The Nominee Read online

  White retrieved a handful of doggy treats from the oak kitchen cabinet and held them, one by one, in front of Sherlock’s nose. With each offering, Sherlock sat motionless, staring cross-eyed at the treat and drooling on the floor until White said “OK.” Each treat vanished in a single gulp, and Sherlock sat patiently waiting for more.

  “That’s all there are,” White explained when the last treat had disappeared.

  Sherlock didn’t believe him:

  “Honest. That’s all there are,” White repeated.

  Sherlock wasn’t convinced.

  Have it your way. Dogs and women. They both think they can get anything they want with a pleading look and a wag of their tails.

  White poured himself a Diet Pepsi — he was a recovering alcoholic and hadn’t consumed alcohol for almost seven years — squeezed two slices of lime into his drink and walked out onto the balcony. He pulled a chair away from the glass topped table and rolled it closer to the railing where he sat and propped his cowboy boots on the middle rail. The sun was now only brilliant orange hemisphere on the edge of the western horizon. White never tired of the panoramic view of the river all the way to the Gulf of Mexico to the south and west of Fort Myers.

  He was still wearing the suit he wore at the conclusion of the Marshall trial. Behind the facade of the tailored suits and silk shirts that he wore to court — White called it his lawyer’s costume — he was still a country boy. He could wear his lawyer costume as naturally as a zebra wore its stripes, but his preferred attire was denim dungarees and a classic light blue oxford shirt. Only his custom-made cowboy boots were a constant. Typically, he would have gone straight to the bedroom he shared with Leslie and changed his clothes. Today he was too tired, and preoccupied, to care.

  The door behind him opened, and Leslie strolled across the balcony to where White sat, leaned over and kissed him on the neck. White responded by kissing her on the cheek. “Mmmmmmm. Chauvinist pig happy to see lady lawyer.”

  Leslie frowned. “We’re not through with that conversation, buddy.”

  White sighed. “I know.”

  Leslie sat on White’s lap and put her arms around his neck. “You look like something Sherlock would drag home.”

  At the mention of her name, Sherlock moved closer to Leslie and pawed at her for attention. Leslie obliged.

  “It’s been a bitch of a day.”

  “You won your murder trial. You should be happy.”

  “Just glad to have it over with.”

  “So why are you so pensive?”

  “Is that what I am?”

  “Pensive… wistful… introspective…”

  White gave her a pained smile. “I get the point.”

  “Immersed… engrossed… contemplative…”

  White laughed. “Enough already.” Regardless of what else White had on his mind, he slid easily into the banter that characterized their relationship. She understood his every mood and knew when he needed a play break.

  “Dad paid big bucks for my education. I’m entitled to show it off occasionally.”

  “Does it always have to be at my expense?”

  “Only until you tell me about Graham’s visit.”

  White shook his head in mock exasperation. “What am I going to do with you?”

  Leslie snuggled closer and whispered in his ear, “You could take me into the bedroom and ravage me.”

  “That sounds like a plan.”

  “But only after you tell me what’s up.”

  “How about, I’ll tell you over dinner?”

  “We can do that.”

  “I don’t feel up to cooking tonight.”

  Leslie pouted. “But I was looking forward to one of the gourmet dinners you always make after you win a big case.”

  “I’m sorry. But Graham’s son’s case has me a little preoccupied.”

  “That’s okay. What did you have in mind?”

  “We haven’t been to the Lazy Gator for a while.”

  At the mere mention of Lazy Gator Leslie bit her lip and fought to hold back her tears. White knew she was thinking about Billy Reynolds, whose cooking had made the Lazy Gator famous. Billy had been a volunteer counselor at the AIDS clinics where Leslie worked until he died of the disease less than a year before. They had been good friends, and his death, inevitable and in the end merciful, had been hard on her.

  “It’s time to remember the good things.”

