Pocket-47 (A Nicholas Colt Thriller) Read online

  “I’ll talk to the Spiveys,” I said. “Who was giving her lessons?”

  “A pro in Ponte Vedre named Kent Clark.”

  “Kent Clark?” I laughed. “Like Superman, only backward. Any reason to believe she might have been involved with him? Other than the lessons, I mean.”

  “I don’t think so. He’s old, like forty or something.”

  I raised an eyebrow at that. “Does Brittney have any scars or tattoos? Piercings?”

  “She wears earrings. That’s all.”

  “She got a cell phone?”

  “She’s on my plan. Here’s the bill from last month.”

  I took the phone statement and put it with the note. “I want to get started right away,” I said. “I’ll need the money up front.”

  Leitha wrote me a check. I wrote my cell phone number on the back of a business card and handed it to her. “As of today, my cell still works. I leave it turned off most of the time, so leave voice mail and I’ll get back to you. Call me right away if you hear from Brittney or if she comes home.”

  Leitha nodded. She rose and offered her hand again, then moved toward the door.

  “Will you be home later?” I said.

  “I have to work tonight. Why?”

  “I’d like to take a look at Brittney’s room.”

  “I’ll be home from work around eight tomorrow morning, if you want to come then.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said. “Any questions?”

  “Just one. How—”

  She hesitated, but her eyes and facial expression spoke volumes. I finished the thought for her. “How does a world-renowned blues guitarist with homes on both coasts end up as a PI working out of a camper? I ask myself the same question every day.”

  She stepped out into the August heat, avoiding further eye contact. I stood in the doorway and watched her drive off in the Bic.

  Bud barked and chased her a quarter mile down Lake Barkley Road. He finally stopped and sneezed a couple of times, from all the dust she had stirred.

  CHAPTER TWO

  After Leitha drove away, I shuffled through the pile of bills on my desk, putting them in severity-of-delinquency order.

  My answering machine had one message on it, from yesterday before Ma Bell shut down my landline. It said, “Hey sweetie. Don’t forget to meet me for lunch at Lyon’s Den tomorrow. Love you.” It was from Juliet Dakila, my girlfriend. I’d saved the message so I wouldn’t forget our date.

  I have an amazing memory, but I’m absentminded as hell. Juliet knows this about me, so I’m sure that’s why my cell phone rang shortly after I played the message.

  “What’s wrong with your home phone?” Juliet asked.

  “I was a little late paying the bill. I’ll get it turned back on today or tomorrow.”

  “You need money?”

  I skip-traced a guy one time who made his living sponging off girlfriends. Loser. I’d borrowed from Juliet before, always paid back every penny. Didn’t like to make a habit of it.

  “I’m all right,” I said. “We still doing lunch today?”

  “Of course. Among other things.”

  “Other things like what?” I asked. I had a feeling I might be in for one of her famous shopping trips. Juliet would live at the mall if they let her. She has to stop at every store, look around, try ten things on, and finally remember what she really wants is on sale at Penney’s. Here’s my idea of shopping: You know you need something, some paint for example. You know the type, color, and quantity before you ever leave the house. You walk into the paint store, tell them what you want, pay for it, leave. Shopping done. Juliet, on the other hand, will spend two hours picking out a pair of shoes. It’s not one of the things I love about her, and I don’t know why she ever asks me to tag along. I get grouchy after about ten minutes.

  I was trying to think of excuses not to go shopping with her when she said, “You’re going to meet my mother today.”

  “Sure,” I said. “We’ll just hop on a plane to the Philippines and—”

  “No, silly. She’s here. I told you she was coming to stay with my sister for a while, remember? To help with the kids.”

  “Oh, yeah. How could I forget that?” Joy. I suddenly wished for that shopping trip I’d been dreading only seconds earlier. Misery is always relative, and relatives are always misery.

  “She flew in late last night,” Juliet said. “I haven’t even seen her myself yet. We’ll go over to Abby’s place right after lunch. Unless you have other plans.”

