Trevar's Team 1

by Kieran York

  Summer approached Debra. “Deb, come with me. We can help you get cleaned up. Help you live again.”

  Debra’s mouth moved slowly. “I can’t.” Her head sagged as she walked to Cruz’s side. “Just go,” she said with a trembling voice.

  Dejectedly, Summer trudged to the door. I was in her wake. When we were on the pavement in front of my vehicle, Summer spoke for the first time. “Last night meant something to me. Just not to Deb.”

  My arm looped her shoulder. “She’s hooked. It isn’t the real Deb. You know what it’s like. Come on. Let’s get back to Palm. Your brand new bike must be ready by now.”

  “Thanks for getting the bike so fast.”

  “Summer, one condition,” I joked. “No using my coupe-pate, my batte a cotelette or my melon-baller on your spark plugs.”

  The return trip was less tense. We joked about the afternoon, talked about Summer’s new bike and discussed the lunch.

  After arriving back in Palm, I dropped Summer off to pick up her new motorcycle. I called Lilia and was told she had received another threatening call, so I decided to check in with Jeremy. Lilia reported that she recognized Jeremy as being the caller. He was too drunk to disguise his voice.

  A quick check of my wristwatch indicated that I had time before dinner to pay Jeremy a little visit. A thick drizzle of rain tapped on my Firebird’s hood. A gush of late afternoon rain was promised within the hour. A pale wash of oyster-gray covered the skyline and my mood.

  I was getting damned good at slamming Jeremy to the ground. And he was giving me every reason to continue practicing. The crunch of gravel under my deck shoes became louder as I rushed across the parking lot. I pounded on Jeremy’s door.

  “Yeah?” he snarled.

  “Room service,” I mumbled.

  When I saw the slit of the door opening, I gave a hearty kick to pop the chain. A stubble-bearded Jeremy stood before me. His curly sprays of hair were untamed corkscrews jutted from his head. Pouches under red-veined eyes were droopier and puffier than usual. Even his dewlap was baggier. Below one eye was the purple marking from our last encounter. It was fading, and so his memory must have been fading, as well. He hadn’t recalled my not liking it when he bugged Lilia.

  “You ain’t room service,” his reedy voice challenged.

  “Very perceptive. And you aren’t Nostradamus. So stop trying to predict the health and safety of my client.” I walked past him. I then made myself comfortable in a chair. I didn’t need an invitation. We were old acquaintances.

  Jeremy was dressed in a pair of boxer shorts and undershirt. He slipped into his shoes before pulling his robe over his mulish shoulders. He needn’t have bothered on my account. I wasn’t visiting to steal a look at his dangly parts. The very thought of his scrotum hanging like empty wine skins could easily have served as lesbian public relation’s material.

  He sagged into a chair opposite the one I’d taken. “What you want?” He made a catarrhal noise as he leaned toward me. “Who taught you to slug that way?”

  “I attended a very exclusive slugging academy,” I replied peevishly. “And I’d rather not get any practice in today.”

  “Yeah, me too.” He rubbed his jaw. His ball-bearing eyes squinted. “So what you want?”

  “Jeremy, I’m told you’ve been making some phone calls. You’ve got a bad case of dialing fingers. It had better stop.”

  “I’m makin’ no calls.”

  “Sure you are, pal. And every time my client is disturbed, I’ll be paying you a visit. Next visit will be far less friendly than this one.” I paused, glancing around the disheveled room. Nothing had changed. It was just as filthy and discombobulated as ever. My glare then planted directly on his. “I’m going to bring along my terminator mentality. You know, Jeremy, I have a theory on humanity. Life began as thick soup made of tiny organisms. People like you never came out of your swampland state. I don’t like you, pal. You battered Sylvia. For the life of me, I don’t see what she saw in you. Even as a manager, even as a fake-hubby, you are no prize. You gave her fits. You may have murdered her. Now, you’re harassing my client. Don’t. Don’t continue those bad genetic habits.”

  He scratched his skin-ruffled neck. “You can’t just keep bustin’ in here. I’ll call the cops.”