  “You’re right,” she agreed as she wiped a trace of a tear from the corner of her eye. Slowly a look of wistful exuberance lit her face. “Let’s go remember Billy.”

  “Good plan. Besides, its road-kill night at the Lazy Gator.”

  Leslie wrinkled her nose as if she had just inhaled some noxious fumes. “It’s always road-kill night at the Lazy Gator!”

  “Yeah. Fine Southern eatin’,” White grinned. “You can always be sure of getting the four basic food groups — dead animal, grease, weeds, and alcohol.”

  “You say that like you have a right to claim the Old South as your home. You know… you don’t exactly fit in among the rednecks.”

  “Not a problem,” White responded. “All I have to do is wear a John Deere cap, scratch my ass, call all animals ‘critters’ and drive me a big ol’ pickup truck.”

  Leslie shook her head and rolled her eyes upward. “If my parents knew what their well-bred daughter was forced to endure in the name of love, they’d seriously consider having me committed.”

  #

  The Lazy Gator started life as a fish camp on the western side of the Peace River north of Fort Myers. Its current incarnation as a dining establishment commenced when Billy Reynolds the nephew of the owner of the land, was released from prison and, having no other job opportunities, began serving sandwiches and beer to fishermen. Soon he was preparing the fisherman’s catches in his own unique ways. Over the years, Billy put the training learned while a guest of the State to better use and was soon turning the sow’s ear of local wildlife into the culinary equivalent of a silk purse. No signs or other means of advertisement disclosed the presence of the Lazy Gator, but everyone in the community knew how to find it.

  White and Leslie took their usual booth against the wall at the end of the room furthest from the door. Like all the other booths, their seats were bare wood.

  The menu at Billy’s was as unorthodox as the rest of the establishment — there wasn’t one, not even as a listing on a blackboard. For starch, you had a choice of “spuds” or “noodles,” never referred to as ‘pasta.’ Your vegetable was either beans cooked with a slab of fatback or “greens,” which might be spinach greens, collard greens or dandelion greens prepared subject to Billy’s whims and discretion.

  The closest you could come to an order of your choice was the entrée: “meat,” “fish” or “bird.” Having specified your category of choice, you got whatever Billy had available — cooked however Billy chose to cook it. The sole exception to these choices was Billy’s Seminole Special; gator pounded until it was tender, sautéed and served covered with a chutney of plums and peaches, making the colors of the Florida State University Seminoles. Billy loved the Seminoles.

  More likely than not you dined on local game, birds and fish, not all of which were necessarily in season at the time. Billy laughingly responded to charges that he was ignoring hunting and fishing laws by claiming that he was merely serving roadkill — animals that had already been killed by motorists — and was doing the state a favor by cleaning up its highways. How this explained the inclusion of out of season fish entrées on the menu was never explained, but it didn’t matter. Everyone who was anyone in local government was a “member” of the fish camp, and most had probably bagged some game out of season in their own time.

  White and Leslie took their usual booth against the wall at the end of the room furthest from the door. Like all the other booths, their seats were bare wood. Billy had claimed that the reason for this was that the addition had been built entirely from the remains of old
fishing boats and he wanted to keep everything authentic and natural. It was a good story to justify the rustic interior to visitors, but everyone knew the real reason was that Billy was too lazy to finish the wood surfaces with varnish or urethane.

  White ordered meat, greens, spuds, and his customary Diet Pepsi with lime. Leslie ordered bird, greens, noodles, and a beer. It wasn’t necessary to specify the brand of beer because the Lazy Gator carried only one brand at a time. It varied depending on the price he could get from his distributor.

  “Okay,” Leslie said. “Now tell me about Graham.”

  White took a deep breath and exhaled before announcing, “Graham’s son has been arrested. He wants me to defend him.”

  “Hmmmmmm.”

  “You don’t sound surprised.”

  “I sort of figured Graham was after your services. It isn’t like him to just drop by for a visit.”

  White nodded.

  “What was his son arrested for?”

