Waylon handed each of them a coffee and sipped at his. “A way out.”
“Well, then let’s go take it to him.”
Half an hour later, three empty coffee cups lay in a plastic bag in the backseat of Larry’s unmarked vehicle behind the Red Rose Florist. A little round man with a bald head and wire-rimmed glasses poked his head out and motioned them inside before they even knocked on the door sporting a gang’s spray-painted graffiti. He’d flipped on the overhead lights in his office, but the rest of the place was dark.
“I’m Detective Waylon Kramer. This is Detective Larry Johnson and Detective Christina Miller. We talked on the phone. I understand that you have something to say to me,” Waylon said.
“You said that I could be held as an accomplice if I withheld information. Before I say a word without a lawyer, I want your word that—”
Waylon held up a palm. “You didn’t think it was important, did you, Mr. Drummond.”
He shook his head. “Of course I didn’t, or I would have told you earlier.”
“And then you remembered and you called me immediately, right?” Waylon wanted to pinch the man’s head off for wasting his time, but more than that, for the misery he’d put Kate through by not coming forward at the beginning of the investigation.
Mr. Drummond’s head bobbed up and down several times. “That’s right. You see, Conrad was a very good customer. But the past few months, I got nosy and saw that he was signing the card with a different name. I figured he was sending the weekly roses for one of his buddies who had affairs all the time, like he did.”
“How long had he been a customer?” Larry asked.
“Fifteen years, I’d say. The first lady he sent flowers to worked at Truman Oil Company. I’m the florist, so I don’t ask questions. I just send them wherever he says.” He ripped a tissue out of a box and wiped his hands. “There were lots more through the years, but his last few times I noticed that he signed ‘Carl’ to the card instead of ‘Conrad.’”
“We know he used that name sometimes, so this isn’t anything new,” Waylon said.
“Let me finish,” Mr. Drummond said. “So after a few weeks my protector”—he made air quotes around the last word—“came into the store and wanted to know all about Carl, the man in the picture that they showed me.”
“We asked you about gangs weeks ago,” Larry said.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Mr. Drummond’s beady little eyes bugged out. “Protector. Protection money. Murder in my shop. They shoot people for less than talking to the cops. I’ve been scared they’d kill me for even letting you know about Estrella.”
“Go on,” Waylon said.
“Stickler—that’s the name of the gang leader—asked me if that was Carl in the picture with his sister. I told him no, that was Conrad.”
“And?” Waylon asked.
“That’s when I recognized the woman. It was Katrina Gonzales, the young bathing suit model that you see on the billboards around town,” he answered.
“Go on,” Larry said.
“Katrina is Estrella and Stickler’s baby sister. She’s not in the gang business, and they protect her like a mama bear with a new cub. My bet is that they checked into Conrad Steele and Carl Swanson, found out they were the same man, and you can do the math on the rest.”
“They found out about his three wives and his other life,” Christina said.
“And the dozens of other women he’d sent flowers when they came back and made me pull out my files.” Mr. Drummond nodded again. “They’ve been back in a couple of times a week since that day, and my protection money doubled. I don’t need a blueprint to show me that they will figure out that I told you about Estrella, and when they do, I’m as dead as Conrad.”
“So you want to go into wit sec?” Larry asked.
“I do not,” he snapped. “I’m retiring. Have a flight to a place where you can’t bring me back, and I won’t be using this name. I’m tired of all this gang crap. I’m only talking to you because of those three wives. It’s not fair to them to suffer for what they didn’t do. I saw that article in the newspaper and I felt guilty. I want to leave here with a clear conscience.”
“One more question. Was it Stickler who killed him, or did he have it done?” Larry asked.
“There are six nanny cams scattered around my shop—I hide those so all people see are the surveillance cameras. Here are the flash drives from inside them. It was family, so Stickler and Estrella took care of it.” He handed them an envelope. “I was hiding behind the counter and I didn’t see a thing from the time the shooting started, but these will help you.”
“Thank you,” Waylon said. “That’s good information. Enjoy your retirement.”
The man followed them outside, locked the door, and got into a green SUV. Waylon quickly wrote down the license number and then tucked his notebook back into his vest pocket.