“Tía ’Nica!” Emilio rushed to open the screen door for his aunt. So much for some peace and quiet. She stepped inside the stifling-hot house and put her arms around the boy. His face was sweaty, his hair damp.
“Mama,” Monica called. “Why isn’t the air-conditioning on? It’s like an oven in here.”
“Yes, chica,” her mother called. “The oven is on. Lucy and I are roasting vegetables to go with the black beans tonight.”
“No, Mama, I didn’t ask if the oven was on. I asked...” She stopped, recognizing the futility of her question, and adjusted the thermostat herself. Rising up on her tiptoes, she placed the flat of her hand as close to the ceiling vent as she could and was rewarded with a blast of cool air.
No matter how often Monica talked to her mother about leaving the old ways—the Cuban ways—behind, Rosa insisted on watching their pennies by refusing to turn on “all these modern devices.” Besides, Rosa would tell her, the temperature was only too hot for Monica. The rest of the family thrived on the fresh air.
Fresh, humid, sweltering air, Monica would think and again remind her mother that they could afford to keep the air-conditioning on in the summer months.
Monica sat on the sofa and patted the spot beside her. Emilio claimed the seat. Monica asked him how his day was and he answered with a short but vivid description of everything he had done and with whom.
“He missed his Tía ’Nica,” her mother said, coming from the kitchen. She kissed the top of Monica’s head. “It’s the Lord’s day, Monica. You should spend it with family and not doing police work.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. It couldn’t be helped.”
Rosa Cortez was a pretty woman. Thin and strong, with dark hair mixed with a few strands of gray, she had been courted by several men since Juan had died, but she’d turned them all down. “I think of myself as still married,” she explained to Monica. “I always will be married to Juan.”
Rosa’s sister, Lucy, and her husband, Horatio, came in from the backyard. They greeted Monica warmly. Horatio told a funny story being a butcher at the local Cuban grocery store. Lucy wanted to hear all about the murder that had happened on Sweet Pine Key two days ago.
“It’s not a murder, Aunt Lucy. Probably just an accident.”
“Still a shock,” Lucy insisted.
“Enough talk of death and tragedy,” Rosa said, coming to the dining table with a platter of food. “Horatio brought us a beautiful pork roast. We should be grateful for family and all this bounty.”
Monica couldn’t help feeling conflicted. Usually these delicious scents made her feel like she was part of the customs that kept her close to her roots, but not tonight. Her mind was spinning with her desire to help Edward.
“I’m not hungry, Mama,” she said. “I think I’ll jump in the shower and take a walk. I’m sure I’ll want leftovers later.”
“Take a walk where?” Rosa asked. “It will be dark in an hour or so. A young lady shouldn’t be out alone in the dark walking.”
“Mama, I assure you I can take care of myself,” Monica said. “I’m a police detective, remember?”
“Bah!” Rosa said. “You are no match for a grown man who might have intentions. Come, sit. Eat your dinner.”
“I’ll be fine, Mama,” Monica repeated. Monica had told her mother many times that they lived in a safe place where crime statistics were low. This area of the Keys was the spot Juan had chosen for his family, where he’d had Monica promise she would keep them. “Please see that Emilio takes a bath and goes to bed by eight,” she added.
Without waiting for her mother’s reply, Monica hustled to the bathroom and started the water in the shower. Still, she heard her mother’s grumbles in Spanish coming from the next room. Her Aunt Lucy tried to reason with her. “She’s a young girl, Rosa. Let her go out sometimes. She needs to be with people her own age.”
Thank you, Aunt Lucy, Monica thought as she scrubbed away the day’s sweat. After a few minutes, she dried off and relished the feel of being clean and cool again. She dressed in a T-shirt, shorts and casual sandals, and stuck a few dollars into her pocket. She noticed the conversation at the dining table was pleasant and animated, so she quietly snuck out the front door.
