J. Black - The Shop

“That’s what I was thinking. We’ll go on that assumption. Guess I’d better get back.”

“Guess so.”

“I’ll, uh, keep you apprised.”

“It’s okay, Louis.”

“Hey, just occurred to me. You asked me if there were any missing persons reported on Memorial Day weekend, remember? Palm County didn’t have a missing person, but Bay County did. Panama City Beach—a friend of mine took the info. There was someone—a young guy named Nathan Dial.” He gave her the contact info for the Panama City Beach PD.

“Thanks, Louis.”

“No prob.”

“Be sure to check out Amy’s phone. It could solve the case for you.”

“Okay.”

Back at home, Jolie called the Panama City Beach detective, Craig Jeter, who had taken the missing persons report on Nathan Dial. “Kid left his car at the bar, must’ve hopped a ride with somebody,” he said. “To tell the truth, I’m surprised he didn’t show up after a day or two.”

“What do you think happened?”

“Could be a number of things. Maybe he found himself a new relationship. He disappeared from a gay bar.”

“You think he’d just up and go? Leave all his stuff?”

“I’ve seen weirder. But he could just as easily have gotten into some big trouble. I wish you good luck.” He gave her what he had, which wasn’t much. Jolie got the feeling he didn’t take Dial’s disappearance seriously. Kids “took off.” She got the impression that he thought gay kids in particular could fall off the face of the earth and nobody would know where they went. Or care.

Her second call was to Scott Emerson, Nathan’s roommate. He suggested they meet at the Waffle House on Thomas Drive in Panama City Beach.

Jolie had to decide which weapon to take. She felt naked without one. Although the Palm County Sheriff’s Office had given her a replacement firearm for the SIG Sauer P226, she decided to leave it at home. It would be best to take her own weapon. She had four handguns to choose from—she chose the other SIG.

The badge, she took.

As Jolie crossed the Grand Lagoon, she saw high-rise hotels lined up along the beach like dominoes. It was bright and sunny, the sky a diaphanous blue—a beautiful day to play hooky.

Stopped at Cove Bar on the way in.

Cove Bar dated back to the early sixties, a low brick structure painted dark purple. A round sign loomed at a forty-five-degree angle above the door. According to Detective Jeter, Nathan told his roommate he planned to meet a guy named Rick at the bar on Friday night of Memorial Day weekend. From there they would go to a party.

He was never seen again.

The bar was closed. Jolie took a couple of photos of the bar and the parking lot where Nathan’s car had been left behind, then drove a mile west to the Waffle House.

She scanned the parking lot, wondering what kind of car Scott Emerson would drive. He was a college kid. It was likely he’d use cheap transportation. She thought he’d drive the Chevy Cavalier without hubcaps.

Inside, she sat at the counter, ordered a Coke, and waited. The cook in her white paper hat glanced at her inquiringly, and Jolie shook her head. The cook turned back to the griddle and didn’t look at her again.

Jolie knew she was skating right on the edge—first talking to the PCB detective, and now meeting with Scott Emerson. If Skeet found out, she had no doubt he’d use it against her. But nobody at the Palm County Sheriff’s Office knew about Nathan Dial except for Louis. And Louis was a little busy right now, trying to solve her case.

By a quarter past two, Jolie realized Scott Emerson wasn’t coming.

She called and got his voice mail. She’d wait another ten minutes and then give it up. A young woman went by and sat on the stool at the end of the counter. The girl could have been sashaying down a runway. She made a big production of setting her rose-pink alligator bag down on the stool next to her and checking her phone. Jolie caught the potent combination of perfume, tanning oil, and beach sand—a Panama City Beach girl. Long blonde mane—Jolie guessed, hair extensions. Makeup troweled on, but she was still beautiful. Halter top that matched the bag, bare brown midriff, tiny short-shorts, stork legs ending in translucent sandals on five-inch heels. Fiddling with her bejeweled cell phone, every gesture over the top. A girly-girl.

Jolie had never looked that good. Didn’t think she’d want to. She liked to watch other people, but didn’t like them watching her.

The beach girl ordered lunch, flirting with the heavyset female cook, speaking in a high baby voice, ordering waffles, cheese eggs, and hash browns, “scattered, smothered, covered, and chunked.”

Little girl with a big appetite.

Jolie tried Emerson again.

Christina Aguilera’s “Can’t Hold Us Down” blared down the counter. The beach girl consulted her phone—she made a big production of it.

Jolie punched in Emerson’s number again.

“Can’t Hold Us Down” sounded again. The girl looked at her phone again and dropped it in her purse. She got up, paid the cashier, and walked out the door.

Jolie watched through the window as the beach girl walked right past the red Miata, straight to the white Cavalier. Bent from the waist to unlock the door, her rear end pushed out and up, showing off the beautiful line of her tanned legs.

Her tiny, compact butt.

Hair shiny in the sunlight.

Too shiny. And her butt—too small. The only part of her shape that didn’t look right. She sat in the car and folded her perfect legs in.

Jolie dropped a five on the counter and hustled outside to her own car just as the Cavalier turned right on Thomas. She followed, staying back a car or two. Wondering: Why the elaborate La Cage aux Folles show? Was it just a lark, for her benefit? Or to make a point?

If there was a point, Jolie couldn’t see it.

They went up over the Grand Lagoon. Turned right on Albatross and left onto a dead-end road called Coleridge Lane. A right into the newly resurfaced parking lot of the Harbor Village Apartments. Blue-gray siding, white trim, nautical theme, including a ship’s wheel on the sign.

Scott Emerson and Nathan Dial lived at the Harbor Village Apartments.

She waited, parked behind a banana tree. From here she could see the girl take the walkway to building C.

Five minutes later, Jolie knocked on the door of 23C.

28

They were just beyond the channel markers when Nick Holloway said, “Let’s try the grouper.”

Frank said, “The grouper?”

“I’ve never fished for grouper. It’ll be a challenge.”

“You wouldn’t rather troll for kings? We could put a line in the water right now.”

“No. I’d like to go for grouper if it’s all the same to you.” That blinding smile again.

“But it’s going to take longer to get out there. We’d have to use the downriggers…” Frank paused. Trolling for kings would be faster—they’d be closer to shore, and he wanted this to be quick and painless. He supposed they could go to the nearest artificial reef, drop anchor, and hope for the best. Maybe the man would get tired of waiting, or maybe he’d get lucky. Still, Frank had to try one more time. “King mackerel’s running right now. If it was me…”

Holloway shrugged. “It’s your boat.”

A muscle in Frank’s jaw flinched. There was, implicit in Holloway’s reply, the notion that Franklin Haddox, former attorney general of the United States, was an imperfect host. “Grouper it is, then.”

Frank heard the strain in his own voice, the false cheeriness. He knew he’d been pushed into a corner. In a lifetime of politics, Frank had run into plenty of alpha dogs—especially in the White House—and he knew when someone was trying to crowd him. It felt like Holloway had Frank’s neck between his jaws and was pressing ever so slightly to make his point.