Jolie introduced herself. “Just a few questions.”
“Okay.” Darrell turned to Scott. “I’m sincerely hoping this will be the last time.” He looked at Jolie, leaned back, and lit a cigarette. “All’s I can do is tell you what I know. Nate was kind of a regular here. Enough so I knew what he liked to drink. He was hot for older men, especially if they looked like they had money. I’ve heard some stories, but I won’t bore you with them. Let’s just say Nate had a healthy view of sexuality. A very healthy view. You could say he was inclusive. You with me so far?”
“We’re good.”
“That’s pretty much all I know personally about him. This place is a rumor mill—you don’t see a lot of gay bars in the south—and the general consensus seemed to be that Nate was pretty hot. Appealed to a certain type, the kind who wants promiscuous but vulnerable. I don’t spend a lot of my time babysitting customers, so a lot of this stuff I heard secondhand.” He leaned back and folded his arms.
“That’s it?” Scott asked. “I thought you said he talked to a guy named Rick.”
“That’s what I heard. I didn’t actually see them talking.”
Jolie asked, “You didn’t see this guy Rick?”
“I didn’t see them together. Heard later that this guy, Rick, picked Nate up. And I thought,
“Did you see them together at all?”
“Might have. But it’s hard to remember. I see a lot of stuff. This bar is a hotbed of horny young guys looking for other horny young guys. That’s the clientele.” He looked at Scott. “Most of what I know about Rick and Nate, I heard from Scott in our numerous conversations.”
Jolie ignored this. “What about his car?”
“Didn’t know it was his. I don’t sell a lot of drinks in the parking lot.”
“Did you call to have it towed?”
“The owner did. He’s out of the country at the moment. Mexico. I can give you his cell, but he’ll just tell you what I’m telling you. The car was out there for three days, so he had it towed.”
Jolie said, “What does Rick look like?”
“Big guy. Short hair. Very butch. He wore nice clothes, but you could see he was ripped.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“No. Only saw him that weekend. I’d remember a big guy like him.”
“You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure. He looked kind of out of place, like he wasn’t from around here. Just an impression I got.” He added, “Blazer, slacks, nice shoes. You know what he reminded me of? A bodyguard.”
“Anything else you can remember?” Jolie asked.
He thought about it. “Only that he kind of worked the room. He was everywhere. Hung out with a lot of guys. Come to think of it, they were all pretty boys. I think he was trolling for a young one.”
“Did he give you his name?”
“No. But I heard someone call him Rick.”
“You think he was looking for a boy—a particular type?”
“Looked that way to me.” He added, “I guess he found one.”
30
Cyril Landry was ninety-eight percent certain Franklin Haddox would tell him the truth. Landry had five IV bags of triptascoline—what Dennis Ngo at the Shop lab termed “scopolamine on steroids.” Like scopolamine, triptascoline was an anesthetic. Like scopolamine, it was an amnesic drug, only more so. Three times more so. It had been used effectively around the world as an interrogation tool. Landry had complete confidence in the drug. His only concern was the man’s fear level. Excessive adrenaline could burn the drug up in a hurry, so Landry wanted Franklin calm, happy, and stoned. It would take a minimum of forty-five minutes to get a baseline. Forty-five minutes at least before he could start the actual interrogation.
At the moment, Franklin was regaining consciousness. Landry adjusted the petcock on the IV upward just a tick. This was tricky. How would Franklin react when he realized where he was?
Franklin was propped up against stacked pillows in the forward stateroom. Landry sat beside him, his long legs stretched out past the foot of the bed. They could have been a married couple watching the evening news. Only way he could do it—even luxury cruisers like the Hinckley were tight on space. The cherry wood and teak of the cabin was mellow and, Landry hoped, soothing. The bedspread and cushions were deep blue. Restful. Franklin stirred. His expression was amiable. So far, so good.
“Hey,” Franklin said, his voice woozy. His eyes widened when he saw Landry—a small shine of fear.
“That was a nasty fall,” Landry said.
“Fall?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Not really.” Bleary smile. “You’re Nick, right?”
“Right.”
A shadow seemed to pass across Haddox’s face. Uncertainty. Landry opened the petcock a little more.
Goofy grin. “Hey! You’re my cousin!”
“That’s right. Remember I was going to interview you?”
“You were?”
“Uh-huh, for
“Oh.” His hand rose and pulled on the IV tube. “Wass that?”
“It’s nothing.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. Let’s get to the interview, shall we?” Landry adjusted the drip and waited for it to take effect.
“What is your name?”
“Franklin Edison Haddox the Third.”
“What is your wife’s name?”
“Grace. Goodnight Gracie.” Smile.
“Do you have children?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“One. No, two. Does Frank the Fourth count?”
“Sure.”
“Frank the Fourth died.” He stopped, bemused.
Landry waited.
A tear squeezed out of Haddox’s eye. “That wasn’t fair.”
Landry didn’t want to push any emotional buttons yet. He adjusted the IV up another tick.
“What were we talking about?” Haddox asked. “Hey, are we on the boat?”
Landry said, “Where do you live?”
“That’s easy. Indigo.”
“What is Indigo?”
“It’s an island. Off Cape San Blas. My family’s version of a gated community. Haven’t you seen it?” He sat up straighter. “Is your magazine going to take photos? You know we have an octagon house that was built in 1849 by Orson Fowler.” He spoke like a drunk, carefully enunciating the numbers.
“Oh. What kind of boat do you have?”
“A Hinckley T44 FB. Have you seen it?”
Loopy smile.
Landry had established Franklin’s truthfulness and willingness to talk with the control questions, leading Haddox through his occupation (attorney general); his hobbies (fishing and hunting); his daughter’s name and age (Riley, seventeen). Two sisters, one deceased. Two nieces, Kay the real estate agent and Jolie the cop; his grand-
