Lifeguard - James Patterson [42]
Crossing over the bridge on Okeechobee, she headed for the Brazilian Court. It was a whole lot quieter now than a few days before.
Ellie went into the lobby. An attractive blond guy was behind the reception desk. Ellie flashed the FBI badge hanging loosely around her neck. She showed the man Dennis Stratton’s picture. “Any chance you’ve seen this person around here?”
The desk clerk studied it for a second and then shrugged no. He showed it to a colleague. She shook her head. “Maybe you want to show it to Simon. He works nights.”
Ellie flashed the photo around to the door staff and then the restaurant manager. She showed it to a couple of waiters. Everybody shook his head, no. It was a long shot, Ellie reminded herself. Maybe she’d come back at night and try Simon.
“Hey, I know that dude,” one of the room-service waiters said. She’d found him in the kitchen. His eyes lit up as soon as he saw the face. “That’s Ms. McAuliffe’s friend.”
Ellie blinked. “You’re sure?”
“Sure I’m sure,” the waiter, Jorge, exclaimed. “He comes around here every once in a while. Good tipper. Gave me twenty bucks to pop a bottle of champagne.”
“You’re saying they were friends?” Ellie asked, feeling her pulse come alive.
“You could call them friends.” Jorge tossed a smile. “Like, I gotta learn how to get me some friends like that, too. Hard to figure, short bald dude with someone who looked like that. Gotta figure he had bucks, right?”
“Yeah.” Ellie nodded. “Lotta bucks, Jorge.”
Chapter 49
I TURNED THE IMPALA into a half-full lot on Military Trail south of Okeechobee. Next to Vern’s Tank and Tummy and Seminole Pawn, a long way from the mansions on the beach.
The place looked more like some run-down shipping office or one of those whitewashed stucco huts that housed seedy, ambulance-chasing lawyers. Only the handful of retuned Vespas on the sidewalk and the cracked Yamaha sign in the window gave it away.
Geoff’s Cycles. NATIONAL MINI RACING CHAMPION. 1998.
I parked the car and stepped inside. No one at the counter. I heard the sound of an engine being revved in the back. I wedged through shelves of helmet boxes into the garage. I saw a half-finished bottle of Pete’s Wicked Ale on the floor and pair of beat-up Addidases sticking out from under a gleaming Ducati 999. The engine revved again.
I kicked the sneakers. “That thing run like an old lady having a coughing fit, or does it just sound like one?”
An oily face wheeled out from under the blocks. Close-cropped orange hair and a fuzzy smile. “Dunno, mate. Guess that depends on how fast the old bag can run.”
Then his eyes bulged as wide as if I’d crawled out of a crypt in Dawn of the Dead. “Holy Shit, Ned!”
Geoff Hunter dropped the wrench and hopped to his feet. “It is you, Ned. Not some body double for Andrew Cunanan?’
“It’s me,” I said, taking a step forward. “Whatever’s left.”
“Mate, I’d like to say you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Geoff said, shaking his head, “but, frankly, I was hoping you were a whole lot farther away from this sorry-assed place than here.” He wrapped his greasy, oil-stained arms around my back.
Champ was a Kiwi, who’d been on the world minicycle racing tour for several years. Once, he even held the tour speed record. After a bout or two with Jack—Daniel’s—and a sticky divorce, he ended up performing motorcycle stunts in cycle shows, like jumping over cars and through hoops of fire. I’d met him working the bar at Bradley’s. You put anything crazy enough in front of him and chased it with a beer, Champ was in!
He went over to a minifridge and opened a Pete’s for me. Then he sat on the fridge. “I figure you’re not here for the brew, now, are you, mate?”
I shook my head. “I’m in deep shit, Geoff.”
He snorted. “You think just ’cause my brain’s half fried and I’m drunk the other half of the time, I can’t read the papers, Ned? Well, that might be true—but I can turn on the TV.”
“You know I didn’t do any of that stuff, Champ.” I looked him in the eye.
“You’re preaching to the choir, mate. You think anyone who actually knows you believes you’re going around