John stopped at the 7-11 at the beach for two liters of water, a breakfast sandwich, and a small decaf coffee. The rising sun bathed Buckroe Beach Park in hazy golden light. He got out of the car and stared.
Across the street from the church, a huge square of green space had been all plowed up. Big signs proclaimed "Private Property." Beyond that, workers in hard hats climbed into a dump truck and a huge yellow steam shovel. With a rumble that shook the ground, the machines roared to life.
What the fuck? Angry citizens had collected thousands of signatures last year, and he remembered Ma telling him the new high-end housing had been blocked. So what the hell was this?
If Ma wasn't so consumed with her own problems—make that her own ego—she could have told him. The whole letter issue had started because of her desire to write opposing the construction. If the construction were her real concern, she would have been angry about that. All she was really upset about was that she had been blocked from editorializing about it.
At Mallory and Buckroe, he backed his vehicle in, then got out and popped the hood. He opened the bottles of water and poured them past the radiator and onto the pavement. Then he put the hood almost all the way down, got in, and cranked the seat comfortably back to where he had a good view of the post office. He'd packed a lunch sandwich at Ma's.
He cracked the windows for comfort. It was only mid-April, and he wouldn't have to worry about it climbing to a hundred fifty degrees inside the car.
At length the convenience store owner, an elderly black man in a green apron, came out and squinted at the vehicle. John rolled the window down as he came over.
"Look like you got a problem, there, man."
"Yeah. I got a hose busted under there somewhere. It's leaking pretty bad. I called my brother on my cell phone, but he's in a meeting. He's supposed to come get me soon."
"Okay. You need to call a tow truck or somethin', there are a couple honest outfits you can call. Just ask me."
"Okay, thanks," said John.
The shopkeeper returned to his store. John could string him along with complications to the story, if necessary.
His real problem, he discovered, was staying awake. You couldn't really bring anything to read on a surveillance, and the quiet of the street and the comfort of the seat dulled his mind. He had to snap himself alert a couple of times. He'd have slept better if he hadn't been fuming about Ma.
Why couldn't she just grow up? One day, years in the future, he'd probably have to move her in with him, and dealing with this every day after a taste of freedom as an adult would be absolutely unbearable.
The hum of an engine a couple of yards away startled him and he realized he'd dozed off. He panicked and checked his watch. Eleven o'clock! He had to have been out at least half an hour. If Clay had come and gone in that time, he was SOL. Stupid!
A car door slammed at the convenience store. John rolled his eyes in that direction and received an even ruder shock. He'd expected Clay to show up here, yes, but not at the convenience store. This close, there was no mistaking him, with his curly mop of blond hair and movie-star good looks. Clay hopped out of a shiny white pickup—not the Shelby Mustang GT 500 that he'd driven to the beach—and looked directly at John's 442. John scanned the license plate and tried to scrunch back into the seat in a nonchalant kind of way, thinking, Shit, shit, shit!
Clay disappeared inside the store and John cranked his seat up, jumped out, and slammed the hood shut. He started his car and pulled out on Buckroe and went left. Then he made a right and drove around the block. He pulled up to a good enough view of the post office parking entrance across the street from the convenience store, and parked on the street. Why would Clay stop here and not check his P.O. box?
Unless he'd already checked his P.O. box. What if Clay went left out of the store and didn't pass Mallory again at all? That would suck. But if John pulled up far enough to see Buckroe Avenue and Clay did drive in, he'd get made for sure.
Five minutes passed. Seven. Just when John thought maybe he'd better risk pulling up to Buckroe and peeping at the convenience store, the white pickup flashed around the corner and pulled into the post office. His Ford F-250 looked brand new. John let out a deep breath.
Clay got out and walked out of sight, to the front of the tiny post office. When he came back, he carried John's big box, sealed with red tape.
Clay pulled out, turned left, then turned left again on Buckroe going toward the beach. He only had two more streets before he hit the beach, which was a great help in not losing him. John counted to five and pulled up to Buckroe himself. No cover car came along, so John waited long enough to see Clay go left two blocks up before turning onto Buckroe himself.
He had gotten lucky now. First Street ran the length of the beach, lined on both sides with beach houses great and small, and dead-ended. Probably Clay lived up here. It would be a snap to find which house he parked at, so John hung far behind.
Unless. He had forgotten the gated community on Bay Front Place, which took up where First Street left off and then also dead ended. Lined with impossibly huge homes and a generous strip of beach, Bay Front also sported luxury condos with a private marina. If Clay lived up there, John was screwed. The white pickup disappeared around a curve and John pressed the accelerator.
A block later, he slowed down and crept along, smiling as Clay turned right onto a beachfront drive far ahead of him, but before reaching the gated enclave at the end of the street. Since no one was behind him, John simply stopped dead in the road, making a mental note of the driveway while giving Clay plenty of time to get out of the truck and go inside.
