Quint Mitchell 01 - Matanzas Bay (18 page)

“Believe it or not, Quinton, that’s before my time.” He took great delight in using my given name. “But I do remember my old captain talking about it. He was lead investigator on the case back in the day, and it still gnawed at his behind that they weren’t able to pin anything on Henderson.”

I told him about meeting Henderson and how he fit into the case. “I read something online about Henderson leaving Oxford with his two children and eight million dollars.”

“Went to Huntsville,” Fuller replied. “I recall the captain saying Henderson only stayed there long enough to unload the kids.”

“What do you mean?” I hadn’t read anything about his kids in Roberts’ story.

“It was pretty hush-hush, so it took some time before it got back to us. The captain told me Henderson left his kids with an old aunt outside Huntsville. He apparently felt parenthood and poetry didn’t mix, and six months later, the aunt passes and the twins wind up with an adoption attorney in Huntsville.”

“Christ! He abandoned his own kids?”

“From what the captain said, they were better off without him.”

I must confess that in my younger days I spent too much time in arcades watching the little silver balls bounce from bumper to bumper while lights flashed and electronic noises signaled my mounting score. These days, I sometimes felt the insightful flashes of neurons making connections like the silver ball hitting a target. One of those flashes was striking its target now, but I had no idea what it meant.

“Jack, any chance you can find out what happened to his kids?”

“Well, let me check tomorrow’s schedule.” He took his time and I heard pages being rustled. “No stagecoach robberies needing my attention, so you’re in luck. I probably have time to make a few calls. I’ll get back to you.”

***

Regina Washington greeted me with an expression so sour I knew we’d passed the donut stage. This called for some serious ass-kissing.

“You got your nerve showing up here again.”

“What? I’m here to see my client. You remember, Dr. Poe?”

Regina narrowed her dark eyes, slowly shaking her head. Her black braids fanned out like flower petals around her face. “I shoulda’ known better than trust you. Bribin’ me with those donuts, and lyin’ to my face like I was some junkie in the street.”

“But Regina, honey—”

“Don’t you go
honeyin’
me, boy. I got a good notion to slap you across the head. You almost got me in trouble with your last trick. That lawyer complained to me after your visit with Poe. Said you weren’t part of his defense team and had no reason for being in the Visitation Room.”

She had me dead to rights, and I knew it wouldn’t do any good to deny it. I hung my head, giving her my little boy look, throwing myself on her mercy. “Jeez, Regina, I’m sorry. Hope I didn’t cause too many problems for you.”

She held her tongue for a time, and I tried to guess what caliber gun she had in her drawer. Finally, she said, “I talked him down from his pissed-off perch, otherwise the Chief might have chewed on my ass six ways from Sunday.” She smiled as if to say,
Yeah, that would happen
.

“I’m sorry, Regina. I promise I’ll be straight with you from now on. I owe you Boston creams for life.”

“You owe me more than that. So, what you want?”

“I need to see Dr. Poe. He’s in bad shape, and needs a friend.”

“I should throw you out on your scrawny ass, but you got twenty minutes.”

“Great! You’re the best.”

“Who don’t know that? This time, we do it by the book, though, you hear. It’s through the glass, like the rule book says.”

Five minutes later, a guard with a broad face the color of the beer I’d recently consumed escorted me to the visiting area. Sections of tempered glass bisected the long narrow room. A plywood shelf ran along the length of the window, and a pair of black phones sat on either side of the glass. I waited for Poe to arrive.

Jeffrey Poe entered through the door on the other side of the glass and waved half-heartedly before sitting. We picked up our phones.

“How are you feeling?” What do you say to a person who just tried to hang himself?

“You know that famous medical phrase the doctors are fond of using in place of the truth? About as well as can be expected.” His voice rasped as though forced through a long tunnel lined with shards of glass.

I smiled at his attempt to make a joke out of what must have been a horrific experience, and fumbled for something reassuring to say. “I’ve just left Erin Marrano and she wants you to know she still believes in you. We all do.”