  “Drugs. Possession with intent to distribute, for starters. There may be more.”

  “How’s Graham taking it?”

  “About like you’d expect.”

  “What’s it going to mean for his nomination?” Leslie asked, forcing White to confront the question that had been troubling him since his meeting with Brochette.

  “It shouldn’t mean anything,” White said without conviction.

  “You know better than that.”

  “I said it shouldn’t matter, not that it won’t matter.”

  White lapsed into silence as he continued to ponder Brochette’s situation. After a moment, Leslie interrupted him. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  “I’m afraid so,” White admitted. “David is only Graham’s biological son.”

  “As in, without the benefit of clergy?”

  “Something like that.”

  “That’s not going to help.”

  “Not if it comes out,” White agreed.

  “Will it?”

  White shrugged. “There’s no reason why it should. David’s mother was married to someone else when David was born. There’s no reason anyone should even put him together with Graham.”

  “But if it does come out, won’t it hurt his chances for the nomination?”

  “It might. But that isn’t the most immediate problem.”

  Leslie took a swallow from her bottle of beer. “Oh?”

  “If the connection between Graham and his son becomes public, it’ll be impossible for the State’s Attorney to make any kind of deal with David. He’d be accused of bowing to the influence of the U. S. Attorney.”

  “Is Graham going to want to be involved in the case?”

  “We talked about that. Right now, the fact that David is Graham’s son isn’t an issue, and there’s no reason why the information should even become public. But Graham can’t be involved without exposing the relationship, and that would open him to charges of interference or exercising undue influence.”

  “Will he be able to stay out of it?”

  White shrugged. “We talked about that, too. I told him that he couldn’t have anything to do with the case.”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  They both understood that it was more than an offer of assistance. Leslie’s participation in criminal cases was a sensitive subject, and the afternoon’s tete-a-tete was still on their minds. White dealt with criminals every day, but he did not like the idea of Leslie having to deal with the same clients. As he usually did when the matter came up, White tried to ignore the issue. “What did you have in mind?”

  Leslie made a movement suggesting that she was going to slam her bottle on the table, but she controlled her impulse and set it down gently. “You know exactly what I mean!”

  White looked for assistance in the grain of the table top. In the courtroom, White was always in complete control. But with Leslie it was different. White knew he was being manipulated. It wouldn’t have mattered, except that he also knew she was right.

  “Sometimes, Lucius, you can be…” She caught herself before she said something she knew she would be sorry for. Instead, she crossed her arms and pouted.

  White took a deep breath and exhaled. “You’re not being fair.”

  “I know,” she admitted, smiling subtly as if she was sorry for having played the pity card.

  “You’re good!” he chuckled.

  “I know that too,” Leslie responded, flashing her eyes coyly as she took a sip of her beer. “But you are being a chauvinist!”

  “I prefer to think of it as being your loving and concerned boyfriend.”

  “That’s just an excuse.”

  “I know,” White admitted. “Let’s see what comes up when I meet with David Shepard.”

  “Fair enough?”

  “And whatever you do, you have to promise to be careful?”

  “Scout’s honor,” she said, holding up a hand with the middle finger extended.

  “I believe the scout’s oath requires three fingers.”

  “I just wanted to save you the trouble of reading between the lines.”

  White shook his head and chuckled again.

  “So,” she smiled. “Peace restored?”

  “You just love manipulating me, don’t you?”

  “It’s lost some of its challenge, but I have to stay in practice.”

  White leaned across the table and kissed her. “I’m lucky to have you.”

  “Yes, you are,” Leslie agreed. “I’m a great catch. I know which fork to use for the shrimp, I can quote Shakespeare, and I still love sex. What more could you want?”

  “A little modesty would be nice.”

  Leslie stuck her tongue out and laughed. “What you see is what you get. Boston in the parlor, and Paris in the bedroom.”

  “I admit it. You’re a great lay.”