  Juliet’s sister Abby didn’t have any kids until she turned thirty, and then started cranking them out once a year, sure as the first pitch in the World Series. She had three boys and one girl, and was pregnant with the fifth—another girl, according to the sonogram. I loved hanging around Abby’s house and playing with the kids sometimes, but the thought of meeting Juliet’s mom gave me an acid burn just below my heart. I’ve never been very good at meeting mothers.

  “Actually,” I said, “I need to work on some research for—”

  “This is my mother we’re talking about, Nicholas. No excuses, dude. You’re coming. Don’t worry, she’s very nice. She doesn’t know much English yet, so you won’t even have to talk to her a lot. Please say you’ll come. For me?”

  “All right. I’ll come.” The things we do for love. Maybe Freud had it right. Perhaps all motivation stems from the desire to get laid.

  “Awesome,” Juliet said. “See you at Lyon’s Den in a little while.”

  It was just past ten, and we weren’t supposed to meet until noon, so I had time to do a couple of background checks on the computer. I transferred my bass filets from the refrigerator to the freezer, crammed my bills into a drawer, sat down, and started with Mark Toohey.

  Leitha was right about his age. Some things she probably didn’t know: Mark Toohey was born in Waterloo, Iowa, where he dropped out of school the day he turned sixteen. He’d had a variety of addresses since then, one being the state penitentiary in Starke, Florida. He served six months on a burglary charge, and still had four years of probation time left. His proud parents still lived in Iowa. I printed the data on him, including his current address and phone number, and that of his employer.

  Nine times out of ten, when a young girl like Brittney Ryan has an older boyfriend, she is easy to find. Find the boyfriend, find the girl. I didn’t bother to call Toohey because, also nine times out of ten, the boyfriend will lie to protect the runaway. I planned to make a surprise visit to Mark Toohey’s place the next day, put this little job in the scrapbook.

  I heard Bud barking, so I opened the hatch and let him inside. He danced around on my vinyl tile floor for a minute, gave my leg a hug, climbed on the couch and settled there with a smile on his face and his tongue out.

  I ran Kent Clark, the tennis pro, next. He graduated from the University of Miami in 1986 with degrees in communications and physical education. He taught high school in Boca Raton until 1998, but his employment history was sketchy after that. He didn’t file a tax return in 2001, but did file for bankruptcy and a divorce.

  I looked up the number and called Seminole High School in Boca Raton on my cell phone. After several rings, a lady with a nasally grandmother voice answered.

  I introduced myself as principal Steven Gill from Hallows Cove Junior High. Gill was the principal when I went to school there thirty years ago, but I was counting on her not knowing that.

  “I’m checking references on a Mr. Kent Clark,” I said. “His résumé says he taught down there from nineteen eighty-six to nineteen ninety-eight. Is that correct?”

  “I’ll have to pull his file,” she said. “Can you hold?”

  “Of course. Thank you.” I waited, started wondering how much collective time, the world over, is wasted on hold every day. Probably thousands of hours. Why couldn’t all that time be put to use somehow? What do most people do while they’re on hold? I guessed most people just sat there with the phone pressed against their heads, like I do. H
ow many man-hours, man-years, are sucked into the abyss while waiting for people to come back to the phone? Someday I’m going to find out, and give everyone on hold something to do. Clip their toenails or something. I’ll probably win the Nobel Prize.

  When she clicked back on, I detected some nervousness in her voice, a slight raise in pitch.

  “Yes. He was employed here during those years. Anything else I can help you with today?”

  “Can you tell me why he left?”

  “By law, I really can’t give you any details, Mr. Gill. I’m sure you know that.”

  “Right. May I speak with the principal?”

  “You can, but it’s a different principal than when Mr. Clark was employed here. Do you want to speak with her?”

  “No, that’s okay. Could you give me the name of the principal who was there the same years as Mr. Clark?”

  “That would have been Mr. Tsirulnopolis.”

  “Could you spell that for me?”

  She spelled it. “Everyone called him Mr. T, because his name was so hard to pronounce.”

