“And you,” interjected Decker.
Andrews frowned at this but nodded. “And you too. But please take us to your father.”
Tyler turned and led them down a hallway. They passed an expensive-looking electric bike that was parked against one wall, its power pack plugged in.
“Nice ride,” said Decker.
“My dad got it for me. Florida is pretty flat but when you’re doing thirty-forty miles at a fast clip under your own power, the motor comes in handy sometimes.”
Decker looked around as they passed minimalist furnishings and décor, lots of gleaming metal and glass, and walls painted white to take advantage of the strong Florida light. The rear windows gave sweeping views of the Gulf, where ships seemingly no larger than toys made their way slowly across the water, or else bobbed up and down at anchor.
Tyler pushed a door open and motioned them in.
Sitting in a leather recliner was, apparently, Barry Davidson. He had on jeans, a white polo shirt, and no shoes or socks. A glass with some dark liquid rested on his flat stomach with one of the man’s hands wrapped loosely around it. His eyes were closed and Decker wasn’t even sure the guy was awake. Or alive.
“Mr. Davidson?” said Andrews. “We need to talk.”
Davidson made no reaction to this.
“Dad!” shouted Tyler, putting a massive hand on his father’s shoulder and violently shaking him.
The glass went sideways, and whatever was in it spilled across the man’s shirt and jeans. The eyes popped open and the recliner came forward, and Barry Davidson would have fallen to the floor if Decker had not been quick enough to catch him.
“What? Who?” said Davidson, shaking his head and blinking rapidly.
“It’s the cops, Dad. The FBI. They need to talk to you!”
Tyler shook his head, a disgusted look on his face. He picked up the now-empty glass and placed it on a table.
Decker looked around the room and noted that it was set up as a home office with wooden file cabinets, shelving, a desktop printer-copier, a postage meter, and other office supplies and equipment arrayed around the space. A large computer screen with a digital webcam attached sat on a large glass-topped desk. He imagined the guy probably did a lot of Zoom meetings from here. French doors opened to a covered balcony.
Davidson rubbed his eyes, slapped himself a couple of times on the cheeks, and looked up at Andrews.
“I kn-know you, right?”
“Doug Andrews. We played golf together once, at the Harbor Club.”
A still-dazed Davidson pointed a shaky hand at him. “Right, right, never forget a guy’s game. You can hit it a mile but you putt like shit. Grips all wrong and you have too much backswing.”
Andrews smiled embarrassedly at White. “Never considered quitting my day job.”
Decker stepped forward. “We’re here to talk to you about your former wife’s death.”
Davidson nodded, his head dipping and bobbing like he might be sick. White took a step back to avoid being in the pathway.
“Right, r-right,” said Davidson. “She’s…dead.”
“Someone fuckingmurderedher, Dad,” snapped Tyler. “Get your shit together, will you?”
Andrews put up a hand. “Come on, Tyler, your dad’s been through a lot.”
“I’vebeen through a lot. Mom went through the most of all. You don’t seemegetting stoned.” He shot his father another disgusted look.
Andrews said, “A forensics team will be by later to take your prints.”
“Why?” said Tyler.
“For elimination purposes. Your prints will be all over the house, Tyler, since you live there every other week. But we need to ID prints like yours and your father’s so we can focus on any strange ones that might be there.”