Tonight I Said Goodbye (St. Martin's Minotaur Mystery) (19 page)

We talked for more than an hour. Swanders jumped in occasionally with questions, but it was clear that Cody was in charge. No one offered an explanation of where Kraus was or why he was missing.

"I've got to hand it to you assholes," Cody said. "You really know how to make things more difficult. This Hartwick guy could have been just who we needed to break this case open. But do you call me, give me a heads-up? No, you don't. Instead you try to play the game your own way, and then you get burned. And, in the process, I get burned, because now a guy I need to talk to is dead." He shook his head with disgust. "I told you I wanted to work with you on this. But now you've made it clear you aren't willing to work with us."

I felt like a schoolboy being chastised by the principal--aware of the consequences of my actions, but at the same time somewhat amused with the whole scenario. Cody had never wanted to work with us. He'd made that clear when he had Swanders and Kraus feed us the bogus gambling tip. And he could have had the first crack at Hartwick if he'd been sharper. If he
had
found Hartwick first, I was sure he wouldn't
have bothered to notify Joe and me. Now he was griping at us, but his own investigation seemed to have stagnated. He didn't want to work with us, but he saw we were making more progress than he was, and it was pissing him off.

"We've tried to work with you," Joe objected. "We told you to check out Hubbard. Have you done that?"

"Yeah, we're working on that, Pritchard. But it's going to take more than a day, all right?"

"We found Hartwick in one day," I said.

"And you got him killed in that same day, you jackass." Cody sighed and tugged at his tie. "I'm furious with you for the way that turned out, but there's no use crying about it now. He's dead, and he can't tell us anything. We need to find someone who
can
help us, though. You have any idea who might be associated with Hartwick?"

Joe and I shook our heads, and Cody looked at Kinkaid.

"I don't know," Kinkaid said. "Like I said, he was just a guy from out of state I met a few times. That's all. If you ask me, you're wasting time focusing on Jeremiah Hubbard, though. The Russians are clearly involved with this thing. What Weston was doing for Hubbard isn't necessarily related. In fact, it's more likely his connection to them came from Hartwick, not Hubbard."

Cody seemed to like that suggestion. "You're right. Hubbard's a businessman. Hartwick was a professional thug."

It seemed that Wayne Weston had been one, too. Or at least a professional extortionist. I looked at Joe, thinking about Dan Beckley, and he gave me an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

"Here's the deal," Cody said. "I'm going to see what we can find out about this Hartwick guy. In the meantime, you are going to sit on your hands, got me? I was content to let you stay on the case when I thought you'd cooperate, but, obviously, that's not how it worked. You jeopardize my investigation again, and I'll see that your licenses are revoked. Understand?"

"That's the deal?" I said. "Hell of a deal, Cody."

He smiled coldly. "Okay, it's not a deal. It's a command, Perry. An order. And you'd be wise not to test me on it." He got to his feet. "I'll be in touch."

After Cody and Swanders were gone, Kinkaid looked at us. "That's bullshit," he said. "You two run a legitimate business. He can't tell you what cases you can and can't take, not unless he's got something to charge you with."

"No, he can't," Joe said. "But he can make it damn difficult for us."

"Surely you're not telling me you're going to listen to him? Dammit, Pritchard, you can't quit on this."

Joe stared at him with surprise and distaste, as if Kinkaid had suggested Joe give up the PI trade and become a figure skater. "I'm not going to quit on this," he said condescendingly. "I'm just saying it will be more difficult now. We're going to have to keep something of a low profile."

"So, what now?" Kinkaid said. "How do we move forward?"

"The way I see it, we've got to do two things," Joe said. "We've got to find out much, much more about the Russians. We need to find out who they deal with, what type of scams they're running--absolutely anything that might connect them to Weston or Hartwick. Or Hubbard. And we've got to do the same thing with Hartwick. Basically, we've got to perform some thorough background investigations on everyone we've connected with this case."