With the sun going down, the air outside was beautiful. A typical, tropical Keys evening, certainly too perfect to have opted to use her car for the short distance. Monica took several deep breaths and walked down the main highway that traversed the entire distance of the Keys—from Key Largo in the Upper Keys, through the Middle Keys, where Monica lived, and ending in Key West.
She felt free, refreshed and alive. Not that she didn’t love her family. She did. She loved her mama, her aunt and uncle, her cousins and, probably most of all, her nephew, Emilio. But for her brother... She’d lost respect for Miguel when he claimed he couldn’t care for the boy and left him in Monica’s hands. Although, only a few days later, Monica had realized the blessing Miguel had given her. Now her life was about providing for the three of them, as they lived in the small cinder-block house that Monica rented from a Sweet Pine native. And it was about watching Emilio grow up to be a fine man, like his grandfather had been.
After a half mile, the neon lights of Tarpon Joe’s Bar and Grill drew her in. Monica would have something icy cold to wash away the trials of the day. She didn’t drink much, realizing the foolishness of an officer driving an automobile after even one alcoholic beverage. But tonight she was walking and pondering the details of a difficult case. A beer would taste good.
The restaurant wasn’t crowded this Sunday evening. Just a few locals usually found at the popular watering hole for most Sweet Pine residents. It was a welcoming kind of bar. The original owner, Joe Petrusky, had passed on almost twenty years ago. The new owner, Morris Goldstein, had kept the name Tarpon Joe’s. A wise business decision, Monica had always thought.
She spoke to the people she knew, found a seat at the end of the bar and ordered a light beer.
When she’d had a few sips of her brew, she heard the front door open. Glancing back, she was shocked to see Edward Smith step into the bar. She had never seen him at Tarpon Joe’s before, but then, she rarely saw him anywhere on the island. His routine seemed to be to visit his father without mingling with folks. Tonight, he looked tired but relaxed in shorts and a loose-fitting shirt with a palm-tree print. Monica quickly looked away. She assumed that Edward was here for a few moments’ escape from the sadness that filled his home. She wouldn’t interfere with his efforts to find solace in this difficult time.
She took another sip of beer, kept her head down and pretended to be occupied with the menu. But when the bar stool next to her scraped on the wood floor, she looked over.
“Is this seat taken?” Edward asked her.
CHAPTER FOUR
“UH...NO,” MONICA REPLIED. “Have a seat.”
“At first I didn’t know if it was you or not,” Edward said. “I mean, you look quite different when you’re not in uniform.”
That was an understatement. When he came into the watering hole, he’d taken a quick look around and decided to sit at the bar. That was when he saw the petite lady with the beautiful olive complexion and the long dark ponytail that hung past her shoulders. He thought she seemed familiar, but since he didn’t know many women in the Keys, he figured her for a stranger. As he’d headed for a bar stool he’d finally gotten a good look. There was no doubt. The woman sitting by herself was Detective Monica Cortez.
Well, heck, he was here to have a beer, put the sadness and shock of the last two days into some sort of perspective—as if that was possible. Why not get closer to the lady who was deciding the fate of an investigation other officers had all but determined was closed? He hadn’t come into the tavern to find conversation—in fact, his motivation was just the opposite—but he found himself drawn to her. There was something warm and approachable about Monica, especia
lly dressed so casually in shorts and a T-shirt.
“I suppose I do look different,” she said, sliding over a bit to give him room at the bar. “Obviously, I try to maintain a professional appearance when I’m on the job. But once I’m home, I’m just your typical Keys girl.”
Other than her choice of casual clothes, Edward didn’t think there was anything typical about her. Even without a lot of makeup she seemed to stand out in the neon glow of the bar. Her cheeks and lips were rosy, and her eyes snapped as if they held a dark mystery in their depths. And that hair... He’d had no idea that there was so much of it.
