Read Online Chasing Justice: A Matt Royal Mystery by H. Terrell Griffin - Free Book Online Page B

said. “I did ask what he did, and he told me he was retired. When I asked what he’d done before, he just said he had been an investor. He sounded sort of guarded, but that might have been my imagination. I didn’t push it.”
    “How did they seem together? Any animosity, that sort of thing?” J.D. asked.
    “There was quite an age difference,” Lyn said, “but I didn’t see that there was a problem. Linda said they’d been married about twenty years, so I guess it was working. But, well, I probably shouldn’t say anything.”
    “You never know what might help,” J.D. said.
    “I just felt like there was some kind of barrier between them. I can’t put my finger on it, but there seemed to be, maybe not a barrier, but some distance or something. You know how married couples are. There’s an easiness between them, something unspoken. I can’t explain it, and I probably ought to keep my mouth shut, but it left me feeling like I was out with two people who were friends, not mates. Does this make any sense?”
    “Actually, it does,” J.D. said. “I’ve met people like that. You just know intuitively that something’s not right. Like maybe it was more of a business proposition. He needed or wanted a trophy wife, and she liked his money.”
    “That could be,” Lyn said, “but it seemed a little more than that.”
    “Have you heard anything about Linda having an affair?” J.D. asked.
    Mike laughed. “That didn’t exactly come up at dinner.”
    J.D. smiled, “I guess not.”
    “But, that might explain my feelings about them,” Lyn said. “Like maybe their relationship was a bit strained.”
    The Haycocks had nothing else to add. The conversation moved on to mutual friends, Sammy’s new job, and his most recent girlfriend, the latest in a long line of beautiful women.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    J.D. and I were having a quiet dinner on the sunporch of her condo overlooking Sarasota Bay. It was nearing eight o’clock and we were both tired. The sun was setting over the Gulf, its dying rays reflecting off the low-lying clouds to the east, painting the still waters with a patina of liquid gold.
    We had gone over my day, and she was telling me about hers. I was fascinated by this wondrous creature who loved me. She was tall, about five-seven, and her daily workouts kept her slender and shapely. Her dark shoulder-length hair framed a face that in another time would have graced a Grecian urn. Her green eyes twinkled with good humor, and when occasion demanded, flashed with anger. Her smile was a high-wattage killer, her laugh big and contagious.
    My cell phone rang. I answered. “This is Matt Royal.”
    “This is Matt Walsh.”
    “Hello, Matt.”
    “Hello, Matt.”
    It was our shtick, a silly greeting between old friends. He often reminded me that he was older than I, and thus had seniority in the use of the name. Matt Walsh was an old-school journalist and the publisher of one of our local weekly newspapers, the Longboat Observer . “I’ve just had a troubling telephone conversation with Stan Strickland, the agent in charge of the Tampa FDLE office,” he said.
    “Troubling how?”
    “One of my reporters called him earlier today about the Abby Lester case. He wouldn’t talk to her because he would be breaking all kinds of rules if it got out that he was giving a reporter any information. So he called me.”
    “Why call you?” I asked.
    “He’s an old acquaintance. We met several years ago through Kiwanis, and we run into each other occasionally. He said there was some funny stuff going on with this case, and he’s tired of the pressure he gets from people in high places. That, and the fact that he trusts me to keep my mouth shut on what he called deep background.”
    “And you’re calling me?”
    “I told him that you and the Lesters were friends of mine, and if what he had to tell me would have an impact on Abby’s case, I would want to be able to discuss it with the three of you. He wouldn’t agree