"It's going to be hard to do that with Hartwick," I said. "He's based in South Carolina, not Cleveland. As far as we know, he was just a visitor here."

"Well, then," Joe said, "it seems to me one of us should go to South Carolina."

Kinkaid frowned. "Split up? I don't like that."

"You didn't like it last night, either, Kinkaid, but we ignored your advice then and we'll ignore it now," Joe said, making the remark
lighthearted enough to avoid riling Kinkaid again. "If we all go trooping down to South Carolina, Cody will throw a fit. And we'll be losing time up here."

"Cody's going to shit a brick, regardless," I said, "If we all go down, or just one of us."

"I'm assuming a few days down there should be sufficient for you," Joe said. "Until then, I'll try to keep your absence from attracting Cody's attention. If he does find out, I'll tell him you're out of state on another case, something unrelated to Wayne Weston. He can't prevent us from working altogether, although he'd surely like to try."

"You're assuming a few days will be sufficient for
me?
I gather I've been nominated as our South Carolina man?"

Joe nodded. "Yeah, you have been. Scott and Eggers will more likely want to keep on eye on Kinkaid than on you or me, so I figure he and I should stay in the city and see what we can do with the Russians. Besides, the Russians present the greatest threat, so it would be best to keep two men here."

"Scott and Eggers," I said. "Shit, I forgot about them. They'll never let me leave the city a day after witnessing a murder."

"Gee," Joe deadpanned, his eyes wide and innocent, "maybe we shouldn't tell them you're leaving."

W
HEN
I stepped off the plane in Myrtle Beach late the next morning, I closed my eyes and took a deep, contented breath. It was seventy degrees, and the sun was out. When I'd left Cleveland a few hours earlier, it had been in the upper thirties, with snow flurries spitting through a stiff wind off the lake. For the first time since I'd heard of him, I was thankful Randy Hartwick had lived in South Carolina.

I drove down the town's beach strip in a rented Ford Contour with the idea of scanning the hotels until I found the Golden Breakers. After a few blocks, I realized that was a bigger task than I'd anticipated. The hotels seemed to go on endlessly. I drove slowly down Ocean Avenue for fifteen minutes and saw nothing but hotels, hundreds of them. Most of the hotels on the beach side of the street were tall, elegant structures, while just across the street they tended to be tacky one-or two-story buildings that were a far cry from their impressive neighbors. Only fifty yards apart, and yet the difference in quality--and, no doubt, in room rates--was amazing. After passing dozens upon dozens of hotels and resorts without locating the Golden Breakers, I gave up and pulled off Ocean Avenue in search of a gas station. Running parallel to Ocean Avenue but a few hundred yards farther inland was Business Highway 17, the commercial strip. On this road hotels were scarce, but you couldn't spit out the window without hitting a T-shirt shop or a seafood restaurant. I pulled into the first gas station parking lot I found and went inside to ask for directions.

The clerk, a bored-looking girl who was twirling her blond hair with her fingers, told me I was eight blocks south of the resort and then said, "All the hotels have maps on their brochures and reservation mailings, you know." Smart-ass. I didn't have a brochure or a reservation.

I found the Golden Breakers eight blocks north, just as the gas station clerk had promised. It was a hell of a building, too. A single-story lobby was bordered on each side by a sixteen-story tower containing the rooms and suites. On top of the lobby was a sundeck with a pool. Nice. I parked in the entryway and went inside. The sign indicated there were vacancies, so I decided I might as well stay at the Golden Breakers. I asked for room rates; while the figure was higher than I wanted to pay, it was also much cheaper than it would be a few months down the road, when tourism season hit its peak. It would be on John Weston's tab, anyhow. I asked for a two-night stay and paid with my credit card, keeping an extra receipt for the expense account.

