Life's a Beach Then You Die

by Falafel Jones

  Chapter Seventeen

  After the officer dropped me off at home, I staggered back to bed and had a fitful sleep. I switched from my right side to my left, back again and then again. I still ached from my fall and had too much on my mind to sleep. I knew once I drifted off, I’d be so tired I wouldn’t want to get up.

  I woke up alone during what I thought was the middle of the night to see light illuminating the blinds on my bedroom window. My first thought was that it must really be morning after all. My second thought was Mariel must be in the kitchen making coffee. My third thought was the recollection Mariel wasn’t home with me.

  Lying there on my back, I looked at the clock radio, 6:58 am. Two minutes before my alarm would sound. I stared at the ceiling and squeezed out my last two minutes of bedtime. I couldn’t remember a single day since I stopped working that I had so many things to do. When I worked full time, I couldn’t imagine ever being retired. Now that I supposedly was, I couldn’t understand how I ever had a job.

  The alarm began to chirp. I sat up, threw my legs over the edge of the bed, and silenced it. One step at a time. I picked my running shorts up off the floor, put them on and dragged my tired body into the kitchen. I made coffee. Usually, Mariel made our coffee. Making my own was just another reminder she was gone. Too tired to cook, I poured some orange juice and then some cereal with milk. I took my coffee to my office and checked my email. There was nothing. Nothing from Mariel, nothing from the Yahoo account that was watching Ben Horton’s emails, nothing from nobody. On the other hand, at least my SPAM filter was working.

  I finished my coffee, showered, dressed and made myself presentable. I had Ray’s home address from the information I had found on his hard drive plus I had been there once before.

  I was brushing my teeth to get rid of coffee breath when the phone rang. I rinsed, spat, and rushed for the phone. I still had some toothpaste left in my mouth, but I’m one of those poor souls who can’t let a phone ring without rushing to pick it up. I could probably spend a few thousand dollars on therapy to understand why, but if I found out, then I’d feel compelled to do something about it. Then I’d wonder why I felt compelled to do something about it. Thus would start a vicious cycle of self-awareness that would eventually make me insane… and broke.

  I got to the phone on the third ring, just before my answering machine picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Max? It’s Ed. Change of plans.”

  “What’s up?”

  “The police picked up Horton last night. When they got to him, he was having some kind of attack. They--”

  “Yeah, Ed. I know. Torres told me about it. They took Horton to the hospital.”

  “Then you know about the interview?”

  “No. What interview?”

  “Horton was released from the hospital and now the police have him. They used your report to get a warrant to examine his computer and his bank records. They found enough to hold him. He’s at the precinct and they’re going to question him. I got us access to observe the interview. Meet me there.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.” Ed hung up.

  I went back to the bathroom to rid my mouth of that last glob of toothpaste, picked up my gear bag containing my Spy Shack purchase and went to meet Ed.

  I crossed the South Causeway to the Mainland and drove past Bert Fish Hospital. Then, I got stuck at the traffic light before I could make my turn onto US 1, the Dixie Freeway. While I waited, I admired the artwork on the pillars holding up the overpass for SR 44. The City had painted them with large colorful paintings of fish. They had even hung metal sculptures of finny ocean life from the bottom of the bridge and painted the concrete blue to look like water. This bit of whimsy used to cheer me up, but today it didn’t. When the light changed, I turned right and after a few miles, I saw the police station on my left.

  It was a brownish shoebox with a tall flagpole in front and taller radio tower in the back. I pulled into the lot and found Ed leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette. When he saw me pull in, he threw it down and crushed it with his black wingtip shoe. He was dressed in full attorney regalia, grey suit, white shirt and a dark striped tie. His clothing looked expensive. My cargo shorts, not so much. I parked my car and walked over to him.

  “Hi, Max. Let’s go.” Ed turned and headed for the door. When we entered the building, there was an officer sitting behind a dark window. It looked thick and bulletproof. So did the officer. A grille in the glass facilitated conversation and a slot at the bottom provided passage for small items.