Poe’s eyes glistened and he brushed them with his free hand. “I’m sorry if I let you down, Quint. You must think I’m a real nut case.”

“Not at all. You’re under a lot of pressure, I—”

“Pressure,” he snorted. “Is that what you call it? You’re looking at a man who’s been proven guilty without a trial. The only thing I have to live for is five years of appeals before they execute me. I can’t live that way. I’d rather end it now.” His skin looked nearly yellow under the fluorescent lights. His left eye ticked nervously.

I tried to imagine myself in his position. One day the respected city archaeologist, doing his job, preserving St. Augustine’s history, and the next indicted as a psychotic killer.

“Jeffrey, you’re not alone. Wannaker is still working hard on your case, and I’m out there following every lead I can.”

His eyes were closed, his forehead resting against the glass.

“Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to frame you, but nothing can convince me you killed Marrano.”

Poe wet his lips, and his head bobbed up and down, the muscle below his eye still ticking. “That means a lot to me. I appreciate it. Have you found anything yet? Anything at all?”

“I’ve been busy interviewing people and doing my homework. Unfortunately, it’s going to take some time, but don’t give up. I know something will break.”

“Sure, something will turn up.”

“Listen, Jeffrey, I know you were counting on Mrs. Lawson’s testimony to back up your story, but it probably wouldn’t have helped.”

Poe raised a hand as though about to gesture or rub his face and I waited for him to say something. The hand hung in the air for a moment, fingers trembling slightly, before it dropped in his lap.

“Before the prosecutor finished with her, the poor woman would be so confused she’d have zero credibility with the jury. I’m sorry, but that’s the way these things work.”

“I guess you’re right, but wouldn’t you think that after all the years I’ve lived here and devoted myself to this city … wouldn’t you think it would count for something?”

“It does, and in the end a lot of people will have to apologize to you. But right now—”

“Right now it doesn’t look too good.”

“Yeah. And they’re doing their best to paint you as someone with extreme anger management issues.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“You and I know that, but when the general public reads you were once arrested for aggravated assault they may wonder.”

“Aggravated assault? You mean that old charge from my college days? That was a load of crap.”

“So, there’s nothing to it?”

Poe’s eyes grew wide, the ticking even more noticeable now. “You’re goddamn right there’s nothing to it.” He slammed a palm against the glass, and the guard stepped forward, his hand moving toward the baton on his belt.

I waved off the guard, indicating everything was okay.

“Relax, Jeffrey or he’ll take you back to your cell.” He shifted his eyes toward the guard and raised a palm to show he meant no harm. The guard shuffled back to his spot by the door.

“It happened at a fraternity party in college. A couple of drunks got into a fight, and one of them hit the other with a beer bottle. I tried to break it up and got into the middle of a free-for-all.” Poe blinked twice trying to stop the tick that had moved into high gear.

“The police came and arrested everyone, and I was initially charged with the others. It was a big mistake and they eventually dropped the charge after hearing from all the witnesses. I can’t believe they dredged up that old story.”

I shrugged my shoulders as if to say,
what do you expect
? “I’m glad you cleared that up. I’ll pass it along to Wannaker and he’ll make sure it doesn’t pop up in any more stories.”

“Is there anything else?” Poe asked.

“I’m planning to attend tomorrow night’s special city commission meeting.”

“What for?” For the first time his eyes flickered with life.

“Henderson seems to think Marrano called the meeting because he’d changed his mind about the Matanzas Bay project. I know there’s probably nothing to it, but I’d like to hear what they have to say.”

Poe stared through the glass as though waiting for me to continue, to offer him some possibility of hope. When I didn’t add anything, he sighed deeply and let his forehead fall against the glass again.

TWENTY-FIVE

The next morning I spent some time in the office trying to whittle down the stack of skip traces piling up. Charla was at the county courthouse prowling through public records on a couple of cases, while I held down the fort. I made good progress, working steadily for three hours, before taking a break to pour myself another cup of coffee. That’s when the phone rang.

“Mitchell Investigative Services.”

“Shit, son, that sounds real official.”

