The Dollar-a-Year Detective Page 10

  I’d appoint my cat, Joe, as my admin assistant, but he already thinks I’m his.

  A woman named Lori phones me the next morning to say that Porter’s schedule is very tight—“He has a lot on his plate,” is how she puts it—but that I can meet him the following day at one o’clock at the Capital City Country Club following his round of golf. I always have a lot on my plate too—but that’s at meal times and doesn’t interfere with my schedule.

  I tell Lori that’s fine, I’ll cancel my colonoscopy and be there, just to demonstrate how eager I am for the meeting to happen.

  “I’ll inform Representative Porter,” she says.

  About the meeting, not the canceled colonoscopy, I assume.

  Capital City CC is located in downtown Tallahassee, amidst the pine and oak trees of Myers Park. Golf courses are all sylvan wonderlands. It’s too bad that you have to ruin the experience by playing golf.

  The brick clubhouse looks a bit like an Eisenhower-era elementary school, a style, Marisa informed me, called mid-century modern, nothing like the elaborate and ornate country clubs in Naples evoking colonial America or Tuscany villas or stately English manor houses.

  I pull up under the front portico and turn over my Vette to a young valet.

  “Drive her slowly around the lot until she cools down,” I instruct him. “She’s been rode hard and shouldn’t be put away wet.”

  He says he will. I’ll have to give him a nice tip.

  Note to self: wise-guy banter can perhaps be overdone.

  I’m sipping an Arnie Palmer at the bar. Arnold Palmer, the legendary golfer who invented the drink, consisting of iced tea and lemonade. You don’t have to be a golfer to appreciate Palmer’s skill and charisma, or his special drink.

  The multiple TVs mounted around the barroom are tuned to The Golf Channel, showing some tournament somewhere, and to cable news. Hard to say which programming is more boring. I read a story in the Fort Myers News-Press reporting that golf is losing players by the millions as old codgers die off and succeeding generations are not replacing them because they think that the game is too expensive, time-consuming, and difficult and that the rules are far too fussy. My sentiments precisely. There is a bocce ball court in a public park in Fort Myers Beach. Watching old guys play that game is positively thrilling compared to golf on television. “Oh, oh, Bret,” a golf commentator will say. “Terwilliger has hit into a lateral hazard. That’ll get him a two-stroke penalty. He’ll be lucky to take a bogey here and get out of Dodge. He’ll finish his round below the cut line unless he birdies the rest of the way in.”

  Huh?

  I’m considering asking the bartender if he can find a baseball game when I spot Porter entering the barroom. He’s wearing a white polo shirt with the club’s logo on it, and tan shorts with little green crossed golf clubs embroidered on them. Cute as a button. If someone wore an outfit like that to play softball at Chicago’s Humboldt Park, he’d be lucky to just get laughed off the field. I once saw a guy kept on the bench because he had one of those little alligator logos on his shirt.

  There are perspiration stains on Porter’s shirtfront and under his armpits. He sees me, waves, takes a stool, and says, by way of greeting, “I absolutely hate that fucking game. But a lot of business is done on the links, and you have to be a player if you want to be a player, if you know what I mean. The only good thing about it, other than the networking, is that the waiters don’t ask your score and refuse to serve you lunch if you didn’t make the cut.”

  “Among my old crowd in Chicago, bowling and slow pitch softball are the games of choice,” I tell him. “Both of which are mainly excuses for drinking large amounts of beer.”

  He laughs. The bartender appears and asks, “What can I get for you, Representative Porter?”

  “I’ll have a draft Coors Light, Nathaniel,” he answers.

  Nathaniel hands us menus and sets us up with green cloth placemats imprinted with the club’s logo, matching napkins, and silverware. I open my menu. Porter leaves his on the bar and tells me, “I can recommend the chicken pot pie, the Capital Burger, and the Reuben. I’ve been on the banquet circuit since getting my new job, so I’ll just have a chef’s salad.”

  I scan the menu and order a hot dog. Porter asks Nathaniel for his salad. He is served his beer and my Arnie gets a refill. He looks over at a table where three men are having lunch.

