Ron Base - Tree Callister 03 - Another Sanibel Sunset Detective

by Ron Base

  “How did you get here?” he demanded, cradling the Glock in his lap.

  Cailie kept her eyes on the road. “Let’s say I’m your guardian angel.”

  “Are you really a St. Louis cop?”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Tree, between throwing up on boats and getting kicked around by Key West thugs, I’d say you need help.” She glanced at him and grinned. “You need another operative at the Sanibel Sunset Detective Agency.

  “I wouldn’t know what name to put on the employment form.”

  “We’re both rather mysterious, I suppose. You don’t know who I am. I don’t know what you’re up to in Key West that attracts the attention of gun-toting goons anxious to cut your hand off.”

  “Cailie or whatever you call yourself—”

  “Call me Cailie. I don’t want to make things too difficult for you.”

  “Look, I appreciate what you did for me back there. I’m not sure why, but you saved my hide. Now if you could just drop me off, I would appreciate that, too.”

  “Every time I think it might be possible that you’re capable of dealing with the world you seem to involve yourself in, you reassure me you’re not.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning if I put you back on the street, what are you going to do? Chances are your pals back there are just going to find you again. And believe me, after what just went down, they will want to find you. This time they may do a lot worse than cut off your hand.”

  Tree had no choice but to see her logic. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Go where they won’t find you.”

  “Where is that?”

  “With me.”

  “Not a snowball’s chance in hell,” Tree said.

  “What choice do you have? Besides, we’re the only two people in the world who are going to know anything about this.”

  “You’re already making it sound as though we’re up to no good.”

  She gave a snort of laughter. “You’ve just been kidnapped and beaten. I may have shot someone in a dark warehouse. And now we’re up to no good? It’s a little late to be worrying about that.”

  He heaved a sigh. “Where are you staying?”

  “Not far away. The Casa Marina.”

  “What we will do,” Tree said. “We’ll go over there and see if I can get a room for the night.”

  “If that’s the way you want it, Tree, fine.”

  _______

  The hotel was full.

  The desk clerk was so sorry, but everything was booked up. Tree was certain the clerk looked at him as if he was crazy not to stay with the lovely blonde beside him. Tree had to stop himself from blurting that he was a happily married man, and spending the night with this beautiful woman was the last thing in the world he wanted.

  He had no choice but to follow Cailie through the long lobby, past the conventioneers crowding the bar area, everyone watching them, he was certain.

  By the time they reached her room, he was dead tired. Kidnapping and threats tended to exhaust a detective—at least a detective of a certain age. The room, impersonal in shades of beige and ivory, was cast in a table lamp’s burnished glow, illuminating the king-size bed turned down for the night.

  “You said there were two beds,” Tree said.

  “I was mistaken,” she said, tossing the key card onto the table and unslinging the large shoulder bag she had carried from the car, dropping it to the bed.

  “I’ll take the sofa,” he said.

  She laughed. “This is right out of a bad movie. Come on, Tree. You’re bigger and older. You take the bed. I’ll fit nicely onto the sofa. Are you hungry? Do you want anything to drink?”

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “Do you want to tell me why those characters were after you?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  She grinned and said, “Well, if I’m going to become another Sanibel Sunset detective in your organization, Tree, I should know what you’re up to.”

  “I’m spending most of my time trying to figure you, Cailie.”

  Her smile widened. “I wouldn’t waste my time if I were you. Trying to figure me out will only get you in more trouble than you’re already in.”

  “You haven’t told me if you’re really a cop.”

  “It’ll be on my resume when I apply for a job.”

  He was too tired to argue with her any more. He flopped onto the bed and was vaguely aware of her retrieving the shoulder bag and slipping into the bathroom. Exhaustion washed over him like a series of small blows. He propped his head against luxuriously soft pillows, and was sound asleep.

  ________

  Later—although how much later he could not say other than it was around the time he was being chased by the lion—he was shaken awake. Cailie Fisk’s hair tumbled around her lovely, intense face. Was he dreaming? Hard to say.

