Ron Base - Tree Callister 04 - The Two Sanibel Sunset Detectives

by Ron Base

  “We need to talk, Ryde.”

  “We will, buddy, I promise. We will get to all this stuff. But not right now. Right now, I’ve got other priorities. I just wanted to phone and make sure you’re okay—and tell you they’ve moved up the date of our meeting.”

  “What do you mean they’ve moved it up?”

  “No big deal. We’ll get together tomorrow night and conclude our arrangement.”

  “I can’t do that, Ryde.”

  There was a pause before Ryde said, “Why not?”

  “The FBI made me promise not to get involved.”

  There was another moment of silence before Ryde said in a tense voice. “Don’t let me down, buddy. Please. I’m counting on you. For all our sakes.”

  The line went dead.

  32

  The next morning Tree was still so sore from the beating Detective Markfield had administered, that Freddie had to help him out of bed. He couldn’t understand it. In action movies, the hero leapt off bridges onto moving trucks. Explosions blew him into the air. Bad guys smashed and kicked at him. Afterwards, the action hero jumped up again and kept going as if nothing happened.

  Meanwhile, Tree Callister, the hero of his own action movie, knocked around a bit by an angry cop, and days later he could hardly move.

  “It’s not fair,” Tree said as Freddie helped him take off his pajamas.

  “It’s called getting old,” Freddie said. “Your body is informing you of the obvious: you’re no action hero.”

  “It’s my body telling me I need a stunt double.”

  “At your prices, who would be crazy enough to stand in for you?”

  Tree responded with a loud groan as he limped across the room toward the bathroom.

  Freddie helped him into the shower where he discovered that he could not lift his left arm higher than his chest, and if he moved his right arm, pain shot through his fractured rib cage. He felt somewhat better after he stood under the hot spray for ten minutes. Freddie helped him into his pants, but he was able to button his shirt without a great deal of teeth-grinding pain.

  Freddie went off to work while he struggled in the kitchen with a cup of coffee. He called Rex Baxter. “I didn’t know whether you were alive or dead,” Rex said.

  “What was your preference?”

  “I just wish you would quit finding dead bodies on Sanibel,” Rex said. “I liked Bonnie. It’s a shame what happened.”

  “I spent the night in jail because of it.”

  “You’re a suspect, I hear.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “Just that you’re the one who found her, and that you somehow got yourself arrested—again. What is it about you and jail?”

  “You meet a different class of people, no question,” Tree said. “There are not a lot of tourists in the Lee County Jail.”

  “That’s because you’ve driven them all away,” Rex said. “Where are you now?”

  “I’m at home with every bone in my body aching. I’ve been ordered to lie low.”

  “Who ordered you to do that?”

  “The FBI.”

  “What the blazes have you got yourself into this time?”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Tree said.

  “Which is probably just as well. At the risk of saying something I might regret for the rest of my life—is there anything I can do?”

  “Make sure I get a proper burial if it comes to that.”

  “That’s provided there’s anything left of you to bury.”

  “Also, you don’t know where I can find Ryde Bodie by any chance?”

  “All I know is that everyone seems to be looking for him, particularly after Bonnie’s death.”

  “Tell me again how he got involved in the Oscar show at Big Arts.”

  “He came into Dayton’s, like I told you before,” Rex said. “He was with Bonnie. She introduced him. Ryde said he had just moved to the island. He said he wanted to get to know people. Bonnie said he was a real character and thought he would be a great addition to the show—which he turned out to be, incidentally.”

  Unspoken thought: Unlike some other people I know.

  “He also wanted to meet you,” Rex added.

  “He wanted to meet me?”

  “He asked if it was true we had a private detective on the island. I had to admit that was the case, although many of us wonder about him.”

  “Did he suggest we be in the skit together?”

  “I don’t know,” Rex said. “He might have. I can’t recall. What difference does it make?”

  “Tell me this,” Tree said. “Did you say anything to him about the nine million dollars I’m supposed to have?”

  Rex paused before he said, “I didn’t say anything.”

  “It’s no big deal,” Tree lied.

  “It may or may not be a big deal,” Rex said. “But I didn’t tell him.”

  “Okay,” Tree said.

  “You know, it’s not exactly a secret around the island.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No, it isn’t.” Rex sounded adamant.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Are you coming into the office?”

  “No,” Tree said.

  “That doesn’t sound like you’re doing what you’re supposed to do,” Rex said.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “You’re supposed to do nothing, aren’t you?”

  And that’s what he was going to do, Tree thought as he sipped his coffee after hanging up the phone.

  Nothing.

  That’s what he was going to do.

  So if Rex did happen to mention to Ryde Bodie that a private detective on Sanibel Island, an ex-newspaperman who everyone thought was crazy to have become a detective in the first place, could be hiding nine million dollars, then a guy like Ryde, in trouble with a Mexican drug cartel, might conclude that if he played his cards right with that detective, he just might have found a way out of the trouble he was in. He might arrange to be in a skit with the detective at the Big Arts Center. He might even hire that detective in order to get closer to him. He might even invite the vicious head of the drug cartel to dinner so she could meet the detective with the nine million dollars.

