Finding Shelby Moore, Part III

In the old days, you could find out where someone lived by having a friend at the phone company. Now, it’s easier. If you know a little about someone, you can find the rest without breaking a sweat. It was great if you were looking for someone, not so good if you were hiding. Carl Clayton had been out of the house for six weeks, so it wasn’t hard to find him.

He lived in an apartment off Hillsborough Avenue a couple blocks north of Raymond James Stadium where the Bucs play. The website even gave me his apartment number. And they say customer service is dead.

I went home, took a cold shower, and was sitting in my car mostly out of sight when Carl left his apartment the next morning.

Driving a vintage Mustang is great. Spenser drove one on TV. Carl Clayton drove one, too. I drove a green Honda Accord that I picked up used just before I moved. It only had about seventy thousand miles on it, and the previous owner, the state trooper who’d been murdered, had taken great care of it.

I followed Carl to his office, in the second floor of a second-rate, office building a block south of the stadium. He got out and walked next door to 7-Eleven to get coffee, then went to his office. I had my Dunkin Donuts coffee, which I drank slowly. I’d feel like a terrible idiot to lose him because I had to take a leak from drinking too much coffee.

He sat inside his office and did something. I sat in my car and listened to a Brian Freeman book on CD. His main character, Jonathan Stride, had a dead wife, too. What is it with detective novelists and dead wives? Dave Robicheaux, John Francis Cuddy, Jonathan Stride. Even Magnum, P.I. Maybe I should have thought of that before I took up this line of work. Anyway, Stride, a conflicted cop from Duluth, wound up in Las Vegas with a sexy cop named Serena Dial and they fought crime together.

I’d moved to Tampa to be near a sexy woman named Lynne Deane to maybe fight crime together, and I hadn’t seen her in three weeks. I sipped my coffee and made peace with the realization that I was working this case to keep me from getting drunk in my apartment.

At lunchtime, Carl came out and got in his car, drove to Sweetbay to get a sub, then drove back to his office. The book ended and I had nothing to do. The Devil Rays, Tampa’s attempt at Major League Baseball, weren’t on until evening.

I sat in the car and gave into the feelings of regret about Lindsey and all that had happened since her murder. I allowed these feelings out periodically, but for short periods of time. If I gave them free reign, I’d be laying at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, my body providing food and shelter for a family of crabs or something.

I took a bathroom break at the 7-Eleven a little after two and almost missed the FBI guys who came to his office. They walked up, knocked on the door, then entered. When they left two hours later, he got in his car and drove west, opposite the direction they went.

The Courtney Campbell Causeway extends about seven miles across the northern part of Tampa bay to Clearwater. Without it, the trip would take twice as long as it does, which would cause issues with beach-goers and Scientologists.

Instead of crossing the causeway, he turned right at its beginning and drove behind an abandoned hotel to a place called Bahama Breeze. He got out of his car and went in. Bahama Breeze looks like a giant Key West-style house with a massive porch. Lynne liked it there. We’d talked about eating there, before she dropped off the face of the earth.

I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and my stomach was growling as I watched Carl walk up to the porch. He stopped with his foot on the first step, then walked back toward me. He’d discovered me and it didn’t see useful to deny it or run.

I opened the door and stood up. The nice thing about watching from inside the car was the air conditioning. A wave of heat hit me when I opened the door. It was mid-afternoon, but the sky to the east looked like apocalypse. Unlike the rest of the country storms, in Florida storms can move eastward or westward. Today’s were moving westward.

“I picked you up when we went around the airport,” he said. “How long were you following me?”

“I showed up at your office about an hour ago.”

“You’re lying,” he said.

“So are you.”

He told me I might as well come inside, and I did. We sat inside at the bar. A youngish guy in a pale yellow and gray Hawaiian shirt took our order. Carl ordered the fish tacos and a Scotch. I ordered a burger, side salad, and a club soda. I wanted beer but the club soda was better for me.

“What made you change your mind about working this?” he said.

“Something your wife said while she was sitting on my lap shoving her tongue down my throat.”

He stopped arranging his napkin on his lap and looked up at me. I expected anger, but instead there was bewilderment, then resignation.

“She give you the e-ticket ride?” he said. There was bitterness, but no anger in his voice.

I shook my head. “Decided I didn't want to ride the rides today.”

“You’re nuts,” he said. “Even when things weren’t going well with us, the sex was always incredible.”

“Maybe it’s not about the sex.”

He froze at those words and sadness coated his eyes.

“Your wife told me about your feelings for Shelby,” I said. “Shelby give you the e-ticket ride?”

