Maybe I should disappear for a few days. I hadn’t taken a vacation in years. However, I didn’t have the cash to leave town and my credit cards had maxed out.
I had friends in Cajun country, deep in the swamps near Thibodaux in south Louisana. Those weird places in the bayou where nobody knew or gave a crap about your name. I could go there and eat gumbo and jambalaya and wash it down with a six-pack of Dixie beer.
My phone vibrated. It was a text message from Bo: “Leave me alone.”
I was so screwed.
I texted Jim Harden to call me. A private investigator and a somewhat reliable source that had helped me in the past, Harden spent most of his life on the fringes, having lunch meetings at convenience stores and roadside food trucks with people who contacted him via notes shoved under the mat of his office, which was sandwiched between a tattoo parlor and Domino’s Pizza in a bad part of town. He might know what had happened to Sue.
I needed to call Dare. No, I would visit her offices. This conversation needed to be face-to-face.
Dare was the president of the Evans Timber & Land Company, the largest landowner in Northwest Florida after the US military, and the widow of Rory Evans. Rory had leveraged his family name, wealth, and superior intelligence to become the Florida Senate president by age 36. He had died nine years earlier of a massive heart attack while giving a speech on the Senate floor.
The Evans dynasty didn’t skip a beat after Rory’s death. Dare took his place in Florida politics and the Northwest Florida business community. No one trifled with Dare Evans.
As a wealthy widow, Dare was never criticized too harshly, either. She expressed her opinions and asserted her influence without fearing pushback from the country club wives. The whole of Pensacola society found no reason not to take her seriously—or if they did, they were too afraid to say it.
Rory and Bo had grown up in the same neighborhood. Because the Hines and Evans families were close, he had been an usher in Hines’ weddings. Dare loved Sue, who ‘adopted’ her when she moved to Pensacola in 1991 to marry Rory, but she never liked Bo.
“Too cocky,” Dare once told me. Still, Sue was her friend, and Dare cherished her friendships.
My phone vibrated as I began to leave the Blanchard building. I needed another cup of coffee. The caller ID said “Dare Evans.”
“Do . . . do you know what happened?” she asked. “I’ve tried to call the house and Jace. Nobody would pick up the phone.”
“A deputy told me about it just as we were about to go into the courtroom,” I said. “How did you find out so quickly?”
“I subscribe to the Herald’s web alerts. Walker, this is horrible.”
“I’m so sorry, Dare. I know you two were close.”
“She was a good friend.” Dare paused, and I didn’t rush to fill the silence. I did note it however. “The online article on the Herald’s website makes it sound like it could be suicide.”
I said, “I haven’t had time to do anything. The daily rushed to break the story. But you need to prepare for the worse.”
“Sue wouldn’t take her life, not Sue,” she shouted, her temper flaring. “She was upset about the trial, but she was convinced Bo would be found innocent. We had an unspoken rule not to talk about you, but she was fine when we had lunch on Monday.”
“Dare, you never know what’s in someone’s mind, what’s happening behind closed doors—”
“I knew Sue. She wasn’t suicidal, dammit.” After Dare interrupted me, she hung up.
I should have consoled her, but my mind had jumped far past that. Like a dropped needle skipping over vinyl . . . scratch, thump . . . sheesh, I had already moved on to trying to figure out this puzzle and its impact on the trial.
I tried to pull up the Herald website on my cell phone but couldn’t get service.
It vibrated. Harden texted: “@ Breaktime.”
The Breaktime Café was one block north of my office. It was 8:48 a.m. The runners had already pranced home or to their offices, but the bums were out rummaging through the trashcans. They nodded as I passed. They knew I was about as broke as they were.
The heat was beginning to surpass the humidity. I perspired heavily as I walked into the cafe. A line of customers stood in front of the long counter that dominated the narrow space and waited for their lattes, mochas, and espressos. Many turned away as I called out to Bree, who manned the cash register. It would only get worse once they learned of Sue’s death.
Bree smiled and handed me a large cup of house coffee. I didn’t know if she was happy to see me or only wanted to get me away from her other patrons.
Bree wore an unbuttoned blue blouse over a stretched-to-its-limits yellow tube top. The shirt covered tattoos that the owner frowned upon, but the flowers and birds peeked out now and then. A devoted runner, Bree ran Palafox Street every afternoon at three. Men timed their afternoon breaks to see her bounce by their offices. She almost made me want to take running seriously and buy trendier athletic gear. Almost, but not quite.
Jim Harden peeked around the corner from the back room when he heard my voice and waved me back. Bree winked and let me through. She and Jim had already figured out how to hide me away from the regular customers.
Harden was Pensacola’s version of the Invisible Man. He was so nondescript and blended so well into any crowd that you had difficulty remembering where you last saw him. He was five foot ten, not too skinny or
