Life's a Beach Then You Die

by Falafel Jones

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I left the Garlic and started walking home south on Saxon Drive, a dark street bordered on the east by houses and on the west by a sidewalk and then woods. In the woods, a walking trail ran north and south and offered glimpses of the Indian River. The sidewalk was typically empty this time of night, but Mariel and I walked here many times after dark and I always felt safe. Until now.

  The speed limit on Saxon is only 35 miles, but the car behind me was traveling much slower than that. I became anxious when it pulled off the road and started driving behind me on the sidewalk. When I looked back at it, the headlights blinded me. I was trying to decide which way to run, when the car pulled up alongside me. The passenger side window rolled down. I knew it was fruitless to ignore the car, but I didn’t want to look in that window. A man called out. “Stop.” I kept walking, staring straight ahead, getting ready to run.

  “Mr. Fried. Stop. Detective Torres wants to see you.”

  I stopped and looked into the police car that had been following me. The young cop who woke me the other night was driving.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I was driving to your house to pick you up when I saw you walking. Get in.”

  I opened the door. “Can’t you people ever call first?”

  The cop turned the car around and smiled. “Good idea. Why don’t you suggest it to the Detective?”

  “Very funny, kid. Where are we going? No, wait. You can’t tell me. I have to wait for the Detective.”

  “You catch on quick, Mr. Fried. Maybe you should become a detective.”

  We drove in silence for a few minutes. It was too dark for me to be able to read the street signs or pick out familiar landmarks, so I didn’t know where we were. The cop stopped the car in front of a large riverfront home on the mainland. Parked police cars and an ambulance presented obstacles to entering. My escort led me through the maze of vehicles into the house.

  Two men, wheeling a body bag on a gurney, edged past me on their way out the door. Detective Torres stood in the large foyer, watching the men. When he saw me, he nodded toward the interior rooms. The young cop left and I followed Torres into the house. He stopped in what appeared to be a high tech TV room. I think people would call this one a “Media Room”. The TV screen practically covered one wall. Shelled peanuts littered the floor, clustered around a leather lounge chair.

  “Who lives here?” I asked.

  Torres jotted something down on his pad, “You mean, ‘Who lived here?’”

  “Who?”

  “Horton.”

  “Ben Horton?”

  Torres nodded, tightened his lips then said, “Yeah.” He put his pad and pen away.

  “I thought he was in jail.”

  “Out on bond.”

  “How did you find out he was dead?”

  “His lawyer phoned it in. Horton didn’t answer his calls. Guess he wanted to cover his ass about not being prepared for tomorrow’s hearing.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “One. A neighbor noticed someone arriving. A tall, slim, older white male. What are you? Six feet? 190?”

  “Six feet, three inches, 180 pounds.” I didn’t like the direction Torres was headed. “What happened to Horton?”

  “Murder. Plain and simple. Maybe not so simple. Anaphylactic shock.”

  “Again? Horton just recovered from that.”

  “Somebody didn’t appreciate his speedy recovery, so they came back and dosed him again. This time, they tied him up first in that lounger. Then they force-fed him until his throat closed. I think they also sat here watching him choke until he died.” Torres pointed to another chair placed so it faced the lounger. “They wanted to make sure this time.”

  The image of the killer sitting and watching Ben Horton suffer until he died made me feel sick. It took a moment or so before I could speak again. When I could, I said, “This means two of the three men in those boat photos are dead. Ray Kenwood and now Ben Horton.”

  “What do you know about the third man?”

  “Just what I told you. No one knows his name. Everybody called him, ‘Skipper’. He was a boat captain. He worked for Zorky along with Ray Kenwood and Ben Horton. His belongings and personnel file are missing from the Leviathan. Law enforcement wanted him for something but he escaped. It might have something to do with that article I gave you. I haven’t been able to find him.”

  Torres wrote something in his pad. “He may be in danger too.”

  “Either that or he may be the killer. Did you track down the case in the article?”

  “Fitzpatrick made some calls but that article doesn’t mention the kinds of things we need to identify the case. The only name mentioned is the head of INS. All the article says is that the State and Feds, including INS worked together in Miami to bust a smuggling ring. It was reported in July 1984 but we don’t know when the bust took place or by whom. It’s going to take a while to track it down.”

  “What about the fingerprints on my visitor’s ID from A. V. Designs?”

  “We checked them against the ones on Howard’s fingerprint card from his security officer license. No matches.”

  “You mean Howard isn’t who he claims to be?”

  “No, I mean that the prints that you gave us don’t match Howard’s. Maybe he didn’t touch it like you say he did.”

  “The guard at the gate made that ID while I waited. There should only be prints from three people on it, the guy at the gate, me and Clive Howard.”

  “Could be that somebody else handled the card laminate first. Could be Howard only touched the edges. Could be lots of things. Without proof that he actually left prints on that ID, I can’t use it. Your say so isn’t enough."

  “Will you let me know if you find the case in the article?”

  Torres ignored my question and asked me, “Do you know what these men had in common besides the boat photo?”

  “No, what?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  Torres pulled out his pad again. “Where were you tonight?”

  “You mean when I wasn’t with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can’t believe this. You think...Geez, Torres. I was at dinner with Ed McCarthy at the Garlic.”

  “Convenient. You two dine together often?”

  “No. This was the first time. Why?”

  “Who’s idea was it? This dinner.”

  “Ed’s. What? You think Ed and I hired someone to feed Horton peanuts until he died and we went to dinner in public for an alibi?”

  Torres took a step closer to me and said, “I think, you and me.” He put his pad in his pocket. “We need to talk. Come with me.” He took my arm, led me out the door and into the kitchen. He sat down at the kitchen table.

  “Sit.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  Torres sat there for a moment without saying anything. Then, “A man matching your description was seen here tonight.”

  “So?”

  “There were no signs of forced entry. Horton knew his killer. Horton knew you.”

  I didn’t see any point to responding so I sat there waiting for him to finish.

  “The killer knew peanuts could kill Horton. You knew peanuts could kill Horton. You and Horton had a conflict. You accused him of theft. The killer took Horton’s restraints with him when he left. You have a forensic background. Plus, your fingerprints are on Horton’s drug case and Zorky’s sabotaged phone. You were near Corky’s car before the brake line was perforated. Lastly, you’ve been finding things that nobody else has found and you’re running me in different directions all over town, like you’re trying to divert my attention.”

  “So you do think that I killed Horton? Man, are you kidding? That’s ridiculous. I can’t believe that you would even think that.”

  He gave me his “Cop” look and said, “Stay close in case I need you.”

  I took it to mean, “Stay close in case I decide to pin
this on you.”

  The kid cop appeared to drive me home. I got in the car and as we left Horton’s house, I realized that he lived in the same neighborhood as Ray Kenwood. They probably used the same grocery store or marine supply shop. I was willing to bet that’s how they found each other again.