J. Black - The Shop

“May I look around?”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

She’d clearly lost interest in him. The novelty had worn off. It was heartbreaking. He would need years of therapy to recover from such a devastating blow. As he went up the stairs, he heard her talking on her cell phone.

The upstairs was as advertised. Jumbles of old furniture, some of which might be antique—Landry wouldn’t know. Ranks of folding chairs and long folding tables, school cafeteria-type stuff. The door to the cupola was locked. He came back down the stairs, his shoes echoing in the empty space. The dogs funneled down behind him and followed as he stepped into the sunlight.

Riley was outside, texting.

Frank drove up in his golf cart. “Don’t you think we should get this show on the road?”

“We’re just getting to know each other,” Riley said between text messages. By now it was a symbolic fight, not a real one.

“Scoot.”

“Daddy—”

“I mean it.”

“Fine.” She didn’t stomp off, but it was close.

Frank patted the passenger seat of the golf cart. Landry got in. “I thought we’d go to the cabanas,” Frank said as they zipped down the path. “It’s private, so no one will overhear.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Nope. Just cautious. This guy has antennae like a lobster.”

“He won’t be able to bother anybody when he’s in supermax.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

As Landry had surmised, the cabanas were really bungalows, tastefully done up in what Landry thought was a cross between art deco and beach cottage. “Before we get started,” Landry said, “I’d like to see the passageway.”

“Sure thing.” Franklin led him outside and around to a small structure, a pool shed set flush to their cabana. Inside, pool equipment was hung neatly. There was a narrow space to the right, and beyond that a small closet—a restroom for the landscapers, Frank said. He opened the door to what looked like basement steps in a regular house. The steps and walls were concrete. The workmanship was nothing to write home about, but the tunnel had lasted since the twenties—not bad. Frank pulled the string to the overhead lightbulb and they started down, their footsteps echoing on the walls. It got damper and cooler as they went down, seven steps. The steps opened onto a narrow passageway stretching into the darkness. The tunnel reminded Landry of a mineshaft, timbered at intervals. He had to hunch his shoulders and pull his head in like a turtle to go through. Overhead bulbs lit the way. You had to pull each one on as you went—very low-tech. Three of them were out. About thirty yards in, they came to a T. Franklin explained that the tunnel on the left led to the octagon house. They took the tunnel on the right. At the end of the passageway, they reached another door, also without a lock. Approximately fifty-five yards in. The steps up were wooden and led to a structure similar to the pool shed. Wood-planked and cramped. They emerged out onto one of the docks inside the cavernous boathouse.

“Pretty neat, eh?” Franklin said. “They had wheelbarrows they’d trundle the bootleg whiskey in. It’s also how my great-grandfather smuggled in his girlfriend.”

“His girlfriend?”

“An actress called Ariel Sawyer. She was big early on in the silent era. She was the girlfriend of a notorious gangster named Hugh Gant. Great-granddad was seeing her on the sly. That’s what the tunnel was for—not the booze. The booze came in by boat, and they could have just as easily carted it along the paths. It’s a private island—who’d see them? But he couldn’t take a chance with Ariel.

“The tunnel looks jerry-rigged, but it’s not. There’s actually a sophisticated construction, the way the floors are slanted, places to catch runoff—architecturally, it’s quite brilliant. When you consider that this is an island in Florida, built-up or not. We don’t use these tunnels now, except as an alternate escape route for the president or vice president when they’re staying here.”

Landry eyeballed the boathouse, in case he needed to come here again. He did not have a photographic memory, but he’d trained himself to observe quickly and thoroughly. He looked for places where he could ambush someone or places where someone could ambush him, places where he could see and yet not be seen. He looked for cover. He looked for concealment. He looked for places to escape if he had to. And here it was: an official escape route for the president.

The boathouse had an old fish camp feel. Distinctly Southern. “Let’s go back,” he said.

When they got back to the pool shed, Franklin said, “Wait until you see this.” He motioned Landry over to a shelf which held more pool accessories and pushed aside a case of shock treatment bags. Set into the wood at the back of the shelf was a window. Landry looked in at the cabana they’d just left. From this vantage point he could see the bed, the small dinette, the couches covered with throw pillows.

“One-way glass,” Frank said. “Like the cops use. Used to be just a little hole, discreetly placed. But somewhere along the line came the upgrade. No one’s supposed to know about this,” he added.

“No one?”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure everyone knows. At least the immediate family.” Franklin looked at his watch. “Time to rock and roll.”

44

As Jolie entered the house after her run, she spotted the light blinking on her phone. It was Kevin Moran, the FBI special agent she’d worked with on a kidnapping a few years ago. Another friend of Danny’s. Kevin was an ideal special agent; he was eminently self-contained. She wondered, though, how much he liked working this area, where very little happened.

Of course, plenty was happening now. Jolie had a feeling it would only get worse, not better. Whatever she was stuck into, it was like swimming in the pond. You had no idea what else was in there with you.

When she reached him she said, “So, you think you can help me?”

“Probably not.”

“I heard the FBI was investigating Luke Perdue even before the Starliner Motel.”

“Chilly this morning, don’t you think?”

It was nothing of the kind. “Okay, so maybe that’s not true about the FBI watching Luke. But it would stand to reason, since the FBI was involved in the hostage situation, there would be an investigation after the standoff at the Starliner Motel.”

“Then again, we do live in a tropical climate.”

“In fact, if you guys were any good, you’d dispatch someone immediately to his home address.”

“Warmer. Let me go turn the fan on.”

“Did the FBI go to Luke’s house?”

“It’s possible. Probable, even.”

“To interview Mrs. Frawley?”

“You’d think.”

“Did they collect evidence?”

“That would be a negative.”

“So you’re saying it was just Gardenia PD? They were the only ones who collected evidence?”

“You have any idea how hot it is here? I’m loosening my tie as we speak.”

“So the FBI has no evidence from Luke Perdue? Not even, say, a cell phone?”

“Gotta open a window. It’s like an oven in here.”

“No cell phone? You sure? You talked to the agents involved?”

“Look, I’ve got an appointment in a couple of minutes.”

Jolie pushed through. “I understand that Special Agent Belvedere was the secondary during the hostage negotiation.”

“Not my jurisdiction. Sorry.”

“Special Agent Frederick Belvedere—that’s what I hear. He worked with Chief Akers.”

He said nothing.

“I wish I could talk to him. Clear up a couple of things.”

“Well, what do you know? They finally put the air-conditioning on in here.”