by Tripp Ellis
We arrived at Wetsuit and managed to snag a high-top table just as someone was leaving. I sent Finley a text and told her we were at the bar and where to find us.
Jack ordered a round of drinks, and Finley arrived a few minutes after the waitress had served us.
Finley kissed me on the cheek and sat next to me.
"I got you a whiskey," I said.
She smiled. "Perfect." She lifted her glass and toasted. "To good days."
We all clinked glasses.
"You seem like you're in a good mood," I said.
"I am," Finley replied. "It was a good day. And I wasn't held hostage in a bank which made it even better. I think maybe that's why I like you. The whole trauma of the situation bonded us, don't you think? I hear that kind of thing happens all the time. High-stress situations forge close connections."
“You mean you don't like me for my charming personality?"
She teasingly made an uncertain face and said, "I guess your personality doesn't suck."
I chuckled.
"How was your day?" she asked.
"So far so good. We got some douche-bags off the street."
"Any closer to solving those murders?"
I shrugged. "Maybe."
"I gotta be honest, that gives me the creeps. I try to keep my head about me, and not go anywhere alone, but you never know what can happen."
"Keep hanging out with us, we’ll keep you safe," JD said.
Finley scoffed. "Something tells me you two get into more trouble…"
"We don't go looking for it. It just has a way of finding us," Jack said, innocently.
Finley gave him a doubtful glance.
We chatted for a bit, and before long I was staring at the bottom of an empty glass. The waitress made her way by the table and asked if we wanted another round.
Jack was more than ready to order another, but Finley stopped him. "Let's tab out and go over to Lip-Sync. I want to sing karaoke!”
I lifted an intrigued eyebrow. "Jack's a hell of a singer."
He scowled at me. "Only in certain contexts."
"I'd love to hear you sing," Finley said. She batted her long lashes at him. How could he say no? How could any man with a pulse say no to her?
"Okay, if you insist,” Jack relented.
"Yay!" Finley said with a smile.
Jack reached for his wallet, but Finley stopped him. "This one's on me. I invited you boys for a drink. I'll get the tab.”
Finley pulled out her credit card and handed it to the waitress. A few moments later, the waitress returned with the bill. Finley signed it, and we left the bar.
We walked a few blocks down the street and crossed Oyster Avenue to Lip-Sync. The name was written in neon in a retro ’80s font. There were giant neon lips that looked like they were blowing a kiss into a microphone. The flickering image was mildly suggestive.
We strolled into the dim bar amid horrid, shrieking vocals emanating from the PA system.
I cringed, and JD's face twisted.
"I don't know how long I can sit through this," Jack said. "I've heard cats fucking that sound better than this!”
The woman on stage butchered a pop song—but she was oblivious to the fact. She gave what appeared to be a passionate, heartfelt performance which was best appreciated with earplugs in.
We took a seat at a table, ordered a round of drinks, and Finley and Jack flipped through the menu of songs contained in an oversized 3-ring binder. The pages were laminated.
The pop song ended, and the woman who sang like a sick cat left the stage to unenthusiastic courtesy applause.
The DJ's voice boomed over the loudspeaker. "Next up, the vocal stylings of Liliana! Liliana, please come to the stage."
A girl hesitantly stood up from her table and her friends pushed her forward. She took the stage, her shoulders slumping forward, her cheeks blushing from embarrassment. She adjusted the microphone to be level with her lips. She hung her head low, looking terrified. The music started, and we all waited with dread.
30
The song intro played through massive speakers. When the meek, shy girl opened her mouth to sing the first verse, an angelic voice spilled from her lips. Her voice filled the microphone and drenched the audience with silky smooth auditory waves of bliss. She may not have had much stage presence, but her voice was pure gold.
Eyes widened, and everyone in the bar leaned forward and listened.
Jack and Finley both found the song they wanted to sing, then slid the book across the table to me.
I waved it off. "Oh, no! This is all you two."
Finley put a hand on my arm. “You’re not getting out of this. We all have to go up there! It’s part of the deal. Part of the implicit contract we all signed by virtue of the fact we entered the establishment.”
I arched a reluctant eyebrow at her.
"You're not afraid, are you?"
She knew just how to get to me.
I took a deep breath and flipped through the booklet of songs. I finally found something I thought might not sound horrible. We wrote our selections down on the forms, then handed them to the DJ. He entered them into the queue.
There was no turning back now.
It would take heavy drinking to make this adventure palatable.
There was a long list of singers ahead of us, providing ample time to get cold feet.
Nerves fluttered in my stomach.
It took roughly 45 minutes for our names to pop up on the display of upcoming singers. I cringed when I finally heard my name.
“Tyson Wild! Please welcome to the stage, Tyson Wild!"
I swallowed hard, and my stomach twisted. I hesitated a moment, trying to get out of it.
Finley shoved me out of the chair. "Go!"
I stood up and ambled toward the stage. The crowd offered a courtesy round of applause.
I stepped upon the riser, grabbed the microphone, and adjusted it. The song began to play, and the words flashed on the screen that hung from the ceiling. The spotlights blinded my eyes, and I couldn’t see the crowd, which actually made things a little easier. I took a deep breath and belted out the first verse of a classic rock song.
