Lifeguard - James Patterson [55]
“So, he found out about her,” I said, clenching my jaw, “and had her killed.”
“Stratton’s got people who work for him who would do just about anything, Ned,” Sol said.
I nodded. I thought of Ellie’s doubts about the local cop, Lawson. The one who always seemed to be around Stratton. “That’s why the police are dragging their heels. They knew there was a connection between them. He owns them, right?”
“If you want to catch him, Neddie,” Sol said, looking at me earnestly, “I own a few things, too.”
I smiled gratefully at Sollie. Then I stared at the rap sheet again. Poor Tess. Such a beautiful face. She probably thought this was the payday of her life, too. That shimmering, hopeful look came back to me, the one I couldn’t understand. How she felt that her luck was about to change as well.
I’m going to get him, Tess, I vowed, looking at her face. Then I dropped the rap sheet onto the table. “Marty Miller,” I said, smiling at Sol. “I didn’t even know her name.”
Chapter 65
DENNIS STRATTON left his office in one of the financial buildings along Royal Palm Way a little after five.
His Bentley Azure pulled out of the garage and I started up my dingy Impala.
I’m not entirely sure why I had the urge to follow him, but what Sollie had told me really pissed me off. I had seen Stratton in action on the terrace with Ellie. I guess I just wanted to see firsthand what this asshole was about.
Stratton swung around at the light and continued over the bridge into West Palm. I followed, a few car lengths behind. He was busy talking on the phone. I figured even if he noticed, there was no way a guy in an old clunker like mine would register on his mental radar.
His first stop was Rachel’s out on 45th Street, a steakhouse where you can wolf down a large porterhouse and watch strippers on the stage. A bouncer greeted him as if they were old friends. All the pretension of class with his big house and the fancy art. Why was I not surprised?
I pulled into a Rooms to Go parking lot across from Cracker Barrel and waited. After fifty minutes I almost decided to call it a night. Maybe half an hour later Stratton came out with another man: tall, ruddy, white-haired, a navy blazer and lime green pants. One of those “I can trace my roots back to the Mayflower” kind of faces. They were laughing and smirking.
They both climbed into the Bentley, put the top down, and lit up cigars. I pulled out behind them. Blue bloods’ night out! They headed down to Belvedere, past the airport, and turned into the Palm Beach Kennel Club. VIP parking.
It must’ve been a slow day, because the attendant rolled his eyes jeeringly at my wheels, but he seemed happy to take my twenty and slip me a clubhouse pass. Stratton and his buddy headed up on an elevator to the fancy seats.
I took a table on the other side of the glass-enclosed clubhouse. I ordered a sandwich and a beer and felt obliged to go up to the window every once in a while with a couple of two-dollar bets. Stratton seemed to be into it, though. He was loud and garrulous, puffing on his cigar, peeling off multiple hundreds from a huge wad on every race.
A third person came to the table: a fat, balding guy, suspenders holding up his pants. They kept betting wildly, ordering bottles of champagne. The more they lost, the more they laughed, throwing big tips to the stewards who took their bets.
About ten, Stratton made a call on his cell phone and they all stood up together. He signed for the bill—it must’ve been in the thousands. Then he put his arms around the other two and headed back downstairs.
I paid my check and hurried after them. They piled into his Bentley. They had the top down and were all smoking cigars. The Bentley was weaving a bit.
They crossed back to Palm Beach over the middle bridge. Stratton wrapped around to the right and turned the Bentley into the marina.
Partytime, huh, boys?
A gate rose and a guard waved