want Andrew dead?”
“I do not know.”
“Is his death related to him seeing, or alleging to see, Elizabeth Walker?”
“I can’t—”
“What can you tell me?”
He took his time with that as if he were rolodexing his mind for what to say. “Mr. Walker—this is confidential information—is under investigation for matters that I am not at liberty to discuss. Mr. Keller’s death threatens the integrity of our efforts and therefore may jeopardize a lengthy and costly operation that is close to fruition.”
“We’re talking about the Sofa King of Sarasota. Are you insinuating that he is—was—connected to the chief National Rifle Association lobbyist?”
“He was interested in connecting with the man’s wife.” He hesitated. “We have a source in Tallahassee we need to protect.”
“Maybe he was murdered for totally unrelated reasons.”
Wayne gave another single nod. “Through your efforts we may confirm that, and, if that is not the case, determine if our source is in danger.”
“Why not bring your source in now?”
“We would lose years of work if we closed it down prematurely.”
“Closed what down? Charlie Walker? He’s a Clydesdale lobbyist. A major player and as crooked as a fishhook.”
Wayne pulled himself a little straighter to catch some shade from the canvas that stretched over the end of the dock.
“Will you do this for us?” he asked.
I spread my hands. “That’s it? No other information.”
“No, sir.”
“I’d swim the ocean for you.”
“You’d drown.”
“Do it anyways.”
We both stood. He reached into his pocket and brought out a flash drive. “This is the tape from the convenience store.” He handed it to me. “I know you’ll make some noise. But use discretion.”
“Do I ever learn what this is all about?”
“When it’s over.”
“How did you know that Andrew Keller came by my house?”
“We didn’t. He had a piece of paper in his pocket. It had your name and address on it. Nothing else.”
“That’s it?”
“He’d underlined your name. Twice.”
“We were once good friends.”
“He crossed it out.”
3
A wiry man wearing a black mask enters the store. 9:15 a.m. Who robs a store in the morning when the cash register is empty? He must have barked orders, for the three customers hit the ground. Keller included. He is the first to drop. Keep your head down, Andrew. The masked man approaches the counter. He grabs a wad of bills from an overweight woman with a trembling mouth. While backpedaling, he shoots the place up, including a double shot to the floor where Keller lay. No one else is injured. No other shots are close to hitting the other customers.
After four viewings, I shut my laptop and called Detective Rambler. We’d become acquaintances when he and his partner arrested me for the murder of the man who had allegedly kidnapped my sister nearly thirty years ago. Like Wayne, he became a friend—that’s employing a liberal interpretation of the word—only after being convinced I hadn’t committed a murder. That I meet people in such a manner raises disturbing questions about my lifestyle. Fortunately, I excel at pushing bigger issues to another day.