by Tripp Ellis
“A killer who doesn’t want to kill? I’d say you have a few hangups.”
“I’m not a killer anymore.”
"Sure you’re not.” She hung up the phone.
I gritted my teeth, and my hands balled into fists. I grumbled to myself for a moment, before slipping back inside and trying to get a little sleep on the couch.
I was too wound up.
Morning came too soon, especially for Agent Archer. She staggered out of her bedroom, wiping her eyes, her hair tousled, still wearing nothing but her bra and panties. She shrieked when she saw me on the couch and covered herself with her hands. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I take it you don't remember last night?"
Her bloodshot eyes narrowed at me “We didn't do anything, did we?"
I laughed. "Oh, I could have a lot of fun with this, but, no, nothing happened."
She looked relieved. "The last thing I remember is listening to a blues band and drinking really strong margaritas.”
"I'll spare you the details from that point on."
"Oh, no.” I could see glimpses of the previous night flash across her brain.
"I brought you home, and I thought I’d better stay with you just to make sure you didn't die like a rock star."
"Thank you," she said cringing with embarrassment.
She's shuffled back into her room, not wanting to turn around and expose her backside, which I had already seen—and it was delicious.
She emerged a few moments later wearing pajamas. “I’d fix you breakfast, but I need to get the hell out of here. I'm running late."
"No problem. I'll take a rain check."
"You can sleep in, if you want. Just lock up when you leave." She disappeared back into the bedroom and slipped into the shower.
I swear to God, I’ve never seen a woman get ready so fast before in my life. She emerged from the bedroom 20 minutes later wearing a dark gray pantsuit, with her makeup done, her hair pulled back in a bun, and a pair of sunglasses in her hands.
"Have a great day, sweetie," I said, in a sardonic tone.
She flipped me off and strolled out of the door.
I got up, found a bagel in the fridge, slathered cream cheese on it and called an Uber.
As I left the house, I ran into a kid walking up the driveway. He was maybe 17 or 18. Short blond hair, fresh face. “Is Jen around?”
“No, she just left for work.”
“Okay. Tell her Tommy stopped by. She wanted me to look at her car.”
“I’ll tell her.”
We chatted for a few moments as I waited for my Uber. His dad ran a local repair shop in town. “So, you’re Earl’s kid?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Good.”
“He used to service my dad’s cars. Tell him Tyler Wild says hello.”
“I will.”
Back at the Slick’n Salty, I took a shower and got changed, then called JD. "We should probably talk to Riley Johnson today. Travis’s girlfriend."
“Sounds good. Give me about an hour."
"How did it go with Belinda last night?"
"Dude… Unbelievable. The things she can do with her… That girl is on fire. I'm telling you. You missed out. She's got some hot little friends, too.”
"Maybe next time."
“How did it go with Agent Archer?"
“I’ll tell you all about it later."
It was just before noon by the time we arrived at Forbidden Fruit—a strip club on the west side of Coconut Key. Needless to say, JD was in his element.
A flash of our golden badges gained us access without paying a cover charge. It was a little early for deep thundering based music, but the visual scenery more than made up for it. Spotlights slashed the hazy air. There were three stages with mirrored floors and ceilings. Scantily clad beauties performed acrobatic maneuvers around glimmering poles, showcasing toned legs, stiletto heels, and gravity defying curves.
"Jasmine, Stage II. Jasmine, Stage II," the DJ said in a low radio announcer voice.
JD knew the manager and half the girls in the place. The manager pointed to Riley Johnson, who went by the stage name Cherry Bomb. Her hips were undulating on Stage III, and every man in the place was jealous of the pole.
"She came back to work after she broke up with Travis," the manager said. "Maybe four or five weeks now? I'm not sure. The days all run together around here." He paused “Try not to flash your badges around here. It makes the customers, and the girls, nervous. Why don’t you head back to one of the VIP rooms, and I'll send Cherry over."
He tapped an earbud that allowed him to communicate with the staff. "We have any rooms open?"
A bouncer crackled back in his ear.
I couldn’t hear anything over the music.
"Take room six," the manager said to us a moment later.
He pointed to a bouncer that was standing by a velvet rope which led into an exclusive area.
JD thanked the manager, and we strolled to the VIP lounge like rock stars. The velvet rope opened for us, and we walked to room number six.
The rooms were decorated like a cheap motel room in Vegas. There was a couch, a bed, a pole on a small stage, and mirrors on the ceiling. There were lava lamps on the nightstands, and the lighting was dim and sultry.
"Okay, I can safely say I have never been in one of these rooms before with another dude," JD said.
It was a bit awkward.
Cherry strutted into the room a few minutes later. "Eddie said you wanted to talk to me?"
She had platinum blonde hair, stiletto heels, fishnet stockings, frilly panties, and a lacy garter belt. She was clasping her push-up bra as she entered.
JD had a hard time maintaining focus.
“We’d like to talk to you about Travis Wilkes." I said.
She groaned. "Ugh. I can't stand that guy. What a loser. Small dick."
"Thanks for the info, but what can you tell me about his relationship with Scott Kingston?" I asked.
