Long Shadows (Amos Decker, #7)(16)

Andrews eyed him in the rearview, as though checking to see if Decker was perhaps joking. He said, “I don’t have a guard gate in my neighborhood. I guess I don’t make enough money.”

“Has anyone spoken to the Davidsons yet?” asked White.

“Local cops. Just to inform them of Cummins’s death. They deferred the rest to us.”

“We’ll need to establish alibis,” said White. “And what about a search warrant for the ex’s condo?”

“The woman’s body was just found this morning,” said Andrews. “Let’s take it one step at a time. And we have no grounds for a search warrant.”

“Yet,” amended Decker.

They cleared security and took the elevator up to the fourth floor of the condo building with a broad view of the Gulf on the rear side. The elevator doors opened and they were in a small vestibule with one large wooden door. Andrews knocked on it, and a few moments later they heard footsteps approaching.

The teenager was large, about six-three and two-forty. He was dressed in dark blue workout compression shorts, was barefoot, and had on a white tank top. Decker eyed his physique and noted the bulging quads and thick calves, the broad shoulders, the lanky, muscled arms. The kid already had a collegiate body, he assessed. Now if he had some decent wheels and quick-twitch muscle mass, he might have a nice college run. The NFL was a whole other matter. The funnel there got as narrow as a needle’s eye.

“Tyler?” said Andrews, who showed the young man his badge and ID. He introduced Decker and White. “We understand your father is here?”

“He’s drunk,” mumbled Tyler, who looked to Decker like he was on something though his pupils looked normal. “Shit-faced.” He shook his head, his expression pained and his eyes bloodshot from crying. “Is Mom really…?”

“Yes, Tyler, I’m afraid she is,” said Andrews.

His big hands curled to knotty fists. “I’m gonna fucking kill whoever did this.”

Andrews put a hand on his shoulder. “No, you’re not, Tyler. It’s our job to deal with this and we will. We will find whoever did this and they will never see another free day. I promise you that. Now we really need to talk to your dad.”

“And you,” interjected Decker.

Andrews frowned at this but nodded. “And you too. But please take us to your father.”

Tyler turned and led them down a hallway. They passed an expensive-looking electric bike that was parked against one wall, its power pack plugged in.

“Nice ride,” said Decker.

“My dad got it for me. Florida is pretty flat but when you’re doing thirty-forty miles at a fast clip under your own power, the motor comes in handy sometimes.”

Decker looked around as they passed minimalist furnishings and décor, lots of gleaming metal and glass, and walls painted white to take advantage of the strong Florida light. The rear windows gave sweeping views of the Gulf, where ships seemingly no larger than toys made their way slowly across the water, or else bobbed up and down at anchor.

Tyler pushed a door open and motioned them in.

Sitting in a leather recliner was, apparently, Barry Davidson. He had on jeans, a white polo shirt, and no shoes or socks. A glass with some dark liquid rested on his flat stomach with one of the man’s hands wrapped loosely around it. His eyes were closed and Decker wasn’t even sure the guy was awake. Or alive.

“Mr. Davidson?” said Andrews. “We need to talk.”

Davidson made no reaction to this.

“Dad!” shouted Tyler, putting a massive hand on his father’s shoulder and violently shaking him.

The glass went sideways, and whatever was in it spilled across the man’s shirt and jeans. The eyes popped open and the recliner came forward, and Barry Davidson would have fallen to the floor if Decker had not been quick enough to catch him.

“What? Who?” said Davidson, shaking his head and blinking rapidly.

“It’s the cops, Dad. The FBI. They need to talk to you!”

Tyler shook his head, a disgusted look on his face. He picked up the now-empty glass and placed it on a table.

Decker looked around the room and noted that it was set up as a home office with wooden file cabinets, shelving, a desktop printer-copier, a postage meter, and other office supplies and equipment arrayed around the space. A large computer screen with a digital webcam attached sat on a large glass-topped desk. He imagined the guy probably did a lot of Zoom meetings from here. French doors opened to a covered balcony.

Davidson rubbed his eyes, slapped himself a couple of times on the cheeks, and looked up at Andrews.

“I kn-know you, right?”

“Doug Andrews. We played golf together once, at the Harbor Club.”

A still-dazed Davidson pointed a shaky hand at him. “Right, right, never forget a guy’s game. You can hit it a mile but you putt like shit. Grips all wrong and you have too much backswing.”

Andrews smiled embarrassedly at White. “Never considered quitting my day job.”

Decker stepped forward. “We’re here to talk to you about your former wife’s death.”

Davidson nodded, his head dipping and bobbing like he might be sick. White took a step back to avoid being in the pathway.

“Right, r-right,” said Davidson. “She’s…dead.”