  “My golf partners,” he says. “The guy in the red shirt is CEO of one of the big car rental companies thinking about relocating their corporate headquarters to Fort Myers from New Jersey. The other two men are the president of the Fort Myers Chamber of Commerce and the state senator from our district. I’ve kissed the car rental guy’s ass enough for one day, so I told them I needed to eat with my lawyer.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s a promotion from detective.”

  “Toss-up,” he says with a smile.

  The food arrives. As we eat, I tell Porter about my plan to pose as the head of a newly formed environmental group opposing the offshore oil drilling bill in order to see if I can flush out the killer of the Hendersons and Russell Tolliver. I tell him that I have reason to suspect Pavlov and Wainwright, but lack evidence that can be used in court.

  He is silent for a moment and then says, “Logically, it should be me as the decoy. I’m taking up Russell’s cause. The drilling bill is coming up for a vote in two weeks. I’ll get very vocal about my opposition, see if anyone comes at me, and you can have my back.”

  “That’s a dangerous game, Lance, as your former boss found out.”

  “Comes with the territory. I’ll hold a press conference tomorrow and state my strong opposition to the bill. Then we’ll see what happens.”

  Meaning I’ll have to set up shop in Tallahassee for a while.

  I get Cubby to OK an open-ended hotel bill in Tallahassee. He suggests a Motel 6. I decide to pay for an upgrade to a Courtyard by Marriott.

  I’ve never been a bodyguard. But the Kevin Costner movie, The Bodyguard, is on my best-of list. I hope it’s available on Netflix or somewhere so I can take another look.

  23.

  Press Conference

  The next morning, I locate a Courtyard on Raymond Diehl Road near the capitol and check in. I called ahead to ask if they allowed cats so Joe could accompany me. He’s been on road trips with me and likes them, especially when I order something for him from room service—who knew a cat would like pepperoni pizza?—and we watch Animal Planet on TV. But the reservation agent said the hotel has a no-pet policy. I asked her if politicians are allowed. Without missing a beat, she said, “Yes, sir, they are, with a five-hundred-dollar, nonrefundable cleaning fee.”

  Gotta love that.

  Marisa is happy to take care of Joe. She says he’ll make a fine roommate if I don’t return from Tallahassee. That isn’t my plan, but, as the Yiddish proverb says, “Man plans and God laughs.”

  I couldn’t find The Bodyguard on TV last night, so I’ll have to go from memory. I recall that Kevin Costner saved this client, a famous singer, by leaping in front of an assassin’s bullet. That seems a bit drastic, given my salary.

  Porter’s press conference is scheduled for two P.M. in the Capitol Building media room. Not likely anyone will try to shoot him there, given the tight security. But I’ll attend and scan the assembled news media, looking for anyone resembling a Russian hit man rather than a reporter.

  It’s a precept of the protection business that someone willing to trade his life for an assassination can always get the job done. And it’s possible, if improbable, that the hit man could be there, unarmed, just to check out his prey. If it’s Alexi, Arthur Wainwright’s bodyguard, I’ll recognize him, take him aside, and chat about the tricks of his trade, one pro to another.

  But first I need to fortify myself with lunch. I ask the young woman at the front desk, whose name tag IDs her as Lisa, where a good sandwich can be found.

  “Andrew’s Capital Grill and Bar on South Adams Street is a favor
ite of business execs and politicians,” she tells me.

  “That kind of crowd gives me indigestion,” I say.

  I get a nice smile: “Then I recommend the Midtown Caboose on North Meridian Road.”

  “The name itself speaks highly of the place,” I tell her, and she gives me directions.

  I’m not disappointed. The diner is an actual caboose, repurposed, situated on a stretch of railroad track in an industrial park about five miles from the hotel.

  I have the Blue Plate Special, which today is chicken-fried steak with mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans. It has always been my opinion that you can improve any food item by breading it and dropping it into a deep fryer—except maybe the lemon meringue pie I have for dessert. But I wouldn’t be surprised if they do that at the Florida State Fair in Tampa, where they seem to deep fry everything and put it on a stick, including butter and Hostess Twinkies, both of which I’ve sampled and found quite tasty.

