Read Online The Mango Opera by Tom Corcoran - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tom Corcoran
Tags: Mystery & Crime
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broker joining the Million Dollar Club. The headline went for the sensational, calling the murder TWIN PEAKS–STYLED. No photo accompanied the two-column LOCAL LEGAL WORKER FOUND SLAIN article about Ellen Albury.
Hatch returned to the porch, fumbling with his pocketful of cigars. Annie walked out behind him, dressed for the office. She’d pulled back her hair with an antique silver barrette. She looked great.
“This going to take long, Detective?” Her words had that courtroom ring, the resonance that made her sound like a different Annie.
“A minute or two. You and I kept missing each other yesterday.”
“I hadn’t realized that. I recall a Q and A session in the backyard on Olivia.”
He pushed the newspaper aside and pulled a three-by-five card out of his shirt pocket. “You’d been gone less than two minutes when I stopped at the Embry house. And your car was leaving the Federal Building when I arrived to speak with the assistant federal prosecutor. I grabbed your parking space, and I thank you for that. You’d been to his office, too.”
Hatch’s attitude and words were crowding the edge of accusatory. Worse, he had referred to Michael Anselmo, Monty Aghajanian’s nemesis. It shouldn’t have surprised me that Annie might know Anselmo, but I didn’t like where this was going.
“I had a number of appointments yesterday,” said Annie. “As you know, I got a late start.”
“Yes, ma’am. We all got a rough start yesterday. My timetable was screwed from the time I got up.”
“So what do you mean, missing each other?” she said.
Hatch glanced at me, then looked off through the screening. “I had a few more questions for you, that’s all.”
I didn’t want to butt in, but I didn’t like his tone. “What are we trying to nail down here?” I said. “You’re talking about a murder inside the city limits, you’re talking about Bahia Honda, which is in Monroe County, and you’re talking about a federal prosecutor. That’s three separate jurisdictions.”
Hatch checked the bottom of his Styrofoam cup, grimaced, and decided against a last sip. He fumbled again with his cigars, then turned to Annie. “I need to double-check the timetable, for one thing. We know you discovered the body at 7:08—according to your statement—but the 911 call didn’t come through till 7:25. Also, according to our tracing system, the call didn’t originate at the Olivia Street house. You called from the home phone of Michael Anselmo.”
Annie nodded in agreement.
I felt tall walls crumbling around me. I knew what she had been afraid of.
“So, what the hell?” Hatch’s eyes locked on her.
“That’s your question?” snapped Annie. “‘What the hell?’”
“We’re not stupid people, Miss Minnette.”
I had to agree.
Annie turned red but maintained a poker face.
Hatch splayed out his hands as if to calm things. “Let me make myself clear. You are not a suspect, Miss Minnette. You’ve got an alibi. I’m sorry if I offended either of you. I’m just digging for information. Here’s another question, Miss Minnette. Did you know that Miss Albury’s biological father, Pepper Neice of Riviera Beach, was convicted of the sexual abuse of young girls?”
“Oh, Jesus.” She exhaled, disgusted.
Hatch checked another three-by-five card. “According to the court’s records, neither conviction involved his daughter. Some people in City Hall recall that he skated in that regard at least twice. Once when she was in grade school, and again later. He was a gentleman of the shrimping trade. A deckhand and a real late-sixties dock bum. Mrs. Embry—the former Mrs. Neice—met him in Captain Tony’s Saloon. She married him a week later and divorced him a year after that. Out came Ellen. Daddy was in and out of town until he got busted with a naked nine-year-old playmate of Ellen’s in ’75. He did a scoot in Raiford, then moved to Shallotte, North Carolina, to resume his career in the shrimp
Hatch returned to the porch, fumbling with his pocketful of cigars. Annie walked out behind him, dressed for the office. She’d pulled back her hair with an antique silver barrette. She looked great.
“This going to take long, Detective?” Her words had that courtroom ring, the resonance that made her sound like a different Annie.
“A minute or two. You and I kept missing each other yesterday.”
“I hadn’t realized that. I recall a Q and A session in the backyard on Olivia.”
He pushed the newspaper aside and pulled a three-by-five card out of his shirt pocket. “You’d been gone less than two minutes when I stopped at the Embry house. And your car was leaving the Federal Building when I arrived to speak with the assistant federal prosecutor. I grabbed your parking space, and I thank you for that. You’d been to his office, too.”
Hatch’s attitude and words were crowding the edge of accusatory. Worse, he had referred to Michael Anselmo, Monty Aghajanian’s nemesis. It shouldn’t have surprised me that Annie might know Anselmo, but I didn’t like where this was going.
“I had a number of appointments yesterday,” said Annie. “As you know, I got a late start.”
“Yes, ma’am. We all got a rough start yesterday. My timetable was screwed from the time I got up.”
“So what do you mean, missing each other?” she said.
Hatch glanced at me, then looked off through the screening. “I had a few more questions for you, that’s all.”
I didn’t want to butt in, but I didn’t like his tone. “What are we trying to nail down here?” I said. “You’re talking about a murder inside the city limits, you’re talking about Bahia Honda, which is in Monroe County, and you’re talking about a federal prosecutor. That’s three separate jurisdictions.”
Hatch checked the bottom of his Styrofoam cup, grimaced, and decided against a last sip. He fumbled again with his cigars, then turned to Annie. “I need to double-check the timetable, for one thing. We know you discovered the body at 7:08—according to your statement—but the 911 call didn’t come through till 7:25. Also, according to our tracing system, the call didn’t originate at the Olivia Street house. You called from the home phone of Michael Anselmo.”
Annie nodded in agreement.
I felt tall walls crumbling around me. I knew what she had been afraid of.
“So, what the hell?” Hatch’s eyes locked on her.
“That’s your question?” snapped Annie. “‘What the hell?’”
“We’re not stupid people, Miss Minnette.”
I had to agree.
Annie turned red but maintained a poker face.
Hatch splayed out his hands as if to calm things. “Let me make myself clear. You are not a suspect, Miss Minnette. You’ve got an alibi. I’m sorry if I offended either of you. I’m just digging for information. Here’s another question, Miss Minnette. Did you know that Miss Albury’s biological father, Pepper Neice of Riviera Beach, was convicted of the sexual abuse of young girls?”
“Oh, Jesus.” She exhaled, disgusted.
Hatch checked another three-by-five card. “According to the court’s records, neither conviction involved his daughter. Some people in City Hall recall that he skated in that regard at least twice. Once when she was in grade school, and again later. He was a gentleman of the shrimping trade. A deckhand and a real late-sixties dock bum. Mrs. Embry—the former Mrs. Neice—met him in Captain Tony’s Saloon. She married him a week later and divorced him a year after that. Out came Ellen. Daddy was in and out of town until he got busted with a naked nine-year-old playmate of Ellen’s in ’75. He did a scoot in Raiford, then moved to Shallotte, North Carolina, to resume his career in the shrimp
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