by Stuart Woods
Chuck sighed. “Just the opposite, Tommy. I told her I was breaking it off.”
“How long had it been going on?”
“Almost from the moment I met her,” Chuck replied.
“How often were you seeing her?”
“Two or three times a week; whenever Harry was out of town on business.”
“Did you take her up to Little Palm Island, so you could spend a whole night with her?”
“She invited me. I’d never even heard of the place. I met her up there, and we spent the one night together.”
“Why did you want to break it off with Clare?”
“Because I’d met a girl I thought I could fall in love with.”
“What’s her name?”
“Meg Hailey. She lives right over there.” He turned and pointed at the empty berth. “At least, she did.”
“She lived on a boat?”
“Yes.”
“So Where’s the boat?”
“I don’t know. When I came back here yesterday, she had sailed.” “The boat or the girl?”
“Both. She and her brother, Dan, lived aboard.”
“I’d sure like to talk to Meg,” Tommy said.
“So would I.”
“Chuck, that night up at Little Palm Island, did you ask Clare to leave Harry for you?”
“I did not; that never crossed my mind. The thing with Clare was just…”
“Recreational?”
“I guess you could say that,” Chuck replied. “It was for the sex; nothing else.”
“That’s not the way Clare saw it,” Tommy said.
“How did she see it? Tell me.”
“Clare says she was in love with you, that you had manipulated her into talking about her leaving Harry.”
“Tommy, that’s just nuts. Harry was a rich man; I’m a teaching tennis pro, for God’s sake. In a great year I might make seventy-five grand. That wouldn’t keep Clare in earrings.”
Tommy sat back again. “I guess not,” he said. “Not without Harry’s money, anyway.”
All three men were quiet for a moment.
“Tommy,” Chuck said finally, “do I need a lawyer?”
“It couldn’t hurt,” Tommy replied.
23
Daryl was quiet until they were in the car. “So why didn’t you bust him?” he asked Tommy. “This is a quiz, Daryl,” Tommy replied, exasperated. “Why didn’t I bust him?”
“Because you don’t have enough evidence?”
“You get an A.”
“You’ve got motive and opportunity,” Daryl said.
“Motive, maybe; opportunity, maybe. If you buy Clare Carras’s end of what happened.”
“What do you mean, maybe? He wanted Clare and Harry’s money-that’s motive; he spent forty-five minutes down in that engine room doing a ten-minute job, that’s opportunity. Or maybe he fixed the tanks at night, like you suggested.”
“You’re buying Clare’s story, then?”
“It makes more sense than Chuck’s.”
“I’ll give you that much,” Tommy said. “But he might have an alibi, if the girlfriend turned up.”
“Even if we found her today, that wouldn’t stand up for an alibi.”
“Why not, Daryl?”
“He could say to-what’s her name?”
“Meg.”
“Meg. He could say to her that he’s breaking up with Clare, right? That doesn’t mean he actually does it; he could just be covering his ass.”
“Look at it this way, Daryl,” Tommy said patiently. “Let me give you three possible scenarios, just for a start: One, Chuck wants Clare and her husband’s money, so he knocks off Harry; two, Clare wants Harry’s money, so she sets up Chuck for the murder; three, Chuck and Clare are in it together.”
“And which one do you buy?”
“At the moment, I’m leaning a little bit toward they’re in it together.”
“Why?”
“Because they’ve both got something to gain.”
“But they’ve forgotten something,” Daryl said.
“What’s that?”
“In order to make this thing with the tanks work, they’ve got to give us somebody else who’d look good for the murderer, somebody else who’d want Harry dead.”
“Daryl, try to think back as far as the exploding yacht, which was just like Harry’s; try to remember the punctured brake line in the Mercedes, which was actually Harry’s. Does your memory go back that far?”
“Oh, yeah,” Daryl said.
“Here’s a fourth scenario: Somebody hates Harry. Maybe Harry stole from him; maybe he came out on the short end of a business deal with Harry. Whatever. Anyway, he decides he’d be a much happier person if Harry stopped living. He tries twice and fails, then he gets lucky, and Harry is fish food.”
“A possibility, I guess,” Daryl admitted. “And a pretty good one.”
“Let me give you another possibility, a fifth scenario: Clare is having it off with a third, no, a fourth party, Mister X. She and Mister X want Harry unbreathing, so they knock him off and set up Chuck for the deed.”
“I guess that’s a pretty good possibility.”
“Damn right it is; that’s what’s driving me crazy.”
“Why?”
“We’ve got five pretty good possibilities; that’s too many. Murder is usually simpler than that; you don’t usually get multiple choices, not sensible ones, anyway.”
“I never thought of murder being simple, I guess.”
“Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it is. Fred loves Sally, kills Sally’s husband-or swap the genders; wife hates husband who made her life miserable, puts butcher knife in throat while he’s sleeping; jerk owes shark money, won’t pay, shark kills him as an example to his other debtors; kid hates dad, wants to inherit his money. Or, most common of all, Joe and Al have a few too many and remember how much they hate each other, so they slug it out in the alley, and one of them forgets to mention he has a knife. Those are your typical murder scenarios, and there are a lot more, but for the most part, they’re simple.”