  “Yeah. It’s all Greek to me. What was his first name?”

  “You know, I don’t even remember. Everyone just called him T. We do miss our Mr. T.”

  She started sounding all gushy and nostalgic, so I figured it was time to hang up. Rule #216 in Nicolas Colt’s Philosophy of Life: Things twenty years ago weren’t all that goddamn great either. “Did he wear a lot of heavy gold chains around his neck?” I said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Never mind. Thank you very much.”

  I clicked a few keys and found Tsirulnopolis’ phone number and address. My lucky day. He was the only person named Tsiulnopolis in the entire state of Florida. I called, and he picked up on the first ring. I heard a television blaring in the background.

  “This is T,” he said.

  I decided to be myself this time. “My name is Nicholas Colt. I’m a private investigator, and I’m trying to get some information on a man I think you worked with previously. His name is Kent Clark.”

  “Is he in trouble again?” Mr. T said.

  “Not that I know of. I was hired to find a fifteen-year-old runaway, and he’s her tennis coach. I was just trying to get some information before going to talk with him.”

  “Can’t help you. He was never convicted. Anything I say would, in essence, be slander.”

  “Never convicted of what? You can tell me the arrest charges. That’s not slander. It’s a matter of public record.”

  “Actually, he had it all expunged. You won’t find it in any public records, Mr. Colt.”

  “A fifteen-year-old girl is missing,” I said. “With all due respect, that’s serious shit. My client wants to avoid getting the police and the court system involved, but if I need to get a subpoena—”

  “I’d like to help you, but—” He sighed. “I’m retired from the school system, Mr. Colt. The only repercussions I fear are from Kent Clark himself. He could sue me if he found out.”

  “He won’t find out,” I said. “My word.”

  He hesitated. “All right. Mr. Clark was terminated for inappropriate behavior with one of his female students. Criminal charges were filed, but he beat them in court. I’m sure he’ll never teach school again. He got off light if you ask me.”

  Bud put his head on my lap, started nudging my elbow with his muzzle. He was telling me to get my ass off the phone and get him something to eat. I ignored him, and he finally went back to the couch.

  “What was the ‘inappropriate behavior’?” I said. “Could you turn your television down a notch?” The Beverly Hillbillies theme song was playing, and I wasn’t in the mood for a story about a man named Jed.

  He ignored my request. “One of the girls claimed that he fondled her. Sexually. He denied it, but the girl had a witness so we had to believe her. It’s never easy firing a teacher, Mr. Colt, but I think we did the right thing where Kent Clark was concerned.”

  “Sounds like it. Thanks for the info, Mr. T. Hope you’re enjoying retirement.”

  Mr. T chuckled. “Well, my golf swing has never been better. I’ll say that.”

  Too bad the same can’t be said for your hearing.

  We said goodbye and hung up.

  I put Kent Clark on my list of probable causes for Brittney’s running away. It was possible he had tried something with her, maybe even succeeded. I’ve seen it happen more than once. A trusted uncle, teacher, priest, whatever, molests a minor and then threatens to do them and their family harm if a word is ever said. It’s a compelling reason for a fifteen-year-old to bolt.

  I opened the pantry door and got Bud a Milk-Bone. He crunched it into small pieces on the floor and gobbled the small pieces, hyperfocused on doing everything as quickly as possible. I gave him an old pair of deck shoes a while back. He knows which pair is his. He took one of them to the couch and gnawed on the heel.

  I ran a quick check on Dr. Michael Spivey, Brittney’s former foster father. He graduated from the University of Florida in 1982 with a double major, music and biology, and then from the university’s school of medicine in 1985. He was active in the National Foster Parent Association and Big Brothers Big Sisters of America. He’d done a three-year tour in the military after med school. No police record, and no bankruptcies or anything.

  I’m always a little suspicious of anyone who’s that clean.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A sign near the parking lot entrance, one of those yellow portable jobs on wheels, said TONIGHT KING WATERS AND ONE GIA T LEAP. The N in GIANT had apparently taken a leap of its own. Lyon’s Den’s board-and-batten exterior had always reminded me of Little House on the Prairie.

