"Oh." I took a deep breath. "That's fine with me."

  "Dinner is promptly at 4:30."

  I nodded. "Of course, it is."

  We were heading down Halifax by then. Whit asked, "So, how'd it go with Howie?"

  "So many things happened."

  "How was his mind?"

  "Sharp and unfocused..." I shook my head. "I don't know. He bounced around a lot, but I didn't have any trouble following him." I looked out my window at the river in the distance. "I don't think he has dementia, though."

  "Really?"

  "I think the veil is thin for him." I turned to look at Whit. "He could see Nick and Tom and even Buddy Kennedy." I sat back as my head went round in circles again with the flash of images and thoughts.

  "Did it happen again?"

  I nodded. "Yeah." Pressing on, I said, "He knew they were there and that I had brought them."

  "Brought them? Seems to me they follow you around whether you want them to or not."

  I shook my head. "No, they're only around because I let them. That's what I was talking about the other day when you said Carter was being chatty."

  "OK." He didn't sound convinced.

  "Anyway..." I stopped. "Where are we going?"

  "Home."

  "Why are we taking Halifax and not the A1A?"

  "Because we live on Halifax and I'm not sleeping on that bed one more night with my feet hanging off the end."

  "But what about the furniture? Where will we sleep? What about my CPAP?"

  He reached over and patted my belly. "You didn't see the upstairs, so you don't know the replacement mattress is on the bed with new sheets and there's a CPAP on your nightstand."

  "But I thought Peggy wasn't coming until tomorrow." Peggy Lystrom was a woman who lived in Orlando and who'd done most of the interior decorating for us when we'd moved into this house.

  "She isn't. But Billy had one of his minions take care of all that last week." He glanced at me. "Also... the pool is clean and ready for use and we have clothes."

  "You think of everything."

  He nodded. "Well, I'm thinking of one specific thing. Billy is who did all that."

  "You know, we have one too many Billy's in play right now."

  Whit laughed as he pulled into our driveway and parked under the portico. "Yes, we do."

  "We should bring Billy and Dwayne to dinner tomorrow night."

  Whit shook his head as he led me by the elbow to the front porch steps. "Billy number two said no to that when I asked him while you were talking to Howie."

  By that time, we were in front of the door. I pressed my hand against the metal plate, and it clicked open.

  11. Making plans

  213 North Halifax Avenue

  Daytona Beach, FL 32118

  Tuesday, April 20, 2021

  3:27 p.m. EDT

  Using my phone propped on its side, Whit and I sat next to each other at the kitchen table. We were having a video conference with Billy (who was in Dwayne's office at the Royal Palms) and Ms. Martin (who was in her office on Beach Street).

  "Where's Dwayne?" asked Whit as soon as the call was up and running.

  "He'll be here in a bit," replied Billy. "How was Howie?"

  "He was amazing," I replied. "He's like a 90-year-old teenager."

  "So, like Ronnie, then."

  We all laughed. "Something like that," I said. "The most I got out of him was that he didn't think Sal did it and that they..." I paused. "I don't know who 'they' were, but 'they' didn't think so either. However, he added that 'they' all loved Buddy..." I took a deep breath as the images and thoughts hit me. "'They' all loved him so much that 'they' didn't want to bring it up. I'm not sure what that meant."

  "But we're gonna see him and Billy number two tomorrow for dinner," said Whit. "We can ask him then."

  Billy Carmichael nodded. "It would be good if you could get an idea of where Howie went after the trial was over. From Tom's notes, we know he left town. But we don't know where he went or with whom."

  "Good point," I said. "I'll ask him about that."

  "Who's Billy number two?" asked Ms. Martin.

  "Billy Gordon," said Whit. "We realized we have two Billy's, so I thought I'd call him that."

  "Let's use last names, if you don't mind."

  "Yes, ma'am," replied Whit, sounding chastened.

  "Do we know any more about the list of names?" I asked.

  Billy nodded. "We've tracked everyone who was on the list with the exception of Ernest Dunn. We're still trying to figure out what happened to him after he disappeared in '71."

