Dead or a Lie, page 9
“He was stabbed,” I said, nodding toward the hallway leading to the entrance. “There’s a bloody knife out there, by the entrance.”
I said to the bartender. “Do you know his name?”
He shook his head.
The man standing by the dead guy reached for a red-colored drink on the bar, then took a sip from a cocktail straw. He gave me a nod with his chin. “Who are you, exactly?”
“I was supposed to meet a man here. And I have a feeling that’s him.”
“You don’t know?” the man said. “You want to get a better look?” He waved, gesturing for me to step closer to the body.
I glanced into the dining room, where it looked like dishes were smashed on the floor, half the chairs knocked over.
I said, “I was supposed to meet someone here. But I’d never met the guy before, so…”
The man sipped what was left of his red drink and pushed the empty glass toward the bartender on the other side. “Ricky, get me one more before the cops show up, will you?”
The sirens were louder now, blue and red lights coming through the windows and reflecting off the restaurant’s white walls.
I said to the bartender, “Did he say anything at all to you?”
The bartender shrugged. “Not really. Might’ve mentioned something about a night off, his wife at her book club.”
Chapter 14
There were at least a dozen police officers from both the City of Miami Police and the Miami-Dade Police Department. In addition to a couple of rescue vehicles and a fire truck, there were two news vans parked in the restaurant’s parking lot, where most of the cars had been cleared.
It was hard to say whether or not this was some kind of hit job. The cop who questioned me wasn’t ready to call it that. I’d witnessed one myself, back when I was a trooper up in Rhode Island, where a man they called “Joe the Barber” was the victim of a mob hit while seated at a bar on Federal Hill. It had the same feel.
But I did my best to describe the man I saw leaving the bar to the cop who questioned me.
I was on the phone with Alex, giving her a brief rundown of what had happened, when I noticed the man from inside the bar, the one with the red drink, talking to a couple of police officers.
He turned to look my way, as if he knew I was watching him, then said something else to the cops before starting toward me. “I hear you’re a private investigator?” he said.
I nodded, watching him approach me. “What about you?”
“What about me?” he said.
“You a cop?”
The man cracked a grin, like I’d said something funny. “No.”
“I didn’t think so,” I said. “I figured you would’ve stopped what’d happened in there, if you were.”
“Oh, if I could’ve, I… I was actually in the head when it happened.” The man reached out and shook my head. “Joe Sheldon.”
“Henry Walsh.”
“I know,” Joe said.
I glanced over at the police officers Joe had been talking to. I said, “You seem to be in with them?”
“In?” he said. “With who, the cops?” Joe shrugged, nodding. “I was a journalist in my past life. Covered crime for the Miami Post.”
“Yeah?” I said. “No more?”
“Forced retirement.”
I thought about my own forced retirement, although I hoped Joe’s was under better circumstances. Glancing toward the restaurant’s entrance, I said, “I wonder what the word is in there.”
Joe looked at his watch. “I’ve been coming to this place for a while. Never thought I’d see something like this. Although it is Miami,” he said.
The bagged body was finally rolled outside on the gurney. I wasn’t sure how much I should say to Joe, or if he was even up for discussing what we’d both seen. I said, “So, what do you do now? You still write?”
Joe had a look like he didn’t want to answer, pausing a moment. “I’m working on a book.”
“Yeah?” I was impressed, although I knew a lot of people claimed the same thing, knowing the chances they’d ever finish were slim. It was no different than runners you see out there in January who run for a few weeks, then quit. Or someone who buys all the paint supplies, but never puts the brush to the canvas…
Joe said, “I do some side work too, for an old friend.”
“What kind of work?” I said.
He pulled the toothpick from his mouth. “I guess you could call it investigative work. I’m not licensed as a PI or anything, but…” He looked around, kept his voice low. “The guy I work for isn’t the straightest cat around, if you know what I mean?”
I decided not to ask for details. He seemed like a decent enough guy, but maybe the type who could go either way, when it came to the law.
“I imagine you know a lot of people around here?” I said.
“Here?” he said, pointing at the ground. “Miami?”
“Yeah, sure. Miami. Florida. As someone who covered crime, you must—”
“You have a specific question in mind?” he said.
I looked around to make sure there weren’t any cops nearby. “That guy in there. I was supposed to meet him about something that, well… I have an old acquaintance, name’s Brock Mason, I was just wondering if you—”
“Mason?” he said. He pulled at his chin. “Is he the one who worked for Raymond Canzano? Did time for some kind of employment scheme, something that had to do with ex-cons, right?”
I nodded. “What else do you know about it?”
“Not much,” Joe said. “It’s just that, well, Ray Canzano’s got a reputation around Miami, so…”
“What kind of reputation?” I said.
“Rumor was always that he had connections.”
“Like what? You mean—”
“The Mob,” Joe said. “New York guy, so everyone just assumes…”
“But you have no proof of it?” I said. “That he’s connected?”
Sheldon shook his head. “Never been any real evidence of it, no. I can’t speak for the Feds or anything like that, but… Are you saying what happened in there had something to do with your buddy? Or Canzano?”