  Ed shoved a business card through the slot. “Attorney Edward McCarthy to see Detective Torres.”

  The officer looked up from something he was doing out of sight and moved his arms, his hands out of sight. A door to our left buzzed and Ed opened it. A second uniformed officer was waiting inside. He nodded at us and walked down the hall. We followed. He stopped at a door, opened it and stepped back to allow us entry. We entered. He stayed outside and closed the door behind us.

  We were in a room with Detective Torres. The room was small, dark, and smelled of stale coffee. Along one wall, there was a grey metal chair in one corner next to a grey metal wastebasket, which overflowed with paper cups. A window on the opposite wall looked in on a man in plain clothes interviewing Ben Horton. Horton looked exhausted. He sat across the table facing his interviewer and the window. Torres looked at us when we entered, tapped once on the glass and then without saying anything, went back to the watching. A speaker hung on the wall. We could hear the conversation the other man was having with Horton.

  “When’s the last time you saw Ray Kenwood?”

  “1984”

  “So you haven’t seen Ray Kenwood in over 20 years?”

  “No.”

  “But you’ve spoken with him since then?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve had no contact with him at all in the last 20 years?”

  “No.”

  “Look. We’ve seen your bank records. We’ve seen your emails. We know you’ve been in contact with Kenwood. We got subpoenas. We’ve got the proof.” The man took some papers from a file folder and shoved them across the table to Horton.

  Horton didn’t look at the papers. He just shrugged and said nothing.

  “OK, have it your way. We’ve got proof you’ve been in contact with Kenwood. We’ve got proof you lied about that. Your credibility is already shot to hell and we’ve got a dead Ray Kenwood literally at your doorstep. You can start cooperating with us or you can start thinking about your murder defense.”

  “Wait a minute here. I didn’t kill Ray. I was in California when he died. I have proof. Besides, someone tried to kill me too. What are you doing about that?”

  “You could have arranged Ray’s death. You could have hired someone to do it. Maybe whoever you hired to kill Ray got paid and then made a run at you to keep you quiet.”

  “I’m telling you. I didn’t kill Ray.”

  “But you were in touch.”

  Horton was silent. He looked down at the papers on the table and then up at his interviewer. In a soft voice, he said, “Yeah. We were in touch, but only by email. I haven’t seen him in over 20 years. We haven’t even talked on the phone. Just the emails.”

  “That’s better. Now, you’re starting to build some credibility, earn some points. Maybe even help your case. Why was Ray coming to see you?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I knew he was coming, but I didn’t know why. All I knew… he wanted to show me something. Wouldn’t say what. All he’d say was he knew I’d want to see it… and it would be profitable.”

  When Horton finished, the other man sat back in his chair and slowly nodded. The room filled with silence. Horton took the opportunity to ask again, “What about the guy that tried to kill me?”

  “So you know it was a man?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t know. I never saw who it was. Never saw anybody. One minute, I’m watching TV. Next minute, I’m chokin
g to death.”

  “So, who’d want to kill a sweetheart like you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Horton watched the other man lean forward and pull two photographs from a folder. Each one was a picture of two men on a boat. Horton was in each photo.

  “Ray emailed you this photo with trade secrets embedded. We recovered the product specs that were hidden inside.” The man looked at Horton.

  Horton stared back with a blank expression on his face.

  “OK, let’s start with the easy question. These pictures were taken in 1984.” The man pointed at one photo. “That’s Ray Kenwood.” He pointed again. “That’s you.” He pointed at the second photo. “That’s you again.” He pointed at the second photo a second time. “Now, who’s this third guy?”

  “The Skipper.”

  “The Skipper?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s his name?

  “Don’t know. All we ever called him was ‘Skipper’. He was the ship Captain. Never heard anyone call him anything else.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Don’t know. Last time I saw him was the morning they arrested me on the boat. Skipper must have seen the police coming, slipped over the side. They searched for him like they knew he was there, but never found him. Haven’t seen him since.”