  "Is there anyone still alive?" asked Whit.

  "There is one person. It's the man who was the manager of the Monterey Ocean Front. That was the motel where the Eagles were staying and where the murder occurred. His name is Jackson Farnsworth and he's living in a state-run nursing home for veterans in Lake City." Billy scratched his chin. "Actually, it's not a nursing home. They don't provide long-term medical care. It's for vets who are mostly independent."

  "How old is Mr. Farnsworth?" asked Ms. Martin.

  "He's 103."

  "Wow," said Whit.

  Billy said, "And it sounds like he's more mobile than Ronnie."

  Ms. Martin said, "I want to point out that the average number of Americans above the age of 90 is around five percent. In this case, we already know of four such persons. I believe we're setting a record of some sort."

  "What's the percentage of people over a hundred?" asked Whit.

  "Ah," said Ms. Martin. "Now you've really hit the nail on the head. The percentage of Americans who are 100 and older is around two one-hundredths of a percent. In other words, there are probably sixty-five thousand centenarians in all of the United States, and you know one of them and are about to meet another."

  "But we live in Florida," I said with a grin.

  "True, Mr. Smith. Of course, the real matter at hand here is how many centenarians are friends with men at the top of the Forbes list? At this point, I'd venture that number, on all of planet Earth, is one."

  I felt myself blushing as she said that.

  Whit cleared his throat.

  "Back to Jackson Farnsworth," said Billy in a quiet voice.

  "Can we go see him?" I asked, grateful to change the subject.

  "We have an appointment to meet with him at 9 tomorrow morning."

  "Lake City," said Whit. "How far is that?"

  "It's two and a half hours. I wanna leave here by 6:15 just to give us plenty of time."

  Whit made a time-out signal with his hands. "Hold on. I just thought of something. Does Ronnie know what we're up to?" He glanced at me and then back at the screen. "Does he know Howie is still alive?"

  Billy shook his head. "I've been staying in touch with Howard about all this, and he wants to wait until we've done as much as we can on our own before letting Ronnie know who's alive and who isn't."

  Whit smiled weakly. "Billy Gordon asked me to bring Ronnie along tomorrow. Remember, Billy is Marveen's nephew by marriage. And Robbie, his twin brother, lived with Tom and Ronnie before he died of AIDS. They have a lot of connections."

  Billy nodded. "I'll check with Howard and see what he says."

  "And if he says no?" asked Whit.

  "We'll cross that bridge when we get there."

  "Anything else?" asked Whit.

  "Yes," replied Ms. Martin as she sat back a little in her chair. "I'm not a criminal defense lawyer, so I talked to a colleague who is. After lunch, we went over the evidence, such as we know it to be, and they told me there's something curious that caught their attention."

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "They said that, if Mr. Kennedy was innocent, he was likely telling that to the sheriff's deputies at the county jail in DeLand when they would periodically interrogate him before the case went to trial. There was another case my colleague was aware of from the year before and much was made in the newspapers about the numerous interrogations made by the deputies. You see, in that case, no motive was ever established. So, the deputies repeatedly asked the defendant to tell his story. A newspaper reporter was even allowed to be present during one of those interrogations. We know this because there was a long article in the paper about it."

  Billy was frowning as he listened. "The motive in this case was said to be robbery."

  "Correct," said Ms. Martin. "That's why it was first degree."

  Billy continued, "But the victim's wallet was never found by the sheriff's deputies." He looked over at another screen. "Tom said that was the weakest part of the state's case. The prosecutor claimed it had been thrown out into the ocean and lost." Billy's eyes scanned the screen. "Ronnie tested to see if a wallet would sink. He reported it wouldn't. It just floated on the water."

  Ms. Martin nodded. "My colleague said it was one of the flimsiest circumstantial cases they'd ever seen." She rubbed her nose a little. "Of course, we don't have any notes from the sheriff's office, nor do we have any trial transcripts, so we can only rely on what was said in the papers and by Mr. Jarrell and Mr. Grisham in their files. But there was one thing mentioned in the paper when Mr. Desimone's execution was reported that they thought was interesting."

