The Killing Sands

by Rick Murcer

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. JFK seems to travel in those circles. I mean when he’s not busy fronting for the colonies, of course. No doubt you’ve heard the rumors that he and Momo Giancana were both diddling Judy Exner?”

  “So, JFK has a healthy appetite for the lovelies. Judy Exner’s still alive. Why is Kristina Braun dead?”

  “That’s exactly what we want to know. We don’t fancy our agents turning up dead, and we like it even less when we don’t understand what’s happened to them. I arrived here from the UK last night for the purpose of debriefing her. We were to meet this morning for just that reason. Unfortunately, someone preempted our meeting.”

  “Roger, come on; you’ve got a mobster and the president of the United States playing footsie with the same woman, and you want to know why she’s dead? I can see where her death could be the solution in any number of scenarios. You don’t need a PI; you need the FBI, CIA, and the Secret Service. You don’t take a Rolls Royce to Earl Scheib for a paint job. Bring in the big guns and throw a little money around; you’ll get results.”

  “American intelligence doesn’t know that Kristina worked for us, and we’d like to keep it that way—on the QT, if you will. We had our reasons for putting that pair together, and we’d like the secrecy of our little plan to remain intact. I can’t afford to have American intelligence become interested in this. Do a little checking around and report back to me if you find anything you think might be useful. It pays five hundred a day.”

  “Wow. That’s a big chunk of change. So why did you put an agent in JFK’s bed?”

  Hollister stood up and walked to the wide entrance of his cabana. The brunette waitress was bent over, placing a drink on a lounge table. Hollister had an excellent point of view. “That, my dear boy, is a Crown secret. We simply want to know the details of her death.” He reached into the pocket of his cabana set and handed Angel an envelope. “One week in advance.”

  “This is a lot of cash, and I’m not ignoring it, but you’re going to have to tell me more before I take the case. This isn’t exactly a minor-league assignment.” He tried to hand the envelope back to Hollister, but Hollister’s arms were folded across his chest. He was still admiring the brunette.

  “Look here; hold onto the money, Johnny. You see the room key lying on the table over there?”

  Angel picked up the key and examined it. The key fob was imprinted with the Fontainebleau’s banner. “It happened here?”

  “Yes, old boy, it happened here. Go have a sniff around, and let me know if you get hungry. Worst case scenario, you and I take a puddle jumper over to Puerto Rico for some late-night gambling on the Crown’s tab.” He turned to face Angel. “As I said, this all happened early this morning. I’ve managed to keep this under wraps, but we’ll have to move quickly. I won’t be able to keep it quiet for long.”

  Angel nodded. “What about the body?”

  Hollister reached into his pocket and withdrew a lighter. He finally lit the cigarette that had been clenched between his lips. “Oh, I’m saving the best for last. Go have a look around. I’ll be waiting here.”

  Chapter-2

  Angel swung the room key on his finger as he approached the concierge’s desk. “Santo, what’s shaking?” Angel said. He was already reaching for his wad of cash.

  “Mr. Angel, what a lovely—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, look, Santo, I’d love to chat, but I just don’t have time for pleasantries.” He had a folded twenty in his palm as they shook hands. Santo didn’t even flinch as he stashed the bill in his pocket. “The doll staying on the top floor, Kristina Braun: I need a list of her phone calls, incoming and outgoing . . . the whole enchilada.”

  “Done, John. Anything else?”

  “Anyone visit her that I should know about?”

  Santo made a face that said, “Are you kidding? You mean other than John-fucking-Kennedy?”

  Angel chuckled. “What was I thinking? Tough to keep something like that quiet, I guess.”

  “They’re talking about it from here to Palm Beach. I mean we get celebrities in here all the time: Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., you name it, but the president, I mean that gets attention. I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”

  “How long did that go on?”

