A Reservation for Murder_A Lieutenant Morales Mystery

by AJ Basinski

  I was nodding my head as Shipley was speaking, but I still had plenty of questions about this whole crazy scenario that Shipley was describing. I just wasn’t sure now was the appropriate time to bring them all up.

  “So, Mario, are you on board?” asked Shipley after a minute or so of silence.

  “Obviously, this is not what I planned on doing while on my vacation,” I answered. “But I’m here now and if you really think I can be of some help in this investigation, I guess I’m in. What’s the next step?”

  “Don’t worry,” Shipley said “I will be in touch later today. I’m glad you’re joining us.” As Shipley was speaking, I heard the crack of a gunshot. I could feel the movement of the air as the bullet passed between us. The bullet imbedded itself in the wooden wall behind our table.

  I hit the deck of the restaurant as soon as I heard the gunshot and climbed under the table because that seemed to be the safest place to be. But I did manage to crane my neck to look up. I saw a dark blue or black Cadillac Escalade that was pulling away from the parking lot with screeching tires that left an acrid smell of burning rubber in the air.

  My years of police training kicked in and I jumped up from under the table and started running towards the SUV as it began to down Palm Island Road. As I ran, I pulled my Walther from my holster underneath my flowered Hawaiian shirt. When I got to the middle of the road, with cars all around me in both directions, I stopped and took aim at the Cadillac as it streaked down the road towards the mainland, only a quarter mile away. I knew that if that Cadillac got off the island, it just might disappear forever along with the driver. I aimed the Walther99 and fired twice in the direction of the speeding car. One of the bullets must have hit the driver as the Cadillac careened crazily down the road for another hundred yards or so, just missing a Palm County school bus filled with kids returning to the island after school in Cape Coral. The Cadillac then smashed through the wooden fence surrounding the Calusa Marina and crashed into the waters of Palm Island Sound with a loud splash that I heard even more than a quarter mile away.

  I continued running towards the Cadillac. When I got to the spot where the car crashed through the fence, I saw the car float briefly on top of the water before sinking to the bottom. It seemed an eternity before it sunk, but I’m sure it was only seconds in real time. I watched for several minutes more with my Walther aimed in the direction of the Cadillac to make sure that no one exited the sunken car. When no one did surface, I walked slowly back to the restaurant, trying to piece together in my mind what had just happened. And how I had sent someone to a watery grave, someone I didn’t even know but someone who may have tried to kill me.

  When I got back to the restaurant, Shipley was wiping blood from his forehead, where the bullet had apparently grazed him before it had lodged in the wall behind our table.

  Someone apparently had called 911 and a Palm County paramedic ambulance screeched to a halt in front of the restaurant about two minutes later. The two paramedics jumped out of the ambulance and, despite his protests that he was fine, put Shipley on a stretcher and loaded him into the back of the ambulance, his head still bleeding through some gauze that one of the paramedics had wrapped around his forehead.

  Just before the paramedics closed the door to the ambulance and it pulled away from the parking lot, I yelled to Shipley, “Jesus Christ, Ed, what the hell is going on here?”

  Shipley just shook his head. I took this as a sign that he was as bewildered as I was.

  Chapter 14

  Later that same day, as he had promised, I received a call from Shipley, who asked me to meet him in his office. I was surprised that he had already been released from the hospital. When I asked him about that, he said it was just a flesh wound, but like any head wound, it had bled a lot.

  As soon as I entered his small office, which was located in a building mid-island, I noticed immediately that it was neat as a pin. There were no papers or other materials on his desk, no stacks of files piled on the credenza behind his desk or on the floor which you would expect to see in a police officer’s office. Nothing. I had never seen anything quite like it.

  While his desk and the rest of the office were clear of files and papers, the walls of the office were covered almost floor to ceiling with photographs of Shipley standing or sitting with various celebrities, politicians and other odd notables, current and past, who had apparently visited Palm Island at one time or another. On one wall I saw an autographed picture of the late, easy-listening singer, Perry Como. On the opposite wall was a gold-framed picture of former president George W. Bush. The photograph was signed, “To my good friend, Ed Shipley.”

