“Is that so?”
"I'm a legitimate businessman. I don't sell drugs. I don't do drugs. I don't hang around with people who do either.”
"This is a nice car. How do you afford something like that?”
"Smart investments." His eyes flicked between the two of us. "How about you clowns write me whatever tickets you’re gonna write me. I'll have my attorney get them dismissed. This is a bullshit harassment stop if ever I've seen one. You can think whatever you want, but it's not true. You got nothing on me.”
I stared him down for a long moment.
Mendoza wrote him a citation for running the red light. He knew the speeding ticket would likely get tossed.
Tad signed the ticket, got his driver's license back from Mendoza, and hopped into the Ferrari. He cranked up the engine, and the exhaust snarled as he pulled back into traffic and sped away.
"Did you get what you needed?" Mendoza asked.
"Sort of,” I said.
“Well, by his reaction, we know he didn’t think Wes was a snitch?”
“Maybe Wes was deep into him for money. Who knows?”
We thanked Mendoza for the assist, and he climbed back into his patrol car and drove off.
JD and I walked back to the Porsche. We hopped into the car, and I called Dr. Halford. She answered after a few rings. “Do you recall if Miriam’s shooter had any tattoos?”
32
“Not that I could see,” Liz replied.
“No rings or jewelry?”
She hesitated. “I don’t think so. It happened so fast. I was in shock. But…" She thought for a moment. "Now that I think about it, the shooter may have been wearing latex gloves. But I can't be certain.”
I thanked her for the information and told her I'd be in touch. Jack cranked up the engine and pulled away from the curb.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket.
Tad wasn't quite as muscular as Steve Renick. I didn't figure him for the shooter, but I couldn’t rule him out. Eyewitness testimony is notoriously inaccurate.
So far, we had a whole lot of nothing.
We headed back to Stingray Bay. I wanted to talk to Ivy's friend Casey. Maybe we could catch a break in the drive-by shooting.
She lived a few houses down from Ivy. Jack pulled to the curb, and we hopped out and strolled to the front porch. I rang the video doorbell.
A woman's voice crackled through a moment later. "Who is it?"
I flashed my badge and made introductions. "I'd like to speak with Casey if she's available."
"She's here. Is she in some kind of trouble?"
"No ma'am. This is regarding Ivy Rourke.”
"So tragic. I'll be right there.”
Static crackled as the line disconnected.
Mrs. Monroe answered the door a moment later. She was an attractive woman in her early 40s with short, dark hair, brown eyes, and a trim figure. "It's gotten even colder out,” she said as a chill gust fluttered her hair. “This is so unusual. Please, come in."
