Falafel Jones - Max Fried 01 - Life's a Beach Then You Die

by Falafel Jones

  I was beginning to believe that if Horton really wanted to kill Ray years ago, he would have. On the other hand, I also believed there was something else going on here. I had no other directions to go in my questions so I just pressed on.

  “Don’t you think it’s odd that of all the places to have an accident, Ray crashed and died across the street from your office?”

  “Frankly, no.” Horton clasped his hands over his belly. “He didn’t die across the street from my office. He died on State Route 44. My office may be on the corner of 44 and Damascus, but my address is on Damascus Road. You need to make a turn to get there from here. Plus that road goes on for miles from the ocean to halfway across the state.” Horton paused for emphasis and with his elbows on his chair arms, held up his hands again. “He could have been going anywhere.”

  “You seem pretty determined to distance your office from the accident site. If you haven’t seen him in over 20 years, why should you be so concerned?”

  “Look, Mr. Fried. I know how these things go.” He waved one hand dismissively. “Once you’ve been convicted of something, everyone thinks you’re guilty of everything, no matter what. I’ve done my penance. I don’t want any more trouble. I want to be honest with everyone, just live my life and do my business.” He tilted his head to one side. “Is that too much to ask?”

  “OK, then.” I nodded. “I guess you don’t have anything to add that might help the family in handling the accident?”

  “No. I’m sorry. I don’t.”

  “Well,” I said, rising from the chair, “thank you for your time, Mr. Horton”. I left his office knowing he was lying about having no contact with Ray. I had seen the emails, so I was wondering what else might be false. As I walked out down the hall, I saw several other names on other doors, but I noticed not one of the other doors were marked ¨Corky Eastwood¨.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I left Ben Horton and drove home to an empty house, Mariel was still at her sister’s. I wanted to see her but if she was scared enough to stay there, my visit would only add to her worries. She’d wonder if anyone followed me.

  When I went inside, the quiet and stillness surprised me. It’s amazing how much a small woman can fill up a big house. The place felt different without Mariel there, like I was in someone else’s home.

  It was after lunchtime, so I decided I’d better eat while I could. Once I started thinking about food I remembered how good the onions and peppers smelled at breakfast and again at lunch yesterday. Then I was surprised to realize only one day had passed since Ed dropped off the notebook and Mariel left. I usually looked forward to making a nice lunch but I wasn’t much in the mood for that now. I wanted something easy so I nuked a veggie burger, poured some diet tonic into a glass and squeezed an orange wedge into the soda. The fruit came from one of the trees in the backyard and its juice tasted better than any I ever had. Having grown up in New York, I got a big kick out of having our own orange tree.

  On the way home from talking to Ben Horton, I had been thinking. We should probably turn him over to the Police. When Ed called me back, I was going to suggest it. I knew from his emails Horton was out of town during the break-in at my house, but he was the only person I knew of who had a connection to Ray and Ray was the only connection I had to the break-in. Maybe the Police could sweat him to reveal more information.

  I was also thinking it might be helpful if I could talk to Corky Eastwood. While I watched my burger going round and round in the microwave, I figured she probably wouldn’t talk to me, but hey, what did I have to loose?

  The microwave dinged. I ate my lunch and tried to plan my approach to calling her. Nothing came to mind. I was just going to have to dial and see what came out of my mouth.

  After cleaning up the kitchen, I went into my office and looked up the number for EFH. I dialed and a woman with a professional sounding voice answered. She had perfect enunciation with no hint of any regional accent.

  “Good afternoon. EFH, how may I direct your call?”

  “Hi, I’d like to speak with Corky Eastwood, please.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Ms. Eastwood is unavailable.” She responded so quickly and so automatically that I got the feeling Ms. Eastwood was never available. Big surprise.

  “When might she be available?”

  “I’m sorry sir, but that’s hard to say.”

  “Well, then how does one get in touch with her?”

  “Well, sir. You can leave a message, if you like.”

