The Dollar-a-Year Detective

by William Wells

  Dead even?

  Could it be true that the original three murders were not about oil and gas drilling, but about Porter’s ambition to become a state representative? Had he killed the Hendersons in order to misdirect investigators about the murder of Tolliver? Had he killed again to eliminate his competition? Was being a state rep, which was a part-time job paying, I discovered, a meager 29,687 bucks a year, that big of a deal?

  That certainly seems unlikely, but unlikely is all I’ve got. Maybe the fact that Obama became a US senator and then president after serving in the Illinois legislature had upped the stakes, at least in Lance Porter’s mind.

  But was Porter actually capable of committing those murders? I recall that he’d been an Army Ranger, so he had the skills, but that didn’t mean he was a psychopath who could kill without remorse. Napoleon said: “Those endowed with it (meaning great ambition) may perform very good or very bad acts. All depends on the principles which direct them.”

  When Lance Porter was appointed by the governor to fill Russell Tolliver’s unexpired term, he lived in Tallahassee because his executive assistant’s job was full-time. But to run for Tolliver’s seat, he has to be a resident of District 78, which includes Fort Myers.

  While having a lunchtime burger at my bar I decide that I need to find out where Porter lives when he isn’t in Tallahassee and how he is supporting himself on a state representative’s salary. I begin by calling his office in Tallahassee, telling the woman who answers the phone that I’m an old friend and would appreciate getting his home address and phone number.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to give out that information,” she tells me. “But I can give him a message.”

  “Please tell Representative Porter that Jack Starkey would like to speak with him,” I say.

  “What is this regarding?”

  It would be unwise to say, “You can tell your boss that he is a suspect in four murders.” Instead I tell her, “I’m interested in making a contribution to his campaign.”

  “I’m certain he’ll get back to you about that, Mr. Starkey,” she assures me.

  A campaign contribution is sure-fire bait for a pol, just like a bloody hunk of meat in the water is for a shark.

  Porter calls me fifteen minutes later: “It’s good to hear from you, Jack, I trust you are well.”

  “As well as can be expected, given the circumstances.”

  “Which are?”

  “I just had my forty-eighth birthday. I can’t run as far or do as many push-ups as I could when I was forty-seven, and sometimes I walk into a room and forget why I’m there. It seemed to happen overnight.”

  Not really true, but why not let him think that I’m losing it, in case he really is the perp. I’m not yet convinced of that, but it’s good to have something to do on the crime-solving front.

  He laughs.

  “Happens to us all eventually.”

  “I was thinking we might get together and catch up,” I tell him.

  “I’d like that. I’m living in Fort Myers now. How about lunch tomorrow at The City Club?”

  I know that to be an exclusive private dining club. The perks of power.

  “How about one o’clock?” he asks.

  I’m glad he didn’t suggest an early breakfast meeting. The morning coma thing. I tell him that’s fine and we end the call.

  I don’t intend to ask him over lunch if he’s murdered four people. My strategy is to engage in casual chit-chat to see if I can learn anything important, such as where he was when his primary opponent Turner Hatfield was killed, and whether or not he has a full-time job to supplement his state salary. If not, that could indicate he has another source of income. Maybe he’s being paid in rubles by Sergey Pavlov.

  31.

  Online Banking

  At the crack of dawn the next morning, by which I mean ten A.M., I go to a Starbucks near a strip mall on Colonial Boulevard, just outside downtown Fort Myers, to meet with a man named Thomas Able, the forensic accountant examining the Arrowhead Casino’s books.

  Able said he’d be sitting at an outdoor table. There are three unaccompanied men, plus a table of women, seated outside. One of the men is wearing a blue seersucker suit with a white shirt and blue polka-dotted bow tie, and round tortoiseshell glasses. He appears to be in his fifties and has thinning brown hair. An accountant if I ever saw one.

  I walk over to his table and introduce myself.

  “I’m sorry, but do I know you?” he asks.