  “What is it?” he said.

  Before he could stop her, she dropped her head to him, her lips finding his, savagely kissing him. He pushed her away. “I want you to know,” she said.

  “Stop this, Cailie.”

  “I’m going to destroy you and your wife—just like you destroyed me.”

  She kissed him again, and then she was gone. He tried to sit up and couldn’t. It was a dream. Lions chasing him. Threatening women kissing him.

  Bad dreams, that’s all. If Freddie was here, that’s what she would say.

  He fell back to sleep.

  17

  When Tree awoke in the morning, he was alone in the room.

  He had not heard a sound of Cailie leaving, and he still wasn’t sure the kiss, and the threat that went with it, was anything more than a bad dream.

  He got up from the bed, and padded into a tiled bathroom, so white its glare hurt his eyes. He stared at his bleary, unshaven face in the mirror. This morning he not only looked his age, he felt it, too. The muscles along his right arm and shoulder ached. He wanted to go back to bed and forget about everything.

  Instead, he stripped off his clothes and ducked under the hot, reviving spray of the shower. That felt better.

  He found a small bottle of mouthwash in the generous toiletries basket the hotel provided—just in case a guest arrived unexpectedly to spend the night with a mysterious woman who conveniently disappeared the next morning.

  He tried on various scenarios that would explain to Freddie how he twice came to be in the same woman’s hotel room. Even the truth came out like a lie. He inspected the one-day beard growth that on younger men made them look sexy; it made him look like Gabby Hayes—for those who remembered Gabby Hayes.

  After he finished dressing, he decided to call Freddie and let her know he was all right. But not in the space recently shared with Cailie Fisk. He would wait until he was in the lobby. Somehow, anything he said would sound less duplicitous there.

  Riding down in the elevator, Tree thought about how his mother and her sisters used to bring him and his cousins to Sanibel Island each winter. Occasionally, they would break up their stay with an overnight jaunt to Key West. He remembered visiting the Casa Marina, in awe of the grand old hotel built by Henry Flagler to house the very well-to-do arriving from Miami via his newly completed railroad. But Casa Marina had undergone renovation in recent years, and in the process its Old World charm had been lost. Now it was just another anonymously ultra-modern resort hotel.

  In the nearly empty vastness of the lobby, Tree tried to use his phone, but could not get a signal.

  He considered leaving Key West, taking a cab out to the airport and grabbing the first plane back to Miami. He would find a connecting flight to Fort Myers once he got there. But that would mean leaving empty-handed, and no closer to finding Elizabeth Traven than he was when he arrived. Had she really disappeared with ten million dollars? If she had, she wouldn’t still be hanging around Key West.

  Would she?

  She might if Hank Dearlove was involved. Wherever Dearlove was this morning, maybe that’s
where Elizabeth could be found, too.

  Outside, he found an available pedicab. The driver’s name was Dominik. He was young and blonde and spoke with an American accent.

  “I was born in Poland, though,” Dominik explained as he started off. “But I’ve been here for a long time, so I guess that makes me pretty much American. You want to see where Hemingway lived?”

  “You take a lot of people there?” Tree asked.

  “It’s unbelievable, man. Like what is it with the guy? He just wrote stuff, right?”

  “You’ve never read Hemingway?’

  “Reading, man. Get real. I play video games.” Dominik laughed, like the whole idea of reading was beyond ridiculous.

  Tree tried to imagine Hemingway playing a video game. He did not have that kind of imagination.

  The day’s first visitors were already streaming through the main entrance at 702 Whitehead as Tree’s pedicab pulled up. Tree told Dominik to wait while he went to the ticket booth.

  “Is Hank here?” Tree asked the young woman in the booth.

  The woman checked a clipboard hanging from a hook on the wall beside her. She shook her head and said, “Hank’s not scheduled today.”