  When I commented to Shipley on the large number of pictures of the rich and famous on his walls, Shipley laughed and said he had used the photographs in his campaign materials when he was running for reelection as chief of police. That approach apparently had worked quite well for Shipley. Ed told me that he had been reelected three times as chief by the residents of the island, winning with more votes each time he ran.

  “Ed,” I said as I sat down on the hard, unpadded wooden chair opposite Shipley’s desk, “what the hell is going on here? When I agreed to help you out, I thought this was going to be just another murder investigation. Now I find out that the CIA is involved. You say that there’s a ton of CIA gold that’s missing. To top it all off, we get shot at while having a quiet grouper lunch in a fish house by the bay. And I don’t know what the hell else may be happening or that you haven’t even told me about.”

  Shipley shook his head and began, “If I knew, I would tell you. We have one murder here in paradise. In my mind and I’m sure in the minds of the people who live on or visit this island, that’s one murder too many. And then someone tries to kill you at lunch today. I can only hope that’s the end of it. Cause if it’s not, not only are we all in danger, but this kind of thing could spell the end of the island as a vacation paradise. Nobody’s going to want to come here. Nobody. And tourism is huge here. Almost 60% of our economy depends on it. We can’t afford any more murders.”

  Something that Shipley said bothered me. He said that someone tried to kill me. How did he know it was me the shooter was after? I decided that I had better find out if he had more information that might have led him to that conclusion. Why would anyone want to go after me? Who even knew I was on the island?

  “Hey, Ed,” I began, “why in the hell do you think that the shooter today was after me and not you? After all, you were the one who actually got hit.”

  Ed paused, then answered, “Mario, I misspoke. I didn’t mean ‘you’ in particular. Of course, it could have been either one of us that he was after.”

  I wasn’t exactly sure that I was buying that answer but decided to let it go for now. “I assume you have heard from the CIA by now about this gold thing and also about my joining in the investigation,” I said.

  “You better believe it. They are on it like flies on horseshit. I talked to one of the agents this morning but he wouldn’t tell me very much more than what I had already told you. Those bastards play it real close to the vest. Real close. I did tell them of your involvement and they gave their blessing. It sounded like they were happy to have you on board. They knew all about your impeccable credentials, of course. They know just about everything on everybody. To tell you the truth, it’s kind of frightening even to me.”

  “Cigar?” Shipley abruptly changed the subject as he handed me a Montecristo, which he removed from a small humidor sitting behind his desk. The Montecristo Churchill just happened to be my favorite cigar.

  “How did you know that I like to smoke Montecristoes?” I asked Shipley.

  “Oh I didn’t know,” Shipley said, rather sheepishly. “I just happened to have a few extras that someone had given me and I thought you might like one. Here let me give you a light.”

  We sat in silence for an awkward moment or two as we both puffed on the cigars. The room was beginning to fill up with blue cigar smoke. Then Shi
pley said, “Look, whatever the hell the whole damn CIA may think, at bottom what we got here is a murder investigation. “

  “I agree. I’m glad you see it the same way as I do. So, Ed, what would you like me to do? I’m basically available for whatever you need. At least for the next few days.”

  Rather than answering me directly, Shipley said, “You know, we did a quick search on the guy in the Cadillac that you killed. His name is John Morelli. He’s a small time hood from Cleveland. He is, or should I say, was, a suspect in a couple of mob hits in Youngstown, Ohio a few years ago, but there wasn’t enough evidence to hold him. Looks like he got himself involved in the drug trade down here a couple of years ago. You think maybe there is some connection between that drug smuggling case you had been involved in while you were on the Mardi Gras and this guy?”