  “Sure. Why not? Please tell her Max Fried would like to speak with her. I have information for her regarding a risk to one of her investments.”

  “Is that Jack Snead?”

  “No, Max Fried. M-a-x F-r-i-e-d”

  “Yes, sir. How can she reach you?”

  I gave the receptionist my phone number, hung up and looked out the window. Since I didn’t see any pigs flying, I figured it might be a long time before Corky returned my call.

  I sat there staring at the phone, trying to decide what to do next, when it rang, startling the hell out of me. Was Corky Eastwood so impressed she was returning my call immediately? I fantasized as I picked up the phone.

  “Hello?” I said, deepening my voice and trying to speak without my New York accent in order to sound my most professional.

  “Max?” a man’s voice inquired. “Is that you? It’s Ed.”

  “Oh, hi, Ed. What’s up?”

  “I spoke with the Police and I’ll have that inventory list tomorrow. I also have access to Ray and Kathleen’s for the bug check. We can do it at any time.”

  “Great.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “Yeah, well, I was trying to reach someone on the phone and got blown off by her secretary.”

  “Yeah? Who were you trying to reach?”

  “Corky Eastwood.”

  “Corky Eastwood? You mean Zorky’s daughter?”

  I was beginning to wonder if I was the only one who didn’t know about Zorky and Corky. “Yeah.”

  “Hell! I can help you there. You know, I wasn’t always a beach bum lawyer. At one point when I practiced in New York, I was Zorky’s real estate attorney. He had a bazillion lawyers. He had a team for each area of law. He only used specialists. For a while, I was his real estate guy. I headed up a team of attorneys and paralegals. I also handled Corky’s New York townhouse and her place in Key West. I can get you through. What do you want to talk to her about?”

  “She’s listed as Vice President of Ben Horton’s business, PC Gadgets. I want to know the connection between her and Ben.”

  “Hmm. Yeah. I see.” Ed paused. “Tell you what. I have an attorney-client relationship with her. You’re working for me. I can get you access provided you respect the attorney-client privilege. You can’t use anything she tells you against her. OK?”

  “Ed. I’m not a cop. I can’t use anything against anyone.”

  “You know what I mean Max. Don’t get her into any awkward position like the one Ray Kenwood and his wife are in.”

  I think what Ed really wanted to say was “Don’t screw things up for her like you did for the Kenwoods.”

  I wanted to point out that not only was Ray killed before I got involved but that the reason he was dead and his estate was in trouble was because he was a crook. It probably would have done me no good so instead, I just said. “OK.”

  “I mean this, Max.”

  “OK, me too, Ed. Thanks.”

  “Sure, give me a couple hours, maybe a day, I’ll have her call. Any idea when you want to check the Kenwood place for bugs?”

  “How about tomorrow morning?”

  “Did you say ‘morning’? You must really want to get this thing settled. How’s tomorrow at 9:00? I’ll meet you at Ray and Kathleen’s. That way, I’ll be done in time to help Sheila move her stuff.”

  “So you decided. She’s agreed to move into your place.”

  “Yup, going to give it a try, see what happens.”

&n
bsp; “Good for you. Uh, Ed?”

  “Yes?”

  “One other thing I want to discuss. I think we need to turn Horton over to the Police.”

  “For what?”

  “Theft of trade secrets.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Ray’s our only connection to the break-in and Horton’s our only connection to Ray. Besides, this might all be connected to Ray’s murder.”

  “How can the police hold him?”

  “Well, we have the emails from Ray to Horton selling him secrets and corresponding wire transfers to Ray’s accounts. But we don’t have any way to get proof Horton wired Ray the money. The police can obtain subpoenas. Maybe more importantly, Horton not only admitted he knew Ray over 20 years ago; he admitted he had threatened to kill him. Maybe the Police should take a closer look at Ray’s death.”

  “Horton threatened Ray? He admitted that? When? Why?”