  "What was that?" asked Whit.

  Ms. Martin pulled on a pair of glasses and looked down. Reading, she said, "'This brings an end at last to an unfortunate blemish on an otherwise successful 1948 beachside racing of the Daytona 200 following a wartime lull and a difficult 1947 race weekend.'" She looked up and took off her glasses. "My colleague suggested, and I agree, that the key to the state's handling of this case might be found in that one sentence."

  "I don't get it," said Whit.

  Billy piped up. "I think I do. They just wanted to get rid of the case."

  "And if the victim had been Black," said Ms. Martin, "it's likely it would have received very little coverage and would certainly not have been connected to the Daytona 200. But this was a white defendant, and a white victim, and everyone involved was white."

  "They were all gay, too," said Whit.

  "But no one knew that," said Ms. Martin. "Otherwise, the coverage of this story would have been very different. There would have been practically none." She asked, "Did any of you see Mr. Jarrell's note about a murder case from 1939 that involved a man killing his boyfriend? And how, when Judge Frederick found out there was sodomy involved, he closed the courtroom?"

  I raised my hand. "I did."

  Ms. Martin grinned at the screen. "Very good, Mr. Smith."

  "Does he get a gold star?" asked Whit.

  Her grin turned into a smirk. "I'm sure I'm the last person to know how to amply reward your husband, Mr. Hall."

  Billy burst out laughing as Whit and I looked away from the screen.

  "In any event," continued Ms. Martin, "I believe the state was sloppy because they wanted the case to be done and gone. My colleague, however, is of the opinion that it's likely Judge Frederick and the state's attorney, Mr. Anderson, were in on it together. And, quite possibly, Mr. Jarrell knew what was happening." She rubbed her nose again. "Above all, I'm certain that Mr. Wallace, Mr. Jarrell's law partner, knew the score. After all, he was the one who represented the defendant in the 1939 case involving the two boyfriends."

  "In practical terms," said Whit, "what do you think all of this means?"

  "In practical terms, Mr. Hall, it's quite likely that, unless you find the actual murderer or someone who saw it happen, there's very little chance of finding the truth. They were covering it up while the matter was in court. The state and the judge, and possibly Mr. Jarrell and Mr. Wallace, wanted to get it all over with in order to make sure it didn't dampen attendance at the 1949 races."

  Billy said, "By the way, one of our folks found an article in LIFE magazine about the 1948 races. It came out in the April 19th edition and was all about how dangerous the racing was. The title was 'Reckless Motorcyclists. The Daytona races end with 2 dead, 30 injured.' But there was no mention of anything other than that. And definitely nothing about a homicide occurring during the races."

  "Apparently, the cover-up was successful," said Ms. Martin.

  12. Poseidon rises

  213 North Halifax Avenue

  Daytona Beach, FL 32118

  Tuesday, April 20, 2021

  4:20 p.m. EDT

  While we'd been on the video conference, it had rained for a while. Once we were done, however, the sun was back out.

  I walked outside, looked up the sky, and then down at the pool. It was probably about 70, or so, which was on the cool side for that time of year. I wanted to get in the water, particularly since the heater was on, but I didn't know what Whit would say.

  After a moment, Whit came outside and down the steps. He knelt down and ran his hand in the water. "It's really warm." He looked up. "Wanna get in?"

  "We could wait until tonight."

  He grinned. "I need some sun..." His grin widened. "Son."

  We both laughed.

  "And we could get in now and get in after dinner. I just texted Vince to let him know I'm offline for the rest of the night and until noon tomorrow. The Matadors will have to fend without me for a few hours."

  "Then the marathon to next week's draft starts in earnest tomorrow?"

  Whit nodded as he stood up. "It's probably gonna be brutal."

  "You could go to San Antonio if you want." I didn't want him to, but I was trying to be a supportive husband.