“And this one’s complicated.”
“Very.”
“So what do you do when it’s complicated?”
“You run down all the possibilities, or at least you keep all of ‘em in mind while you’re working on the most promising.”
“And the most promising is that Chuck and Clare are in it together?”
“Technically, yes. But my gut is having trouble with that one.”
“Why?”
“Maybe I’m letting my feelings get in the way.”
“What feelings?”
“I like Chuck; I think he’s a nice guy.”
“And nice guys never murder anybody?”
“It’s not just that. When I listen to Chuck talk I think I hear the truth.”
“Because you like him?”
“Maybe. Or maybe because he’s telling the truth. I don’t know, I may be letting what I think of him get in the way of what I think of his story.”
“Something bothers me about the two of them being in it together,” Daryl said.
“Tell me.”
“If they’re in it together, why is Clare’s story different from Chuck’s? I mean, if it’s their plan together, then Clare must have had second thoughts and is trying to nail Chuck. Problem with that is, she’s bound to know that if she tries to nail him, he sucks her into it, right?”
“Daryl, I have hopes for you,” Tommy said.
Daryl beamed. “I mean, we’re talking human nature here, right?”
“Right, Daryl. If Chuck is after Clare and Harry’s money, he wouldn’t try to suck in Clare, unless she started it.”
“I think I like the Clare option, that Clare has engineered it and is setting up Chuck.”
“Tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind seeing it come out that way. Of course, the world would be poorer for the loss of the Clare Carras body.”
“Yeah, I would have liked to have a crack at t
hat body,” Daryl said.
Tommy burst out laughing. “Daryl, I like your ambition, but the odds are, you are never going to have a crack at something like Clare Carras, not in your whole life.”
“And why the hell not?” Daryl demanded, sounding hurt.
“Because it is a universal truth that women who look like Clare Carras always end up with men like Harry-older, rich, and very, very generous. A cop could never in his whole life put together enough money to get a sideways glance from something like Clare Carras. So save your fantasies of Clare Carras for nights alone between the sheets and a bottle of hand lotion at your side.”
“I guess you’re right,” Daryl sighed.
“That much, I’m right about. And before this is over, I’m going to be right about who killed Harry Carras.”
“I believe you, Tommy.”
“You’re a smart kid, Daryl. You keep thinking that way, and someday you’ll make a great detective.”
“Tommy,” Daryl said, “you’re more full of shit than anybody I ever met in my whole life.”
24
Tommy and Daryl stood on the steps of the Monroe County courthouse, where the county coroner had heard all the evidence at an inquest and declared Harry Carras dead of unknown causes. They watched Clare Carras walk toward her car.
“Tommy, are you absolutely sure I have no chance at all with a woman like that?” Daryl asked.
“Not unless you overpower her,” Tommy replied.
“It might be worth the effort.”
“Never work; she’s probably stronger than you.”
“So Carras is officially dead; what does that mean for Mrs. Carras?”
“It means she can get the will probated, and she’s a free woman, able to spend her husband’s wealth as she sees fit.”
“Excuse me, Detective Sculley?”
The two detectives turned to find a man standing behind them. He was solidly built and deeply tanned, with thick black hair. Tommy made him for Italian.
“Yeah?” Tommy said.
“My name is Barry Carman. I’m a private investigator; I wonder if I could have a word with you in private?”
“I’m pretty busy,” Tommy replied. “What’s this about?”
“About the Carras case,” Carman said.
Tommy pointed at his police car. “Step into my office,” he said. He opened the rear door and let Carman in, then he and Daryl got into the front seat.
“Okay, what?” Tommy said.
Carman opened a briefcase, extracted an eight-by-ten glossy black-and-white photograph, and handed it to Tommy. “Tell me if you’ve ever seen this man before.”
Tommy looked at the photograph. It was a head-and-shoulders shot of a smiling man who appeared to be in his early forties. He was overweight and had dark, very curly hair and thick sideburns. “No, who is he?”
“I think there’s just a chance he could be Harry Carras.”
Tommy looked at the photograph more closely. “How old is this picture?”
“It was taken in 1976; it’s extracted from a shot of a group of people at a dinner.”
“We’re talking plastic surgery here, right?”
“We would have to be talking plastic surgery, in addition to major weight loss, capped teeth and, of course, almost twenty years of aging.”
Tommy looked at the photograph again. “Who knows? It’s possible, I guess. What’s this guy’s name?”
“Rocco Marinello.”
Tommy and Daryl exchanged a glance. “And what’s the connection with Carras?”
“Marinello was a lawyer in L.A. Well, more than a lawyer, really, he was a kind of financial genius. He represented some clients of mine. Four years ago he decamped and left a note saying he’d gambled away his clients’ money and couldn’t face the music.”
“Was he married?”
“And had a son in college. He had put enough in the wife’s name to keep them both comfortable.”
“So why are you still looking for Marinello after so much time?”