  “Often, from what I’ve been told. I leave at eight, but I get an earful every morning from the boys on the night shift . . . Cadillacs rolling in late at night, black suits and sunglasses . . . They used the freight entrance, but the president’s the president. Everyone knows who he is.”

  “Did she have any other special visitors?”

  “Why, JFK’s not special enough?”

  “Anyone else I should know about is what I’m asking.”

  Santo shrugged. “I don’t remember anyone else.”

  “Did she go out a lot?”

  “She was in and out of here all the time. I must have called her a dozen cabs myself.”

  “No idea where she went?”

  “No.”

  “How did she dress?”

  “Smart: nice dresses, nude stockings, and black pumps. Great legs, man. The kind that makes a guy want to whistle.”

  “Do you remember any of the cabbies?”

  Santo rubbed his eyes, while he struggled to remember. “Ah, I don’t know. It’s Miami; there are hundreds of cabbies in and out of this place every day. I’m here less than a year—I’m still trying to get used to the palmetto bugs.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. You’re a California boy—where’d you say you worked before this?”

  “The Beverly Hills Hotel,” Santo said proudly.

  “Nice place?”

  “Hell yeah. You think this place is fancy? The Beverly Hills Hotel has movie stars up the wazoo: Doris Day, Bob Hope, John Wayne, Natalie Wood—I’ve got souvenirs and autographs from some of the biggest names in Hollywood.”

  “Sounds great. So why’d you give up a sweetheart setup like that?”

  “Family . . . you know how it is.”

  Angel sighed. “Okay, look, how long for the phone list?”

  Santo shrugged. “I don’t know. How often do you think I get asked for something like that?”

  Angel was already reaching into his pocket for a fresh twenty.

  Santo smiled. “Give me an hour.”

  Chapter-3

  Angel caught the elevator up to the top floor. Kristina Braun’s room key was once again spinning on his finger as he approached the door. The Do Not Disturb sign was hanging from the doorknob.

  It was a nicely appointed suite with linen furniture and a large credenza. The Atlantic was visible through the open patio doors. Angel watched the powerful surf land on the beach for a moment before he began to look around the room. The suite had a full kitchenette with an electric cooktop, sink, and a full-sized refrigerator.

  It was mid-afternoon, and the room was unbearably hot. Angel closed the patio doors and switched on the air conditioner. He did a three-sixty to quickly take in the sitting room. Nothing has gone on here, he thought. Everything was in its place—the room looked as if it had been freshly made up.

  A short alcove led to the bedroom area. The bedroom looked normal. There was no sign of a struggle and no blood. Nothing had been smashed or broken. An empty bottle of rum was lying on the carpet next to the bed. Angel examined the indentations in the mattress and opined that two people had slept in it. Where the hell is the body?

  Angel checked the carpet for bloodstains and then walked into the bathroom. Nothing out of order, he observed.

  As he walked back into the bedroom, he inspected a side chair to make sure it was evidence-free. He plopped down and took a moment to gather his thoughts. A hot broad, a horny gangster, steamy sex . . . Why did he kill her?

  The hotel room was still dreadfully hot. He began to sweat. What am I looking for? He sat for minutes before he began to search for clues.

  He got up and walked into the kitchen. “Christ,” he grumbled. “I hope there’s something cold t
o drink.” He yanked open the refrigerator door. “Holy shit!” His arms shot out just in time to catch the naked body of Kristina Braun as it tumbled out of the refrigerator and into his arms.

  Chapter-4

  Angel dragged the body a few feet and placed it gently in the center of the kitchen floor. He noticed that her skin was coated with a sticky substance that felt tacky on his fingertips. He stepped back and looked her over from head to toe. What a body! She wasn’t much more than five feet tall. Not an ounce of fat. There wasn’t a mark on her. Her skin was smooth and perfect without any apparent bruises or swelling. There were no punctures or stab wounds.

