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.