Annie was stubborn. “Maybe Richard Jamison had good reason to believe he could cash in if Cleo came in for her share.”
Max leaned back against the booth. “Do I pick up on a little hostility toward Richard? Or are you willing to toss him under the bus to save Elaine?”
Annie’s tone was scathing. “What kind of man comes to his cousin’s house and hangs around like a squatter trying to get money out of him?”
Max laughed. “Not a fine specimen of the Puritan ethic, according to the Annie Laurance Darling Doctrine?”
It was a long-standing divide between them. Max grew up rich, enjoyed dabbling, and never felt he had to prove anything by hewing to a career. He would have been happy traveling and collecting art, supporting good causes, and eschewing personal achievement. Annie grew up counting pennies, always worked hard, and did her best at whatever task she attempted. They achieved peace by making accommodations: Max dutifully created Confidential Commissions and found he enjoyed solving problems for people; Annie discovered devotion to work could be balanced with impromptu walks on a winter beach, late-morning breakfasts, and, of course, some afternoon delight.
Annie was stern. “If a man lacks character in one respect—”
Max held up both hands in negation. “It doesn’t mean he’d shoot his cousin.”
She placed her elbows on the table. “He came looking for money. And”—her tone was portentous—“maybe when he got here, he wanted more than money. Maybe he wanted Cleo.”
Max was impatient. “We’re making everything up here. We don’t have any reason to believe Cleo was cheating on her husband.”
“But maybe she was.”
“Maybe. A love affair between Cleo and Richard would give him a motive in addition to money. I’ll do some checking on the two of them. But we know for sure that Kirk Brewster had only a couple more weeks before he lost any chance to profit from the key man insurance. I’ll see what I can find out about Kirk, too. And you?”
Annie looked across the room at Ben Parotti. “I like Ben’s instinct. I’ll drop by Jasmine Gardens.”
Max gave a wistful glance at his indoor putting green but went directly to his computer. He settled behind his massive mahogany desk and turned on his computer. He opened his file on the Jamison family and reread the biographical material on Richard Jamison. After a little digging, he had three names. Thanks to the ubiquity of cell phones and modern humans’ apparent inability to be out of touch, he soon spoke to the skipper of
The crusty voice rumbled, “Good hand. Got a quick head in emergencies. Kept his nose clean. Broke up a cocaine ring once. Don’t want that kind of crap on my ship. Hire him anytime.”
“Did he tip you to the smuggling?”
“Damn right. Helped me set it up with the feds. Caught ’em. Almost a half-million dollars’ worth of cocaine.”
“He sounds like a good hire. Now, I have kind of a funny question”—Max made his voice easy, amused, sharing a joke—“but we have an actress who likes good-looking men. Do you suppose he’d be willing to be nice to the lady?”
A roar of earthy laughter. “Richard’s your man. Hardly ever met a woman that didn’t have the hots for him. He likes the ladies, so long as he can love ’em and leave ’em.”
“No problem there.” Max was equally hearty.
As he replaced the receiver, he studied a smiling picture of Richard from his Facebook page, tanned and fit, muscular in a pale green guayabera shirt and khaki shorts and docksiders. He stood at the stern of a cabin cruiser, a breeze stirring sun-streaked brown hair. His lopsided smile was exuberant. He was a man who liked sun and sex, and he was always looking for the route to easy street. But he’d drawn the line at drugs. Max wrote on his legal pad, underlined
He made two more calls.
The first was to Sam Whistler, who was still bartending at the Ship Ahoy in Boca Raton. “Sam, I understand Richard Jamison worked there last year. I’m looking for a manager for the Fast Catch here on the island. What can you tell me about Richard?”
“ . . . good joe . . . easy to talk to . . . handles crowds . . . careful about money. You can trust him . . . Women? I don’t know what his secret is. They love the man. But he makes sure they understand the rules before he plays. He’s one smart dude.”
The final call was to a childhood friend now teaching Spanish at Clemson. “Richard? So he’s back on the island. I doubt that lasts long. He’s a wanderer. He never met an open road he didn’t want to take or a beautiful woman he didn’t want to make love to.” A faint sigh. “Richard’s not a nine-to-five guy.”
Max ended the call, pulled the legal pad nearer. He drew a road, a pair of sexy female legs, a condo marked by a huge
It was time to talk to Richard Jamison.
Palmetto palms stood like Southern sentries on either side of a short oyster-shell road. The Jasmine Gardens cabins weren’t visible from the main road. A small white sign hung from a steel stanchion near an office-cum-cabin. The inscription read:
JASMINE GARDENS
MANAGER
INQUIRE WITHIN
Annie parked. She smelled the banana sweetness of pittosporum. Five steps led to a small front porch. The