“What do you want to know?"
“When was the last time you talk to Scott?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. We hooked up a few times. It was fun. I liked him, I guess. But, we just stopped texting each other. You know how it goes. I moved on to something else, and I assumed he did too. Why?”
I told her Scott was dead.
Her jaw dropped, and her eyes widened. She seemed genuinely shocked by the news. She asked how it happened.
I gave her as much of the details as I thought necessary. She didn’t have enough of a connection to him to break down into tears. But she certainly didn’t seem happy about the news.
"Do you think Travis killed him?" I asked.
She thought about it hard for a moment. “No. Travis talks a good game, but that's about it."
"Do you think he could have hired someone to do the job?”
"Why would Travis go to all that trouble over me?”
I shrugged. “He seemed pretty pissed off about the whole thing.”
Riley rolled her eyes. “Please. I was just another fuck-toy for him. We were on the verge of breaking up anyway. And it’s not like he could keep it in his pants. He always had plenty of options. There was always some girl wanting to ride the gravy train.”
“What about Scott?” I asked. “Can you think of anybody that might have wanted him dead?”
“Scott didn’t exactly run with an innocent crowd, if you know what I mean,” Riley said. “He did business with every drug dealer and Mafia boss from here to Medellin.”
I gave her my number and told her to call me if she thought of anything that might be useful.
“Hey, do you think you can help me out with some parking tickets?”
JD smiled. “I’m sure I can help you with that.”
Riley perked up. “That would be great. Maybe we can work out some kind of trade?”
JD practically salivated at her sultry offer.
He leaned over and muttered in my e
ar, “Would you mind stepping outside for a minute?”
I shook my head and strolled toward the door.
“You know, come to think of it,” Riley said, “Scott owed some guy a lot of money. Scarpelli, Scaramelli—”
“Scarpetti?” I said.
“Yeah, that’s it!”
“He was kinda nervous about it. I think it was a lot of money.”
“Thanks. That’s helpful.”
She smiled. “You’re welcome.” Then she said in an innocently naughty voice, “So, is he the only one that can help me with my parking tickets, or could both of you lend a hand?”
10
I left the parking enforcement negotiations to JD and waited in the VIP lounge. He emerged from the room 15 minutes later with a wide smile. Riley slipped out of the room behind him adjusting her frilly unmentionables. She kissed JD on the cheek. "Thanks, sugar,” she said, before disappearing back into the main area.
"That was quick,” I said.
"What can I say? The girl gets paid by the hour. And she didn't have that many tickets."
I gave him a look.
“What? She just gave me a few dances.”
“We need to talk to Scarpetti,” I said. "But I guarantee you, he didn't kill Kingston."
"Why not?"
"You don't kill someone who owes you money. That's a good way to make sure you never get paid. You rough them up. You break a few fingers. Break a few bones. But you don't put two bullets in the back of their skull unless you know they don't have the money. Kingston was the kind of guy who had access to large sums of cash. He could get his hands on whatever he owed. It might be uncomfortable. And he might have needed to shift a few things around. But under threat of death, he would've come up with it."
"I think we should definitely talk to him,” JD said.
"By all means. I get the impression that not a lot happens on this island that he doesn't know about."
We stayed at Forbidden Fruit and chowed on the lunch buffet. It wasn't the greatest thing in the world. There were chicken fingers, buffalo wings, processed hamburgers, and pizza, which had probably been frozen at one point in time.
But people didn't come here for the cuisine.
JD and I watched with amusement as a high roller tossed money onto the stage like it were paper. Green bills fluttered through the air, falling like confetti around hourglass figures and toned legs.
The guy had money to burn.
He had a wide grin on his face, which was outshined by the smiles of the girls he showered with affection.
He had short blond hair and steely eyes and looked like he could have been a heavyweight boxer. He was dressed casually, wearing a T-shirt and board shorts. If you saw him on the street, you’d think he was your average tourist. And maybe he was. But tourists didn’t travel with bodyguards. He had two stocky men nearby at all times. I gathered that under their suit jackets were semiautomatic pistols.
The guy liked to make a splash, and it was hard not to notice the cash raining down on the stage, and the girls scooping it up like addicts.
“Get a load of that cat,” JD said.
“Who the hell is that?”
JD shrugged. He waved over the manager and inquired about Mr. Spendy.
“That’s Vladimir Kazakov. Some kind of Russian tycoon. Obviously, we like him around here.”
“Regular?”
“Fairly. Why are you asking?”
JD shrugged, innocently. “Just curious.”
“Do not go harassing my good customers.”
“I would do no such thing,” JD said.
“He’s harmless. He comes in here and throws money around and invites the girls onto his yacht. What kind of arrangement they work out with him, I don’t know. I don’t want to know.” Then he added, “That’s a tree you don’t want to go barking up.”
“Why not?” JD asked.
“He’s tight with the mayor. Made a healthy campaign contribution. He’s got a scholarship fund for economically challenged kids. And he just made a large endowment to some pediatric cancer foundation.”
“Sounds like an upstanding member of the community. Except for a few indulgences, here and there,” JD said.
