Blood of Cain

27

It was a few minutes past 10:30 in the morning when Nick and I arrived at the Volusia County Fairgrounds, Nick nursing a slight hangover and holding his third cup of dark-roast Greek coffee in his hand. He sipped and then said, “You never told me what we’re gonna do if or when we find these dudes.”

“Right now it’s questions only.”

He grunted. “And what if they don’t want to give us any answers? You’re not a detective anymore, so you can’t question them in some police room, strap these guys up to a lie detector.”

“I don’t need a lie detector.”

“How so?”

“A lot of it’s in the way you ask the questions. I’m not looking always for the oral responses. I’ll assume most of that will be lies based on what Detective Dan Grant heard when he interviewed Randal Barnes. I’m looking for the physical responses, or lack of them, the silent signals that most people don’t realize they give when they’re lying. When you catch them there, that’s when the real interrogation begins.”

Nick sat a little straighter on his side of the Jeep, draining the remains of his coffee. He gestured with his hand. “It’s still kinda early. The lot isn’t filled yet. But since this is a Saturday, figured more people would be here in spite of the fact two carnies died. This is the last day, huh?”

“Yeah, I heard that they shortened their contract with the county in view of circumstances, and they’re leaving tomorrow.”

I pulled into the sawdust parking lot next to an empty school bus, paid the fee, and Nick and I entered the fairgrounds. Many of the venues were just opening, carnies extending attached awnings, restocking food and plush animals, the smell of damp sawdust and cotton candy in the warm air. School kids, chaperones, and dozens of teens roamed the midway. Off-duty sheriff’s deputies, in uniform, strolled the grounds, dispatch radios crackling under the music from the rides and outdoor speakers.

“One shot to win your girl a cupie doll. How ‘bout a doll for your doll?” Shouted a carny barker, teasing some of the teenagers, enticing them into games of chance — the Knock ‘Em Down, Water-gun Horse Races, Balloon Pop, Free-Throw and dozens more.

I glanced at Nick. “Do any of those men working the venues and the carnival rides look like either of the two guys you saw that night in the Tiki Bar?”

“Nothin’ is jumping out at me.”

“Let’s keep moving. When you see one or both of them, say the word.”

We walked about another fifty yards, past the Tilt-A-Whirl to where the double Ferris-Wheel stood. More than a dozen people were in the queue line to ride the Big Wheel, the smell of funnel cakes in the breeze. Nick lifted his hand and pointed to the ride operator, “There’s one of the guys. He has the tattoo of the mermaid on his right arm.”

I replayed some of what Courtney told me that day on Jupiter. ‘Lonnie was a ride operator. I talked him into letting me take a midnight ride on the Big Wheel.’

The ride op was at least six feet tall, thick chest, beer belly, a sweat-stained bandana on his head, tanned face, two hoop earrings and wrap-around dark glasses. He worked with a partner, a skinny man with jeans an inch below the crack in his butt, arms covered in ink, unlit cigarette parked behind his left ear. He was lowering the safety bars as each rider took his or her seat on the Big Wheel. “How about the guy locking the riders in, Nick, recognize him?”

“No, different dude.”

I stopped walking and watched. Within a few seconds, the riders were all strapped in, anticipation on their faces. The ride op slapped a button at his stand and the Big Wheel began moving, rock music blasting. “Let’s go, Nick.”

We approached the ride op as he lit an unfiltered cigarette, borrowing a lighter from his helper. I smiled and said, “I used to love this ride.”

He nodded and spit a piece of tobacco from the tip of his tongue. I could see myself in his dark glasses. He said, “Three minutes pal, you and your BFF can catch a ride on the Big Wheel.”

“I imagine this was right about the spot where Lonnie Ebert was standing when he was murdered.”

He said nothing, cupping the cigarette in the palm of his hand, the letters E-V–I-L tattooed on each of the fingers holding the burning cigarette. He blew a slow stream of smoke out of one side of his mouth. He looked away, down the midway.

“Where’s Smitty today?”

He turned back to me. “Don’t know nobody called Smitty. You two cops? You need to check in with the office. I’m just a hired hand.”

“We’re not cops.”

“Then take a hike.” He inhaled a mouthful of cotton-white smoke. His skinny partner, an acne-faced older teenager, stepped over to the control console.

I said, “You know, it’s good that we’re not cops. Cops, detectives, the whole shebang, they ask a lot of questions, poke around, come back, and ask more questions. Then they drag you into court as a witness. I imagine it wouldn’t be fun to testify against the Bandini brothers, seeing how you work for the family.” I raised the palms of my hands. “Now with us, it’s different. No cops. No cuffs. No court.”

“No shit.”

“I’m going to ask you direct questions that I think will result in direct answers and lead us away from you and Smitty. The girl didn’t do it, you and Smitty said as much.”

“Told you, don’t know anybody named Smitty.”

“Why was Lonnie killed?”

“I heard it was that crazy bitch that done it.”

“Is that what you’ve been told to say?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“You and Smitty were overheard saying Lonnie was taken out to send a message. He was dealing for the Bandinis and probably skimming. Now all we want from you is a name. Who did the hit? You damn well know the girl didn’t do it. You tell us who did, and we never see you again. We buy some funnel cake and go far away.”

He grinned, a tooth missing in his lower jaw. “Maybe the music is impacting your hearing. Fuck off.”

Nick looked over at me. He said, “Hey, mermaid man. I overheard you and your BFF Smitty talking, so the denial can end here.”

Randal Barnes took off his sunglasses, his eyes taking in Nick like a picky eater inspecting a meal. He said, “Then you need to get your hearing checked. You didn’t hear shit.”

I nodded. “Is that what you told Detective Dan Grant? He has your credit card receipt from the Tiki Bar. Witnesses saw you with the other guy, let’s call him Smitty because that’s what you were calling him on the night of the twelfth … right before your VISA card receipt was printed and signed by you.”

Randal Barnes turned to his assistant and said, “I gotta take a shit, Bobby. It’s my break anyway. When you unload, tell Carl to help ‘till I get back.” He stepped off the ride operator’s platform, crushed the cigarette under his tennis shoe, brushed by me, and walked through the crowd, vanishing between the Tilt-A-Whirl and the Zipper.

Nick turned to me. “What do we do now?”

“I mentioned the silent signals to you. Randy Barnes is speaking volumes. Now is where the real interrogation begins. Let’s follow him and see where he takes the bait.”