doesn’t tip. I wait on him. Frank and Cy talk a lot. I hear things. The commissioner’s kid needs new braces. We’re talking about ten thousand dollars for the kid’s dental work.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Helen said.
“He needs more money and he needs it fast,” Joan said. “He has this spectacular house on the water. The last hurricane damaged his seawall. Unless he comes up with cash quick, his waterfront property, his pool, even part of his house could be washed away in the next storm.”
“And hurricane season starts in a month,” Helen said.
“Tell me about it,” Joan said. “He moans about it constantly. The pier parking lot is open twenty-four hours. The bribe is maybe one day’s take.”
Helen whistled. “That’s twelve thousand dollars.”
“That’s what Frank the Fixer and the owner were talking about—how many days he should get for his support. The commissioner is holding out for a week. The owner wants one day, but I think he’ll settle for a long weekend. What time is it?”
Helen checked her watch. “Seven o’clock,” she said.
“I can’t believe we’ve talked this long. I’d better get going,” Joan said. “It’s been fun talking to you.”
“You too,” Helen said and signaled the server for the check. “Dinner’s on me. You’ve been a big help.”
Joan took out her slim black wallet and said, “At least let me pay the tip.”
“No way,” Helen said. “That’s a gorgeous wallet.”
“Gucci,” Joan said. “But it doesn’t have those big dumb G’s all over it, shouting ‘I paid too much for this.’ Boyfriend got it for me. Kept the wallet, got rid of him.
“Look what else I got.” Joan pulled a pink ticket from the depths of the wallet. “I bought a raffle ticket for a Mercedes.” Helen saw Joan’s name, address and phone number scrawled on the ticket.
“My luck is turning,” she said. “I can feel it.” She tucked the ticket carefully back inside.
“Here’s my card with my e-mail and phone number,” Helen said. “Please e-mail me that video. Maybe I can have it digitally enhanced.”
“I will. And I’ll call you if I hear anything,” Joan said. “I want Cy caught.”
“Won’t you be out of work if he is?” Helen asked.
“Someone else will take over that restaurant,” she said, “and I’ll get a better boss. I sure can’t get a worse one.”
CHAPTER 12
“Y ou’re working late tonight,” Helen said, opening the jalousie door to the Coronado Investigations office. The only light was the pale blue glow of Phil’s computer screen. Six half-empty coffee cups were scattered on his desk.
“Good. You’re home,” he said. “I think I’ve found something on Sunny Jim’s security video. Take a look. I need to know if you see it.”
Helen rolled her desk chair next to Phil’s.
“Your eyes are red,” she said. “You look like a bloodhound.”
“I’ve been on this trail since I got back to the office about five,” he said. “Look at this.”
The security video, in flickering gray and black, was time – and date-stamped “1:38 AM 03/06/2013.” “That’s a Wednesday,” Phil said. “Not many people on Riggs Beach at that hour.”
Security lights cast a pale gray glow on the ocean side of Jim’s Riggs Beach trailer. Two stocky men about five feet eight entered the frame from the north. Both wore black head-to-toe dive suits, gloves and hoods. Full-face dive masks covered their features.
“Creepy,” Helen said. “They look like insects.”
“Locusts, in Jim’s case,” Phil said. “Watch the destruction. It starts with that one breaking the trailer’s padlock with a bolt cutter.”
The other diver opened the trailer door, and both entered. Their motion triggered the inside camera. The gray illumination was fainter, but Helen had a clear view into Jim’s trailer at night. The plywood desk was folded flat against the wall and the rack of paddles and boards was rolled into the trailer.
Helen
“That’s a lot of money,” Helen said.
“He needs more money and he needs it fast,” Joan said. “He has this spectacular house on the water. The last hurricane damaged his seawall. Unless he comes up with cash quick, his waterfront property, his pool, even part of his house could be washed away in the next storm.”
“And hurricane season starts in a month,” Helen said.
“Tell me about it,” Joan said. “He moans about it constantly. The pier parking lot is open twenty-four hours. The bribe is maybe one day’s take.”
Helen whistled. “That’s twelve thousand dollars.”
“That’s what Frank the Fixer and the owner were talking about—how many days he should get for his support. The commissioner is holding out for a week. The owner wants one day, but I think he’ll settle for a long weekend. What time is it?”
Helen checked her watch. “Seven o’clock,” she said.
“I can’t believe we’ve talked this long. I’d better get going,” Joan said. “It’s been fun talking to you.”
“You too,” Helen said and signaled the server for the check. “Dinner’s on me. You’ve been a big help.”
Joan took out her slim black wallet and said, “At least let me pay the tip.”
“No way,” Helen said. “That’s a gorgeous wallet.”
“Gucci,” Joan said. “But it doesn’t have those big dumb G’s all over it, shouting ‘I paid too much for this.’ Boyfriend got it for me. Kept the wallet, got rid of him.
“Look what else I got.” Joan pulled a pink ticket from the depths of the wallet. “I bought a raffle ticket for a Mercedes.” Helen saw Joan’s name, address and phone number scrawled on the ticket.
“My luck is turning,” she said. “I can feel it.” She tucked the ticket carefully back inside.
“Here’s my card with my e-mail and phone number,” Helen said. “Please e-mail me that video. Maybe I can have it digitally enhanced.”
“I will. And I’ll call you if I hear anything,” Joan said. “I want Cy caught.”
“Won’t you be out of work if he is?” Helen asked.
“Someone else will take over that restaurant,” she said, “and I’ll get a better boss. I sure can’t get a worse one.”
CHAPTER 12
“Y ou’re working late tonight,” Helen said, opening the jalousie door to the Coronado Investigations office. The only light was the pale blue glow of Phil’s computer screen. Six half-empty coffee cups were scattered on his desk.
“Good. You’re home,” he said. “I think I’ve found something on Sunny Jim’s security video. Take a look. I need to know if you see it.”
Helen rolled her desk chair next to Phil’s.
“Your eyes are red,” she said. “You look like a bloodhound.”
“I’ve been on this trail since I got back to the office about five,” he said. “Look at this.”
The security video, in flickering gray and black, was time – and date-stamped “1:38 AM 03/06/2013.” “That’s a Wednesday,” Phil said. “Not many people on Riggs Beach at that hour.”
Security lights cast a pale gray glow on the ocean side of Jim’s Riggs Beach trailer. Two stocky men about five feet eight entered the frame from the north. Both wore black head-to-toe dive suits, gloves and hoods. Full-face dive masks covered their features.
“Creepy,” Helen said. “They look like insects.”
“Locusts, in Jim’s case,” Phil said. “Watch the destruction. It starts with that one breaking the trailer’s padlock with a bolt cutter.”
The other diver opened the trailer door, and both entered. Their motion triggered the inside camera. The gray illumination was fainter, but Helen had a clear view into Jim’s trailer at night. The plywood desk was folded flat against the wall and the rack of paddles and boards was rolled into the trailer.
Helen
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