  "Not on your life." He put his arms around me and kissed my forehead. "I have a feeling you'll need to be here for a few more days and then you need to get back to San Francisco when this is all wrapped up. And I'll need my little Teddy bear to keep me company every night."

  I said, "Grr," as I hugged him.

  Our backyard was long and wide and had several parts. First, there was the pool which was surrounded by a stone wall with security doors on either side. Beyond that, we had a long, sloping lawn that led down to the Halifax River. Beyond the portico, where Whit had parked his car, stood a garage that probably had started life as a stable since our house was built at the turn of the 20th century. Instead of using it for parking our cars, Whit used it to store his football memorabilia. There were framed photographs, jerseys, banners, towels, cups, koozies, and anything else you could think of from all of the teams he'd played for over the years: Marshall High School (Mavericks), LSU (Tigers), Minnesota (Vikings), Oakland (Raiders), and San Antonio (Matadors). He also kept a fair amount of merch (mostly Matadors stuff) that he would give out to anyone who wanted it.

  After putting on our suits and bringing down some brand-new beach towels, we walked outside. We put our phones and towels in one of the chairs that was sitting at the big round table by the back door. I walked over to the steps and made my way down into the water. Whit, being Whit, dived in from the deep end. We met in the middle.

  "This is warm," I said as he wiped water from his face. "Almost like the Gulf."

  He nodded and then turned and swam over to the wall at the deep end. I paddled out to meet him but, when I was just a few feet away, he pushed past me and swam over to the side of the pool closest to the back door.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Getting you to chase me."

  I grinned as I paddled over to where he was standing. "I'll never catch you."

  He shrugged. "You might."

  As soon as I was within five feet of him, he dove down and swam around my left leg, kicking me (accidentally or not) as he moved past.

  "Ow!" I said, not really meaning it. I turned to see him standing in water that was chin-high for him. "That hurt." It didn't, of course.

  He crooked his finger at me. "Come over here, Eddie."

  I walked over until it was barely too deep for me to stand. He was about ten feet away. "Now, what?" I asked.

  He grinned and dove down, aiming right at me. Before I could move back, he was coming up for air. His big, broken nose brushed against my dick, which had been hard for some time.

  He stood up, too close for me to see his face. "This is me pretending to be Poseidon, rising from the ocean."

  I leaned forward and licked one of his chlorine-flavored nipples. Then I licked the other. "This is me worshipping Poseidon."

  He laughed, put his arms around me, and backed up, pulling me into the deep end.

  "Where are we going, Poseidon?"

  "To my domain, of course."

  I laughed as he continued to pull me across the pool until his back was against the wall. Holding me up (not that he needed to since my body floats on its own, thank you very much), he kissed me. First, he did it 1940s-style by pushing against my lips with his. Then, using his tongue, he pried open my lips and pushed against my teeth. I opened my mouth and let him in.

  We'd been out in the pool for about thirty minutes when a gust of wind blew over us and dark clouds began to gather overhead.

  I said, "We should get out." I was between Whit's legs on the step below where he was sitting.

  "We really should." His hands were busy right then and he didn't seem to be that interested in doing anything else.

  Finally, he pushed against my back. "Get up."

  I stood and turned around to face him. "Are we getting out?"

  He looked up at the sky. "Doesn't look like lightning to me."

  Trying to sound like an old-timey announcer, I said, "Lightning can strike anyone at anytime and anywhere."

  He laughed and then pointed over my shoulder. "See?"

  I turned. "What?"

  "There's blue sky over there." He stood up and walked down into the water. "Come on."

  I followed him over to the deep end. Once we got to the far side of the pool, he turned around and said, "Back up."

  I paddled back.

  Using his arms, he lifted himself out of the water and sat on the apron. With his dripping legs spread apart, he patted the bit of concrete between them.

  I swam over and looked up.

  "See," he said, "this is good."

  I grinned and nodded as I reached for that bit of concrete to hold onto and not float away. With my eyes, I followed his wet treasure trail up to his pecs then to his chin and ended at his huge nose, which seemed larger than normal as he stared off into the distance.

 

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