Once the bill was settled, I returned to the Contour and drove across the street to park in the hotel's garage. For the first time I was thankful to have the little car. The parking garage had the lowest ceiling of any garage I'd ever been in, and I wasn't sure my truck would have fit. Maybe everyone down here drove small sports cars. There would certainly be little need for four-wheel drive. I found a spot, took my suitcase from the trunk, and went back to the hotel. My room was on the second floor of the north tower. I took the elevator up, found the room, and went inside.

The hotel room was actually three rooms: a living room with a couch and television, a small but fully equipped kitchen, and a bedroom. Both the bedroom and the living room had sliding glass doors that opened onto a wide balcony overlooking the beach. I dropped my bag onto the couch and went out on the balcony.

The sun was shining, reflecting off the water and making the waves sparkle. Several people lay on blankets on the sand, working on their tans, and a group of kids were tossing a football back and forth near
the water's edge. Too cold for them to be swimming yet. A single boat with a bright blue-and-yellow sail was cutting through the water a few hundred yards off the beach. I leaned over the rail and looked down. The beach wasn't very crowded, but that didn't surprise me. It was too early in the year for family vacations, and there was at least a week still to go before spring break would bring the college kids down. I left the balcony door open to let the warm breeze in and went back inside. It was a beautiful day and I had a beautiful hotel room, but I was here to work. I took off my long-sleeved shirt and pulled on a thin polo shirt, then slipped the Glock into its holster at the base of my spine. I wasn't expecting trouble, but Randy Hartwick had certainly attracted some in Cleveland, so I wasn't about to go in search of his associates unprepared. I slipped the keycard for the room into my pocket and rode the elevator back down to the lobby. The receptionist saw me coming and smiled.

"Is the room satisfactory?"

"It's amazing," I said, and her smile widened, as if I'd just made her day. "But I have another question."

"What's that?"

"I was hoping to speak to the owner. Do you know where I might find him?"

She hesitated. "Well, Mr. Burks isn't here. Is there something a manager could help you with? Can I ask why you want to speak to the owner?"

"Because I want to know who's responsible for this dump," I said, waving my hand at the gleaming lobby. Her smile disappeared, and I said, "I'm just kidding."

"Oh." Her smile was back in place now. Relieved.

"I need to talk to the owner about a mutual acquaintance," I said. "Someone who passed away, I'm afraid."

She put her hand to her chest. "Oh, no! Why, we're really having some bad luck lately. Just two days ago a man called to tell our security chief that one of his close friends had died."

This was the same woman I'd talked to on the phone. Possibly the nicest person in the world, and now I'd cast a shadow over her day twice in the same week. I was from Cleveland, though. She probably expected it.

"Hmm," I said. "Yes, that is depressing. Now, do you have any idea where I might find the owner? A Mr. Burks, is it?"

"Yes, Lamar Burks. As I said, he's not here today, and I don't think he will be, but I could take a message for him."

"Well, I was really hoping to find him today."

She frowned. "I think he's playing golf, but I don't know which course."

"I suppose I could call around and ask," I said, and she smiled at me and shook her head.

"You're in the wrong place for that. There are about one hundred golf courses within an hour of this hotel."

"Yikes." I drummed my fingers on the counter and thought about it. The receptionist was wearing a name tag that said
REBECCA
. Pretty name. Pretty face, too. Probably nice legs under that counter. What was I thinking about again? Oh, right, finding the owner.

"You said the hotel has golf packages available?" I asked.

She nodded. "Yes."

"Well, maybe Burks plays those courses frequently. It seems like he'd be on pretty good terms with the management."

"Good idea," she said, sounding truly impressed, and I tried not to blush. Shucks. I'm full of great ideas, Rebecca. Having a few about you right now, in fact.

She crossed the room and pulled a brochure from the rack on the wall. I'd been right; she
had
been hiding some damn fine legs under that counter.

"It looks like we have packages with five different courses," she said. "That would be a place to start."

I took the brochure from her. "Mind if I use your phone?"

"I'm not supposed to let you use it, but I won't tell if you don't."