“Let’s just say that my clients aren’t the sort of people to forget about him.”
“And who are your clients?”
“Business associates of Mr. Marinello’s; of course, I can’t reveal their identity.”
“Of course,” Tommy said. “Do your clients also have Italian names?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“Pretty juicy assignment, huh?” Tommy said. “I mean, if you never find the guy you still get paid, right?”
“There’s a considerable bonus if I find him,” Carman replied.
“So what made you look in Key West, Mr. Carman?”
“I got a tip.”
Tommy’s eyebrows went up. “Oh? From who?”
“Anonymous. A woman’s voice, though. She said, ‘If you’re still looking for Rocco Marinello, try Harry Carras, in Key West.’”
“Not that Marinello was Carras?”
“That’s right, but I took her to mean they were one and the same.”
“What else did she say?”
“Nothing; she hung up.”
“What was the voice like?”
“Youngish, muffled; could have been anybody.”
Tommy nodded. “So what do you want from me, Mr. Carman?”
“I wondered if you knew anything about Carras that might make you think he was someone else?”
“I hardly knew the man,” Tommy replied.
Carman seemed to accept that. “What do you think the chances are of the body turning up?”
“Not great,” Tommy said. “The incident took place outside the reef, which means that Carras could be floating in Havana Harbor right now, or he could have caught the Gulf Stream and be on his way to Scotland, or something could have found him delicious.”
“Oh.” Carman looked crestfallen.
“Apart from this tip, do you have any evidence at all that Carras was Marinello?”
“None.”
“Did you ever see Carras?”
“Once.”
“Did you ever see Marinello?”
“No.”
“So you can’t make an ID?”
Carman shook his head. “All I have is the photograph, which is apparently the only one in existence. Marinello went through his house and destroyed everything that might have helped find him.”
“A thorough fellow, Mr. Marinello.”
“You better believe it. The guy seemed to just vanish off the face of the earth. He’d apparently been planning his move for some time.”
“Sounds like it. Are you any good at what you do, Mr. Carman?”
“I like to think so. Believe me, my clients wouldn’t have hired me if my reputation wasn’t solid gold. I’m ex-LAPD, twenty years on the job.”
“Are you the only PI they hired?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that they’d hired others, but I don’t know. My clients also have full-time employees who are good at finding people.”
“Be interesting to see if anybody else turns up in Key West,” Tommy said.
“Could happen,” Carman replied. “Tell me, do you know how long Carras and his wife were married?”
“Little more than a year, she says. If he was Marinello, he probably wouldn’t have told her, since he was such a careful man.”
“I agree,” Carman said. “I talked to her yesterday and drew a complete blank. I don’t think she had a clue what I was talking about.”
“Are you going to report all this to your clients?” Tommy asked.
“I haven’t decided.”
“You understand what might happen to Mrs. Carras if you do?”
“It’s crossed my mind.”
“Let me be straight with you, Mr. Carman,” Tommy said. “I don’t want somebody’s goons coming down here to my town and beating up on a citizen, you get my drift?”
“I do. I don’t think she knows anything about Marinello anyway.”
“That wouldn’t much matter to your
clients, would it? I mean, they’re not likely to take her denials at face value, are they?”
Carman shook his head. “I wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”
“Let’s leave it at this, Mr. Carman: if I find out something that might connect Carras to Marinello, I’ll call you; you do the same for me, okay?”
“Okay,” Carman replied. “I don’t see much point in hanging around this tropical paradise any longer. I’m going back to L.A. Thanks for your help, Detective.” He stuck out his hand.
Tommy shook it, then let Carman out of the back of the car. The PI got onto a scooter and drove away.
Tommy got back in. “What do you think?” he asked Daryl.
“Well, we already knew Carras wasn’t Carras. He could be Marinello. Is Rock short for Rocco?”
“Could be; like in Rocky Graziano.”
“Then the book I saw at Carras’s house could be the connection Carman was looking for.”
“Could be, but as far as you and I are concerned, it’s moot. Carras is dead, and I’m not going to sic the mob on his widow, are you?”
“Not me. If Carras was Marinello, I’d bet she didn’t know it.”
“Way I look at it,” Tommy said, “if somebody can clip the mob for a bundle and get away with it, it’s okay with me.”
25
Clare Carras swam slowly up and down the length of the pool. The underwater light was off, and the house was dark. It was just after midnight. A faint, mixed din of rock music wafted over the fence from the direction of Duval Street; the tourists were stocking the bars.
He came in over the back fence, as he had been told to do, looking around him in the darkness.
“Over here,” Clare said quietly. He walked to the edge of the pool, slipped out of his clothes, then slid silently into the water.
After they had made love and he was still begging for another time, she climbed out of the pool and lay on the grass. He came and lay beside her.
“Something’s come up,” she said. “We have to talk.”
“If we have to.”
“A man named Carman showed up in town yesterday; he came to see me in the afternoon.”
“Somebody Harry knew?”
“No. Somebody who was looking for Harry.”
“Well, he’s a little late, isn’t he?”