Mortal Dilemma (24 page)

“He said he needed me to get the car and then drive to Gainesville. He didn't say anything about killing a cop.”

“You just thought he brought the shotgun along as a companion?”

“No. I didn't know what it was for.”

“He didn't tell you why he wanted you to steal a car and drive him to Gainesville?”

“Not until we got there.”

“Tell me what he said.” An edge had slipped into Vargas' voice. He was tired of playing word games with this idiot. “You've got one chance here. You tell me what you know and when you knew it and you might have a chance to dodge the attempted murder charge. No more playing dumb. You lie to me and we're done. You're on your way to a life sentence. You got me?”

“Yes. He told me on the way up that he'd been hired to kill somebody. We were going to do it out on the highway. I-75. I'd pull up to the car and he'd shoot and we'd be on our way back to Orlando. He had an iPad and he kept checking on something, so he knew exactly where the car we were looking for was located.”

“What made you get involved?”

“Skeeter paid me two grand.”

“How do I find Skeeter?” Vargas asked.

“I don't know. I promise. I'd tell you if I knew. I didn't know he was trying to kill a cop. I wouldn't have gone with him if I had known.”

“I don't have anything else. Detective Duncan?”

“Who was the guy in the van?” J.D. asked.

“What van?”

“The one that was behind me on I-75 when you passed me. The one that was your backup.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Honestly.”

J.D. stared at him, her face impassive, giving him a look I'd seen only once before. It was hard and scary enough to frighten a dead man. “You listen to me, you little bastard. You tried to kill me. I had to shoot your buddy in the van. You come clean or there's no deal. You got me?”

“I don't know who he was or where to find him.”

“He's in the morgue in Gainesville.”

“He's dead?”

“Yes. I killed him.”

Duhns was near tears. “If I knew who he was, I'd tell you. Please believe me.”

J.D. looked at Vargas. “I don't have any more questions, Detective. Thank you for letting me sit in.”

Vargas stared hard at Duhns for a minute or two. Duhns sat still at first, but then began to fidget under the detective's hard gaze. Finally, Duhns said, “Do I need to sign some papers or something?”

“Papers? For what?”

“Our deal.”

“There is no deal. You lied to me.”

“No, I didn't.”

“You told me you didn't take the car.”

“Yeah, but then I told you the truth.”

“You've got a point, Xavier, but there's still the principle. You lied to a police officer. You'll be with us for a while, I think.”

“Life?”

“We'll see.”

“When?”

“As soon as I find Skeeter.”

M
ONDAY
, N
OVEMBER
3

“T
HAT GUY
'
S AN
idiot,” Vargas said as we sat in Howell's office.

“Most of them are,” J.D. said.

“I guess you don't see much of his type on Longboat Key.”

“More than you would expect, but I was in homicide with Miami-Dade PD before I moved to Longboat, so I've seen my share of idiots.”

“I bet. What about you, Matt? You've been very quiet today.”

“Not a natural state, I assure you,” J.D. said. “Matt's a lawyer.”

“And I thought he was a nice guy,” Vargas said.

“He has his moments. I think it's mostly because he's retired and doesn't think like a lawyer anymore.”

“All right,” I said. “You guys have your fun.”

Howell came through the door. “Okay. I've got Skeeter. I talked to the warden at Glades Correctional. Skeeter's real name is Jerry Evans. He was released about two weeks ago after he completed almost all of a five-year sentence for aggravated assault. I also talked to his parole officer. We'll pick him up today. J.D., you guys are welcome to come back this afternoon. I'll hold the interview until you're ready.”

She looked at me and I nodded. “We've got nothing better to do.”

*    *    *

We were in downtown Orlando in time for our one o'clock lunch meeting with my former law partner, Paul Linder. Paul was one of the best lawyers I'd ever met and a font of lawyer gossip in Central Florida. He was a congenial soul who worked hard and spent a lot of time with other lawyers over lunch or drinks after work. His grandfather had settled in the Orlando area in the 1920s and the Linders had lived in the area ever since. I knew he would be able to answer a lot of the questions I had about D. Wesley Gilbert, Esquire.

