The Guardians(82)

A breeze that only a second ago did not exist rustles through a willow tree with limbs overhanging the house. As if on cue, something grinds and squeaks on the back side of the roof and my arms instantly are covered with goose bumps. All four of us gawk at the house and take deep breaths.

We need to keep talking. I say, “Look, fellas, this is nothing more than the old needle in the haystack. No one knows for sure if Kenny Taft really took some evidence before the fire. If he did, then no one has a clue what he did with the stuff. It could be here in the attic, but chances are it disappeared somewhere else years ago. This is probably a waste of time, but we chase every lead. We just want to look around and then we’ll leave. Promise.”

“What if you find something?” Wendell asks.

“We’ll call the sheriff and turn it in. Maybe it can help us. But, regardless, it’s nothing that has any value to the family.” With these poor folks, the idea of some family jewels hidden in the attic is ludicrous.

Wendell takes a step back, walks around as if deep in thought, leans on the fender of a car, spits, crosses his arms against his chest, says, “I don’t think so.”

Riley says, “Right now, Wendell’s got more support than I do. If he says no, then the answer is no.”

I spread my hands and say, “One hour. Just give us one hour and you’ll never see us again.”

Wendell shakes his head. Riley watches him, says to Frankie, “Sorry.”

I give both of them a look of disgust. This is probably a shakedown, so let’s get it over with. I say, “All right. Look, this property is assessed by Ruiz County at $33,000. That’s roughly one hundred dollars each day for the entire year. We, Guardian Ministries, will lease the house and these premises for one day for two hundred dollars. From nine tomorrow morning until five tomorrow afternoon. With an option to extend one extra day at the same rate. What do you say?”

The Tafts absorb this and scratch their chins. “Sounds low,” Wendell says.

“How about five hundred a day?” Riley asks. “I think we can live with that.”

“Come on, Riley. We’re a nonprofit with no money. We can’t just pull cash out of our pockets. Three hundred.”

“Four hundred, take it or leave it.”

“Okay. Agreed. Under Florida law, any agreement dealing with land must be in writing. I’ll get a one-page lease contract and let’s meet back here at nine in the morning. Deal?”

Riley seems pleased. Wendell barely nods his head. Yes.



We leave Dillon as fast as possible and share a few laughs along the way. Frankie drops me off near my car on Main Street in Seabrook, and heads east. He’s staying in a motel somewhere between here and Gainesville, but as always the details are vague.

I enter the law offices of Glenn Colacurci a few minutes after five, and I hear him roaring on the phone somewhere in the rear. Bea, his lovely assistant, finally emerges and flashes that smile. I follow her back and find Glenn at his desk, piles of paperwork scattered on and around it. He leaps to his feet, thrusts out a hand, and says hello as if I’m his prodigal son. Almost as quickly, he glances at his watch, as if he has no idea what time it is, and says, “Well I’ll be damned, it’s five o’clock somewhere and it’s five o’clock here. What’ll it be?”

“Just a beer,” I say, keeping it on the light side.

“A beer and a double,” he says to Bea, who slinks away. “Come on, come on,” he says, pointing to his sofa. He waddles over with his cane and falls into an ancient, dusty pile of leather. I sit on the sagging sofa and shove a quilt out of the way. I assume he naps here each afternoon as he snores off his liquid lunch. With both hands on the heel of his cane, and his chin resting on his knuckles, he smiles wickedly and says, “I can’t believe Pfitzner’s really in jail.”

“Neither can I. It’s a gift.”

“Tell me about it.”

Assuming again that anything I say will be repeated at the coffee shop in the morning, I breeze through the quick version of the FBI’s fine work nailing an unnamed prison guard and his unnamed contact with the prison gang. This led to an operative working for the drug dealers, and he led to Pfitzner, who stepped into the trap with all the naivete of a small-time shoplifter. Now he’s facing thirty years.

Bea brings our drinks and we say, “Cheers.” His liquid is brown and there isn’t much ice in his glass. He smacks his lips as if parched, and says, “So what brings you to town?”

“I’d like to meet with the sheriff, Wink Castle, tomorrow if I can find him. We’re having conversations about reopening the investigation, especially now that we know Pfitzner tried to kill Quincy.” There is enough truth in this to explain why I’m in town. “Plus, I am curious about you. Last time we met in Gainesville you seemed to be having a good time digging through the case. Any more surprises?”

“Not really, been busy elsewhere.” He waves an arm at the landfill on his desk as if he’s pulling eighteen-hour days. “Any luck with the Kenny Taft angle?”

“Well, sort of. I need to retain your services for a bit of legal work.”

“Paternity, DUI, divorce, murder? You name it, you’re at the right place.” He roars at his own humor and I laugh along. He’s been using that same line for at least fifty years.