  “He did such a great job yesterday I wanted to give him something. I’m leaving town today. Any chance I could get his address and drop it around to him?”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid we can’t do that, sir. You can leave it with me in an envelope if you wish.”

  “I wanted to give it to him personally.”

  “I’m really sorry. We can’t give out personal information.”

  Tree walked back to where Dominik waited at the curb. “Do you want to earn a quick twenty bucks?”

  Dominik looked at him suspiciously. “Doing what?”

  “Just go over there by the ticket booth and collapse.”

  “Collapse? You mean like fall down?”

  “As though you passed out.”

  Dominik said, “Fifty bucks.”

  “What?”

  “You want me to do something like that, it’s fifty bucks.”

  “Done,” Tree said. “Now get going.”

  Dominik eased off his bike. “What are you going to do?”

  “I won’t be far away,” Tree said. “Just collapse. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Dominik held his hand out. “Not that I don’t trust you.”

  “Twenty-five now,” Tree said. “The other twenty-five when it’s all over.”

  “Fair enough,” Dominik said. Tree got his wallet out and put two tens and a five into the pedicab driver’s outstretched hand.

  Dominik stuffed the bills into his pocket and then walked briskly over to the entrance and stopped. He stood there and then his knees buckled, and he issued a loud gasp before dropping to the pavement.

  Tree saw the woman in the ticket booth start and then call out, “Pete!” before she hurried out of the booth and rushed to where Dominik lay on the ground.

  Tree crossed to the open ticket booth, and, as casually as he could, reached in the open window to lift the clipboard off its wall hook. Quickly, he scanned it. Dearlove, Hank. Thirteen William Street in Key West.

  Tree returned the clipboard to its hook. He turned to see the young woman from the ticket booth and another attendant, presumably the guy named Pete, with Dominik who by now was sitting up. A small, concerned crowd had gathered around. Tree pushed through, announcing, “It’s okay, I’ll take care of him.”

  The young woman looked up at Tree. He could see the confusion on her face. With help from Pete, Tree got Dominik to his feet.

  “Dehydrated,” Dominik said.

  “Still feel like driving me?” Tree said to him.

  “No problem,” Dominik said. “I’m okay now.”

  The young woman and Pete traded glances.

  Back on the street, Dominik said, “How’d I do?”

  “Award-winning,” Tree said. “Billy Wilder said he could turn anyone into an actor. You’re the proof of that.”

  Dominik said, “Who’s Billy Wilder?”

  “Can you take me over to William Street?”

  “For another fifty bucks.”

  “Come on, Tree said. “Give me a break, will you?”

  “It’s the American way, man. Fifty bucks.”

  ________

  Ten minutes later, Dominik swooped onto Fleming, crossing Duval before swinging left on William Street and arriving in front of number thirteen. Tree handed him the twenty-dollar bill they finally had negotiated. “Sure you don’t want me to wait around?”

  “I can’t afford you,” Tree said.

  “I can make you a very attractive deal,” Dominik said.

  “I’m just a poor, starving tourist,” Tree said.

  “Sure you are, man. Getting guys to collapse onto the pavement for you? Come on. You’re up to something that you shouldn’t be, and when that happens, man the dollar signs start to fly.”

  “Is that the American way?” Tree said.

  “What I came to this great country for.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Tree said.

  Dominik looked disappointed, and Tree wondered how big a lie that statement would turn out to be.

  The house, with its gleaming white verandas on the upper and lower levels, was set among lush palm trees behind a white picket fence, a fine example of the Queen Anne style that had arrived in Key West late in the nineteenth century.

  Tree opened the gate and went up the walkway to the porch. He mounted the steps leading to the screen-door entrance. The inner door was open. From inside, Tree could hear the husky tenor voice of Tony Bennett.

  Tree rapped on the screen door.

  “Hello,” Tree called. There was no answer.

  Tree knocked again. Tony Bennett stopped singing. Silence, save for the insect sounds coming from the lush foliage crowding the house.