  “When I stopped by to see him this afternoon. He said it was a matter of record in a court case against him and Ray when they were younger. Personally, I think he told me so I’d find him more believable when he denied seeing Ray in the last 20 years.”

  “Max! Talking to you is like pulling teeth. You keep giving me little pieces of information that beg more detail. You visited Horton? What’s this about a court case?” Ed let out a long breath over the phone.

  “After we talked, I drove past Horton’s office on the way home. I decided to stop in and chat about the crash. I figured it would be ok to ask questions an accident investigator might ask. When we started talking, Horton volunteered a whole lot more. He told me he and Ray were arrested for smuggling Cuban cigars. When Ray turned on Horton for a lighter sentence, Horton threatened to kill him.”

  “But, he claims he didn’t?”

  “Yeah. He claims.”

  “Max. You just dumped a load on me. Let me see if I have this. You think there’s a case to be made against Horton for killing Ray and breaking into your place, even though you say he was out of town at the time. You want the police to arrest him for his part in the trade secret theft and then sweat him for murder, breaking and entering, etc. at your place, bugging my office even though he was away during the break-in and when Ray died.”

  “Sure.”

  “And this makes sense to you because, even though we don’t think Horton burgled your place, he may have killed Ray and whoever did burgle your place and bugged mine has to have some connection to the trade secret thefts and the only ‘whoever’ we can identify with a connection is Ben Horton.”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Corky? Was she involved in this theft from A. V. Designs? Will arresting Horton incriminate her?”

  “Not if she’s innocent.”

  “No, Max. Fifth amendment, even if she’s guilty, it’s my job to protect her interests.”

  “She didn’t seem to have an office in Horton’s building and I didn’t find anything to indicate she knew what Ray and Horton were up to. It looks like she’s just an investor.”

  Ed let out another long breath. “OK. I’ll call the D. A. again. Last time I spoke with him, he agreed to leave Ray’s estate alone, if I gave him somebody else who happened to be guilty and alive. I’ll have to do this sooner or later. Look, email me a copy of that report you made but revise it to address only the theft. Leave out Corky’s being a V.P. in Horton’s company and the irrelevant personal stuff I originally asked for. Include copies of the incriminating documents and explanations of what they mean. I’ll send it on to the D. A.”

  “Sure, Ed. I’ll do it right now.”

  It didn’t take me too long. I had already stored all of the evidence in a folder on my iPod. All I had to do was document the documents and explain the explanations. I did that and emailed the files to Ed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Now that I had free time, I wanted to go for a run. If I didn’t run on a regular basis, I found it hard to get started again. It wasn’t mentally difficult. The problem wasn’t motivation. It was physically difficult to run because my body had to get used to the heat and exertion all over again. I found it was easier to keep running than to stop and start.

  I changed into swim trunks and a T-shirt, grabbed my iPod and headed down the block, past tropical trees bearing Christmas lights, to the beach. There weren’t many people around and the beach was quiet except for the crashing of the waves. Running here always helped to clear my head and often, after running, I’d have a new perspective on things. I was hoping this would be true today, but so far, I was coming to the end of my first mile and nothing was gelling.

  I did see something though. Each block that runs west to east terminates in a wooden platform that crosses over the dunes to provide access to the beach. I was approaching the dune crossover near my sister in law’s condo and I saw a woman walking. She was leaving the beach headed for the crossover stairs that led to the street. She was slim, about five feet tall with long dark hair and wore a black two-piece bathing suit, like Mariel’s. I thought it might be her. I ran faster so I might catch her before she left the beach. It was close. She was over the crossover and almost out of sight when I caught up. When I got close enough for her to hear me, I started to call her name, but by then, I could see it wasn’t Mariel.

  I was disappointed. I slowed down and finished the rest of my run thinking about how much I missed her. I guess I must have been thinking about her without realizing it when I mistook that other woman for Mariel. After completing my four-mile roundtrip, I was back near the beachside of the dune crossover at the end of my street. I was ready to walk home, so I headed for the stairs.

