PI On A Hot Tin Roof

supposed to die when you’re looking out for their property.” The average person might have looked suitably grim at this point, but Wesley didn’t. He seemed to be enjoying the diversion.
    Mary Ann patted his knee. “I need you home at night. It wasn’t a job that really used your talents.”
    He wiggled his eyebrows. “Hubba-hubba,” he said.
    “You two need some privacy?” Talba asked.
    Mary Ann blushed. “Sorry.”
    “Listen, it’s the damnedest thing,” Wesley said. “Somewhere around midnight, the judge called and told me I could go home. Left a voicemail while I was on my rounds.”
    “Did he say why?”
    “Said he was headed out there for a meeting.”
    “Voicemail,” Talba said. “You sure it was him?”
    For the first time, Wesley looked chagrined. “Ever since then, I’ve asked myself that a hundred times, but at the time, I had no reason to doubt it.” He gave Mary Ann a glance. “And as you can see, I’ve got a lot to come home to. Here’s the bad thing—I erased the voicemail.”
    “Oh. Did he tell you to?”
    This time he looked downright ashamed. “No. Just habit. Hell, it was his marina. I figured if he wanted me to leave, I’d be glad to. Wouldn’t have to smell that place all night.”
    It was a pretty pat story. Talba asked if he knew the judge before he took the job.
    “Nope,” he said. “He ran an ad on the Internet. Didn’t know him or Royce or Brad. Didn’t have a clue the place was controversial. Course, I heard about that kid being killed. But, hell, accidents happen. Between you and me, though, they do run a pretty loose ship.”
    “Yeah, so I’ve heard. Tell me, did you get the sense they were doing anything illegal? Besides that poaching thing, I mean.”
    “What kind of illegal?” Talba could have sworn he looked a little wary.
    “Like drugs, maybe.”
    He shrugged. “All I ever saw was a closed-down stinky old place.”
    “The neighbors said shady characters hung around there.”
    Wesley laughed. “Probably meant me.”
    “Oh, yeah? You’re a suspicious character?”
    “Mary Ann does call me Slim Shady.”
    It took Talba a minute to get the reference. “You two,” she asked incredulously, “are into rap?”
    “Not by choice,” Mary Ann said. “My grandson’s an Eminem fan, more’s the pity.”
    “I hear you,” Talba said.
    She asked Wesley if he’d left right away (he had) and if he had any idea who Buddy might be meeting (not really), and what he thought of Royce and Brad (they seemed like pretty good guys), and then she drank her iced tea and stood to leave, wondering why Buddy had wanted to leave his property unguarded, even for a short while.
    She thought of one last thing. “Was there anything odd about Buddy’s voice? Anything to indicate it wasn’t him?”
    “Well, he had that redneck thing going. ‘Hey-Wes-ol’-buddy-why-don’t-you-head-on-home?’ kind of thing. I don’t know anybody else who talks like that. Do you?”
    It occurred to her the whole interview had gone way too smoothly, been far too civil. She tried out one last thing. “In your heart of hearts,” she said, “do you think it was him?”
    “Well, I’ll say this—it didn’t cross my mind that it wasn’t. Hell, it was midnight. Figured he got to drinking, wanted to bring some woman out there.”
    “To that place?”
    “It was private, anyhow. He brought women there all the time.”
    “Even though he was engaged.”
    Wesley laughed. “I’ve been working there almost a year—don’t think he’s known your client that long.”
    “Did he bring them out there to…uh…”
    “Naah. Not even Buddy was that crude. Place is nasty. He just showed ’em around. If they were impressed, God help ’em.”
    “Well, look. Can you think of anything—any incident, anything at all—that gives you an idea who’d want to kill him?”
    “Lots of ’em. You name somebody, they’ve got a motive.”
    Talba pursued that for a while, eliciting only a list of the same old names, and advice to go through Buddy’s court cases. Wesley’s theory was, someone out there had a grudge.

Chapter 15
    The trouble with the same old names was that none of them belonged to anyone Buddy would leave the comfort of his home to meet in a dark, deserted place. Ben Izaguirre? Hardly. The Dorands? When pigs flew. Someone he’d ruled against in court? Sometime around the year 3000.
    But if Burrell was to be believed—and Talba decided for the moment to believe him—Buddy