  That comment shed a whole new light on the shooting. Could someone have been hired to kill me because I had disrupted the drug trade in a new substitute marijuana called “spice.” Sun Li had been peripherally involved in that plot. It was that investigation that led me to Sun Li in the first place.

  To say the least, Sun Li and I had what can only be called an unusual, strange, maybe even unique, relationship. Sun Li had played a small part in an elaborate drug-smuggling operation run by her then boss, Yao Lin, a wealthy Chinese businessman from Shanghai and trade counselor to the United States. Yao was trying to take over the Mariner cruise line and use its fleet of cruise ships, including my ship, the Mardi Gras, to smuggle “spice” into the United States from South America. When I uncovered the conspiracy while investigating the disappearance of a woman aboard the Mardi Gras, I turned the drug-smuggling case over to the Federal authorities for prosecution.

  When he was arrested by the FBI, Yao Lin, Sun Li’s boss, claimed diplomatic immunity and fled to China on the next plane out to Shanghai. Yao had left Sun Li behind to face the music. Although she fully cooperated with the federal authorities and provided them with valuable information about the drug-smuggling conspiracy, she was charged as an accessory to the conspiracy. Part of her plea deal required that she serve some jail time. She ended up serving almost a year in a federal women’s prison not far from Miami and was released on probation a few weeks before our trip.

  I felt terrible that she had to spend that time in prison as a result of my own investigation. I was convinced that she was just a pawn of that Chinese bureaucrat, Yao, whom she had worked for. I had fallen hard for Sun Li from the first time I saw her on the Mardi Gras. She seemed so exotic, so different from any other woman I had ever known. I was so taken with her that I had written to her almost every day while she was in prison. I had also visited her once every month while she was there.

  I also was concerned about one other thing in connection with the busting of that drug ring. I wondered if my uncovering of the drug-smuggling plot had really accomplished anything of real, lasting value in the so-called “war on drugs” everyone talks about but never seem to do anything about. I had read an article in the Miami Herald a few weeks before our trip to Palm Island that reported that a new, synthetic drug from China, called Flakka, recently had invaded South Florida. Flakka was particularly potent and easily available even in convenience stores and by mail. It was said that teenagers with only a few dollars to spend could buy it just about anywhere. Yet its effects were said to be devastating to users. There were reports in the article that some users suffered delusions that had led them to kill themselves.

  Quite frankly, it almost seemed to me that my investigation of the drug ring had little real effect on the quantity or quality of drugs being smuggled into the United States. Someone else, or maybe even that same Chinese bureaucrat himself, had found a way to bring this new drug into the country. Like so much police work involving drugs, it hardly seemed to make a difference in the long run. The bad guys would always find a new drug or a new way to import old drugs into this country. Sometimes it seemed like this was a “war” we would never win.

  As I was listening to Shipley and mulling these random thoughts over in my head, I was puffing on the Montecristo when all of a sudden a wave of nausea seemed to wash over me. It was more like a tidal wave of nausea like none I had ever experienced before. I thought at first it was just the cigar or the smoke that was now engulfing the room since I hadn’t smoked one in quite a while. But this was more than that.

  “You all right, Mario?” Shipley asked, obviously seeing my distress.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” I replied, thinking that the nausea would soon pass.

  “By the way, Mario, I got to tell you that was some shooting on your part at lunch today. I can’t believe that you got that guy in the Cadillac right in the back of his head. He was at least a couple hundred yards away, if not more, when you fired. That’s pretty damn impressive in my mind. Damn impressive. What kind of gun did you use?”

  As I continued to fight through the nausea which now seemed all-consuming, I said to Shipley, “It was a Walther99. I know you probably won’t believe this, but that was the first time I actually had to use the Walther other than at the firing range. And the first time I ever shot or killed a man.”

  “You mean all those years you worked homicide in LA, you never fired the gun in earnest?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You seem shaken up, Mario. Are you all right?”

