Storm Season

“He has an old bicycle,” Violet added. “He rides around town and collects aluminum cans. Then he takes them to the recycling center and sells them.”

“I’m sure J.D. is very…nice.” I was trying to be tactful. “But are you sure he’s not dangerous?”

Violet drew herself to her full height, very imposing since it included six inches of braided coronet.

“Young lady, I didn’t get to be a hundred years old without learning a few things. I am an excellent judge of character. J.D. may have forgotten who he is, but he hasn’t forgotten what he is.”

“And what’s that?” I asked.

“A kind and gentle man who’s temporarily lost his way,” Violet said. “We asked you here to help him find it.”

“Will you?” Bessie asked. “As much as we like having J.D., we do want him to find his family.”

Faced with the Lassiters’ sincere concern, I didn’t have the heart to tell them that J.D. was most likely one of a vast army of homeless, many of whom, due to mental illness, had chosen life on the streets rather than deal with the strains and stresses of a normal life. I only hoped he wasn’t also the type who suffered bouts of violence because he wasn’t on medication.

“I’ll have to meet J.D. and talk with him,” I said. “Then I’ll see what I can do. Can you call me when he’s here?”

Bessie looked embarrassed.

Violet squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “We had the phone taken out. Never used it, except to answer calls from telemarketers.”

I knew better. The Lassiters’ fixed income hadn’t stretched to include the monthly phone bill.

“Maybe your neighbor, Mr. Moore, will call me?” I suggested.

“That’s a good idea,” Bessie said. “He’s already volunteered to call 9-1-1 if we ever need help. I’m sure he won’t mind calling you.”

I said goodbye, hurried to my ancient Volvo and cranked up the air-conditioning. I hoped J.D. returned soon, so I could meet him and decide whether to call the police, despite the sisters’ objections, for their own safety.

As I drove away, I knew I wouldn’t bill them for my time. As Bill always said, pro bono work was good for the soul.

Especially if it kept two lively old ladies out of harm’s way.

CHAPTER 2

Darcy Wilkins, our receptionist and secretary, greeted me with a distracted wave when I returned to the office. She was eating lunch at her desk and watching the noon news on the small television in the waiting area. Roger, my three-year-old pug, showed more enthusiasm at my arrival and followed me toward my office.

“Look,” Darcy said around a mouthful of yogurt, pointing to the TV with her spoon, “there’s Adler.”

Dave Adler had been my partner during my final months with the Pelican Bay Police Department. When the city had disbanded the PD and the sheriff’s office had taken over, Adler had gone to work as a detective with the Clearwater Department.

I stopped midstride, pivoted and almost tripped over Roger in my haste to view the screen. Young enough to be my son, but already a stellar detective, Adler always evoked a certain maternal pride. Gazing at the screen where the Clearwater PD spokesperson was being interviewed, I could see Adler and his current partner, Ralph Porter, in the background, carrying evidence bags to their car, just as the news segment ended.

“Did you hear what was going on?” I asked Darcy.

“Murder on Sand Key. Some woman was shot when she got out of her car inside the gated lot at her condo.”

My skin prickled at her words. But this homicide was Adler’s problem, not mine, so the hives that usually erupted at the mention of murder remained dormant.

“It’s too soon for the police to announce the victim’s identity,” I said. “Not until next of kin are notified.”

Darcy scraped the bottom of her yogurt cup with her plastic spoon, gave the drooling Roger a lick and tossed the spoon and container into the trash. “No motive yet, either.”

“Anyone see the shooter?”

“Not according to the newscast.”

At one time, the killing would have led the news in Tampa Bay. But with growth in population had come a corresponding increase in crime. Murders were commonplace, and the report of this homicide had been delayed until right before the weather.

I glanced toward Bill’s office and spotted his empty desk through the open door. I hadn’t talked with him since the previous evening. “Any word from Bill?”

Darcy nodded. “He called right after you left for the Lassiters. Said he wouldn’t be in this morning and asked that you meet him at the boat at three this afternoon.”

When we’d parted last night, Bill had said he’d see me at the office this morning, so apparently something had come up. “Did he say where he was?”

Darcy shook her head.

“What he was doing?”

She shrugged. “He seemed distracted, in a hurry. That’s all I know. I’m just the hired help. Nobody tells me anything.”

I suppressed a smile. We usually didn’t have to tell Darcy what was going on. She had the uncanny ability to hear whatever happened in the office, even behind closed doors.

“Any other calls?” I asked.

“No. It’s been like the quiet before the storm.”

“Bite your tongue. That’s a word I don’t want to hear until December.” The first day of that month would mark the end of hurricane season.

I took a seat on the chair nearest Darcy’s desk, faced the television and waited for the weather forecast. Early September is the peak of hurricane season, and for residents of Florida, that meant all eyes were on the tropics, and chief meteorologists Paul Dellegatto of FOX 13 and Steve Jerve of Channel 8 had become our best friends and constant companions.

So far this season, South Florida and the panhandle had been hit hard. Tampa Bay residents were holding their collective breath, wondering if this would be the year of the Big One, when a storm the equivalent of Ivan or Katrina would wreak havoc on an area that had been spared destruction since 1921.

Bill and I always remained alert to the changing weather. Living aboard his cabin cruiser at the Pelican Bay Marina, Bill needed plenty of lead time to secure his boat before evacuating. And my waterfront condo was in a mandatory evacuation zone. Before the multiple hits Florida took in 2004, I’d been more casual about leaving when a storm was forecast. But after viewing pictures of houses near the water that Ivan and Katrina had obliterated, except for the concrete slab foundations, I’d developed a healthier respect for the storms’ potential for damage. Every June when hurricane season began, I packed a large plastic bin with important papers, canned goods, bottled water, battery-powered lanterns, a first aid kit and kibble for Roger and stored it in the hall closet, ready to set in the car and evacuate at a moment’s notice.

On the little TV, the commercial ended and the weather forecast began.

“Damn,” I said.

The icon for a tropical storm had popped up on the weather map south of Jamaica in the Caribbean. The cone of probability for Tropical Storm Harriet stretched five days out and indicated the storm would strengthen in intensity and, pushed by upper air currents, a shifting jet stream and meandering Bermuda High, curve back toward Florida. For now, the state’s west coast, from the Dry Tortugas all the way to Cedar Key, was on alert.

Darcy sighed. “Now we’ll be glued to the television for days.”

“Yeah, praying it misses us and feeling guilty for wishing it on some other part of the country.” I stood up and headed for my office. “Come on, Roger, we have work to do.”

By work, I meant reading the Times and the Tribune and finishing the crossword puzzles, because, except for eventually identifying the Lassiter sisters’ tenant, I had no active cases at the moment. The hiatus didn’t disturb me. I had my police pension and a small trust fund from my father. Bill also had his police pension and a small fortune in real estate in the orange groves his father had left him. Pelican Bay Investigations was more a venture to keep us both busy and sane rather than a needed source of income.

A LITTLE BEFORE THREE, I set aside the completed puzzles, put a leash on Roger, told Darcy I wouldn’t be in again until the next morning and drove a few blocks to the marina. Anvil-shaped clouds towered in the eastern sky and portended evening thunderstorms. In spite of the threatening weather, many of the slips at the marina were empty due to sailors enjoying pleasure cruises and charter boat captains fulfilling the fishing fantasies of tourists in the deep waters of the Gulf.