  Tree opened the screen door and stepped inside, calling out again. His voice echoed through the interior. He stood in the entranceway, listening to the soft, motorized whir of an overhead ceiling fan. He called out a third and fourth time.

  A ginger-colored cat padded along the main hallway running the length of the house. It was a Hemingway cat, Tree noticed, polydactyl, with six toes on each of its front paws. The cat spotted the intruder, and let out a loud meow, twitching its tail.

  A tail brushed with crimson.

  The cat twitched and turned back along the hall. Tree followed it into an octagonal-shaped, pine-paneled sitting room. Five shuttered windows filtered slivers of midday sunlight, outlining the overturned coffee table, the smashed lamps, torn-apart sofas and easy chairs, their stuffing scattered across the pine floor.

  The same kind of damage had been done to a similarly paneled study with archways, featuring sunburst transoms, looking onto a pool area. A wood-carved desk had been upended. Various editions of Hemingway’s novels had been yanked off the surrounding shelves and thrown haphazardly to the floor. Papers and files were strewn everywhere.

  The cat stopped near a trail of red splotches leading onto the terrace. He let out another screech, his red tail twitching back and forth. Tree, now having trouble breathing, forced himself to follow the blood path onto a tiled pool deck surrounded by luxurious gardens.

  Hank Dearlove’s body lay at the bottom of the three steps leading down to the pool deck. Dearlove, in a flowered shirt similar to the one he had on the day before, lay on his back staring up at a cloudless sky he would never see again.

  18

  The ginger cat slithered against Dearlove’s body, issuing another high-pitched shriek, its tail twitching, picking up more blood. Tree bent down beside Dearlove, pale and stiff on the terrace. Tree couldn’t tell how long he had been dead or what killed him—but he was dead all right, no doubt of that.

  Tree rose and went back inside the study to search for a telephone. The cat reappeared, calmer now, rubbing himself against Tree’s thigh. Tree gently pushed him away, not wanting to be struck by t
hat bloody tail. His gaze fell on the framed photographs adorning the walls: Hank Dearlove, crisp and pressed in a suit and tie, posed with a solemn-looking Vice President Dick Cheney. He shook hands with Defense Secretary Caspar Weinberger. He was part of a group of men posing at a cocktail party. Some of the men held up glasses and laughed into the camera. He recognized a younger, fitter Miram Shah and a burly Javor Zoran.

  Tree looked around the room. Someone had yanked all the drawers out of the overturned desk, spilling its contents across the floor. Tree knelt to the mess of papers and books. Various letters and correspondence were addressed to HENRY DEARLOVE, ASSISTANT DIRECTOR, CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY.

  An antique telephone stood on a rosewood side table in the corner. Tree picked up the handset. As he did this, he spotted the brochure lying on the floor.

  The Island Inn on Sanibel.

  He called 911 and when the operator came on the line, he briefly told her what he had found at Thirteen William St. Then he hung up. By now he had some experience with these things. No use spending a lot of time on the line with 911 operators. The police would arrive soon enough.

  Tree picked up the Island Inn brochure and went out onto the porch to gulp in a lungful of warm summer air. William Street for now was deserted. That was about to change. He leaned against the railing, staring at the bright, inviting photos contained in the Island Inn brochure: A tradition since 1895.

  His phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out. Now he had a signal. He looked at the readout on the screen: Freddie.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m still in Key West,” he said. “I called you earlier but couldn’t get any service.”

  “So you’re all right? I was worried.”

  He thought: I spent the night in another woman’s hotel room, and I just discovered a corpse. Couldn’t be better.

  Aloud he said, “I’ll call you later and fill you in.”

  “Okay, but are you still looking for Elizabeth Traven?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, she’s not in Key West.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I just drove past her on San-Cap Road.”

  ________

  As soon as the Criminal Investigations branch of the Key West police department identified the corpse in the house on William Street, the number of local police officers and Monroe County Sheriff’s Department major crimes investigators increased exponentially.