I ended the call, then dialed Isabella and asked her if she could find a cell phone in Ray’s name.
Her fingers tapped the keys, and a few moments later, she said, "Looks like his cell phone is on Ocean Avenue near Taffy Beach.” Then she added, “And just FYI, his phone was off the grid at the time of the murders.”
That didn't bode well for him.
I thanked her for the information. We headed back to Diver Down and swapped the Revenant for the Porsche. I had no doubt we’d put the Revenant through its paces at some point.
We drove across the island to Ocean Avenue. It had become a hotspot for illegal overnight camping. People would park along the boardwalk, enjoy the view, and live rent-free. The city hadn’t cracked down on it yet, but that was about to change.
We cruised down the boulevard until we spotted the four-door sport sedan. Covered in dust, it was in desperate need of a wash. Someone had doodled smiley faces, dicks, and the obligatorywash mein the dust.
Jack found a place to park. We hopped out and strolled the sidewalk to the car. I peered inside. With all the junk inside the vehicle, it looked like this was Ray's new home. But there was no way the vehicle could handle a family of four.
Ray wasn't anywhere around.
I cupped my hands around the glass to get a better look inside the vehicle, but I didn't see any spent shell casings on the floorboard.
What I did see were a lot of empty soda bottles, fast food wrappers, a couple of empty beer cans, random napkins, and other trash. Clothing items littered the backseat. The passenger seat was reclined all the way, and a pillow and blanket rested on the seat.
We kept walking down the sidewalk, looking for him. Hotties with knee and elbow pads whizzed by on rollerblades. Tourists strolled up and down, taking in the view. Teal waves crashed against the shore.
I spotted a guy at the median at the next intersection who matched Ray's DMV photo.
JD and I walked to the light and waited at the crosswalk until traffic cleared, then hustled to the median.
Ray held a cardboard sign. Scrawled in Sharpie in barely legible handwriting, it read, “Homeless. Please help. God bless.”
I flashed my badge as we approached, and momentary panic filled Ray's eyes.
He was late 40s with shaggy dark hair, a thick mustache, brown eyes, and tan skin that more closely resembled shoe leather. He'd been out in the sun all day and looked sufficiently baked.
The red solo cup in his hand held the loose change he’d gathered throughout the day, and his pockets looked stuffed with dollar bills. Fear in his eyes, he considered bolting for a moment, but thought better of it. With a sneer, he said, "What do you want? I'm not breaking any laws."
Standing in the roadway was illegal in Florida when panhandling. However, I hadn’t seen Ray do it. He made sure to stay on the median in our presence. Coconut Key had passed an ordinance against aggressive panhandling. You couldn’t follow people around, begging for money. You couldn't solicit near ATMs, schools, or bus stops. Whether or not those ordinances would hold up in federal court was another matter. But for now, they were on the books. Ray didn't appear to be violating any of those at the moment.
I smiled, "Relax. We just want to have a friendly chat."
His suspicious eyes narrowed. "Bullshit. I never had a friendly chat with a cop in my life."
I kept up with the smile, but I didn't think today was going to be the day to change that. "Is that your Dominator GT over there?" I asked, pointing.
Denise hadn’t picked up his vehicle in her initial search. Ray was outside her search bracket.
He glanced at the dusty muscle car. "It's not parked illegally. I don't have any outstanding warrants or tickets. No parking tickets. The registration is up to date."
"There is no overnight camping on the boulevard," I said.
Ray's face tightened. "Is that what you're harassing me about? You gonna mess with everybody else parked along the boardwalk?"
"We're not parking enforcement," I said.
"Then what the hell do you want?"
"You been out here all day?"
"Ain’t got nowhere else to go. Sometimes I'll move a block over. Sometimes I'll go up to Oyster Avenue. Just depends. You’d think I’d do better up there, but those college snots don't want to part with their beer money. I do better on the boardwalk with the tourists.”
"What about yesterday?"
