States of Grace by Mandy Miller (great novels of all time .TXT) 📗

the academic calendar. “Holy moly! August 17 was the first day of school.”

“What did you say?” Jake says, his nose propped on top of the screen to get my attention.

I bat his nose away, power down the laptop, and shove it into my backpack. “What time you closing up shop today?”

He surveys the empty bar. “Soon, I guess. Given the obvious lack of interest.”

“What about old Moose over there? Isn’t he a customer?”

“Nope. Moose never pays. Does odd jobs around here, cleans up after I close, and I pay him in liquid currency. Miller Lite, mostly.”

“It’s about time for him to earn his keep.” I hop off the bar stool. “Moose, you’re in charge.” I scoot around the bar and grab Jake by the arm, Miranda by the leash. “You two want to take a ride?”

Jake doesn’t answer, but the goofy grin is all the evidence I need that he’s a willing participant.

Miranda? She just wags her tail. It’s all a game to her.

Chapter 18

Traveling east from the Star to the coast, it strikes me that Broward County is a ghetto sandwich. To the west, the suburbs, a sprawl of cookie-cutter homes and chain stores stretching to within spitting distance of the Everglades. To the east, beyond downtown Fort Lauderdale, the beach, with its waterfront mansions and high-end condos and a dwindling number of old-timey Florida places like The Hurricane. And in the middle, the ’hood, as Vinnie calls it. Block after desolate block of dilapidated buildings, pawn shops, and desperation.

“Hey, Counselor,” Jake says. “You’re the navigator here, so navigate.”

“What?”

“Where are we going?”

“Next light, take a left.”

I stuff the crime scene photos I’ve been studying in my backpack. “Not like anyone deserves to be shot in the crotch or anything, but can you believe the dude was found behind his desk with his pants down? Not exactly what’s expected of a faculty member at an elite private school.”

“I guess,” Jake says. “But what would I know? I went to public school, and you know how much shit happens there when no one’s looking, don’t you?”

I shift in my seat.

“I forgot. You’re Miss Fancy Pants. Private school all the way.”

“Let’s get back on topic, why don’t we? You saw the wedding band.”

“So?”

“Men, you’re all the damn same.”

I check over my shoulder on Miranda.

“What’s she doing back there?” Jake asks.

“Sleeping with one eye open. Or maybe she’s awake with one eye closed. Hard to tell. One thing I can tell you is she’s listening to everything we say.”

“How can you know?”

“Take my word for it.”

Miranda emits a confirmatory woof.

Jake’s eyes widen. “Scary.”

“Next right.”

“Your theory is the wife killed him?”

“Maybe, maybe not, but the spouse is the obvious place to start. I know I’ve wanted to kill Manny more than once.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure he’s felt the same way about me.” I say. “Take a right here. And then there was how Sinclair was found. Either he was…er…finding some pleasure in his own company, which normally doesn’t result in getting shot in the groin and the head, or he had other company that morning.”

“Come to think of it, I think that close-up shot with the skivvies showed he was shot in the balls, and that his—”

“Do not go there! Besides, that doesn’t mean anything.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t mean anything? The guy had a hard-on, for Christ’s sake!”

“Happens a lot when someone dies. It’s called angel lust. I’ve seen it a dozen times in murder cases and suicides. Can happen with fatal gunshots to the head. In hangings too.”

“You see some weird shit in your job, Grace. No wonder you drink.”

“Used to drink.”

“True, because if you still drank, I’d be making more money off your sorry ass every time you come into my place.”

“Hey, turn left here!”

We screech into the turn.

“Take it easy. We don’t need the cops to pull us over.”

“A little advance notice would be nice, Ms. Navigator.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re pretty demanding for someone asking for a ride.”

“I said sorry.”

“Can I assume we’re going to visit the weeping widow? She’d be all pissed off if he did have company.”

I pat his knee. “You’d make a great investigator, Jacko. Damn straight that’s where we’re going.”

“The police report says Sinclair lived at 456 Poinciana Court, Lauderdale-by-the-Sea.” I pull my crumpled copy from my jeans pocket. “And it lists his Social Security number. Can you believe that? The state still put socials on public documents. I guess it drums up business for the State Attorney’s identity fraud unit.”

“Not that you ever spent any time there, did you? From what I hear, you were top-shelf cases all the way.”

“That’s ancient history.” I jab my finger at the Poinciana Court street sign. “Turn left,” I say, in time for Jake to jink into a two-block-long street running east from A1A to the beach.

“Jesus, Grace! A little notice, please?”

For Sale – Foreclosure signs litter the street, one on almost every lot, pallets of bricks piled high behind chain link fences marked Keep Out. No Trespassing. Plywood-covered doors and windows of unfinished McMansions, concrete victims of the real estate bubble bursting all over South Florida.

I wave the police report in the direction of a contemporary home, all angles and glass. “There. Number 456.”

“Pretty nice for a guidance counselor. Those palms alone are worth more than my bar.” “Which might not be saying much.”

“Always the smart ass. And, by the way, at least it’s paid for.”

I bite my tongue.

“Oops, my turn to say sorry.”

“No need. I got myself into the hole, I’ll get myself out.”

“Nice ride,” he says, referring to a black Corvette parked in the driveway.

“Park down there, on the opposite side.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, pulling a U-turn and parking down the block. “How do you know if the wife is even home? Maybe you should’ve called.”

“No warning means no time to get her story together.”

“Or maybe not. Maybe we should be looking at Serena. And maybe there are other girls and Serena was jealous. Or maybe…”

I let the police report flutter to