Chapter 13
"Idon't know, Sparky," Jack said, looking at the Porsche with a frown.
Sparky deflated. "You don't know?"
Jack ran his fingers along the bodywork, examining the paint. He knelt down and squinted, looking from different angles. With the eye of a watchmaker, he walked around the car, making his inspection.
It was a tense moment for Sparky.
Finally, Jack said, "I don't know if you could have done a better job. Looks fantastic!"
Sparky breathed a sigh of relief and chuckled.
You couldn't tell the car had been painted unless you put a paint meter on it. The seams were flawless. There was no overspray. We both looked long and hard but couldn't see where the bullet holes had been.
The 1979 light blue metallic Porsche 911 SC looked like it had just been driven out of the showroom. It gleamed in the Florida sun. Slick with protectant, the fat tires were black as pitch.
With a beaming smile, Jack said, “Truly, you've outdone yourself."
"I fixed everything,” Sparky said with pride. “And I do mean everything. I went ahead and did an engine-out service. New water pump, hoses, timing chain, syncros, everything. This car is tiptop.”
Jack stepped inside with Sparky and settled the bill. It was not cheap.
A few minutes later, Jack stepped back into the sunshine and climbed behind the wheel. He fired up the flat six and revved it a few times. The grin on his face could not be contained.
He opened the sunroof, put it into gear, and drove out of the parking lot.
I followed in the van, though I couldn't keep up with him on the drive back to Diver Down. The Porsche wasn’t the fastest in the world, but the quirky handling dynamics of the rear-engined sports car made it much sought after among enthusiasts.
I parked the van in the lot, then hopped into the 911 with Jack.
We sped across the island to find Patrick Carlson.
He lived in Sandpiper Point aboard a 42-foot Voguer Marine.
It was a nice boat, and wasn’t more than a few years old.
Given Patrick’s current employment situation, I hoped the boat was paid for, for his sake.
We found the Drifter, and I banged on the stern and shouted, "Coconut County!"
Unemployed, I figured there was a good chance we'd catch Patrick aboard.
He poked his head out of the salon a moment later and looked at us with confused eyes. "What do you want?"
Patrick Carlson was a thin, nerdy-looking guy with a narrow face, brooding brown eyes, curly chocolate hair, and boyish features. In his mid-30s, he had done well for himself until this point.
I flashed my badge and made introductions. "We're investigating the death of Sydney Hollister.”
He frowned and shook his head with a somber expression. "I heard about that on the news. Such a shame."
"That's interesting. I didn't think you two were on good terms.”
He shrugged and looked at me like it was a silly thing to say. "I was on great terms with Sydney. What are you talking about?”
I pulled out my phone, looked at the screen, and read from a screen capture. It was the text message he had sent to Sydney prior to her death. "And I quote, You fucking bitch. You ruined my life. Somebody ought to strangle you, and that somebody might just be me."
His face went long and pale. "How did you get that?”
"From her cell phone," I said dryly, staring at him.
Patrick swallowed hard. "I was pissed. She promised me I’d remain anonymous.” He paused. “It was just something I said. I didn't mean it. I mean, she ruined my life. I meant that part.”
"Where were you last night between 11:00 PM and 1:00 AM?"
"I was right here, aboard my boat."
"Can anyone verify that?”
Patrick frowned. "No. They can't. Because I don't have any friends anymore. All my friends work for ERI. Now they won't have anything to do with me. My girlfriend stopped talking to me.”
"Girlfriend?" I said in a doubtful tone just to get under his skin.
"Okay, she's not really my girlfriend. She was a coworker, but we were moving in the right direction.
Now they're saying I sexually harassed her.
That's bullshit." Patrick clenched his jaw, and his cheeks reddened. "Those guys are evil. Pure, unadulterated evil. I exposed them. I deserve an award.” His lips tightened. "I should have just kept my mouth shut. My life would be fine. I’d still have a paycheck. Who knows, I might even have been with Darcy last night. I should have been.”
Patrick was a little delusional. Maybe a lot.
"Did you go by Sydney's apartment last night?”
"No. I told you, I was here. I don't have a social life anymore."
Something told me that Patrick didn't have much of a social life before.
"Have you ever been over to Sydney’s apartment?”
He hesitated a moment, then looked away when he said, "No, not really."
"What does not really mean?”
"It means I’ve never been inside her apartment.”
"But you've been to her building.”
"Once or twice," he said with caution.
"To harass her.”
"No. Not to harass her.” He chose his words. “To express my displeasure at the situation. To let her know what has become of my life.”
I exchanged a look with Jack.
JD said, "Sounds like harassment to me."
"Sounds like free speech. Just because someone doesn't want to listen, doesn't mean I have to shut up.”
"You were mad, you accosted her at her apartment, you forced your way into her unit. Things got heated, you strangled her," I said, glaring at him.
He shook his head. "No. Absolutely not!"
We both continued to scowl at the twerp.
"I didn't do anything. I didn't kill Sydney, and you can't prove otherwise."
I always took it as a challenge when someone dared me to prove their guilt. "How about you give us a DNA sample and we can cross you off our list?”
Patrick scoffed. "Get lost. I'm not giving you shit.”
"You can make things a whole lot easier on yourself.”
"Giving you a DNA sample isn't going to do anything for me.
I'll end up in some database somewhere. It will get sold to some mega-corporation.
They'll use my DNA to come up with some drug that will make millions, and I won't get a dime.
Worse yet, they'll sell it to an insurance company. Then I'll get denied healthcare for some preexisting condition that I don’t even know I have.”
I couldn't disagree with his argument. "Look, I know you didn't give a rat’s ass about Sydney, but we sure would like to cross you off the list.”
"I said no. And that's my final answer. Good day, gentlemen.” Patrick ducked back into the salon.
"Not so fast," I said. "We need to do a routine compliance inspection.”
His head emerged again from the salon. A scowl twisted his face. "You want to search my boat? For what?"
I smiled. "Not a search. Just a routine compliance inspection."
Technically, we could board any boat on the water.
We couldn't do an outright search, but it was an excuse to get eyes inside the boat.
If we saw anything in plain view, it was fair game.
But we couldn't compel his DNA without a warrant. Patrick had a motive, and the text message was damning. But it wasn’t enough.
We boarded the boat, much to his chagrin, and descended the companionway into the salon. Patrick fumbled for his registration and showed me all of the required safety items—fire extinguishers, flares, life vests, etc.
Everything was in order.
While Patrick was busy with me, Jack looked around the salon and found a water bottle in an open trash container.
He snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves, fished it out, and dropped it into an evidence bag.
Trash was fair game, though in this context, Patrick might have a defense. But the odds were slim.
Once I confirmed everything was in order, I thanked Patrick for his time, and we left the boat.
Jack had been pretty sly about the whole thing and stuffed the evidence into a cargo pocket. I don't think Patrick noticed.
We hopped into the Porsche, drove back to the station, and logged the evidence. At this point, I wasn't even sure if Brenda had been able to recover DNA from the body. But I didn’t want to miss an opportunity.
Afterward, we set out to find Fletcher.