“Hello, Jack. One day you need to get out here and I‘ll show you how a real investigative agency works.”

Fuller brayed into my ear. “You need to take that routine on the road, boy.”

“Have anything new for me?”

“Like I told you before, Henderson left the twins with his aunt and before the year was out the kids were up for adoption. He apparently signed them over to a shyster by the name of Sternwald. Lester Sternwald. At one time, Sternwald was legit, although small time. He handled adoption cases, but somewhere along the line he ran up a huge gambling debt. The bookies threatened to realign his spine and he decided to make some quick money with an adoption scam.”

“Hmm. I take it he didn’t get away with it.”

“Ended up wearing a state-issued jumpsuit.”

“So, what happened to Henderson’s kids?”

“It looks like his daughter, Amelia Faye was her name on the birth certificate, was adopted by a couple in the area.”

“And the son?”

“Christopher Henderson didn’t make it. A note in the file said Sternwald reported the boy died of …” I heard pages being turned, “… complications from scarlet fever when he was eighteen months old.”

I still found it hard to believe Henderson cast away his children like giving his old clothes to Good Will. “Henderson doesn’t strike me as that kind of person,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“You have to meet him to understand. He’s a charming old guy filled with personality. Great storyteller. The kind of guy you’d want to have a few beers with.”

“Sounds like you two hit it off. Be sure to send me a card when you announce the engagement.”

“I mean, there must have been something else going on. Maybe he had a nervous breakdown after his wife died and couldn’t take care of them.”

Silence greeted me for almost twenty seconds before he responded. “Sure, or maybe he didn’t give a rat’s ass for the twins. He had his wife’s eight million. The two kids were just extra weight.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “How much time did Sternwald get?”

“He served sixteen months and got time off for good behavior. Then he went back to Huntsville and did some small time paralegal stuff since he lost his bar license.”

“Is he still around? I’d like to talk with him.”

Fuller snorted. “Funny you should ask. The world’s a better place with one less lawyer. Mr. Sternwald was beaten to death behind a strip club about a year ago.”

***

Later that day I returned to St. Augustine under a darkening sky. A nasty weather front was rapidly approaching from the northeast, and dark circles of threatening thunderclouds were forming like a mob of vigilantes in a vicious mood.

Fuller’s conversation flitted through my head as I drove. Sternwald must have been a sleaze ball of the first order. Any number of people must have celebrated the news of his passing. Still, I wondered if his death had any connection with Henderson.

What if Henderson had a late-life conversion and wanted to make amends for his daughter and deceased son? Perhaps a twisted sense of guilt caused him to blame Sternwald and he had the attorney killed to even the score. Maybe there lurked an evil streak beneath his aura of charm and genteel sophistication. The links to Henderson may be coincidence, but coincidence can only be pushed so far in my mind and too many trails seemed to be leading me back to the old poet.

Henderson’s connection was only speculation at this point, but Denny Grimes was another story. He apparently had a strong motive for killing Marrano, and he struck me as a hot head with a mean streak. I’d looked up Grimes’ phone number and address before leaving the office. I called him and asked if it would be okay to drop by and talk a little business. I may have given him the impression that I was interested in setting up a website, and he told me to come over.

Grimes lived in an old two-story house near De Haven Street, just south of the historic district. At his front door, I listened as heavy metal shook the windows. Metallica, maybe. The image of Poe’s near-death experience returned, and for a moment I saw him hanging from his bunk, orange jumpsuit coiled around his neck, squeezing the life out of him as he jerked to the raucous rhythms of the band. Let Grimes be the one, I told myself before knocking on his door.

After a minute I knocked again. Louder. The music faded away and the door opened.

“Hey, dude. Didn’t take you long to get here. Come on in.”

Grimes wore a pair of blue running shorts and an orange polo shirt hanging loosely over his hips. We entered a spacious living room with a twelve-foot high ceiling. It was surprisingly neat, although the furniture was dated. I’m not into antiques, but several pieces looked like they may have some value.

“This used to be my mother’s house,” he said. “She died a few years back, and I moved in. You want to see my office?”