  Not the accountant. Nor is the second man, who is wearing a pink polo shirt and grey slacks. It seems unlikely that the accountant is a cross-dresser seated with the women. So, using my powers of deduction, I approach the third guy. He looks to be in his thirties, with the tanned face of an outdoorsman; he is wearing a faded blue tee shirt, khaki shorts, and boat shoes and is drinking coffee from a paper cup.

  “Tom Able?” I ask.

  He half rises, saying, “Good to meet you, Detective Starkey. Forgive how I’m dressed. I was doing some work on my sailboat and didn’t have time to go home to change.”

  “I’ll just pop inside to get a coffee,” I tell him.

  I wait in line as two people ahead of me give the counter girl (who Marisa would call a “barista”) complicated Starbuckian drink orders using unrecognizable terms like “vente,” “no whip,” and “caramel macchiato.”

  When it’s my turn, I tell the girl I’ll have a large black coffee. She looks at me with raised eyebrows as if she’s never heard an order like that, which she probably hasn’t, but she gets my coffee anyway. Maybe she thinks I was raised by wolves, or just woke up from a thirty-year coma.

  Back outside, I thank Able for meeting with me and ask what he can tell me about the casino’s financial problem.

  “I examined the last three years of the casino’s financial reports,” Able says. “I found nothing unusual. Their accounting firm’s work seems to be in order. What I did discover is that, starting four months ago, the casino’s bank balance on the afternoon of their daily deposits was correct, but by the next morning, the balances had diminished by growing amounts, leading up to a total forty-thousand-dollar discrepancy.”

  “So the thief thought he could get away with that?”

  “I’ve seen this before,” he says. “It’s like a credit card scam. The thief obtains a person’s account number and begins making small charges, three dollars, then five, and so on until it grows to several hundred and the thief stops and moves on to someone else.”

  “How would someone get into the casino’s bank account?”

  “Nobody robs banks anymore like Willie Sutton walking in with a gun and a paper bag. At least nobody smart. Now it’s done by computer hacking. A pro would know that a casino has large cash deposits and withdrawals and so he can operate undetected for a while.”

  Hacking. Of course.

  “Any idea who’s responsible?”

  “No, but I know someone who can help. A young woman named Lucy Gates. I work with her sometimes in situations like this. Legally of course, backed up with a court order.”

  Lucy Gates. My hacker too.

  “I know her. So she’s out of prison?”

  I’d forgotten the length of her sentence.

  “She’s been out a few weeks and set up an Internet consulting firm in Key West. Apparently she helped with a police investigation while incarcerated and got the court’s permission to operate her online consulting business.”

  I’m happy to know that Lucy’s assistance with my investigation has allowed her to earn a living.

  “How’d you hook up with her?” I ask him.

  “She sent out an e-mail blast to companies who she thought could use her services, including mine.”

  I get Lucy’s contact info from him. I’m eager to solve the Arrowhead Casino’s problem so I can focus my investigative skills on the murder case.

  32.

  Personal Affairs

  The City Club occupies the entire to
p floor of a fifteen-story office building in downtown Fort Myers. I ride the elevator up and am greeted by an older man in a suit standing behind a podium which guards the entrance to the club. There is no pass-through security portal; he’s less worried about weapons than about exposing the members to the uninitiated lest their lack of couth is infectious.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he asks.

  I tell him that I’m a guest of Mr. Porter. He says that “Representative Porter” is waiting for me in the barroom. How rude of me to not use my host’s highfalutin title.

  I pass through the main dining room. A window wall provides an impressive view of the city, including the Caloosahatchee River, Pine Island, and the sparkling blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico. I enter an oak-paneled barroom and see Porter sitting on a stool, chatting up a young female bartender.

  He stands, offers a firm handshake, and says, “It’s good to see you, Jack. I hope you brought your checkbook.”

  Just a little joke between us political insiders, wink wink.

  “No, but I do have a debit card,” I answer.