  “Call them. It would make a nice break from calling Lilia. You have no reason to harass her. Sylvia wrote the will that excluded you. She fired you. She wanted you off the payroll and out of her life.”

  His pallor was becoming a patchy heather color. “I had a beef with Syl. It coulda been fixed.”

  “Hope springs eternal.”

  “I never offed her.”

  I rubbed my chin a moment. As if in a contemplative mood, I uttered, “At best, you’re a louse.”

  “You look at me like I crapped in your mess kit. Hell, Syl wasn’t easy to be with.”

  In pari delicto. “So you were both to blame? You were a real prince. Just a comfy old slipper. What a plinth you were for Sylvia.”

  “I did her bidding.”

  “But your bidding, or shall I say, business practices, left a great deal to be desired. I hear you dipped in the books.” I read his expression and was correct. I crossed my legs and eased back into the chair as if I might spend the evening cross-examining him. “All this time, Sylvia must have known you were ravaging the old cash box. For old time’s sake, she allowed it. Old times got tiresome and expensive. Right?”

  “Christ, you want a human sacrifice. I borrowed money. First lucky streak I was gonna repay her.”

  “The tricks you get up to. Gambling, huh?” That was part of the equation I hadn’t confirmed until now. Although it had been alluded to, it was obvious he didn’t blow his money on accommodations or wardrobe. He was probably paying his bookie on the drip. Then the payments weren’t coming as quickly as the last-place horses spun around the track. Notes were coming due too quickly for his salary to soak up. “Very naughty,” I stonily spoke.

  His gaze was parked on the wall, but his eyelids flapped. “I’da put the money back.”

  “Did Sylvia know about the gambling?”

  “We each had our own recreations. I had my ponies, she had her sweety dolls.”

  “Her recreation didn’t cause her to embezzle your money.” I paused. “By the way, how’s your buddy Helene?” His mission-white face told me I was on a roll. “She told me about your deal. She claims you’re a terrific tipster. Too bad old Loma can’t predict the horses.”

  “Get outta here.” He lurched to his feet.

  “Relax.” I remained seated. “I’m talking about the deal where she gave you her vote to stay on as manager. In return, you’d keep your mouth shut about feeding Loma information on Sylvia. You were supplying Helene with the inside poop on Sylvia so she could scam the lady. You and Helene are a couple of real bookends.” I belatedly stood and walked to the door. His bewildered expression told me it might take some time for his gears to mesh. “You all had your hands up Sylvia’s skirt trying to get into her pockets on the sly. She probably had bad dreams about octopuses.”

  “You can’t prove that crap about Helene and me.”

  “You must think I only have half a brain and that half gets no use. Of course, I’ll prove you were conspiring to defraud Sylvia.”

  “Damn. I stood by Syl when she was singing her way out of the gutter. With me, she got her cover for bein’ lesbian. It was a good deal.”

  “A terrific deal. The woman is dead. You held her up with threats to expose her sexual orientation. You beat her, stole her money to pay your gambling debts and might have killed her. What a deal you were.” I opened the door. The broken chain dangled. I gave it a tap. “I’ll send you ten bucks for the chain. Don’t ever call Lilia again. She was Sylvia’s very best deal.”

  I guessed that Jeremy subscribes to the old Palm Beach credo that a man should make at least one bet a day. Otherwise, he could be walking around lucky and never know it. However, in Jeremy’s case, if he were luc
ky—it wasn’t with the horses. And certainly, by his mere presence, his luck didn’t rub off on those around him.

  When I arrived home, I immediately began cooking dinner. My need for tinkering with rations seemed overwhelming. The kitchen was the very niche in which I would contemplate. I relished the time by myself with only the sound of blues playing softly in the background. When I finished the herbal salmon and salad, Rachel entered the galley.

  She surveyed the menu. “I hope I’m inhaling the fragrance of your corn muffins.”

  “Your sniffer is on target. To be topped with fresh Southern pepper jelly,” I answered.

  “You can always become a chef if your career as an investigator folds.”

  “Rach, my career seems to be fading even as we speak. Hope your investigatory skill surpassed mine.”