He smiled for the first time in a long while. “We’ve had quite a day, haven’t we? I guess we both felt the need to decompress.” He ordered a beer from the bartender. “Funny, I’ve been coming to the Keys for years, but I’ve never been to this place.”
He followed her gaze as she scanned the interior. Posters of fish and other aquatic creatures were tacked to the walls, along with giant catches that taxidermists had preserved for eternity. Mixed in were beer signs and framed portraits of musicians he assumed had performed on the minuscule stage in one corner of the bar. The stage was empty tonight.
The smells were typical of an established bar. Greasy food, beer, fried fish and even smoke left over from the days when the habit was allowed in public places. Now, the wooden bar was clear of ashtrays, and only lined with ketchup and vinegar bottles, as well as salt and pepper shakers.
She turned to face him. “Well, welcome to Tarpon Joe’s. I suppose now you’re realizing what you’ve missed.”
“It’s not the usual type of place I go to for a drink,” he said. “But I like it. No one could deny the local charm.” He picked up a menu. “Actually, anyplace would be preferable to the house. I couldn’t stay there another minute. I felt like I was suffocating. You probably understand.”
“I do. I’ve always admired that house. It’s so beautiful, but it must seem especially gloomy tonight.” She turned her beer glass in her hand. “Where do...did you and your father go when you went out down here?”
“We usually went to The Tender Trap in Little Scrub Key. My dad liked the seafood.”
“I saw your father here a few times. I guess, since he was in the boat-and-fishing business, he wanted to hang out with the Tarpon Joe’s crowd once in a while. Most everyone who comes in here is into fishing.”
“Do you remember him talking to anyone in particular?” Edward asked. Maybe Tarpon Joe’s was a good place to start examining the last few years of his father’s life, the parts he didn’t know much about.
“Not really. I know why you’re asking, though. But people seemed to like him. I would be surprised if anyone in this tavern would have a motive to...” She let the rest of her sentence drop.
“That’s good to know, at least.” If his father had been murdered, Edward knew it was just as important to know who wouldn’t have done it as it was to know who would have. Edward began looking at the selections on the menu. Burgers, chicken strips, fried grouper—just what he expected. He found the salad choices and thought he might settle on a large spinach entrée with veggies and cheese.
When he told Monica what he wanted, she gave him a sympathetic look. “I can imagine you’re not hungry,” she said. “I couldn’t eat for days after my father died.”
He shrugged. “This is one of those times when a person has to remind himself to eat.”
“Forgive me,” Monica said. “I shouldn’t comment on your appetite or what you’ve just been through. You’re here to forget about the events of the last days, and here I go talking about the tragedy.”
“It’s okay. I’m sure there will come a time before too long when I’ll be comfortable talking about him. But it’ll be a long time before I can put the most unpleasant aspects of his death behind me. His memorial service is planned for Tuesday evening, and then there’s the matter of his will and personal property.”
She nodded. “There are a lot of details to take care of when someone dies. So, are you planning on staying in Sweet Pine for a while?”
“Maybe for a couple of weeks. I spoke to my supervisor in Miami and told him I needed some time. This morning, before I saw you, I took a long look around the house.” He paused, remembering the hurt he’d felt viewing the things his father had cherished. Touching them, wondering about them. “I hate to admit it, but I wasn’t aware that my dad had kept so much. I’ve never seen so many pictures and collectibles and printed material. Don’t know why I hadn’t noticed before.”
The bartender stepped up to take his order.
“The spinach salad,” Edward said. He hoped his appetite would return when he finished the beer.
“Fried grouper is the specialty,” Monica suggested.
Edward thought a moment, then said, “Okay. I’ll try it. Actually, it does sound good.”
Monica smiled.
“I hate to eat alone...” he said.
She hesitated a moment, but then ordered the shrimp dinner.
When the bartender walked away, a customer came up behind Monica’s bar stool. He was a gruff-looking guy in denim shorts and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Edward wondered what he did for a living.
