Finding Shelby Moore, Part VI

Rachel Fernandez was also a golfer, though not as good as Shelby. They went through high school together and she often traveled with Shelby to tournaments. According to Jeff, who took a break from seducing the Williams twins to talk to me, there were even rumors that Rachel and Shelby were more than best friends forever.

“Are they?”

“It’s possible, but Shelby’s had some fairly intense relationships with guys, too. She dated a quarterback for the Bucs for a year or so. And there were rumors that she was seeing that kid on those Disney movies.”

Those Disney kids blended together for me, but I understood who he meant. At least I thought I did.

I thanked him and hung up and set to work finding out where Rachel Fernandez lived. An hour later, I sat in front of a brick house in Carrollwood, set back from the road so it was well shaded under a tree, with a garage extending forward to the driveway.

A portable basketball hoop sat on the grass to the left of the driveway. The lawn was well-kept and the hedges were near perfectly trimmed. A covered walkway extended along the left side of the garage to the front door.

The house was probably twenty years old, but the wide paneling along the side of the garage was freshly painted. In my short time in Florida, I’ve noticed that if you don’t keep up with anything made of wood, it ages quickly.

Rachel answered on the second ring. She wore a loose pair of sweat pants and a tank top that didn’t appear to have a bra underneath. Her hair was up and unkempt. Clearly, she wasn’t expecting company.

“Can I help you?” she said.

At the question, my mind went blank. I had no client. So I did what I always do in these circumstances--blundered forward and hoped I didn't do too much damage. I pulled out my wallet and showed her my license.

“My name is Shane Black. I’m a private investigator lo—”

“You were at the beach when it happened,” she said. “Who’s your client?” It seemed like an odd question to start with.

I smiled congenially and tipped my head slightly to the side. Sly, I am. “I can’t disclose that.”

She nodded, but made no motion to let me in. “I’ve already talked to the FBI—a lot, in fact. I’m tired and this has kind of worn on me. Could you excuse me?”

I bunched up my lips in what I hoped would convey equal parts of disappointment and doubt at her sincerity. “I guess. I just have a few questions.”

She glanced inside behind her and then back at me and bit her lower lip. “Um, does the FBI know that you’re doing this?”

“I’m pretty sure they’re aware of my presence.” On a high-profile case like this, if I started to hang around with one of the principals in the case, they'd know. In fact, I expected them to have a friendly discussion with me soon.

“I really need to go,” she said. She pushed the door shut.

Instead of leaving, I sat in my car and watched. I spend nearly as much time in the car as I do in bed. In the early nineties, when I was still relatively new at this, I started eating to pass the time. After about twenty-five pounds, I figured that was a bad idea. Now, I was resigned to drinking coffee.

Fortunately for my caffeine intake, I didn’t have to wait long for something to happen. Ten minutes after I left her doorstep, Rachel pulled from the garage in a lipstick red Mitsubishi Eclipse. Her neighborhood was quiet and I needed to give her a little more space than I wanted to, so she wouldn’t notice me. But as harried as she looked, I could have been driving an Abrams Battle Tank and she wouldn’t have noticed.

She turned south on Dale Mabry and continued past the stadium. Then, she took a left on Columbus, drove a block, and pulled into the office complex where Carl’s office was.

“That’s interesting,” I said.

I drove past, then turned around and took up my position in the side street across Columbus Avenue. Within a few minutes, they came out from Carl’s office and went to her car. With Carl, I had to be more careful. He’d shown that he’d notice both the Abrams Tank and a late-model Accord.

As before, I followed Carl to Bahama Breeze. This time, I didn’t pull into the parking lot behind him, but kept driving to the gate for the apartments across the street. I put the window down and leaned out and made it look like I was trying to buzz someone to let me in. Carl and Rachel got out of the car and walked toward the restaurant. Rachel seemed animated and Carl didn’t seem to react.

I fiddled around for what seemed to be enough time, then backed up and drove the opposite way. I parked in the hotel up the street and waited. An hour later, the red Eclipse rolled past in the other direction.

I gave it a ten beat, then pulled into traffic after them. Unfortunately, I missed the traffic light onto the Courtney Campbell and lost them. They weren't at Carl's office, so I went back to Rachel's house.

The car wasn’t in the driveway, but I’d keep a car like that in the garage. I got out and rang the bell. No one answered after the first ring, so I leaned on it again, and this time left it pressed for about half a minute.

When Rachel opened the door, she was wearing black shorts and a white t-shirt with a palm tree on it. And she was angry.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said.

“How come you were at Carl Clayton’s office?”

Her eyes flew open wide and she opened then closed her mouth. “You—I—.” She pushed the door shut.

I braced it with my foot.

“I’ll call the police,” she said.

I pulled out my cell phone for her. “Here you go.”

For the second time, she was flummoxed. I could almost see her think this wasn’t supposed to work this way.

“What’s going on Rachel?”

She pushed the door harder, but nothing happened.

“Whatever you’re up to, they'll figure it out. If you level with me, you might control where and how it gets revealed. If you don’t, the FBI will unravel it in a time and manner of their choosing.”

She removed the pressure from the door, but didn’t step back.

“Where’s Shelby?”

“How would I know?” Her tone belayed her words.

I pushed through the door. Rachel backed up, then rediscovered her resolve and jumped on my back, telling me to get out of her house. Before I could remove her, she raked her nails across my neck, leaving three parallel welts that smarted immediately.

“Get out of my house, goddamn you!”

I got her off and pushed her away. She was a small woman and I used my girth to control her, but not hurt her. Eventually, I’d have to either become more aggressive or leave. She accelerated things by kicking me in the knee as hard as she could.

“Ow, dammit.” I pushed her back against the wall without thinking about it. She knocked over a small table next to the door and her keys, purse, and cell phone fell to the floor. I stepped back to get a little distance.

“Stop it,” another female voice said.

Shelby Moore stepped into the hallway. I froze and Rachel took the opportunity to punch me in the groin.

Bitch.