“I don’t know. He—Brock Mason—was mixed up in something. Not to mention, a suspect in a murder. Of course, he claimed he didn’t do it. But somebody tried to make it look like he did.” I glanced toward a couple of officers who seemed to be talking while both looking our way. I kept my voice low. “You mentioned Canzano. You think I should talk to him?” I looked at the coroner’s van, the bright, white backup lights illuminating the area behind it.
Joe shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong guy. I’m not even sure what you want to talk to him about. Mason’s dead girlfriend?”
“Well, about everything.”
Joe had a confused look on his face, like he didn’t understand. “So, where is he now?” Joe said.
“Who?”
“Brock Mason.”
“Oh, Brock’s dead.”
Joe smiled. “Now I get it. I think I missed that important piece of information.”
“I don’t remember the last time I slept,” I said.
We both huffed out a slight laugh.
I said, “So were you involved in the reporting, with this scheme Brock was busted for?”
Joe shook his head. “Not directly. Buddy of mine, Mac Sullivan.” He looked toward the ground. “Sully was a good guy, killed in a car wreck a few years back.”
“Yeah?”
Joe nodded. “Taught me a lot. We were both let go from the paper within the same year.”
“You don’t think his accident had anything to do with the kind of work you guys did, do you?”
Joe paused, like he was thinking about it. “I like to think the answer to that is no. Otherwise, I’d never sleep.” He pulled another toothpick from his pocket and stuck it between his teeth. Joe kept his voice hushed. “So, how much of this did you share with the cops?”
“About Brock?”
Joe shrugged. “I don’t know. All of it, I guess.”
“They’re involved already. I’ve been questioned, probably told them more than I should have. But I don’t know if I’d say they’re interested in me being involved at this point.” The coroner’s van drove past us and toward the street. “I was hoping that man in there was going to shed some light on a few things. I guess that ship has sailed.”
“The one who was stabbed? Rogers?”
I nodded. “He was married to Brock Mason’s girlfriend.”
“The dead one?”
“Yeah. She still used his last name,” I said.
“Oh, okay. Jillian Rogers. Steve Rogers.” He ran his hand down his face. “This one’s a little sticky,” he said. “So, the ex-husband and Mason’s girlfriend were still hanging around together?”
“I don’t know the details of their relationship. I guess I would’ve found out. But somebody saw to it he wouldn’t have the chance to open his mouth.”
“Who’s the detective on the case?” Joe said. “I know most of them.”
“Her name’s Mia Collins,” I said. “She’s young. In her twenties, I’d say.”
“Miami-Dade PD?” Joe said.
I nodded, and Joe shook his head. He said, “I’m not familiar with the name. The ones I know are older or retired. These young kids, different breed. I can see why you might not get along. They think us old guys are all idiots, too far behind the times with all this technology they have today.”
Joe and I both stood silent for a couple of moments.
I said, “So, what happened at the Miami Post? They forced you out?”
“I took a buyout. I still get paid a little. It’s not as bad as being fired… just a way they can get us middle-aged guys out of there without any kind of age discrimination suits, you know?” He laughed.
“You don’t look old enough to have to worry about age discrimination,” I said.
“You’d be surprised. We might not think we’re old. But someone else might. Some hotshot punk comes in, fresh out of an ivy league school, thinks she knows a thing or two…” Joe looked off toward the water behind the restaurant. “It’s not like it used to be, back when you’d work for the paper for forty-something years, retire with a big party and the gold watch. They want the kids now. Cheap labor’s where it’s at. All they gotta do is regurgitate the stuff someone else wrote, make sure it ends up good enough, get it up online and move on to the next hot topic. It’s a race to the bottom, the news media today. Especially the newspapers… I don’t know how they’ll survive. I mean, most are already dead. Or close to it.” He looked me over. “You remember how important the newspaper was when we were growing up? You had the newspaper, some magazines, the nightly news. They had to get it right. But most people are too lazy now, just scan the headlines on their phone, share it with their friends to make it look like they know a thing or two. You wonder why we’re all getting dumber by the day.”
I got the feeling Joe Sheldon had some resentment after losing his job. But I knew exactly where he was coming from.
“You ever think about doing something on your own? Maybe a blog? Or a podcast,” I said. “I hear that’s where it’s at now. People are all into this true-crime stuff.”
Joe huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Everyone’s got a podcast now. Jesus. I got a buddy, lives in my building. He quit his tech job and that’s all he does now. At least I think that’s what he does. I don’t know. Maybe he’s on TikTok. Good guy, but I swear, nobody wants to do any real work anymore.”
One of the police officers called out for Joe, and Joe waved back, gesturing that he’d be right over. He reached out and shook my hand. “Hey, good talking to you, man. Good luck with everything.” He started to walk away.
I said, “Joe?”
He turned and I handed him my business card. “You happen to hear anything about what we talked about, or something else you might be able to share with me…”
He looked at my card, nodding, then pulled out a wallet from his front pocket and slipped the card inside. “Yeah, of course. Sure thing.” He paused. “Oh, and sorry about your friend.”
