Page 95 of Wild Fever
I filled him in on my theory.
My phone buzzed with a call from Isabella. I stepped away from the chaos and swiped the screen. In an apologetic voice, I said, "I know it's late."
"I couldn’t sleep, anyway. Your perp is Erica Lang. U.S. citizen. Works as an independent private security consultant/risk mitigation strategist under the LLC Sentinal Management Solutions. Former Army intelligence officer." Isabella paused. "Here's the interesting thing. Sentinel Management Solutions gets regular deposits from an offshore company in the BritishVirgin Islands, Tropimax United Capital Partners. There’s no beneficial ownership listed, but I did a little digging on the dark web. That company is owned by Kobalt Equity Holdings Unlimited, which in turn is owned by STT-X.”
That hung there for a moment.
My brow knitted as I racked my brain. "What does this have to do with STT-X?”
"Let me know when you find out. I'm rather curious about that myself. We know Preston's last scheduled meeting was with your reporter friend at the Coconut Key Country Club. Maybe that's where you ought to start.”
61
Iheaded back to theAvventuraand crawled into bed, trying to get a power nap in before the sun came up. The sky lightened as I closed my eyes. Too much occupied my mind to actually get back to sleep. I lay there for an hour, then gave up.
I pulled myself out of bed again and made my way down to the galley. I grilled breakfast and put on a pot of coffee. The fresh aroma swirled. I didn't bother to wake up Jack. I figured I'd let him sleep in.
The morning news played a rebroadcast of Paris’s segment from Stingray Bay. She had shown up at the Wentworth estate about the time I had left.
After I ate, I pulled myself together, jogged to the parking lot, and hopped on the bike. I pulled on my helmet, cranked up the engine, and sped over to the Coconut Key Country Club. I was just in time for the morning madness as golfers began their day. The smell of freshly cut grass filled the air. Golf cleats crunched across concrete. Electric carts hummed.
I stepped into the pro shop and talked to the pro behind the counter. "Preston Stewart was in here the other day. Do you remember seeing him?”
Dirk thought about it and frowned. "Can't say that I do. I heard what happened. Shame. He was such a nice guy.”
"Do you have access to the video cameras in the parking lot?”
"No. They just put those in after the bombing. I can call the general manager. He can give you access to the security feeds.”
"Please," I said.
Dirk picked up the phone and dialed an extension.
A few minutes later, Barclay Lamont waddled into the pro shop. He was a friendly guy with a round face, short brown hair, and a bushy mustache. He wore a navy suit with a red tie and a gold nameplate above the breast pocket. “So you need to see the security footage?”
“Yes, please.”
His brow wrinkled with concern. “Was there some kind of theft?”
“No, nothing like that. I just want to see if there’s any footage of Preston Stewart the day he died.”
Barclay made a grim face. “I was sad to hear of his passing.” After a pause, he said. “Well, follow me, and we’ll see what we can find.”
I said goodbye to Dirk and followed Barclay through the pro shop and out the back door. He led me down a path to the main building, and I followed him to his office.
“You know, you’re the second guy to come around asking to see security footage.”
That piqued my curiosity. “Who was here before?”
Barclay shrugged. “Said he was with the FBI. I didn’t think much of it. After the bombing, we’ve had a lot of law enforcement types around, asking questions.”
“You remember his name?”
Barclay thought about it, then shook his head.
“What did he look like?”
“Big guy. Not as big as you. Dark hair, brown eyes. Good-looking fellow.”