“Hey there, Monica,” the man said before giving Edward a critical look. “What’s going on? You slumming it tonight?”
“If I were slumming it, Hank, I’d be sitting with you instead.”
The man hooted his appreciation of her candor. “One of these nights, sweetheart, you’ll give me a shot. Just wait and see.” After spearing Edward with one last look, the man wandered toward the bathrooms.
Monica took a sip of beer, turned to Edward and said, “And that was another example of Tarpon Joe’s specialties.”
“Funny,” Edward said, admiring how she’d handled the guy. “I don’t remember too many customers at Smitty’s who looked like him. Most of our clientele came from Miami and points north.”
“The classier crowd, eh?”
“I don’t know about that. I guess most of them looked at fishing as an adventure, not as a means to put food on the table.”
“We have folks like that on Sweet Pine—people who depend on fishing for their livelihood. They provide catches for the local restaurants, as well as food for themselves.”
Edward took a swallow of his beer. “Nothing wrong with that. Honest living. Guess I should ask you the question that’s been on my mind all day.”
“You want to know about the pictures Carl took, right? And his conclusion about the carving in the wood piling?”
Edward nodded.
“Neither of us could make any sense of the carving. It was almost a straight line, about three inches long. Looks like it had been gouged from top to bottom. But it was fresh. I’d say carved within the last few days.”
“So that leads you to believe that Dad might have carved it in the moments before he died?”
“Very possibly. I wish I knew what he was trying to indicate by the line. It’s not really much to go on.”
Edward gave her a hard look. “Could it have been an initial? If it was, that means he was trying to give us a clue about who killed him.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Edward.” She spoke gently. “There is still no other evidence that the judge was murdered. Unless you’ve come up with someone who might have had a motive to kill him and his name begins with a letter that has a straight line. Your father, if he did carve that line, might have been trying to say ‘help’ or any number of other things.”
“Or it could have been an initial,” he repeated. Now was as good a time as any to question her about her brother. He’d been wondering about Miguel Cortez since the funeral director told him of the man’s existence and his estrangement from his family. “Mind if I ask you something?”
“Of course not.”
“Why didn’t you te
ll me about your brother?”
“My brother?”
“Yeah. You mentioned your mother who lives with you and a boy named Emilio that you referred to as your nephew. Unless you have other siblings, I’m assuming that the boy is your brother’s, and I’m curious about why you didn’t mention Miguel earlier.”
“How did you hear about Miguel? He’s been gone from Sweet Pine for a long time. No one even talks about him much anymore.”
He told her about the conversation with Gonzalez.
She stared into her glass, but a slight twitch of her eyes told him that his question had touched a nerve. “There’s no reason to bring up Miguel here,” she said. “We were talking about you and your father. My brother’s been in the Miami area for five years. I never even see him.”
That information was consistent with what Gonzalez had relayed to him. “But you’re raising his son?”
“That’s right.” She paused just as the bartender set their food in front of them.
Edward unwrapped his utensils from a tightly wound napkin. “Actually, Monica, I do think there’s a reason to mention Miguel.”
“Oh, what’s that?”
“You hinted that your father might have had a grudge against my father, something about a promise not kept.”
She had speared a shrimp but refrained from taking the fork to her mouth. She gave him an intense stare. “The point I was trying to make was that my father was not the kind to hold a grudge. I told you he was close to your father, well-liked—”
“I remember and I believe you. But if the fortunes of the Cortez family were tied to my father giving part of the marina to Juan, maybe someone else related had a reason to seek revenge for what they might have seen as an injustice.”
“My brother? You’re suggesting that my brother might have killed your father?”
She asked the question calmly, her expression calculating the logic of his words. There was no hint of upset or hurt in her voice. Either she was a cop in control, or she’d thought the same thing herself. “How did he accomplish this, Edward? There wasn’t a mark on the judge’s body, and the only weapon we know of at the scene, a pocketknife, belonged to your father.
A Family Man At Last Page 4