  “Such language,” Leslie exclaimed as she gave him her best imitation of a look of shocked indignation.

  “My apologies. I keep forgetting that you are a lady of good breeding who would never use such vulgar language.”

  Leslie laughed. “You’re fucking right I am!”

  “What can I do to make it up to you?”

  “Take me to bed.”

  “I can do that! I was just thinking about grabbing your ass and whispering ‘How about it’?”

  “I’ve heard more romantic approaches, but that might work.”

  5.

  Horse slowed his Ford Explorer as he approached the outskirts of Matlacha. At intervals of less than half a minute, bolts of lightning lit the sky, standing for a full second as the coming storm released its charge of electricity. Gusts of wind from the leading edge of the storm bent flat the sea of tall grasses covering the marsh on either side of the road between the mainland and Matlacha Pass.

  Massive drops of wind-driven rain began hammering the Explorer. Within moments, he was engulfed in an unusually heavy downpour that cut visibility to less than thirty yards.

  Horse pulled to a stop outside a cinder block building. A sign over the door declared it to be the Shipwreck Bar. The name was appropriate. The paint on the outside of the building was peeling in flakes the size of pancakes, and the weathered door at the top of a short stairway looked as if it was ready to collapse at any moment.

  Horse retrieved a file from the passenger seat and reviewed the police report of David Shepard’s arrest. The Shipwreck Bar wasn’t mentioned in the report, but that didn’t matter. If you need information on people who live on the fringe of civilized society, you go where they’re likely to go. In Matlacha, that was the Shipwreck Bar.

  As quickly as it had started, the rainstorm was over. Horse left the Explorer and headed for the door of the bar. He was wearing his usual blend-with-the-locals detective outfit: deck shoes without socks, worn jeans and an appropriately stained sleeveless pullover worn outside his belt to conceal the 9mm Glock in the holster at the small of his back.

  Three Harley Davidson’s were parked close to the buildi
ng. A sign beside the door proclaimed, ‘No shoes. No shirt. No problem.’ Life is simple in Matlacha.

  The rancid smell of stale beer and smoke, not all of it tobacco, assailed him as he entered the Wreck, as the establishment was known to the locals. To his right, a worn wooden bar ran the length of the narrow building. The obligatory jar of pickled hardboiled eggs and a container of beef jerky sat on the bar beside the cash register. For patrons with a more discriminating palate, Polish sausages rotated on skewers under a heat lamp.

  A pool table sat in the middle of the room like a giant green mushroom. An assortment of tables with unmatched chairs lined the windowless wall to the left. At the rear, a sliding glass door opened to the commercial dock.

  The bartender, a short, dark man wearing a dirty shirt and a scowl, glanced at Horse before returning to the chore of washing his bar glasses. His dour expression proclaimed that strangers rarely crossed the threshold of this bar, and those who did weren’t welcome.

  Three men in jeans and sleeveless denim jackets sat at a table in a dark corner of the bar. Horse couldn’t make out the insignias on the backs of their jackets, but he was sure it wasn’t an advertisement for Calvin Klein. The conch shell ashtray in the middle of the wooden table was overflowing with cigarette butts. Beer mugs and empty shot glasses, the drinking man’s breakfast, sat in front of each man.

  Two of the men watched Horse as he crossed the room, slid onto a stool at the end of the bar and waited. The third man stood and headed for the ‘Buoy’s’ room.

  Finally, the bartender headed down the bar in a way that suggested he could have moved faster if he wanted to. “What’ll you have?”

  “How about a draft? Coors if you have it.”

  “All we got on draft is Bud.” Without waiting for a response, the bartender turned away and began drawing a beer from the tap. “That’ll be two bucks,” he said as he put the beer down in front of Horse.

  “Ah’m looking for a friend of mine,” Horse said.

  “So?”

  Horse laid a twenty-dollar bill on the bar.

  The bartender stared intently at the bill before returning his attention to Horse. “Who’s your friend?”