  “Not really,” I managed to croak out. “I feel like I’m going to throw up,” I said as I got up from the chair and ran from Shipley’s office and into a small bathroom outside the door to his office. Once inside, I opened the door to one of the stalls and immediately began puking into the toilet. I was in there a long time with my head in the bowl.

  When I finally emerged from the bathroom and went back into his office, Shipley said to me, “You look white as a ghost, man. You want me to get you a doctor? You need some help?”

  I shook my head. “No, thanks, Ed. I think I just want to go back to the Inn,” I finally said. “But I do think that I just need some rest. Yeah, I just need some rest.”

  “Sure,” said Shipley. “I’ll have my deputy take you back there. You’re in no condition to drive now yourself. A good night’s sleep will help you immensely. I know how it feels. I remember the first time I killed someone. I couldn’t believe that a man was dead and I was the one who caused his death. It’s going to take a while, going to take a while to recover. But you will get over it. I know I did. And believe it or not, the next time it is a little easier.”

  Shipley was right. The enormity of what I had done had just struck me as we sat there in his office, nonchalantly puffing on $10 cigars. I had taken another man’s life, for Christ’s sake. Oh, I knew the man was probably the scum of the earth. And he had tried to kill me or Shipley while we were eating a quiet lunch of grouper sandwiches in the middle of this little slice of paradise. But did that justify my taking the man’s life? Did he have a family? Even if he wasn’t married or didn’t have children, he had a father and mother like the rest of us. Would they mourn him? Would anyone grieve at his passing? And how do I confess this to the priest the next time I go to Confession? Can he give me absolution for killing another human being? These thoughts, and others like them, would plague me for a long time afterwards.

  “No, I’ll be all right” I said to Shipley finally. I knew that I had to get out from under this dark cloud that now enveloped me. The only way I knew how to do that was to jump right back into the fray. So I said to him, “Before I go, just give me my marching orders. I really want to solve this Sullivan murder now.”

  “Good,” Shipley replied. “I’m glad to hear you’re staying on the case. I certainly can use your help. Quite frankly though, Mario, I think, for now you could be most helpful to me back in Little Havana,” Shipley said in a very matter of fact way.

  I was startled when Shipley said this. I had thought he wanted me to help with the investigation of a murder on Palm Island. What could I do back in Miami?

  “Ed,” I said, �
�I’m not sure why you want me back there. What good can I do for you and the investigation there? Here is where the murder took place.”

  Shipley took a long puff on his cigar and then said, “Look, Mario, in the big picture of things, this here murder of Sullivan is a small thing. Lots of people didn’t care for him one bit. I hate to say this about anybody, but this island is probably a better place now that he’s gone. He was trouble with a capital T,” Shipley laughed.

  “Yeah, Ed, I understand that this Sullivan guy was certainly no angel, but, hell, the son of a bitch is dead and somebody killed him and we now have an obligation to find out who did it.” I really wanted to say to him, ‘that’s what we do.’ Now, I felt like a trainer back at the police academy, lecturing a rookie cop on the obligations of a law enforcement officer.

  “Sure, sure,’” Shipley said. “I know all that and that’s what we’re going to do. But I think we got to help out the CIA on this gold thing at the same time, particularly if the CIA is right that they are related. I think if you go back to Miami and sniff around the Cuban community there, you might be able to get a bead on the location of the gold and maybe at the same time, the person who killed Sullivan. It all fits together, don’t you see?”

  I definitely wasn’t sure this was going to be the best use of my time, but I reluctantly agreed. “I’ll go if you think that will be helpful to the investigation of Sullivan’s murder, I’ll go back to Miami right away and see what I can find out,” I said.

  “Great, great,” Shipley replied. “I’ll call the CIA to see if they can give you some names to talk to in Miami, some Cubans who may have some information. I’ll arrange for a meeting between you and Bill Simpson. He’s my contact at the CIA. Thanks so much for agreeing to help out with this investigation. I’ll be in touch. You can’t imagine how grateful I am. Just like old times.”

  It certainly did not feel like old times to me.