  “Not much exciting. No confessions. I took the liberty of calling Sylvia’s lawyer. There hadn’t been an attempt to change her will. I did finally get the Grant’s maid, Tina, to spill what she’d told the police.”

  I leaned back against the island counter. “And?”

  “The day before Sylvia’s murder, there had been a violent argument between Sylvia and Lilia. Lilia was angry about Helene’s influence on Sylvia.”

  “We knew that. Lilia admitted they’d been having problems.”

  “I persisted with my questioning until the maid told me about the conversation. From what she told me and the police, it was the affair between Sylvia and Helene that caused the blowup.”

  “Affair!” I disputed. “The affair was nonexistent. Lilia didn’t like Helene trying it on.”

  “Helene claims they were in the midst of a very hot, torrid affair. And Tina seemed to verify that it was what the fight was about. Tina also divulged that Sylvia had told her she might temporarily move into Helene’s condominium until Lilia’s next movie or tour. But Sylvia cautioned Tina never to tell Lilia of her plans.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “According to Tina, it was Helene that told Lilia of Sylvia’s plan. That’s what provoked the fight. And it was a fight. Lilia screamed that if she couldn’t have Sylvia, no one would. Sounds like a threat to me. And sounded like a threat to the police.”

  I squirmed. “What if this Tina had a grudge against Lilia?”

  “She doesn’t seem the type. In fact, she very much likes Lilia.”

  “It might have been something said in the heat of passion,” I defended. “Or maybe it was misinterpreted in some way by Tina.”

  “Beryl, face facts. There must be something to it.”

  “You can’t be serious about anything that charlatan, Helene, has to say.”

  I slid a grape into Pluma’s cylindrical cage. She had twittered in indistinguishable thanks before she squealed, “Look at them bazookas.”

  Rachel and I laughed. I shrugged. “I wish I could teach Puma some Latin.”

  “Not all that legal crapola. The foul language is preferable,” Rachel teased.

  “Naw. I’d teach her to say amantes sunt entres first thing.”

  “Right. And it means?”

  “Lovers are lunatics.”

  “Shakespeare said that lunatics, lovers, and poets are on equal ground.”

  My chuckle blended with hers. “Your parents did everything to teach you about the Bard and that’s the best you can come up with?”

  Rachel paused. “What did your parents teach you?”

  “Their heirloom wasn’t education. It might have been a lesson in survival.”

  Rachel realized she had touched a nerve. She excused herself to return to her computer.

  I reflected on my past. My parents were nearly always drunk. They cursed and were physically violent with one another when they were home. For that reason, I made every attempt to stay away from home. By the time I was a teen, I was staying out all night. Libraries, movie theaters, and all-night coffee shops were my fortresses. The books I checked out were usually on boating, law, and mystery. They were my armor against loneliness. Reclusive hours in the library must have paid off. I received a scholarship. It was my down payment out of the projects. It placed me away from the mental ghetto.

  Years later, I looked into myself to see a person still searching. My recent search was for love—as well as a killer. I wondered if I might receive a citation-of-valor medal for my efforts to capture Sylvia Grant’s murderer. I also wondered if that medal would break my heart.

  8

  I HATED PAYING for information.

  Informants often misrepresented the importance of their scoop. While they often feared being a rat, they also were usually very greedy. And confidential informants also often lied about what they’d tell. Money may talk, but it wasn’t always truthful. Palm Beach’s royalty, those old dukes and dames, had a saying for everything. Good judgment, they contended, came from experience; experience came from bad judgment.

  So my experience with informants had not always yielded sterling truth. But I didn’t dare turn away anything that might solve this case.

  One of my informants, Jesse, called to tell me the word on the street was that it might have been a bungled robbery attempt. Although it didn’t make sense when I’d heard it, I agreed to meet with her.

  I entered the dingy little café. It brought back emotions of childhood poverty. All the grim reminded me of my youth in many filthy, haunted houses and apartments. My eyes searched the sad tables with sad people. I scarcely recognized Jesse Sanchez. She had deteriorated. She was enough of a wreck during our last encounter a few months previously. Jesse’s appearance verified that the creator was hunting her down. And was in hot pursuit. She’d become a hooker to keep her junkie status. She’d become a street person. Her clothing was tattered. Her hair was greasy, and she should have been doused with a flavored body spray. Jesse had let herself go. She was anxious—she was furious with life.