  A thought hit him like a mule’s kick. He left the body and began to yank open all of the kitchen cabinets, one by one. There wasn’t much to see, only some basic utensils, dishes, and a coffee pot. He raced into the sitting room and opened the large credenza drawers. One of the drawers was filled with the refrigerator shelves. “Oh, that’s beautiful,” he said. “Come to daddy.”

  Chapter-5

  Angel walked to the kitchen sink and turned on the hot water. He smelled his fingers before he washed them and detected a sugary smell. He licked his fingertips. “Rum?”

  He washed his hands and dried them. The telephone was only a few feet away. “Operator, please connect me with Roger Hollister’s cabana.” He heard the phone ring on the other end of the line.

  Hollister picked up quickly, “You’re slowing down, Johnny. What took you so long?”

  “You’re a real jerk, Roger. Why did you leave the poor little thing in the refrigerator?”

  “Because, Johnny, I couldn’t call the police, and I didn’t want her to rot. I wanted you to find her in the same condition that I did.”

  “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Lily-livered Yankee,” he chuckled. “Find anything?”

  “I have the refrigerator shelves that the murderer removed to make room for the body. If we’re lucky, they’ll have prints all over them.”

  “Clever lad.”

  “Do you know anyone discreet who can dust for prints?”

  “Yes, I believe I have just the right fellow. He’ll check for prints and make arrangements to move the body.”

  “Great, so what do I do with the body for now? I can’t just leave her lying on the kitchen floor.”

  “Do what I did, Johnny. Stuff her back in the fridge.”

  Chapter-6

  Angel rode the elevator back down to the lobby. Santo gave him the “high sign” as soon as he stepped out of the elevator. Santo walked out of the lobby and past Sonny the parking attendant. He lit a cigarette.

  “What have you got?”

  Santo reached into his pocket and handed Angel a sheet of paper that had been torn from a legal pad. “I was surprised. She didn’t make many calls.”

  “Thank God,” Angel said. He took the phone list and folded it in quarters without examining it. “I thought that women like to talk.”

  Santo took a drag on his cigarette. “You ever meet a woman who didn’t?”

  He handed Santo an extra twenty. “Nice work.”

  “Thanks.” He looked Angel over. “You don’t look like your usual cool, calm, and collected self. I didn’t think a guy like you had any sweat glands.”

  “Yeah, I could use a shower.”

  “No problem. I can fix you up with an empty room—have your shirt washed and pressed in under an hour.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got it covered.”

  Santo nodded, “Okay,” and then took a heavy drag that burned the cigarette paper down to the filter. “So why are you interested in her? She do something wrong?”

  “Everyone’s done something wrong, Santo. It’s all just a matter of degree.” He placed the list of phone numbers in his pocket. “Stay cool.”

  Angel reentered the lobby and took the elevator up to the seventh floor. He found room 710 and knocked on the door. Honey answered wearing a towel. “I didn’t expect you so soon. I just got out of the shower,” she said.

  “You look good to me.” Angel’s gaze traveled down to her long, tan legs which emerged from the bottom of a white bath sheet. Her toenails were polished cherry red, the same shade as Angel’s convertible.

  Honey blushed. “You scared me with all that talk about the baby oil being bad for you. I figured I had better wash it off.” She gave Angel a knowing smile. “Come on in.”

  “Thanks, got anything to drink?”

  “Rum and Coca-Cola. Would you like me to fix you a drink?”

  “I’d love one.” He noticed that the bottle of rum was the same brand as the empty bottle he had seen in Kristina Braun’s room. It was a local favorite named Dos Cristo. “Mind if I rinse off?”

  “Go right ahead. It’ll give me a chance to change.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble for me,” Angel said as he swaggered into the bathroom.