After we'd chatted a bit about all kinds of things, I said, “Paul, what can you tell me about Wes Gilbert?”

He chuckled. “Why in the world do you want to know anything about that guy?”

J.D. explained Gilbert's possible connection to some pretty bad people and a lot of money and how it might have something to do with a murder case she was working.

“He's a piece of work. Lots of money, no brains,” Linder said. “I see him most mornings at the Citrus Club. He's usually there for the free breakfast buffet they put out for the members. He always wears a coat and tie and makes a big production about going to the office or having some major piece of legal work to handle. It's all a load of crap. He hasn't handled a legal matter in decades.”

“Have you heard any gossip about his being involved in something shady?”

“Not specifically. A few years back, I heard he was in financial trouble, but he apparently pulled out of it.”

“What did you hear?”

“Not much. Just the usual talk down at the University Club. He was way behind on his dues there as well as at the Country Club of Orlando. He wasn't paying the mortgage on that huge pile of bricks he lives in with that new wife. You know how bankers talk when they
have a few scotches. But he pulled out of it, caught up on everything, and paid off his house.”

“Do you know how he did that?”

“The prevailing wisdom is that he sold some of the property his grandfather accumulated out west. Maybe Montana, Wyoming, one of those places.”

“How's he been doing lately?”

“Financially? Fine, I guess. I haven't heard anything to the contrary.”

“Is the firm doing well?”

“Seems to be, but I don't think he's making much money out of it. I heard he sold what was left of his interest back to the firm years ago. I know they don't pay him much of a salary. They won't let him practice law.”

“What does he do with the firm?”

“Nothing. He has an office there, but I think that's just because he carries one of the founder's names. He doesn't show up most days.”

“Could the money he got from selling his interest in the firm been enough to pull him out of his difficulties several years ago?” I asked.

“One of the partners told me they didn't pay him enough to buy a car, so I'm sure that didn't take care of his problem. Besides, I think that buyout happened before he really got into money trouble.”

“Do you think he would get himself involved in something illegal to make enough money to climb out from under his debt?”

“I wouldn't put anything past him. If he thought he could get away with something and make a little money in the bargain, he'd do it. All those ex-wives are expensive.”

“Even drugs or gambling?”

Linder was quiet for a moment, thinking. “There was a rumor several years ago that old Wes had a gambling problem. That was kept pretty quiet and even the bankers over at the club didn't know anything about it.”

“What were the rumors?” J.D. asked.

“Just that he was laying a lot of money off on a bookie, betting on professional sports. I heard he was losing more than he was winning. He might have pissed some bad people off, but I think he'd be sleeping with the fishes, as they say, if he'd done that.”

“Or gone to work for them,” J.D. said.

“Maybe.”

“Do you have any ideas about what happened?” I asked.

“No. The talk just dried up. If he was in trouble because of the gambling, I guess he worked it out. He's still here and still breathing.”

“Who would know about the land sale out west?” J.D. asked.

“Lloyd Deming probably. He owns most of that land with D. Wesley. Their grandfathers, the two guys who founded Gilbert and Deming, were partners in all their land deals and Wes and Lloyd inherited it.”

“No other heirs?” I asked.

“No. The old men each had only one child, a son, and each of the sons each had one son. So D. Wesley and Lloyd jointly own whatever's left. They're about the same age.”

“Is Deming a lawyer?” I asked.

“No. He's a retired airline pilot. I'm surprised you don't know him.”

“Never met him. What can you tell us about Lloyd?”

“As I said, he's a retired airline pilot. Before that, he graduated from Florida State with an Air Force ROTC commission. After pilot training, he flew more than three hundred combat missions in Vietnam and later flew C-5As, including a career in the Air Force Reserve. He retired from that as a lieutenant colonel. He lives up in Altamonte Springs.”

