“The person who finds the body always goes on the suspect list. Thanks, Meg.” Sandy turned back. “Where were we? Ah, I’ll look into the Tampa connection. Detective Goddard also wants me to check on it.”
Kagan was surprised. “What did you just say? You’re doing work for Detective Goddard?”
She enjoyed the moment. “Yes, I made a connection that could be good for us. I had coffee with Detective Chip Goddard. He wants me to tell him whatever I find out, and in return he doesn’t tell me zip. How’s your heart, Jerry? I could hear it pounding over here.”
“Yes, that startled me. Never heard of such a thing, it just isn’t done. As your brother’s attorney, I must advise you of the considerable danger there. Whatever you tell him can be used in court. Moreover, you can be put on the stand and made to repeat it.”
Ray jumped in, “And you say I’m crazy!”
“You are crazy.”
“But Sandy, that’s no kind of deal—all his way. He’s the one who arrested me. He’s on the job. He’s using you. Either that or he’s just trying to get you in the sack.”
“Maybe he’s not the sacker, maybe he’s the sackee.” She went on, “And it’s not all his way. He agreed to listen to what I have to say. Of course, I’m going to feed him only exculpatory information.”
Kagan looked at Ray who nodded that he understood the word. Kagan warned, “Even information favorable to the defense can be twisted around in court. You’re on dangerous ground, young lady.”
“He underestimates me. People have always underestimated me. It’s a neat little swindle I’ve been running all my life. It’s to our advantage with Chip, at least so far. He doesn’t believe he’s disclosing any info. I just get him talking and then read between the lines.”
“Hope you don’t fall off the high wire,” Kagan said.
“If he has doubts about your guilt right now, wait until I get through with him. Plus, I can run around town without the police on my tail every minute. We exchanged phone numbers. If he calls take a message, okay?”
“Not funny, you’re reckless,” Ray said.
She rested her hand on Kagan’s shoulder. “Jerry, I wanted you to know. I didn’t want you blindsided later by the deal. Chip—notice I call him Chip now—is okay. Did you know some bastard shot his dad at a Stop-and-Rob? He was police chief, wasn’t even on duty, just going out for ice cream.”
“I know,” Kagan said, “and Chip’s always been straight with me. He isn’t too popular around the station because he moved up to Detective so fast.”
“True, he needs to do a super job on this homicide. Worst thing that could happen to him in his career right now is to screw this up. Was he ever married?”
“Not as far as I know,” Kagan answered. “He’s not a wallflower. He was serious about a woman, the County Appraiser’s daughter, for a while. That was a few years back. An attorney at the courthouse told me his legal secretary now has something going with him.”
“Something going with him,” she repeated under her breath.
“What does the detective’s love life have to do with anything?” Ray wondered aloud.”
“I promise I’ll be careful about what I let him know. At least up until the point where
“It’s in my notes somewhere.” Ray laughed and relaxed back in his chair; he just realized his invaluable sister might be interested in sticking around for a few more days.
Chapter 22
She had been in Park Beach five days and Sandy wasn’t pleased with her progress. It was Sunday and turning out to be a bad day to get things done. She had some notes to go over with Jerry Kagan but his law office was closed. Linda would be happy to see her but wasn’t working at the newspaper that day. And Sunday visiting hours at the jail were not until later. She wondered if Chip was snuggled at home with Miss Legal Secretary. After looking through her notes, she decided it was time to check out Norma Martin, the woman who wouldn’t talk to Chip.
She pulled her Miata convertible into the lot behind the Jardin Cafe just as another woman parked and started walking to the restaurant. The woman was slightly underweight but nicely filled out her peasant blouse and tapered designer jeans. She wore her dark auburn hair pulled back tightly and wrapped with a band, the long bunch at the back bounced around her bare shoulders. Sandy guessed she couldn't be over forty at the most. Sandy envied the confident way she walked. She glided effortlessly over the rough gravel in her stilettos like a model on a runway.
She noticed Sandy and glided over. “We don’t open until five. Love your little red car. I’ve seen it around town.” Then she frowned. “I know where, the police station—you’re police!”
Sandy hesitated only an instant. “No, I’m a reporter. I’m looking for Norma Martin.”
The color faded from the woman’s face. She took a step back and studied Sandy. “You’re a reporter?” The woman almost shrieked, “How did you find me?” She turned and hurried into the restaurant.
Sandy hit speed dial #1 on her phone. It rang for some time before Goddard answered. “Will you trace a tag for me, Chip?”
“It’s Sunday, go read the comics.”
She read off the tag from the woman’s car. “It’s a white Buick Century, tag says Hillsborough County.”
There was a long pause and then he said, “Okay, got it. Where did you spot this vehicle?”
“At the Jardin Cafe.”
“You shouldn’t be out there.” Then, after a minute, “Tag is registered to one Elena Duarte in Tampa. I know she’s a cook at the cafe. No surprise her vehicle would be there. What are you up to?”
“I think it was Norma Martin. I think she’s connected to the murder.”
“She already told me she lives with Elena Duarte, although I’m not too sure of that. Probably uses her vehicle. What else?”
“I saw her. She acted guilty.”
“That’s it, she acted guilty? That's nice, she acted guilty. Sandy, you didn’t talk to her, did you?”
“I met her in the parking lot. No, I didn’t actually talk to her. She thought I was a reporter and came all apart. Give me her address.”
“You’re not getting it. I don’t think our deal is going to work. I need to know what you’re doing, and I need to know in advance before you screw up something. Goodbye.”
“Give me a chance, buddy,” she said into her dead phone.
She opened her laptop and searched the Internet white pages for Elena Duarte. A phone number in Tampa came up. She punched in the number and got an answering machine with the default male electronic voice saying please leave a message. Sandy sat confused. So, we have a Norma Martin living in Park Beach with this Elena Duarte who doesn’t live in Park Beach, and Norma uses Elena’s car registered miles away in Tampa. Now she needed to talk to both Norma and this Elena.
She drove back into town and parked in the police station parking lot intending to visit Raymond at the jail. She had just parked when Miss Runway Glider in her white Buick Century pulled in fast and stopped alongside. She motioned for Sandy to come over.
“I followed you,” she spoke rapidly with no trace of accent, “please get in so we can talk. I shouldn’t be seen with you. I see your car parked here with police cars almost every day. I need help. What’s your name?”
“Sandy. Hey, I’m not a reporter and I’m not police.”
“You must know the police, you always park here.”
“If that’s good, I do. If that’s bad, I don’t,” Sandy slid in beside her. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m in trouble and my people can’t help me. The police are going to arrest me. This is very strange, but you must believe me. Everything was okay until Albert was killed.”