My voice was a little shaky and drifted around the pitch for a moment before settling in. I was a high baritone, not a rock 'n' roll tenor. I wouldn’t be able to scream like Robert Plant or Chris Cornell. But I picked a song that was in my range, and somehow I made my way through it.
There was a decent amount of applause when I finished.
I left the stage, not feeling too bad about my performance. It was actually kind of fun. I took a seat as the DJ called Finley to the stage. I gave her a firm smack on the ass as she passed. She giggled and sauntered onto the stage.
Finley did a fairly decent rendition of a Chloe-C song.
The crowd cheered.
My brow lifted, impressed. Finley wasn’t going to get a record deal, but she was pretty damn good. She got way more applause than I did.
"Next up, Jack Donovan!" the DJ shouted.
Jack grabbed his whiskey, guzzled the rest of it down, and slammed the glass onto the table. He let out a gasp of satisfaction, then strutted toward the stage with his chest puffed out.
He was in full rockstar mode.
He flipped his hair back over his shoulders as he took the stage, then howled into the microphone. "You ready to rock’n roll?”
The audience responded with a mild roar.
"I didn't hear you. Are you ready to ROCK. AND. ROLL?”
They roared even louder.
JD signaled the DJ to hit it.
He looked like he was born to do this kind of thing.
The bass drum boomed, and the metal guitar buzzed like a chainsaw cranking out the intro riff.
Jack clapped his hands over his head, prompting the audience to follow along.
He was a true showman.
The spotlight highlighted his blonde hair. JD took a classic rockstar pose and screamed the first verse.
The crowd went wild.
He sounded just like the original recording.
I couldn't believe it!
I'd heard him sing along with the radio, but I never paid much attention. JD could certainly carry a tune. His high tenor voice hit all the shrill tones with perfection.
When the song was over, JD bowed, flipping his long hair.
The crowd gave him a standing ovation, howling, whistling, and clapping.
JD grinned as he stepped down from the riser, knowing that he had just nailed it.
He owned the place.
People gave him high-fives and shook his hand on the way back to the table.
A lot of people thought he was the real deal, and that Jack Donovan was a pseudonym. Several people approached the table afterward, asking for autographs. They refused to believe he wasn't the famous '80s rockstar.
When all the attention died down, Finley said, “Holy shit, JD! You're, like, good. I mean, you could do that professionally!”
He shrugged, modestly.
"I'm serious,” Finley continued. “You could start a tribute band. Why not?"
JD pondered the thought, and I could see she had sparked an idea in that twisted brain of his.
"I'm glad we did this,” I said. “This was fun!”
"See. I'm not so bad after all," Finley said with a grin.
"That has yet to be determined," I said.
"Aw, you know I can be bad in all the ways you want me to be," she said with a naughty glint.
A woman stormed toward the table with an angry scowl on her face. She had a full glass, and she threw it in JD's face.
The liquid splashed off his skin and dripped down his cheeks, speckling the table with sticky droplets from the fruity drink.
Finley's eyes widened with shock.
JD's face twisted. "What the hell?"
31
"You can't hide behind some fake name," the woman barked at Jack.
"Do I know you?" JD asked, his face twisted with confusion.
She scoffed, incredulous. "You're a first-class asshole!"
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I think you have me confused. My name is Jack Donovan."
"Don't lie to me. I know very well who you are!"
It looks like Jack's resemblance was coming back to bite him in the ass.
"Really, ma'am. My name is Jack Donovan. You want to see my drivers license?"
"I'm sure you have several fake identities," she protested.
She stormed away before Jack could get to the bottom of things.
"What the hell was that about?" I asked.
"I don't know. I’ve never seen her before in my life. I swear. Maybe my alter ego did something?" JD paused for a moment. "I don't know about you, but I think we may have worn out our welcome here. I'm afraid she might come back with heavy artillery."
Jack went to the restroom to clean himself up. The red fruity drink had stained his T-shirt and Hawaiian shirt. He washed the shirts in the sink, rung them out, then used the hand dryer to take the bulk of the moisture out. You couldn’t see the stains on his Hawaiian shirt, but his white T-shirt underneath was dotted with pink splotches.
He buttoned the Hawaiian shirt over the T-shirt, and when he returned to the table we paid the tab and left Lip-Sync. Jack cautiously surveyed the sidewalk for the angry woman, but she was nowhere in sight.
We wandered down the avenue to Sand Bar. We weaved our way through the sweaty crowd to the main bar and ordered another round. Jack kept his head on a swivel for the rest of the evening, looking for incoming threats in the form of angry women that he'd never met before.
It was getting late, and Finley insisted that we resume our negotiations. Her hot breathy voice whispered in my ear in such a way as to preclude any objections.
"We'll have to discuss this on my boat,” I said. “I need to let my dog out before bed."
"I guess I could be persuaded to spend the night on your yacht," Finley said.
I told Jack we were leaving. "Are you going to be okay here by yourself?"
He sneered at me. "I can handle myself. As long as that angry lady doesn't come back."
"Try to stay out of trouble," I said.
JD grinned. "Never."