  “Now, talk to me about how you hid the product specs in the photo.”

  Horton sat there silently.

  “Look, you really want to tell me about this before my partner gets in. He was up all night because of you at the hospital and now he’s running late because his car broke down again. He’s really pissed. Not that he’s a happy guy when things go smoothly.”

  Ed and I both looked at Torres. He didn’t move. We turned back to the show in the glass window. Horton just sat there as if the man hadn’t said anything. The man sat there, looked back at Horton for a minute or two, then closed his folder, got up and left the room. A moment later, the door to our room opened and the man who interviewed Horton walked in. He looked at Ed and then me.

  “Hi, I’m Detective Fitzpatrick.” He smiled, held out his hand and shook Ed’s then mine. Fitzpatrick was tall, slim and Irish. He wore tan loafers with a basket weave on the toes, thin beige socks, tan slacks and a white short sleeve shirt with a collar. His hair was reddish blond and he looked to be in his mid forties. He wore his gun and badge on a brown leather belt. The basket weave on the belt matched the one on his shoes.

  “You must be McCarthy and Fried. Thanks for the leg up. The material you provided led us to what we needed. It got us warrants, and then we found enough at Horton’s place and in his bank records to make the theft charges.”

  Ed and I nodded in satisfaction.

  “I’m afraid there’s not much else we can nail him on. His alibi for the break-in checks out.” He looked at Ed. “We don’t have enough to tie him to bugging your office and we can’t connect him to the murder. Maybe when the M. E. figures out how the killer triggered the heart attack, we’ll have another go at him but for now… of course, when Torres gets his turn at Horton, who knows what he’ll say. Leo’s so abrasive, innocent folks confess just to get him out of the room.” He grinned at Torres.

  Torres looked back and slowly shook his head. “Not necessary. Spending an hour in an interview room with a grinning Fitzpatrick is enough torture to make anyone talk. Fitzie will be even worse than this when he gets over his current depression and into a good mood.”

  Fitzpatrick smiled again. “Look guys. You heard what Horton said. This is all we’ve got. Probably all we’re gonna get. Anything else turns up relevant to your case, we’ll give you a call. We expect you to do the same if you come across anything. Understand?”

  “Sure,” Ed said. I nodded assent.

  “C’mon.” Fitzpatrick opened the door. “I’ll see you out.”

  When we got back to the lobby, I remembered. I was supposed to come here today and pick up my police report from the break-in.

  “Ed, wait a minute.”

  I went back to the cop in the window. “I’d like to pick up a police report, please.”

  “Name?”

  “Fried, F-r-i-e-d”

  The cop turned to the countertop to his left. Several manila folders stood up in a holder on the desk. He counted six folders in, picked up one marked with the letter “F”, opened and looked inside. “Max Fried?”

  “Yes.”

  He took a piece of paper from the folder and passed it through the opening under the glass.

  I said, “Thanks,” but the cop had already picked up the phone and was writing something down. I didn’t think he was listening anymore so I left the window.

  Ed looked at me. “You ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  When we got outside the Police Station, Ed walked me to my car and asked, “What do you think?”

  “Too much of a coincidence that Ray’s dead and someone tried to kill Horton too. There’s gotta be some connection, and if Horton didn’t do the murder or the break-in, then there’s got to be a third person.”

  “OK, so who is he? Or she?”

  “Well, if I’m right that the break-in is related to the trade secrets, then there has to be some connection between the third person, Ray and Horton. I think we need to look more closely at what Ray stole and how he got it. Maybe he had an accomplice?”

  Ed thought for a moment, “Sounds good to me. Anything useful in the police report?”

  I looked down at it. Except for the name of the cop that came with Torres, there was nothing there I didn’t already know. “Nah.”

  “Well, you need it for the insurance claim, so it’s good you got it. How about now, we do that bug check at Ray’s place. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Yeah,” I got into my car.