“J.D.,” I said, “that's where Ken Brown's office is. Do you think we have time to meet with Deming if we can set it up?”

“I don't see a problem. Our meeting with Ken is at four. We
could maybe see Mr. Deming at three and still have time to sit in on Skeeter's interrogation. We'll be a little late getting home, but that's not a problem.”

“Can you set up a meeting for three, Paul?”

“Sure. If he's not on a trip somewhere on his motorcycle, he'll either be at home or at Starbucks.”

*    *    *

Altamonte Springs is an Orlando suburb, about a twenty-minute drive from downtown. Lloyd Deming was a thin gray-haired man in his late sixties. He introduced himself and invited us in. His wife Gale offered iced tea. We declined and she left the room to, as she said, let us talk business.

“Gale can't stand D. Wesley,” Deming said. “Paul Linder said you have some questions about him. He told me Wes might be part of a murder investigation, so, of course, I want to do anything I can to help, but Wes and I've never been close. I don't know how much I can tell you.”

“Mr. Deming,” J.D. said, “I would appreciate your confidence on this. Mr. Gilbert may be completely innocent of any wrongdoing, but his name came up in the investigation, and I'm obligated to look into him. If he is involved, I wouldn't want him to know we're looking into his activities.”

“I'll keep this just between us. How can I help?”

“We understand that you and Mr. Gilbert own land together out west,” J.D. said.

“True.”

“Have you sold any of it in the past few years?”

“The last time we sold anything must have been about ten years ago. There's not much left.”

“Do you know if Mr. Gilbert owned any other land somewhere other than in Florida?” I asked.

“I wouldn't know. As I said, we're not close. In fact, I think the last time I saw him was when we sold an orange grove left to us by our dads.”

“Do you know anything about him having financial problems three or four years ago?”

“No. But I wouldn't be surprised.”

“Why not?”

“Our grandfathers bought a lot of property when it was cheap. They didn't believe in selling it, so when Disney and the other attractions showed up in the area, our dads got rich selling the land. My dad was a lawyer and a member of Gilbert and Deming, but he died of a heart attack when I was in Air Force flight training. He and D. Wesley's dad were close and I saw a lot of him when we were growing up. I didn't like him very much back then. His dad got him into law school and when he graduated, he came back to the firm and did nothing. When his dad died, about two years after Wes got out of law school, Wes inherited from his dad and, unfortunately, I inherited Wes as a partner. He always seemed to spend more money than he had, and he was constantly on me to sell the property we'd inherited. He always seemed to need money. I usually refused.”

“Did you ever hear anything about him having a gambling problem?” J.D. asked.

“When I was at Florida State, Wes was at the University of Florida. I heard he'd gotten into some trouble betting on horses. I think his dad bailed him out. Maybe more than once. After his dad died and Wes inherited his interest in the jointly owned property, he came to me and wanted to put the property up as collateral on a loan. Said he needed the money urgently to pay off a debt. He needed my agreement in order to sell the property and I refused.”

“Did he say what the debt was all about?” J.D. asked.

“No, and I didn't ask. I wasn't going to put the property up, so it was none of my business.”

“Do you know what he did about the debt? Where else he might have gotten the money he needed?”

“I have no idea.”

“One more question, Mr. Deming,” J.D. said, “and we'll get out of your hair. Do you think Mr. Gilbert would be capable of getting involved in a murder plot? Or maybe with gamblers or drug runners?”

“I'm sorry, Detective, but I just don't know. From what I know of him, and what I saw even in childhood, my guess would be that for the right amount of money, he'd be capable of anything. To be honest, I think he's a psychopath.”

M
ONDAY
, N
OVEMBER
3

K
EN
B
ROWN HAD
been busy, buried in the documents Reuben Carlson had sent him that morning. At midafternoon, the documents were spread over the top of his desk, order in their apparent randomness. Ken would pull one out, discuss it, and show how it related to another document.