  After lunch, I drive to the Capitol Complex on South Monroe Street, which consists of four buildings, and park in a public garage. The Historic Capitol Building, as it’s called, is an imposing white masonry structure with a dome, red-and-white striped awnings, and six pillars in front. It is now a museum.

  I find the building where the House and Senate chambers are located, pass through the security checkpoint, showing my badge to allow me to carry my S&W in a belt holster at the small of my back. Porter’s office has given the guard my name. I’m wearing khaki slacks and a black polo shirt with the shirttail out to conceal the pistol.

  One of the uniformed guards provides directions to the news media room. I take the elevator to the second floor, locate the room, and find a gaggle of news people sitting in folding chairs or standing beside TV cameras or along the walls, facing a podium with the Florida State Seal on its front panel.

  I approach the podium to take a closer look. The state seal has a lot going on: There is a Seminole woman spreading hibiscus flowers on a shoreline; two sabal palmettos, the state tree; a steamboat sailing in the background with a sun rising on the horizon, its rays reaching to the sky. Around the rim of the circular seal are the words: “Great Seal of the State of Florida” and “In God We Trust.”

  The Illinois State Seal is a lot less complicated. Inside a gold circle is a large green dollar sign with Latin words which translate as “Pay to Play.”

  Or maybe I’m misremembering. But if it isn’t that, it should be.

  The press conference—which, Porter informed me, is known as a “presser”—is scheduled to begin in ten minutes. I scan the room, doing my best Kevin Costner imitation, and see there are no refreshments on offer, an indication of the low regard state government has for the news media.

  Some of the male reporters are wearing sport coats, or have their shirttails out, which could conceal a weapon. The assassin in The Bodyguard made a ceramic pistol to avoid detection by the security portal. I remind myself that I am not Kevin Costner and will not take a bullet for Rep. Lance Porter. Afterward I’ll be relentless in my pursuit of his killer.

  A woman wearing a yellow sunflower-print sundress that is almost as busy as the State Seal, enters the room from a side door. She walks to the podium and says, “Representative Porter will make a brief statement and then take your questions.”

  Porter comes through the same door, looking very statesmanlike in a navy-blue pin-striped suit, white shirt, and red tie. Note to self: if I ever run for political office, or join the FBI for that matter, I’ll need to get a navy-blue pin-striped suit, a white shirt, and red tie. If I lose the election, I can save the outfit for weddings and funerals.

  As Porter approaches the podium, I notice a young man with a scraggly beard and rimless glasses standing against a side wall. He reaches inside his sport coat. I tense, think about my gun in its holster, but he comes out with a ballpoint pen and notepad, not a ceramic pistol. He is wearing a tan corduroy sport coat over a black tee shirt and faded jeans. I should have guessed from his attire that he is a newspaper reporter. Assassins get paid more and can afford better clothes.

  Unless an assassin is undercover, posing as a newspaper reporter …

  Unless, unless, unless.

  You can drive yourself bonkers with that kind of paranoid thinking. Unless paranoia is good for …

  Oh, never mind.

  Porter taps the microphone on the podium, as many speakers do, causing an irritating noise. He waits for the noise to subside, then says, “Thank you all for coming. I’m here to announce my strong opposition to House Resolution 0022, which would allow oil and gas drilling within fifty miles of our gulf coastline. In so doing, I am taking up the mantle of the late Rep. Russell Tolliver, who died before his time.”

  A bullet to the head will do that to a person.

  “The drilling bill is being backed by the oil and gas industry,” Porter continues. “Oil reserves have been found within the proposed fifty-mile limit, thanks to an exploratory permit obtained by International Oil Patch Partners, a permit which Representative Tolliver also opposed. There is no reason to doubt that Oil Patch, and any other companies allowed to drill within the new limit, will use a process called fracking, which has been demonstrated to harm the environment. Another bill to prohibit local governments from declaring a moratorium on fracking is waiting in the wings. HR 0022 has been reported favorably out of two committees and is scheduled for a House vote. I call upon my colleagues on both sides of the aisle to vote against that bill and thus ensure clean waters for future generations. I will now take your questions.”