  He smiles.

  “That’ll work. Let’s go to our table and have some lunch.”

  There seems to be something different about Lance Porter since I last saw him not long ago. I realize that his tailoring, always good, now looks impeccable instead of off-the-rack; his loafers seem made of softer leather, Gucci by the look of the iconic gold horse bits. Maybe he hit the Powerball, but I think the explanation lies elsewhere.

  I follow him into the dining room to a table beside one of the windows. A waiter wearing a white shirt, black bow tie, and black tuxedo pants brings a menu to me. He must know that my host doesn’t need one, just like at the Capital City Country Club. Menus are for newbies.

  True to form, Porter orders a Cobb salad. I find a BLT on the menu and ask for the bacon to be extra crisp, gourmand that I am.

  As we wait for our food, I begin by saying, “So I take it you like the job, if you’re running for a new term.”

  “Florida is facing many important and difficult issues. I like to think I can make a difference.”

  He’s giving me his stump speech. Time to change the subject: “How will you spend your time when the legislature isn’t in session?”

  “I’ve been assisting Vivian Tolliver, she’s Russell’s widow, managing her personal affairs, including her ownership of four car dealerships. Unfortunately, Russell’s son, Ross, has no head for business. He’s living off his trust fund in Los Angeles while trying to become an actor.”

  Is Porter one of Vivian’s “personal affairs”?

  “Can you get me a deal on a Chevy Silverado, Lance?”

  “Afraid not. Vivian’s brands are Lexus, Toyota, Honda, and Acura.”

  “Thanks, but I’m strictly a made-in-America kind of guy.”

  “You’re out of date, Jack. All of the car brands I mentioned have US factories, while, at this point, thirteen American brands are made almost entirely outside this country.”

  “My Corvette was made in Bowling Green, Kentucky. I’ve been to the Corvette museum there. What’re you driving these days?”

  “I’ve got a Lexus LS 460. Very nice ride.”

  I wonder if he got a lover’s discount. We are halfway through our lunch when I ask, “What’s the maximum amount I can contribute to your campaign?”

  “Three K.”

  I do have my checkbook. I take it out of my inside blazer pocket and write out a check in that amount, made out to Porter for the State House, as he instructed.

  With luck, he’ll be in prison before my check clears. If he’s innocent and gets elected, he’ll owe me a favor. Being a judge might be fun.

  33.

  The Family Jewels

  The drive from the Florida mainland to Key West along US 1 is quite spectacular, island hopping on causeways along the Florida Keys, the placid blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico on my right and the frothy white-capped Atlantic Ocean to my left.

  I invited Marisa to accompany me, but she has several real estate closings, which means she can take care of Joe. Driving along, I thought about Ernest Hemingway’s famous six-toed cats. The writer was given a six-toed cat by a ship captain and that polydactyl feline’s descendants still prowl the grounds of the Ernest Hemingway Home and Museum on Whitehead Street in Key West. Joe has the traditional number of five front toes. I counted them this morning.

  I’m heading to the southernmost city on the continental US to visit Lucy Gates, computer hacker extraordinaire. I called her to say I need her help and described the Arrowhead Casino situation, telling her that the casino will cover her fee. I explained that Sarah Caldwell had obtained a search warrant from a federal judge so that the work is legal. She readily agreed, asked for details, and said she’d get back to me in a few days.

  In addition to the casino investigation, I need to know more about Lance Porter’s current activities. I assume that his secrets are floating somewhere out in cyberspace, where Lucy can find them.

  “Oh, and there’s one other case I’m working on that you could look into,” I added. “That one about the Russians and oil drilling in the gulf. It’s now four murders and I have a new suspect.”

  She paused and said, “I take it that you don’t have authorization from a judge to go after that suspect.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Then you’d better come to Key West. If I agree to help with that case, and I have to think about it, it’ll be your fingers on the keyboard, with me as your coach. No way I’m going back to prison.”

