"I'm going to decline to answer that question."
"Why is that?”
"Because it's none of your damn business. That's why.” He paused, then exhaled with frustration. "Look, I didn’t go up to the mall and shoot that guy, thinking he was Dustin. You’re barking up the wrong tree. Now, if Dustin turns up dead. Sure, come to my house and harass me.”
"The official DCF report states your daughter gave inconsistent accounts of the incident."
The muscles in his jaw flexed, and he glared at me. "She’s six. The event was traumatic.” His eyes darted between the two of us. "You don't think I'm making this shit up, do you?"
"The investigation is closed," I said after a long beat. “Doesn’t matter what I think.”
Matt frowned at me. "I still think Dustin needs to be locked up. He's a danger.”
It wasn’t up to me.
I thanked him for his time, then JD and I hustled down the walkway, back to the Porsche.
"What do you think about that guy?” JD asked.
"I don’t know. He’s obviously pretty hot about the incident, but he knew Dustin wasn't working, or so he claims. Where’s the motive? And what’s the connection to Evelyn?”
JD shrugged.
He started the car, and we drove across the island to find Luther Pratt. According to the records, he lived on a houseboat in the Mangrove Bay Marina.
I texted Isabella and asked her to look into his cellular history.
Jack pulled into the lot and found a place to park. We hopped out and strolled the dock, looking for theVersailles.
It was no palace.
The dingy houseboat had seen better days.
Isabella texted me back with some interesting information.
We stepped onto the aft deck and banged on the hatch.
“Luther,” I shouted. “ Coconut County Sheriff’s Department. Open up.”
Footsteps shuffled toward the stern, and Luther pulled open the hatch a moment later. His curious eyes flicked between the two of us as I flashed my badge.
Luther was a goofy fellow in his mid-30s with shaggy dark hair, blue eyes, and a boyish face. He looked harmless, like an awkward kid. But sometimes the harmless ones are the most dangerous.
He had the same body type as the shooter.
"What do you want?" Luther asked.
"Nothing to be alarmed about," I said. "We just need to ask you a few questions.”
"What about?" he said, shifting his weight, his nervous eyes darting between the two of us.
"Can you tell me the last time you were at the mall?"
Luther shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s been a few days.“
"Like yesterday?"
"No. I wasn't at the mall yesterday."