  Yes, that could be it all right. But even knowing all that, he wasn’t going to do anything, because that’s what he had promised Special Agent Shawn Lazenby. He was just going to stay out of this and let the proper authorities take care of things.

  Except, maybe, he might make one phone call—a call that in all likelihood would amount to, well, nothing. But he would make it, anyway. In his wallet he found the piece of note paper upon which Jorge Navidad, his Lee County jail pal, had scrawled a number.

  Patricio.

  What could this guy do for him? Not anything, probably.

  But…

  Tree opened his cell and poked out the number on the key pad. It rang three times before someone picked up. The person who answered did not say anything, but Tree could hear the sound of breathing.

  Tree said, “Hello?”

  The voice on the other end said, “Yes?”

  “Is this Patricio?”

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Tree Callister. I’m a friend of Jorge Navidad. He suggested I give you a call.”

  Whoever was on the other end of the line remained silent.

  “Patricio?”

  “There is no one here by that name.”

  Then the person on the other end hung up.

  ________

  Tree finished his coffee and then decided to walk to the beach, in hopes that by keeping his joints moving, relief might come to his many aching parts. The surf walkers were out, ancient mostly, lumbering along the ocean’s edge, bellies protruding over shorts and bathing suits, shirts flapping in the breeze, dark glasses reflecting the sunlight that would soon heat the beach to furnace-like temperatures. They moved stork-like, bent forward as if anticipating a strong w
ind or an unexpected blow, determined, Tree mused, to live forever. He could not bring himself to join the herd. He felt old enough as it was, without having to be reminded of it. He was deciding to return home when his cellphone rang. He swiped it open.

  “Tree, this is FBI Special Agent Shawn Lazenby.”

  Tree said, “Hello, Shawn.”

  “I thought we had an agreement,” Lazenby said.

  “What makes you think we don’t?”

  “Ryde Bodie’s children.”

  “What about them?”

  “Do you know where they are?”

  “You said they’re with you.”

  “Well they aren’t.”

  “I’m having trouble following you, Shawn.”

  “Apparently they have exited the safe house where we were billeting them,” Lazenby said in his formal FBI agent voice.

  “They exited? What’s that mean?”

  “It means they have disappeared,” Lazenby said, exasperation showing.

  “I don’t have them,” Tree said.

  “Supposing we don’t believe you, Tree?”

  “That’s up to you Shawn, but they aren’t with me.”

  “If we came to your house, would you allow us to look around?”

  “I’m not at the house,” Tree said quickly. “And neither are the kids. Maybe they’re with their father.”

  “They’re not with him,” Lazenby said.

  “How do you know that?”

  Lazenby hung up.

  Everyone was hanging up on him, Tree thought ruefully.

  _________

  Just squeezing into the driver’s seat of the Beetle was an act of teeth-clenching courage. Once he got himself settled more or less comfortably, Tree drove down to the Sanibel Island School and parked in the lot.

  And waited.

  After ten minutes or so, the bell inside the school rang signifying the freeing of the inmates for lunch. Tree eased himself out of the car, and hobbled around to the vast playground behind the school that encompassed a baseball diamond and a soccer field. Tree thought he might spot Marcello among the kids kicking a soccer ball around. Instead, he found him shooting hoops inside a covered pavilion. As soon as he saw Tree, Marcello tossed the ball he was holding to another boy and hurried over to Tree.

  “Is it true you were in jail?” he asked.

  “And good afternoon to you, too, Marcello,” Tree said.

  “Is it true?”

  “Briefly I was in jail, yes.”

  “Wow. Jail.” Marcello looked impressed. “What was it like?”

  “Not very pleasant,” Tree said. “I don’t recommend it. As soon as they realized they had made a mistake, they let me go. Who told you this?”

  “I overheard Ms. Stayner on the phone. Talking to a lawyer.”

  “You shouldn’t be listening in on other people’s conversations.”

  “That’s what private detectives do, they listen to things they’re not supposed to hear.” Marcello spoke with unassailable logic.

  “The reason I came over here, Marcello, I wanted to ask you about Madi and Josh.”

  “Madison doesn’t like to be called Madi. She wants to be called Madison.”

  “When did she decide this?”

  “After she met Thomas.”

  “I see. Well, I’ll keep that in mind the next time I see Madison and her brother. Have you heard from them?”

  Marcello said, “I’m worried about them.”

  “Why, Marcello?”

  “They’ve been captured by the FBI.”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite that way.”

  “That’s what they think. That’s why they ran away.”

  “So the FBI doesn’t have them?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where they are?”

  Marcello hesitated too long before he said, “Not really.”

  “Look, there are some people who are after their father, that’s why the FBI took them. So they could protect them. If they are not with the FBI, Josh and Madi could be in real danger.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” A voice of authority, ringing behind him. Tree turned to see a woman striding toward him. “Sir, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m a friend of Marcello’s,” Tree said.

  “That’s Mrs. Middleton,” Marcello explained. “She’s my teacher.”