Finley and I left the bar and caught a cab back to Diver Down. It took forever with the traffic, but we occupied ourselves along the way.
Buddy greeted Finley eagerly as we stepped into the salon, and she was not immune to his charms. She loved on the little Jack Russell, and Buddy licked her face.
I leashed him up and took him out for a bit. Finley strolled with me. We walked down the dock, Buddy’s feet clattering across the wooden planks.
Music blasted from parties on neighboring boats. People bonged beer and did tequila shots. Girls danced and removed articles of clothing. The smell of illicit smoke wafted through the marina. Somebody, somewhere, was smoking a joint.
"I can't believe you want to destroy all this?" I said.
Finley frowned at me. "I don't want to destroy it. I want to make it better."
"It's great the way it is," I said.
"The marina could certainly use an upgrade. Not saying there's anything wrong with it. But it can always be nicer." She smiled. "You’ve got some potholes in the parking lot. It needs to be re-paved. I don't think you're optimizing the use of the land. A high-rise would just allow more people to enjoy it, and it would certainly drive more revenue. Making money is not a bad thing, Tyson."
"Hey, I like money just as much as the next guy."
Finley sighed. "You really are being difficult for a guy without a lot of options."
My brow knitted together. “I have options."
She folded her arms. "Oh, really?"
"I could still come up with the money by the close of business tomorrow,” I said, trying to sound optimistic.
She grinned. "And I hope you do. I'm rooting for you. In my own way." She paused. "It could be a lot worse… Somebody else could be purchasing the property, and they might not be as generous as I am.”
She had a point. I really didn't have any options.
When Buddy had run off enough energy, we made our way back to the boat, and resumed more meaningful discussions.
32
Sun blasted through the portholes in the morning. Finley’s smooth body was intertwined with mine.
I yawned and stretched and peeled my eyes open. For an instant, I had forgotten about everything. Then the weight of it all crashed upon me. The realization that in one more day, Diver Down and the marina would be under contract to Finley.
I hadn’t given up the fight yet. But doubt was creeping in the back of my mind. I never liked doubt to get a foothold. Once it worked its way in, it was hard to get out. It was best to silence that voice right away. But this was one of those things that seemed far beyond my control.
All things considered, losing the property to Finley wasn't the end of the world. As she said, it could have been so much worse. She had made a generous offer, but in the scheme of things, it was a relatively small price to pay to get what she wanted. A 100-unit luxury high-rise that started a $1 million apiece, plus the restaurant and slip fees… Finley stood to profit considerably if the project came to fruition. And what would happen when our relationship turned sour?
I tried not to disturb her as I slipped out of bed. I pulled on a pair of shorts and ambled up to the main deck and began cooking breakfast in the galley. I figured turnabout was fair play—I owed her breakfast.
Ham and cheese omelettes would be the order of the day. I threw several strips of bacon into a frying pan and let them sizzle while I prepared the eggs and started the coffee brewing.
It was early still, and with Los Angeles three hours behind, I knew my agent, Joel, wouldn't be awake just yet. I figured I would rattle his cage before long and see if there was a money tree we could shake.
I had always been a reluctant participant in the entertainment industry. My proximity to the mega movie star, Bree Ta
ylor, at the time of her death had thrust me into the limelight for a brief period of time. It provided me with a lucrative movie deal for the story rights. Though, I had mixed feelings about it. I didn’t want to profit from a tragedy. But I wanted to honor her memory. I figured it would be my one and only foray into The Business. But with my current situation, I wouldn't turn down another deal with the studio.
My phone buzzed while I was in the galley.
"DNA came back from the lab," Brenda said with a trace of excitement in her voice. "There's a DNA match on biologic material found in both Grace Livingston and Sawyer Ramsey.”
"You're sure?"
"Positive. I'm still waiting the results of the DNA sample we lifted from Jasper's water bottle. But, if I was the gambling sort, I'd wager we're going to get a hit."
"Let me know as soon as you have something."
"I will. But there's one thing that troubles me," Brenda said.
"What's that?"
"I talked to Denise this morning. She did some digging, and Jasper and his friends didn't arrive in Coconut Key until after we found the body of the first victim, Reese Jordan. Unless Jasper could be in two places at the same time, he didn’t kill Reese Jordan."
That hung there for a moment.
"Speculation isn't my area," Brenda said. "But if you want my opinion, these kids are scumbags, but they aren't killers. We've got somebody else out there."
I grimaced. "I think you're right."
"I don't know how this all pieces together. That's your job. But there have been a lot of little things that have been bothering me. Reese Jordan's body was dumped into the water which destroyed most of the evidence. I wasn’t able to pull much. Grace Livingston was placed in a garment bag and her body weighted down. The bag protected the body somewhat, and I was able to recover DNA evidence. At first, I thought the killer’s process was evolving. Lauren James was found floating with her wrists bound with nylon rope. Again, no usable DNA evidence. More evolution of process, I thought. But I found traces of oxygenated bleach in the hair and body cavities of both Reese and Lauren. Oxy type cleaners will destroy hemoglobin, and breakdown DNA. I found nothing like that with Grace Livingston's remains. I think we are dealing with two different killers."