“You’re one to talk,” the manager snarked. “He’s a gravy train for a lot of people. Don’t screw that up, JD.”
JD raised his hands, innocently.
We left and headed to Kingston's marina. Dozens of luxury yachts were docked in slips. JD's eyes sparkled with desire. This is going to be one hell of an estate sale," JD said.
I scanned the area as we strolled down the dock toward the main office. JD used the keys he lifted from Kingston's place to open the door and we stepped inside.
It was an upscale place with expensive Italian furniture. There was a vending machine with free water and soda and snacks. There was a large flatscreen display, a lounge area, a reception desk, a sales office, Scott's personal office, and a conference room. There was a demo area for aftermarket stereo components that you could have installed in your luxury yacht as well as home theater options.
“What are we looking for?” JD asked.
“Surveillance footage, transaction ledgers, anything that might provide a little insight,” I said.
I had noticed cameras on our way in. JD and I searched for the footage. It was probably stored on a computer or on the Internet somewhere, but all the desktop computers had been removed.
There was a restaurant with a patio next door that had a clear view of the marina.
“Maybe somebody saw something,” I postulated.
“You think he was abducted here, taken on the water, and shot?”
“There’s a good possibility. Until we can get access to his ledgers and accounts, we won’t know if there are any boats missing from the marina. Did he have an assistant?”
“Scott worked by himself,” JD said. “He was a one-man show. I don’t think he wanted anyone getting too close to his business.”
We went next door to the Cranky Crab. It was a restaurant bar with a large wooden deck that offered a nice view of the marina. They served fried shrimp, crawfish, crab, gumbo, and other seafood dishes. There was plenty of cold beer and girls in skimpy shorts serving it.
We talked to the manager.
"Honestly, I don't recall seeing anything. I can ask around, but there's no way to track down the patrons that were here during that timeframe. Even if you could, our clientele likes to drink. Half of them can't remember their names by the time they leave."
I thanked him for his time and stepped onto the patio deck and surveyed the Marina. The office was obstructed here and there by the yachts and sailboats. It would have been easy for someone to force Kingston onto a boat without drawing much attention. Between the loud music and the raucous clientele, you could probably shoot someone in the marina, and the bar goers wouldn't notice.
JD got a text from Belinda. "She wants to meet up for happy hour."
"She must really be into you?” I said.
"I guess so. The girl’s going to be the death of me. I don't know if I can keep up. But I'm damn sure going to try," he said with a twinkle in his eyes.
He dropped me off at Diver Down. I pretty much figured I wouldn’t hear from him for the rest the evening.
I strolled back to the Slick’n Salty and took a nap. Sleeping on the couch had left my back angry, and I didn't exactly sleep well. I figured I'd go to Scarpetti's standing poker game that he had on Friday nights. It was a $10,000 buy-in. The last time I played, I got lucky and walked with a considerable amount of cash—most of which I still had stashed under my bunk. It was no secret that Scarpetti's game was a Who's Who of the area. Celebrities, gangsters, city officials—anybody who had the money to get into the game. And just like Vegas, what went on around the table, stayed around the table.
I showed up early, played a few hands and walked with $52,000. Not as much as I had won the last time, but not bad for less than an hour's work.
I was co
nsidering a career change.
Every Friday night, Scarpetti converted the luxury suite at the Seven Seas into a miniature casino. He had a bar stocked with top shelf liquor, and beautiful models to serve it. There were a selection of fine cigars, kept in a state-of-the-art humidor. I hung out at the bar and sipped a glass of whiskey. I knew Scarpetti would come talk to me sooner or later.
“I see you’re on another winning streak," the gangster said.
"Just lucky, I guess."
"I'm telling you, you should come to my big game. $100,000 buy-in."
"Maybe."
"A guy like you would do well there. You’ve got the stones for it. There's ice water in your veins, no doubt about it."
"It's only money."
Scarpetti chuckled. "Only money. I like that."
"Speaking of money, did you hear Scott Kingston got killed?"
The gangster’s smile faded. “A damn shame. I liked that guy. Good parties. Owed me a lot of money.” He paused, his suspicious eyes surveying me. “Why do you mention it?"
"I figure a man like you would want to know who did the hit. After all, whoever killed Kingston took money out of your pocket, did they not?"
I had his full attention.
"What's your angle?"
"I just want to find out who did it, and something tells me you do too.”
He paused for a long moment, pondering whether he wanted to have this conversation. "Who are you?"
"I'm just a guy who solves problems."
There was another long, uncomfortable pause.
"Step into my office," Scarpetti finally said.
He motioned to the next room.
I stepped into the private room with trepidation.
Two bodyguards, with 9mms strapped in shoulder holsters, followed. The door closed behind us, and once again I found myself in a room with an influential Mafia boss—and I wasn't exactly sure what my odds were of leaving the room still breathing.
"Word on the street is that Carlos Dominguez was upset with Kingston,” Scarpetti said.
"Just released from Raiford?"
"Yeah. I can't prove this, you understand. And even if I could, my hands are tied."
"How so?"
"Dominguez is a member of Rey Rojo. My people don't want to go to war. So right now, the guy gets a free pass."