  “No problem. Just use me as your trained monkey.”

  “A monkey would catch on faster but come on down.”

  I arrive in Key West five hours after leaving Fort Myers Beach and check in to the Casa Marina Resort on Reynolds Street. The hotel, located on the southern tip of the island, is a three-story yellow-stucco building that looks like a grand old Spanish estate.

  My room has a view of the pool. No need to pay for an ocean view because I live on the water. That’s for tourists. I stopped for lunch at The Blue Marlin Marina in Islamo-rada, a world-famous fishing village located at Mile Marker 82, which is how locations are designated along the Overseas Highway. The markers measure the 167-mile distance between Miami and Key West.

  The Blue Marlin has excellent fried clam rolls and photos on the walls of celebrities who’ve come to Islamorada to fish: posed on the docks with their trophies hanging from a hoist; in fighting chairs on the decks of boats, their poles bent under the weight of whatever they’d hooked. Many of the photos are very old, in faded black-and-white, others are in color. There are, among others, Ernest Hemingway, Ted Williams, Joe DiMaggio with Marilyn Monroe, John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, and Bill Clinton with a woman who is not Hillary.

  I’m meeting Lucy for dinner at Sloppy Joe’s, a historic bar on Duval Street, so I have time for a run along the beach, passing the concrete buoy-shaped marker designating the southernmost point of land in the US, which is located at the corner of South and Whitehead Streets. Then I run along Whitehead, past the Hemingway House, calling out to some of those six-toed cats who are strolling the grounds that Joe says hi. I turn onto Duval, and then back to the hotel.

  I shower and, with three hours to kill before dinner, put on my bathing suit and recline in a lounge chair by the pool, reading a book I brought along. I’m not into crime fiction. Been there, lived that. I prefer nonfiction, especially of the historical kind. My book, in hardcover, is called The Perfect Horse: The Daring U.S. Mission to Rescue the Priceless Stallions Kidnapped by the Nazis by Elizabeth Letts. It is a compelling read, but even so, I drift off to sleep.

  I wake up a half hour later and, for the second time in recent memory, I recall one of my dreams. This one involves me being hired, by whom it isn’t clear, to investigate a case involving a connection between alligator poaching and meth cooking in the Everglades. Just before I woke up, I was wading in the Glades in chest-deep water, eyeing a very large Bu
rmese python who was eyeing me, for lunch, apparently. I hope I was getting paid more than a dollar for that case.

  I jump into the pool to cool off, then go to my room to continue editing Stoney’s Dilemma.

  Lonnie Williams was now residing in the Graybar Hotel, where he belonged. Any other detective in the department would have received a commendation for that work, but the bosses had long ago stopped giving Stoney such honors because they did not want to hold him up as a good example to rookie cops. He was too much of a maverick—but maybe you had to be a maverick to solve cases no one else could. So instead, they gave him time off for good behavior. In this instance, a week that he spent on a fishing trip to Florida.

  Stoney caught a flight from O’Hare to Miami, then rented a car and drove to Key West, where he’d spent many a happy time before. He checked into the Sailfish Inn, a budget motel with a panoramic view of the parking lot, because he couldn’t afford one of the high-end places where people stayed who were not on the City of Chicago’s payroll—or at least not Chicago employees who weren’t on the take. The Sailfish was good enough for him because it provided, as they said in the marines, three hots and a cot.

  He put his duffel bag in the room, then went to the poolside tiki bar for a rum drink, telling the lady bartender to hold the fruit and the little umbrella that the tourists liked.

  He chatted up the female bartender, whose name was Louise.

  Louise made up his drink and said, “I hear the sound of Chicago in your voice, sonny boy.”

  “And I hear the sound of a lady working for tips in yours,” Stoney replied.

  She smiled. “I get off at six, in case you were wondering.”

  “What a coincidence, because I get on at six.”

  Which made her smile even more and say, “Sounds like a plan, then.”