  The newspaper guy against the wall raises his hand. Porter points a finger at him and says, “Erik.”

  “I’m Erik Blalock from the Tampa Tribune,” he begins.

  Porter obviously knows that, so Erik is introducing himself to the television news audience.

  “The primary sponsor of HR 0022 is Rep. Arthur Wain-wright,” Erik continues. “Are you accusing him of collusion with Big Oil?”

  “I will leave that for his constituents to decide at the next election,” Porter answers.

  Slick. Porter has a future as a politician. After years walking a step behind the men with the power, he is now a player.

  He points to a youngish woman wearing a red dress, a strand of pearls with matching earrings, spike heels, and a layer of TV makeup that looks better on the screen than in person. She is standing near the front of the room holding a microphone with a little sign on it reading “WTLV ACTION NEWS.”

  “Laura,” Porter says.

  She doesn’t say her last name like the newspaper guy did. Presumably, as a television personality, everyone already knows who she is.

  “Let me begin by saying congratulations on your new job, Lance, and condolences from the entire WTLV Action News team over the loss of Representative Tolliver,” Laura begins.

  Lance. Maybe they hold two-person press conferences sometimes. At least she didn’t call him “Lancie-poo.”

  “Thank you for that, Laura,” Porter responds.

  “My question is,” she continues, “do you think that the murders of Lawrence and Marion Henderson and Russell Tolliver are connected in any way?”

  Amazing! A local TV news reporter actually pursuing the news. I wonder how Porter will handle this apparently unexpected question. He thinks for a moment, rubs his chin with his right hand, then says, “That’s a very good question, Laura. It’s one I will leave to the authorities investigating those murders to answer.”

  Perfect. He’s been in office for only a brief time, but he’s been a staff aide long enough to know the territory. He could run for president with moves like that.

  He catches my eye. For a moment, I think he might out me as the authority in charge of the case. But instead he looks away and takes a question from a radio news guy, then from another TV reporter, and then a reporter from a Tampa newspaper, expertly handling all of their questions about deep water drilling and the environment.

  Then he checks his watch and says,
“That’s all we have time for today. Thank you again for coming.”

  The woman in the busy sundress has been standing off to the side of the podium. She follows Porter through the door. As the journalists are leaving the press room, Laura hands her microphone to her cameraman and comes over to me. She extends her hand, which I take, noticing red-lacquered nails long enough to win a fight with a panther, and says, “I’m Laura DeVoe. You’re not with the capital press corps.”

  It is a statement implying the question: “Who the hell are you, then, and what are you doing on my turf?”

  How to answer without being the focus of a special report on that evening’s WTLV Action News program? What I come up with is: “I’m with the Capitol Police legislative security division. We’re being extra vigilant, ever since the murder of Representative Tolliver.”

  I need a cover story to explain why I’m shadowing Porter and that seems as good as any. Note to self: call Sergeant Mikanopy and clue him in.

  I think Laura might ask to see my credentials, but she winks at me, says, “Good luck with that,” and leaves the room, her spike heels clicking on the tile floor.

  Laura DeVoe of WTLV Action News looks good facing the camera and, I can report, just as good walking away from it. I’m well aware that we live in a new age in which comments that could be taken as sexual by a man to a woman are verboten, and that’s a good thing. I’m guessing that news hasn’t reached my old Chicago precinct house.

  I change into my running clothes, and have a nice jog around the capital district, ending back at the hotel, where I shower and call Sergeant Mikanopy to ask if I can buy him lunch the next day and ask a favor. He says, sure, that is the very best way to ask for one.

  Porter rings me up on my cell and asks, “How’d I do, Jack?”

  As good as any political hack I’ve ever seen, I think. “You were just right,” I say. “Now we’ll see if you’ve gotten the attention of the bad guys.”