  And, well, she should have been, I considered. Her life was dismal. Her lips were thick with agony. Her eyes darted with mistrust. Her tarry teeth were beginning to crumble and evacuate their blistered gums. Her pasty complexion was as cratered as the moon. Small multiple skin pustules were scattered like freckles over her face. Her stick-like figure forecasted doom. She was on her way out.

  My heart broke plenty when I saw women in her situation. “Jesse, what info do you have?” I questioned almost before I was seated.

  “I heard maybe Sylvia Grant was killed in a burglary. Someone at the shooting gallery said so.”

  Although I’d already discounted the story, I listened intently. There was no unexplained trace evidence left by a stranger. The killers had used a club or bat—missing and mopped footprints from the floor. Drug addicts were not known for being neat and tidy. They usually never sanitize a crime scene.

  “Jesse, it’s tough to believe a junkie could gain access to the house. And there wasn’t any evidence. I need something more than weak speculation. Names of those saying it was an addict. Something. Anything.”

  Her head lowered. “I never heard names. But if you can spare some cush, I’ll listen for names. I could use a hit.”

  “Maybe you can help me. Jesse, you know Anita Cruz. You worked for her brother. Have you seen Anita lately?” I inquired.

  “Yeah. Saw her a couple days ago on her boat. I noticed because one of the guys said it was a real speedy outfit. It could probably give the cops a real fast chase.”

  My heart began beating faster. The rig had obviously been stolen because Rachel’s check into vessels registered in Cruz and Hammer’s names turned up empty. “Tell me everything you can remember about the vessel.”

  “I’ve seen the rig speeding down the Intracoastal Waterway a few times.”

  “You’re positive it was Anita?”

  “She even waved. It was called Blue something.”

  “Blue. Think hard. Blue what?”

  “Blue fin….” She paused. “Blue Fin’s Laura. My sister’s name is Laura, and I remember thinking blue fin is a funny name to go wi
th my sister’s name ’cause she’s always happy. I don’t know where it’s docked.”

  “I’ll find it.” Rachel and I had already discussed that a quick craft would be perfect to get Cruz to Miami and back rapidly. And the warehouse was only blocks away from a dock. Also, they could have easily used Sylvia’s dock when they murdered her. Pulled up, entered, killed her, took the incriminating evidence—bat, splattered clothing, and cleanup mop, and pitched it overboard into the ocean. We’d thought about that. But we hadn’t been able to find the paperwork on a boat of any kind.

  My plan of action was to rent a small craft. I would scout the docks and private slips along the Intracoastal. I’d check marinas and boat repair shops. Rachel could check on recent boat slip leases in the area, as well as recently stolen crafts.

  “The boat is blue colored,” she added.

  “Let me know if you see Anita or her boat again. Look, you’re not my business, but get something to eat. A meal,” I suggested as I slipped Jesse a fifty. Sadly, I realized she’d be dusted by noon.”

  This information wasn’t the break I’d hoped for, but at least I wouldn’t be returning to The Radclyffe empty handed. Even a small lead beat nada by a country mile.

  Before I started the Firebird’s engine, I took out my phone. I called Lilia to tell her about my meeting with Jeremy. She suggested a late lunch at an upscale, trendy café. Without hesitation, I agreed.

  I arrived amidst a buzzing luncheon crowd. Lilia was seated and looked as if she might be part of a luxury magazine ad. A soft glow from the skylight above bathed her face. She was wearing a lime-colored sundress with a low-cut bodice and flounce skirt. The outfit and the woman were stunning. I smiled when she removed her sunglasses and I saw her eyes sparkle.

  “Beryl, I just arrive, too. I’m so glad you agreed to meet me. I needed to get away from the confines of the suite. Thank you for the lovely roses. They bring me great joy. It is believed by primitive people that flowers feed the soul just as food nourishes the body.”