  Honey began humming “Runaround Sue” and filled two glasses with ice.

  ~~~

  Angel awoke with Honey nuzzled comfortably against his arm. He looked out through the glass patio doors and saw that the sun was now low in the sky. He checked his watch. It was almost 6:00 p.m. His mouth was pasted shut. He reached for his glass of rum and Coke. All that was left in the glass was melted ice and water. He downed it quickly and then slid his pinned arm out from under Honey. He dressed quickly and left the room.

  Chapter-7

  By the time Angel got home, it was after 7:00 p.m. There wasn’t much daylight left in the sky. He could see the sun setting over his rooftop as he pulled the T-Bird into the garage.

  He made himself a fresh drink and sat down with Santo’s phone list. As Santo said, she had only made a few calls. He picked up the phone and dialed the first number.

  He heard the sound of an answering machine. “Thank you for calling Caña de Cuba, the home of Dos Cristo, the world’s finest rum. Our offices are closed. Please call back during normal business hours.”

  Dos Cristo? Again?

  Angel grabbed the Yellow Pages from under his coffee table and looked it up. He checked Dos Cristo first and found nothing listed. He flipped back a few pages and found Caña de Cuba. The phone number was listed along with an address that Angel knew was near the port. The listing also said See Our Full Page Ad. The ad contained a sketch of a bottle of Dos Cristo.

  He circled the phone number on his list and jotted the address down next to it along with the company’s name. The next phone number on the list caused him to become alarmed. It was his.

  Chapter-8

  Angel swallowed his drink and then raced back to his car. He was back on the road in a minute flat. The tires smoked as the T-Bird fought for traction. He had only made it to the corner when a car skidded into the intersection in front of him. He slammed on the brakes and brought the T-Bird to a hard stop. He watched as the door opened, and a detective he recognized got out and walked up to his car. “Rojo, what the hell? You could have killed me.”

  “What’s your hurry, Angel? I heard your car burning rubber.”

  “Just checking to see if the T-Bird still has the goods.”

  Rojo was a slight Cuban with greasy hair and a goatee. “Don’t be rude, Angel; get out of the car and talk to me.” Rojo walked to the front fender and lit a cigarette. Angel shook his head and then reluctantly joined him.

  “So what’s going on?” Angel asked. “I’m on a case.”

  “A case that involves Kristina Braun?”

  “No. Why?”

  “She’s missing and may be dead. We got an anonymous tip from someone at the Fontainebleau saying they saw a body getting rolled out of her room. We checked and found the room empty.”

  “Did you find anything suspicious?”

  “Nothing much, only that the shelving had been removed from the refrigerator and that there were traces of rum smudged on the inside of the refrigerator and the kitchen floor.”

  “No blood? No signs of a struggle?”

  “No, nothing.”
<
br />   “What does all this have to do with me?”

  “We questioned the staff and checked her phone calls. I recognized your phone number right away. Are you working for her?”

  “Working for her? No, I’m not working for her. Lots of people call me—I must have missed her call. You know that I don’t have a secretary. Listen, why are we beating around the bush, Rojo? I’m sure you know what I know.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “That Kennedy was seeing a pretty German broad at the Fontainebleau. You have no idea where to look for her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, let me know when you do. Now, can I get back to work?”

  “You were at the Fontainebleau this afternoon. You mean to tell me you don’t know anything about this?”

  “Sorry, Rojo, I was on a date with a pretty brunette with a smile like Annette Funicello. She’s in Room 710—you can check it out if you don’t believe me.”

  Rojo threw his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his heel. “All right, Angel, I know you’re smooth, but if I find out that you’re lying to me . . .”

  “Don’t give it a second thought, Rojo. I always cooperate with the police. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “I don’t like being conned, Angel. Don’t piss on my boot and tell me it’s raining.”

  “Look, man, you’re looking for a German doll who was having an affair with the president of the United States. I can think of all kinds of people who might want to get to her, and I know that you can too. Does this sound like a case for a local PI like me?”

  Rojo walked away without answering.

  Angel got back into his car and drove south in the direction of the port. He was familiar with many of the warehouses near the Port of Miami and their customary hours of operation. The offices of Caña de Cuba may close at five o’clock, but the shipping department works all night.