Anger flashed through his eyes, but I was just re-using the phrase he’d used. “No. No rides. I—she doesn’t see things that way.”

I nodded.

He took a long pull on the scotch, then avoided my gaze. “Why would she? She’s 23, rich, beautiful. She could have anyone she wants, so why go for a 53-year-old has-been?”

“You have a woman of about fifty at home who’s pretty well-to-do and an absolute knock-out. Why go for a kid?” I knew the question was incendiary, but I asked it with a soft edge in my voice. I wanted the answer.

He closed his eyes, smiled, and leaned his head back. “My wife's a beautiful woman. But she didn’t move around with me while I was in the service, and we both…it was a long time apart. When I retired, we talked about whether to divorce and we decided to give it a shot. She’s just not cut out to be a cop’s wife.”

“You think Shelby is?”

He shook his head. “I’d quit for her, if that’s what it took.”

“You’re messed up.”

“I love her, though,” he said. “And I want to find her. And you’re gonna help or you wouldn’t be here.”

The bartender brought our meals and brought me another club soda. Carl nursed his Scotch.

“How come?” he said.

I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter.”

The bartender asked me if I wanted something else. I opened my mouth to ask for a draft, but said, "Nothing" instead.

Finding Shelby Moore, Part II

After my wife was murdered, I took a case in Tampa to get away from the memories and my inability to get access to the information to investigate. Eventually, I figured out who shot her to death and who had it done. In the process, a lot of people had died, including a couple friends. In response, I moved to Florida to get away from all of it. Unfortunately, memories and guilt aren’t confined to a physical location.

Now, I lived in an apartment on the causeway in Dunedin, Florida. The tourism brochure told me that Florida’s the happiest place in the world. I’d never been in Florida in August and wasn’t enjoying the heat. Instead of going outside and watching bikinis, I unpacked and drank a beer.
I was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Carl Clayton.

“Oh it’s you,” I said in a one stream monotone intended to show my lack of enthusiasm.

He walked past me into the apartment. “What did you see?” he said.

“Come in”

“When I got tased. What did you see?”

I took a deep breath and assumed the posture Lindsey said I always took when I was angry. “I gave all this to the FBI.”

“Now you’ll give it to me.”

“I could throw you out.”

He stepped close and sneered at me. “I don’t think you can.” He was probably right.

My heart wasn’t into the fight. Besides, if I talked to him, maybe he’d leave. “I saw a white van, no markings, no rust, black trim. Like a fleet van. Two men got out. A third drove. The two guys wore work clothes and ski masks. The little one got out the back and tased Shelby. The bigger one tased you. They threw her in the back and left you. The van had a Florida plate.” I told him the number. “It turned right on the main drag in Clearwater Beach. I ran to the curb, but it was gone.”

He nodded and stepped away from me, which reduced my irritation level marginally. I walked past him to my beer.

“Can I have a beer?” he said.

“No.”

He nodded again and sat down. “Crosetti’s a prick. They’re going to sue me. I told him—and Shelby—that I wasn’t enough and that she shouldn’t be walking the beach like that. He told me to give her what she wants and quit being a pussy.”

“Nice mouth,” I said.

“He’s a prick, but he helps Shelby make a lot of money.”

“Why would she need more than you for security?” I pulled some books out of a box and put them on a shelf. They were Beverly Lewis, Lindsey’s favorite.

“Sorry?” My question took him by surprise.

“I called around on you. You’re pretty formidable, based on what I’ve heard. Why does she need more than you? What’s the threat against her?”

He looked up from the couch and smiled. “I did my homework, too, didn’t think you were that good. Someone with a little more skill would wouldn’t have killed half of upstate New York.”

Any good will I felt for him vanished. “Don’t be an asshole.”

He didn’t move except thumbing the arm of the couch. It was the couch Lindsey and I made love in the day I proposed to her.

“Help me find her,” he said.

I shook my head. “Nope.”

His look hardened. “It’s important.”

I opened the door for him. “A lot of my love for humanity died with my wife.”

He walked at me, then stopped and glared again. I managed to not wet my pants as I waited for him to leave and closed the door behind him.

****

After Carl left, I sat on the couch looking at a picture of Shelby in Sports Illustrated. She didn’t look like Lindsey and yet in her face, I could see my wife. I fingered my ring as I studied the picture.

My research showed Carl’s resume was rock solid. He was tough, thorough, and experienced. A few people hinted might be too eager to mix it up, maybe not the worst thing when you’re guarding a rich, 23-year-old hottie.

The Claytons lived in a comfortable house in Brandon. I pulled up in front of Clayton’s house a little after seven, but didn’t see his ’68 black Mustang in the driveway. I rang the bell anyway.