  When I climbed up the weathered wooden steps, I saw my neighbor, Karl coming towards me. Many of the houses on the block are second homes to snowbirds who only occupy them a few months a year, but Karl lives here full-time. A fellow New Yorker, he understands my accent. He was carrying his fishing gear to the beach, but stopped and waited for me.

  I got to the top of the stairs and he pulled a small scrap of paper from the pocket in his sweatshirt. “Max, I saw this car parked on our street with a guy in it. He was just sitting there, not really doing anything, except maybe watching your place. At first, I thought he might have been, you know, waiting for you, but he parked too far from your house. I didn’t know what to make of it so I copied down his plate number — in case you knew him. He was driving a blue Ford Taurus, a four-door.” Karl handed me the paper. I remembered the mail carrier commented about seeing a blue car the day of the break-in.

  “Thanks. Hey, our neighbor Ralph has a blue car. Look anything like his?”

  “Nah, Ralph’s got a two-door Chevy with Jersey plates. This was a four-door Ford with a Florida plate.”

  I read the number Karl wrote on the paper. “I don’t know what to make of this, don’t recognize the plate or the car, but thanks.”

  “Yeah, well, after the break-in, I thought it would be a good idea to keep an eye out for anything unusual. See you later. I’ve got to catch my dinner.”

  “Thanks. Later.” I folded the paper and stuck it inside my iPod case.

  Karl nodded and walked down towards the surf. He looked determined to get some fish. I went in the opposite direction and walked home vigilant for any blue cars on the street. I saw none.

  It’s easy for me to lose things in my pockets when I run, so I tie my house key to the drawstring on my bathing suit. After I turned into my driveway, I looked down to untie my key. I felt the first impact immediately. It threw my body and my head back so that my eyes moved up and then I saw him. I also caught a fast but close up glimpse of his face as he ran from hitting me hard with his shoulder. I felt myself fall and I saw my feet in the air in front of me. My arms waved with no control over my ability to stop. Then I felt the second impact as my head and shoulder hit the concrete driveway.

  It seemed that only a second later I was lying on my back and I couldn’t see. My vision was black. I wasn’t sure my eyes were open or that I was even awake.
After a moment or two, the center of my vision started to glow white. The glow expanded to the edges of my field of view and gradually revealed the white ceiling of an ambulance. I had no idea how long ago the man ran into me and no clue about what happened since he did. I was stiff, sore, groggy and disoriented.

  A slim, young man in a blue uniform, wearing a stethoscope and white gloves sat next me. “Mr. Fried…. Mr. Fried…. Can you hear me?”

  I turned my head in the direction of his voice and opened my eyes

  “Good. That’s good Mr. Fried. Do you know where you are?”

  I nodded.

  “Very good. Tell me where you are.”

  “Ambulance?”

  “Know how you got here?”

  “Knocked down.”

  “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Two.”

  “Very good. We’re taking you to Bert Fish. The doctor’s going to check you out.”

  I nodded and fell asleep only to feel the EMT gently tapping my cheek. “You have to stay awake.”

  I fought sleep and drifted in and out as people lifted me from a gurney onto a bed in the Emergency Room. All I could think about was how clean, fresh and stiff the sheets felt. I was in baggage mode as they handled me.

  I went back to sleep.

  I woke to a man shining a flashlight in my eyes. First one eye, then the other. He saw I was awake and pocketed his flashlight.

  “Mr. Fried, I’m Dr. Bashouri. I understand you’ve had a fall. It appears that you’ve hit your head. Are you nauseous?”

  “No.”

  “Headache?

  “No, well slightly and… the bump hurts.”

  He nodded. “Can you sit up?

  Slowly and with effort, I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and sat up. I felt woozy. I must have looked wobbly because the doctor held out his hands as if preparing to catch me should I fall. After I steadied myself, he said, “Remove your shirt please.”