“Watch for red laser lights,” I told Rodney.

“Huh?” he said.

As we crossed the street, a black and white pulled up next to the Army car. The cops rolled down their window and talked to the soldiers, after which the Army car pulled out and sped away. Good old Bill. Doing what he could.

Rodney and I went around the building to my car, which Rodney had parked in the alley. He helped me in, and I gave him directions to Buford’s house.

Chapter 16  

This time Officer Bob waved us right into the compound, but security was tight at Buford’s. A guard in a black suit and sunglasses was stationed at Buford’s personal gatehouse. He checked our identification and waved us through. Two black SUVs stood in the driveway near the entrance. Another black suit stood at the doorway talking on a walkie-talkie.

Rodney helped me out of the car and to the door.

“Wait in the car, please,” I said. He got a disappointed look on his face, which I pretended not to notice.

The black suit stood aside and let me in. He said that Mr. Overbee was waiting on the patio.

I went through the house and out to the patio. Buford was on a chaise lounge with Missy on one side and Serena on the other.

Buford got up and said, “Let’s go in the study where we won’t bore the ladies with business.”

However this conversation was going to go, he didn’t want anyone else in on it. Neither did I. Especially Missy and Serena.

We went into the study and sat in facing leather easy chairs. Gravity allowed me to sink into the chair, but I’d need help getting up. I laid my crutches on the floor beside the chair.

Ramon was there right away with drinks for both of us. We waited for him to leave.

“You look like shit,” Buford said.

“I get that a lot.”

“Any trouble getting in?”

“No. Bob and the Men In Black passed me right through.”

“Some of Sanford’s guys. I brought them on after I was outed.”

“Tell me about the boat bombing.”

“You mean the boat accident?” he asked, looking away.

“Come on. You might get an onboard fire from a spark and gas leak, but they said there wasn’t anything left of that boat but flotsam.”

He took a sip. I took a healthy swallow.

“My boys had nothing to do with it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said. “Did you read about him being Army Intelligence and Homeland Security looking into it?”

“Think they’ll find anything?”

“Not if whoever did it is competent. I understand some of those terrorists are real good with explosives.”

“Well, his soldier pals think I had something to do with it. They’ve been stalking me.”

“I’ll tell Sanford. He might be able to discourage them.”

“Okay, but don’t go blowing up any Army vehicles. At least not in front of my office. I don’t have the alibi any more.”

He didn’t answer. I had the distinct impression that Buford Overbee would be a good friend to have and a fearsome enemy. I changed the subject.

“Let’s talk about your case. Did the cops tell you where they found the gun?”

“In the trunk of my Rolls. Under the wheel in the spare tire compartment. Whoever offed Vitole must have planted it there.”

That didn’t leave many probable suspects.

“Who has access to your car?”

“Me and Sanford.”

“Anyone else have keys?”

“Not that I know of.”

We were getting closer.

“Do you think Sanford bumped Vitole?”

Buford stopped. Then he said, “He knew we were having trouble. He knew that Vitole could put me out of business. Sanford could have done it and with good reason. Without me he’d have nothing.”

Sanford was getting to be a sure thing.

“Do you want me to work that angle?”

“I want you to work any angle that gets this ankle bracelet off and these charges dropped. I don’t care if the Pope did it.”

It surprised me at first that Buford would so readily throw his old friend under the bus. But then, he had a history of doing just that when his own hide was at stake.

“Did the cops question Sanford?”

“Not much. He has an alibi.”

“Didn’t he drive you to Vitole’s house when you went to see him? Is that his alibi?”

“No. I didn’t want anyone else implicated. Didn’t know what might happen. I was packing. I drove myself.”

“What’s Sanford’s alibi?”

“Ramon. They were here shooting pool in the rec room all day.”

“So, they’re each other’s alibi. What are their full names?”

“Ramon Sanchez. Probably not his real name. He’s your garden variety undocumented alien. Smartest kid I ever met. The only guy I know can beat me at chess.”

“And Sanford?”

“It’s the only name I’ve ever known him by.”

He put down his drink and looked at me. “I don’t think it was either one of them, Stan, although they’re both loyal employees.”

“You have a theory?” Sometimes—oftentimes—your best leads come from the people who hire you.

“My guess is that Vitole was shaking down other guys. One of them probably got to him like we did, only whoever it was took extreme measures to get him off their back. People in witness protection are not usually Sunday School teachers.”

“How could they have planted the gun?”

“Any time I was out somewhere. Or when I was in the holding cell. Get the trunk open, plant the piece, don’t leave prints, don’t get caught.”

“Was the Rolls out of here during your incarceration?”

“Sure. Selena and Melissa have Sanford or Ramon take them shopping or wherever.”

“How could the killer have gotten the gun in the first place?”

“That I don’t know.”

“Do you know whether it’s actually yours?”

“Could be. They haven’t shown it to me. Nothing’s missing from the collection.”

“Are all the guns in these display cases?”

“Stan, you can’t open a drawer or box in this house without finding a loaded piece. I’m paranoid about being caught unaware and unarmed. Look down at the side of the chair you’re sitting in.”

I looked down. The leather chair had a leather holster stitched onto its side. The brown grips of a .32 automatic pistol stuck up out of the holster.

“Do you have many guests?”

“I sometimes receive clients here. Ones who already know what I look like.”

“And who know who you used to be? Could one of your clients be in the same boat you are? Getting shaken down by Vitole?”

“I suppose anything’s possible.”

“Could someone like that have taken one of your pieces?”

“Might have.”

“And planted it in your car?”

“That’s far-fetched.”

“We’ll play hell getting the feds to release a list of witness protection clients,” I said.

“Penrod said the same thing when I suggested he look into it. No, the cops are content to have me. They don’t need anyone else. Case closed. Job well done. You used to be in that business, Stan. Isn’t that how it works?”

“That’s how it works. Can you get me a list of your clients? You can leave out the movie stars and other famous people. Just the ones with vague backgrounds.”

“That won’t be a long list. I’ll get it together and send it to you.”

“Was Vitole’s wife there when you visited?”

“No. He said he was alone.”

“That’s what he said when I visited. I guess she works. Too bad. She could have told the cops he was alive when you left.”

It was time to get into the difficult parts of the case.

“Now,” I said. “We agreed that I should chase down any lead, any hunch, whatever.”

“Yes.”

“What about the ladies in your life? Missy and Serena?”

Buford paused. “I never gave that the first thought.”