Chapter 15
It was well past midnight by the time I walked into my room at the hotel. When I spoke to Alex outside the restaurant, I’d promised her I’d call as soon as I got back. But before I had a chance to pick up the phone, someone knocked on my door.
I looked through the peephole.
Detective Mia Collins stood in the hall, and when I opened the door she reached out to me, holding my duffel bag. “You forgot something,” she said.
I held off inviting her in.
“Is this business?” I said, then regretted the words the moment they left my mouth. “I’m sorry, I mean… Does this have to do with what happened tonight? Or…”
My phone rang from inside the room, and I accidentally let the door close when I turned to answer it, leaving the detective out in the hall.
I grabbed my phone and saw it was Alex, then hurried back to open the door. “Sorry about that,” I said, then answered my phone. “Alex?”
She sounded annoyed. “Are you at the hotel?”
“Yeah, just walked in.”
“Are you doing this on purpose?” Alex said.
“Doing what on purpose?” I kept my voice somewhat hushed, as if Detective Collins wouldn’t hear me from just across the room, where she stood inside the closed door.
Alex said, “You keep telling me not to worry, but you keep leaving me hanging. You said you’d be back at the hotel a half hour ago.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. But I’m here now. Only thing is, there’s somebody here I need to—”
“Somebody’s in your room?” she said.
“Oh, sorry. Detective Collins.”
The detective was looking at her phone, but raised her gaze when I said her name.
“I’ll let you go,” Alex said. “But can you call me when she leaves? I can’t stand this anymore. I wish you’d listened to me and stayed away.”
“It’s too late for that,” I said. “I’ll call you back.” I hung up and turned to the detective. “Sorry about that.”
She took a few more steps into the room. “I wasn’t able to get a clear answer from the officers on duty at that restaurant. I don’t understand exactly what you were doing there.”
She hadn’t gotten a clear answer because I did my best to avoid giving one, although I wasn’t sure how much I had to hide.
She put her hands on her hips, moving the hem of her jacket enough so I could see her badge on the belt of her jeans with her holster on the opposite hip. “You claim you were there for a drink?” She folded her arms, eyes somewhat squinted. “Why Mickey Cho’s? Weren’t you already out tonight? Right across the street?”
I was surprised to hear she knew I’d gone out earlier. “You were watching me?” I said.
The detective cleared her throat, but I had a feeling she did it on purpose, as if to let me know I’d better not continue with the lies. “Well, let’s just say we were keeping an eye out,” she said. “For your own good.”
“My own good?” I said. “So you already knew I went to Mickey Cho’s?”
She shook her head. “I wish we had, then maybe this could have been avoided.”
I had to think about what she was saying, and wondered how much more she knew than she was letting on.
I remembered the pile of clothes I left on the bathroom floor, and wondered what the inside of the room actually smelled like to the detective. I wasn’t at all comfortable having her come any further into the room.
I said, “Do you mind if we get out of here? Maybe go downstairs, so we can talk? I’ll tell you what I can.”
“I want you to tell me the truth,” she said.
I nodded. “Of course.”
She turned and reached for the door. “Is there a bar?”
“No,” I said.
I followed her out the door, the detective walking ahead of me but looking back as I pulled the door closed and made sure it was locked.
I picked up my pace to catch up to her. “The man who was killed,” I said. “He knows Jillian Rogers. He’s her ex-husband.”
She glanced back at me. “We’re aware of that,” she said. “That’s why this one’s been turned over to me. Clearly, there’s a connection between both homicides.”
“Clearly,” I said, walking side by side with her toward the elevator.
She said, “So why’d you lie to the officer? It doesn’t look good.” She acted as if she was trying to throw me a rope, before I got myself in any more trouble.
“I didn’t want to get dragged down to the station again, as if I had something to do with this guy being stabbed.”
We turned down the hall and stopped at the elevators.
She crossed her arms, eyes on the arrows above the elevator door. “Why should we believe you didn’t have something to do with it?”
I said, “Because I wasn’t there when it happened. There were witnesses. I showed up, the guy was dead.”
The elevator door opened right away, with nobody else around.
“I’d like to say I believe you,” she said. “But there are too many questions. Some things don’t make much sense.”
“You mean, that I had something to do with this man’s death?” I said. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” she said, stepping into the elevator. She turned and leaned against the back wall, watching me as I walked in after her.
I waited for her to say more, but she remained silent, her eyes on the lighted numbers on the panel to the left of the elevator door.
“I told you I’ll do whatever I can to help,” I said.
She said, “I think being honest about your involvement, going back to your relationship with Brock Mason, would be a good start.”
“There was no involvement,” I said. “I already told you that. He was an old friend. An acquaintance, really. And it’s not like he was ever up front with me about anything along the way. I’ve been as much in the dark as anybody.”
The door opened and I waited for her to step out ahead of me into what appeared to be an empty lobby. There was nobody behind the desk.