A red convertible pulled up behind John and tooted. John pressed the gas again.
He wouldn't forget which house to check out. Clay's truck nested in front of a pale green "eyebrow" house—so called because of the distinctive style of the roof—on tall pilings. The metal shingle roof extended far out from the house on the street side, providing a built-in awning that all but obscured the second-story windows. Apparently the architect, like John, had visited Key West; the tall, graceful porch columns with gingerbread railings and cornice trim confirmed it. John noted the address, 842 First Street, and drove on past. He noticed the ubiquitous Hampton super trash can in front of the house on his way by, overflowing with black bags with yellow ties.
John turned from First onto Buckroe and back onto Mallory again, traveling south until he hit the library. A search through the Bresser's book showed that a corporation, Forever Summer, LLC, had owned the property for less than two years. The previous owner was an A. J. Grier.
John grabbed this year's Bresser's City Cross Index in the hope that A. J. Grier hadn't moved far. It turned out that he or she hadn't moved very far at all. One of the houses on Bay Front Place was now owned by an A. J. Grier and had been purchased at the same time Clay had purchased his house. From the appearance of the real estate behind that electronic gate, John mused, A. J. had definitely moved up in the world.
John moved to a computer terminal and looked up the phone directory, praying the number was listed. It was.
Now he needed a pay phone in a quiet area, since he could count on that number showing blank on caller ID. A quick walk around showed the nearest one across the street, right beside the road. A background of traffic thrumming and honking past an outside phone wouldn't be at all appropriate for the call he had to make.
He walked to the desk and showed the librarian his badge. "Detective John Robin, Richmond PD," he said. "You got a phone in a quiet area I can use?" She showed him into a small office with a phone on the desk.
John sat. A whimsical little mouse, wearing glasses and a pink pinafore and carrying a stack of books, stared up at him from a wooden block bearing a painted sign: Librarian. He keyed his cell phone to conceal his number on caller ID, and he dialed A. J. Grier's number. A young female voice answered.
John got his pen and notebook ready for whatever might shake out. "Hello," he said. "My name is Steven Belnap of United Life Plans. I'm calling for Mr. or Mrs. Grier. I'm not selling anything. I'm calling regarding your neighbor, Mr. George Clay."
"Please hold on for a moment," said the girl. John detected a faint Latin accent. He heard footsteps, and in the background she said, "Sen͂ora G.?"
Someone else picked up and an older female voice said, "This is Stephanie Grier. What is this regarding?"
John repeated his bogus ID and added, "I'm calling regarding a George Evan Clay, eight forty-two First Street. I believe you sold Mr. Clay that residence?"
"Actually, it was an empty lot. We were going to build there, but we sold it."
"Mr. Clay has applied for a rather large life insurance policy with us and I'm just doing a routine background check. Would you be able to answer a few questions about Mr. Clay?"
"I suppose. Has he listed me as a reference or something?"
"No, he hasn't, which surprised me, since you are a neighbor and you did sell him the house. If you could help me verify some information here, I'd be most obliged. First of all, are you related to Mr. Clay?"
"No, neither of us are."
"What did he say he did for a living?"
"He said he was in sales. He didn't say what."
John smirked. Women. Drugs. "Did he say why he was moving to the area?"
"He said he'd always lived around here. He just wanted to build a nice house on the beach. We had the lot, but then this house was for sale, and we really loved it. It was sort of a surprise to be selling to such a young guy, but he seemed to have done quite well for himself."
"Is he married? Does he have any children?"
"He wasn't when we sold him the lot. And we never see any children or any toys or swings when we drive by, so I imagine not. He seemed kind of young to be married."
So, no wife or kids hanging around the house. Doesn't rule out a live-in girlfriend. John racked his brain for who else he might pump for information. "What real estate agent did you use?"
"Rebecca Scott at Peregrine Realty."
He jotted that down. "Did he ever mention any interest in high-risk activities? Scuba diving, sky diving, that kind of thing? Do you know if he flies a plane, or anything like that?" Not that John cared, but it made the pretext work.
"Not that we know about. He said he wanted to live on the beach because he likes to surf, but that's about it as far as we ever heard."
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Grier. I appreciate your time. Have a good afternoon."
"You're welcome. You too."
John hung up and checked his watch. He had several hours before nightfall. He wished he could watch the house to see who came and went, but there was no way to do that on that street without being noticed. He remembered the meal-and-a-movie cinema that had opened a few years ago behind the almost-dead strip mall on Mercury. If they had an action movie, that'd be a good way to while away a few hours. Along with a stop at K-Mart for a few cheap towels.
***
Night found him cruising around First Street again, trawling past the big green trash dumpsters and checking out the garbage. When he found a dumpster with several big black bags with yellow ties sticking out, he cut the headlights, hopped out, and loaded the bags into his towel-protected rear seat. He drove up First to the security gate and turned around. On the way back, he stopped in front of Clay's and swapped garbage bags.