A woman about my age answered the door wearing a tight-fitting gold, one-piece bathing suit and holding a tumbler of amber liquid with ice. From the smell that wafted from her drink, the beverage wasn’t suitable for children. “Can I help you?”

“Carl here?”

She chuckled. “No. Would you like to come in?”

I shrugged and stepped in. She closed the door behind me.

“Did I say something funny?”

“Not intentionally,” she said. Her body was lithe and nearly perfect. The bathing suit fit like a second skin over her sleek hips and torso and firm-looking breasts. Her face lacked make-up but looked pretty anyway. Her hair was a little spiky in the middle, then tapered out to the side in a modified page-boy cut of some sort.

As she padded away from me, she wiggled her hips a more than necessary. “Want a drink?”

“Got coffee?”

She laughed. “No, I meant a drink.”

“Beer would be nice.” I really wanted coffee.

She came back with a bottle of Heineken, not my favorite, but it was free. She walked to the living room and sat down on a leather couch. She crossed her leg and took a drag on her drink, which she’d filled while she got my beer.

“Can help you with something?”

I sipped the beer. The first time I had a Heineken, I didn’t like it. I could tolerate it now, especially if it was cold. This beer was very cold.

“You can give me the fridge this beer came from,” I said. “Cold.”

She chuckled as if I were a child who’d just said something adorable.

“I need to talk to Carl about Shelby Moore.”

Her lips tightened for an instant, then she caught herself.

“Is there a problem with that?” I said.

She shook her head and anger flashed. “No problem. I threw him out six weeks ago.”

She tipped the glass back and drained it. Then she closed her eyes and let the booze flow through her. Within a couple seconds, she opened her eyes again, the anger apparently washed away by the alcohol.

“He said he loves her, after all the shit he’s put me through,” she said. “I’ve spent hours working out to stay attractive for him. I was the good military wife and I’ve never caused any problems. And this—this girl—is what he wants now. I’m better looking, more fun, and better in bed.”
She thrust her chest forward a little, which wasn’t necessary, given how she filled out the swimsuit.

“I haven’t seen you in body paint.” I wanted to break the moment, but as soon as the words left my lips, I regretted them. She walked over to me, sat on my lap and kissed me on the mouth. The liquor taste in her mouth was nice, an Irish Whiskey by the taste of it. I didn’t move, but I reacted.

“I bet the wonderwhore can’t do this to you,” she said. She was considerably drunker than I thought, not that my body minded.

The last time I was with a woman was six months ago, when Lynne Deane, who might mean something to me or might not, helped me figure out my wife’s murder. We thought we were going to die and found solace in each other. Six months is a long time.

I kissed her back and ran my hand across her flat stomach. A part of me said to stop, but the rest of me didn’t hear it very well. She leaned in and the touch her breasts against my chest as electric. I moaned. I wasn’t going anywhere and somewhere deep down, that disappointed me.
Her suit was low-cut in the back and I snaked my arm around her and under the fabric to reach for her breast. As I passed over her ribs, she stiffened and bit my tongue. Maybe it had been a while for her, too. Our ragged breathing fell into cadence with each other.

“Your husband’s a fool.” My voice sounded surreal.

“I know,” she leaned forward whispered in my ear.

“He’s a cop.”

“He’s an asshole.” She stuck her tongue in my ear, which surprised me by feeling good, then nibbled my ear lobe, then whispered. “Don’t make me beg.”

She ran her hand down my chest and I thought of Lindsey’s friend Amy. After Lindsey died, Amy comforted me. Eventually, we slept together, which turned out to be one of my worst decisions. Amy had nibbled my ear.

“How about you carry me upstairs?”

I closed my eyes in disbelief at my next words. “I can’t.”

Her arm snaked around my back and under my pants. I bit my lip and suppressed a moan as her hand slid down over my ass.

“I can’t. Mrs. Clayton.” My calling her Mrs. Clayton broke the moment. I didn’t know her by any other name.

She stood up stiffly. “I see.”

“It’s not that you aren’t…I mean…holy geez, but—”

“But you can’t sleep with another man’s property,” she said. “Even if she wants to.” Her voice was cold and hard.

“It doesn’t have to do with you being property. You’re drunk and we’ve never spoken before twenty minutes ago.”

“What do you want to do, go on a date?”

I shrugged slightly. “It would do in a pinch.”

“Fuck you,” she said. She pulled her glass back to throw her drink at me, then changed her mind. So she walked away from me, swaying her hips a little extra as she did. She looked really, really good.