  Mrs. Middleton addressed Marcello when she said, “Do you know this man?”

  “He’s my partner,” Marcello said.

  Mrs. Middleton addressed Tree. “Are you a guardian of some sort?”

  “My partner,” Marcello repeated insistently.

  “I just need a couple of more minutes with Marcello,” Tree said.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t be here unless you have a visitor’s pass. Do you have a pass?”

  “I just wanted to speak to him for a moment.”

  “Do you have a pass?” More demanding this time.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then, sir, you have to go to the office, show some identification, and they will provide you with the proper visitor’s pass.”

  Mrs. Middleton, in strict authority figure mode, now turned her attention to Marcello. “Behavior Rewards Day is just about over, Marcello. It’s time for you to return to class.”

  Tree focused on Marcello. “Did Josh and Madison tell you where they are?”

  Marcello shook his head. Tree didn’t like the look on the boy’s face.

  “Marcello, do you know where they are?”

  “Sir!”

  “I’d better get back to class,” Marcello said.

  “Sir, please. If you don’t leave, I will have to call school security.”

  Mrs. Middleton was pulling out her cellphone.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Tree called as he retreated. He got a final glimpse of Marcello as Ms. Middleton hustled him into the school. Behavior Rewards Day was indeed over.

  Tree sat in the parking lot for a few minutes not sure what his next move should be. Not certain there was a next move. The school had become quiet, everyone returning to the serious business of learning. He tried to convince himself that he was going to do exactly what he told Shawn Lazenby he would do—stay out of this.

  Sure, that’s what he was going to do all right.

  Then his cellphone rang.

  The voice on the other end of the line said, “Señor Tree Callister?”

  “Yes,” Tree said. “Who’s this?”

  “I understand you are looking for Patricio.”

  33

  The low-slung sand-colored warehouse stood on a bleak patch of industrial land just off Martin Luther King Boulevard. Tree parked in front of concrete steps leading to a glass-fronted door. He went through the door into a linoleum-floored lobby area with a counter to the right. No one was in sight.

  He was wondering if he was in the right place when a bald-headed man who hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, wearing a leather jacket, came through a pair of doors beyond the counter. The guy motioned for him to come through the doors. Tree followed him into a good-sized room, empty except for two more men who also shaved their heads but had not recently shaved their faces. They did not wear leather jackets but they carried lethal-looking semi-automatic weapons. They held guns in a way that suggested they knew how to use them.

  Nobody said anything. Tree stood looking at the three shaved-headed men. They looked back at him with tough, expressionless faces. Then someone’s ring tone sounded: Carly Rae Jepsen singing “Call Me Maybe.” One of the shaved-headed men looked embarrassed. He swiped his phone and said, “Si?” The man listened for a few seconds and then looked at the others and nodded.

  That was the signal for the men to open another door. Tree was led into a vast warehouse area filled with granite and marble slabs on big metal racks. A huge slab of marble dangled from a sling attached to an overhead crane. They advanced along one of the rows to another door. One of the men held the door open and motioned for Tree to go throu
gh.

  Tree found himself inside a much smaller room full of office furniture, the walls adorned with photographs of impressive-looking marble pieces. An old fashioned cathode-ray television was propped on a jagged marble shard. An old man in a wheelchair, frail-looking, with a head of luxurious white hair and a carefully trimmed white beard framing a thin, brown face, gazed at the TV. On the screen, a youthful Elvis, his hair a shiny black hood of perfection, said something in Spanish to an equally perfect, bikini-clad Ursula Andress.

  “Elvis in Fun in Acapulco,” the old man said. “It is, as the title suggests, a movie that takes place in Acapulco. I like it because it is one of the few American movies that does not depict Mexicans as murderous cutthroats. Mind you, Elvis never set foot in Mexico. All his scenes were filmed in Los Angeles.”

  The old man continued, “Then of course there is the attraction of Elvis’s co-star, the lovely Ursula. Was there ever a more beautiful woman in the movies? Not a great actress, I grant you, but dios mío, she has only to appear and she still makes an old man’s mouth water.”

  The white-haired man wore a linen jacket over a collarless white shirt. He turned away from the TV set. In the bluish light thrown off by the screen, Tree saw haunted eyes set deep into his face. The eyes flicked across Tree.

  “Elvis was a true original, an artist,” the white-haired man said, “but an artist strangely corrupted, I believe, by people who did not understand his art and wanted only to make money from him, and thus destroyed him.”

  “You are Patricio?”

  “Let us presume.”

  “Other than the unexpected insight into Elvis and his movies, I’m not certain why I’m here.”

  The old man raised a bony, liver-spotted hand. “Possibly to save your life.”

  “You know a woman named Paola Ramos?”

  Patricio gave a smile as haunted as those deep-set eyes. “It was Paola and her father who put me into this wheel chair. I know her only too well.”

  “Then you know about the trouble I am in.”

  “Paola’s father was the police chief in a province in Northern Mexico. He fell in with the local narcos. These narcos were not very good, so Paola’s father took over and turned the organization into a powerful force dominating the state—that is until his untimely death.”