  I made it there a few minutes before noon. The nightclub is located just north of the Hallows Cove pier, and many of the tables in the restaurant upstairs have a spectacular view of the St. John’s River. Every December, Juliet and I make it a point to go up there and watch the Christmas parade of boats. Hundreds of mariners deck their vessels with yuletide decorations and twinkling lights, and sail down to St. Augustine. Jules and I talk about getting our own boat someday. Guess I could always weld some pontoons onto the Airstream.

  Inside, Neil Young moaned “Harvest Moon” from invisible speakers. An L-shaped mahogany bar stood in front of a large mirrored wall, and beyond a row of bistro tables were the dance floor and a raised stage. The entire area was about the size of a basketball court. Antique signs, rusted farm tools, and other pieces of old junk were tacked to the walls and ceiling Cracker Barrel style.

  I sat on a stool. Sonya Shafer slid the wine glass she had been polishing into an overhead rack and slapped a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of me. I’ve known Sonya since she was a little girl. Her daddy and I fish together sometimes. She wore tight black pants and a white tuxedo shirt, and her blonde hair was long and frizzed out like a rock star’s.

  “Old Fitz on the rocks?” she said.

  “Make it a Carta Blanca this time. And, what the hell, a shot of Quervo Gold. Can you cash this?” I showed her the check from Leitha.

  “Not this early,” she said.

  “Put it on my tab, then. Lunch too.”

  “You meeting Juliet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You got it, babe.” She brought my drinks, then walked off to serve another customer. I sipped on the beer and read a greasy menu I knew by heart.

  Juliet came in a few minutes later wearing jeans and a T-shirt one of her friends from the bank had given her. It said Severe Penalty for Early Withdrawal. I loved it when she wore that. My lucky shirt. She sat beside me, picked up my shot of tequila, and sucked it dry.

  “Hey. That was mine,” I said.

  “No liquor for you today. It deadens the senses.”

  “My senses just might need some deadening,” I said. I was about to go crazy just looking at her. Juliet had gotten all the right genes from her American father and Filipino mother. She was 5′3″, long black hair, olive complexion, smile l
ike a search light, brown eyes warm as apple pie. She leaned over and kissed me.

  “You taste like tequila,” I said.

  “After lunch, you will come to my house and give me great pleasure.”

  “Well, okay. If I have to,” I said. “I have to get up early in the morning, though, so I’ll need to be asleep by midnight.”

  “You have a job?” she said.

  “I do.” I told her about the runaway named Brittney Ryan and about the research I had done earlier.

  “That gives us less than twelve hours then.”

  “We could always skip lunch,” I said.

  She kissed me again. “We will starve. But we will die happy.”

  “I thought we were going to Abby’s. For me to meet your mom.”

  “They went out shopping. Probably be gone all day. We’ll have to make it another time.”

  “Shucks,” I said. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I had a thousand dollar check in my pocket, I was going to get laid, and I didn’t have to meet any mothers. The day kept getting better and better.

  I followed Juliet to her house. Three hours later, I went out and brought back some Chinese take-out. Fried rice, chicken and broccoli, egg rolls. We ate the food and drank a bottle of cheap champagne and went back to bed.

  Someone outside was riding around on a dirt bike. The noise from the whiney little engine gave me a headache.

  “Mind if I shoot your neighbor?”

  “Do you love me?” Juliet said.

  “Very much,” I said. “I’ll love you even more if you give me permission to kill that inconsiderate—”

  “Will you marry me?” She was lying on her stomach, her hands laced together supporting her head. She looked me directly in the eyes.

  “You sure know how to kill a beautiful moment,” I joked. “Sure. I’ll marry you. Someday.”

  “Why not today? Tomorrow? I want to have a baby with you. Take me out right now and buy me a diamond ring. You should at least come and live with me here. There’s no reason for you to stay in that crummy old camper.”

  “I like having my own space. It’s not that crummy. As for the baby thing, I think you know where I stand on that.”