by Nick Vellis
“I was back there in the market. Remember the marketplace in Fallujah, it had those two outdoor colonnades, arch after arch after arch.”
“Yeah, I remember, that was where they zapped us bad. They’d set a damn good ambush. We fought arch by arch. We lost a lot of friends that day. You’re OK now,” he said.
He remembered it too.
“What are you doing here?” I asked as I realized Roscoe was sitting next to me.
“Feel up to some grub and a ride?”
“What? A ride, are you crazy? I just got to sleep,” I bawled. “My head’s killing me. Leave me.”
“Stan called. They’ve found what’s left of Greer’s Lexus.”
“What’s left of it?” I asked.
“It’s been torched in the middle of a state forest.”
“Give me five minutes to get pulled together,” I said, as I gingerly pried myself out of bed. Once I was in a sitting position, I discovered I was still wearing clothes from the day before. The caked blood was a nice fashion statement. “What time is it?”
“It’s about two in the afternoon” Roscoe replied. “You left the hospital around six so you’ve slept a couple hours, but the doctor said to take it easy.”
“You mind driving? We can take my car.”
“What, you don’t like my ride?” he asked.
“You have a habit of deferring essential maintenance,” I said.
I’d been broken down with Roscoe more than once.
Roscoe’s a big guy. Linebacker shoulders, tall like a tree, and I needed all his strength to help me get up. I struggled out of my Guy Harvey shirt. Fireworks went off in my head when I bent down to grab a golf shirt off the floor. I picked it up and I slipped it over my head forgetting the bandage across the back of my noggin. My muffled scream drew a chuckle from Roscoe.
“It’s not nice to laugh at the infirm,” I chided. “Let’s get going before I say something you’ll regret.” Somewhere inside my head, a whole Indian tribe was dancing and beating war drums.
“Try somethin’ to eat. Always makes me feel better,” he said as he handed me a coffee and a glazed donut. It was still warm.
“Where do you get all the damn warm donuts?” I demanded.
“My cousin works at a Krispy Kreme around the corner from here,” he said.
“Thanks buddy, I owe you,” I said as I gulped down some joe and tore into the sugary fried dough. A potential heart attack never tasted so good.
A few minutes later, we were out the door. With Roscoe driving, going anywhere would take a while. To say my buddy drives like an old lady is an insult to old ladies. In Iraq, we called him Roscoe Black, founder and chief instructor for the Roscoe Black School of Painfully Slow Driving. We drove at his cautious pace, ten miles per hour below the posted speed limit, north on State Route 417 in silence. I leaned against the window, eyes closed, trying to calm the Indian uprising in my head. Being upright was not my position.
Still heading east, we got off the freeway and picked up a county road. The quiet and my sunglasses seemed to be helping. I lifted my head as we passed a huge Catholic church.
“Feeling any better?” Roscoe asked, as he turned right onto a secondary road. It was paved, but just barely.
“Yeah a little,” I replied. I was grateful for the snail’s pace. I don’t think I’d have made it if we went any faster on the rough road.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, after we had bounced along the uneven road for a while.
“Stan said a Forest Service smoke tower saw the fire. It’s in the Big Econ State Forest.”
“Where the hell is that?” I barked.
“East of Oviedo,” he replied. “We’re almost there.”
When you live in the city, it’s hard to remember so much of Florida is untamed. Go to the metro areas of Miami-Dade, Ft. Lauderdale, Tampa, or my home, Orlando, and you forget Florida is a huge state covered by trees and scrub, much of it in hundreds of state or federal parks, conservation, and forest areas.
Twenty-five minutes past the church, we came to a checkpoint manned by the Florida Highway Patrol. We identified ourselves, got some directions, and jolted off down a decidedly narrower, rougher road.
“Won’t be far now,” Roscoe said.
“Yeah, I can smell it too.”
We broke out of the trees where the road paralleled the tannic Econlockhatchee River. Dark, slow moving water rolled by, disturbed only by the occasional snag. I spotted a gator stalking some grey water bird standing in the shallows. We continued down the road and a moment later the bird swooped past us making its escape. Finally, we came to a lime rock boat ramp. Burned trees and a scorched area on the makeshift pavement surrounded the remains of a four-door car.
Stan gave a thumbs up to the deputy who intercepted us at the entrance and we parked. Stan came over to help me out of the car. “How are you feeling Mac?” he said as he shook my hand. “Sorry to get you all the way out here.”
“I’ll live,” I replied. “If the fresh air doesn’t kill me,” I chuckled. “Thanks for calling.”
Turning to Roscoe who was coming around the front of the car, he said, “Appreciate you looking after him, man.”
“No problem, man,” he replied as they shook hands. “Somebody has to. Damn sure he can’t do it himself,” he cracked.
“Want to see the body? It’s burned up pretty bad,” Stan asked. “Not much chance of identification without dental records.”
“I can give it a try.”
“Let’s get it done,” he said. “You wait here,” he said to Roscoe.
“You won’t get a bitch from me,” he replied. “Standin’ here is plenty close enough.”
The smell of burned oil and flesh hung in the air like an invisible warning to stay back.
“Come on,” Stan said. “Let’s get it over with.” He headed toward the smoldering hulk that had once been a luxury car. A burned Lexus emblem was on the ground.
What was left of the vehicle was among some scorched trees. The forestry people had responded quickly and contained the fire before it had spread more than a hundred yards from the ruined metal frame.
“Come on, let’s take a look inside,” Stan said.
I wasn’t anxious to see the toasted body of my would-be employer. I’d seen a lot of mangled bodies in Iraq, but the burned ones were the worst.
I peered into the space where the passenger’s window should have been. Slumped over, its skull in the passenger seat was a crispy critter with a large caliber gunshot wound above the left ear. Like most burned bodies, this one was in the fetal position and its hands were in tight fists, the typical pugilistic position. Fire causes muscles to stiffen and shorten, making the limbs bend. The change is evident at all the joints, but most noticeable when the hands turn into clenched fists. The body looked like a boxer in the ring. It occurs even if the victim was dead before the fire and this one certainly met that qualification. There was a silver dollar sized hole in the side of the skull.
“Probably a .45” Stan said, leaning over me. “Guess that takes care of Greer.”
“The shooter came up to the driver’s side and put one behind the left ear,” I said. “You’re right about it being .45,” I replied, looking up at Stan, “but that’s not Greer.”
“What?” Stan said, jerking up straight.
I straightened up too as I was hearing those war drums again. “I think this is Luck Taylor,” I said. “I can’t tell the difference between a male and a female skeleton, but that mouth full of gold teeth. Luck Taylor showed ‘em to me yesterday. He was smiling then.”
Two full rows of gold teeth were clearly visible in the burned skull. This guy was shot then fried to a crispy well done. At least he didn’t suffer, I thought.
Stan caught some movement in the woods beyond the wrecked vehicle. He waved as a cop in fatigues and a shoulder holster emerged from the woods, a camera hanging around his neck. A second figure, a woman also in fatigues, appeared carrying a toolbox i
n one hand and a metal detector in the other. I guessed the guy with the shoulder holster was the detective assigned to the case and the woman a crime scene tech.
“Who are you people? What the hell are you doing in my crime scene?” the guy demanded.
“Sgt. Lee, Orange County SO,” Stan said as he approached the beanpole. “We talked on the phone…”
“Oh, I wasn’t expecting you so soon. Detective Skinner, Seminole SO,” the gaunt man in faded green BDUs said as he came around the front of the toasted SUV. Calling to the crime scene tech Skinner said, “After you finish bagging the stuff we found, hang around until the ME gets here, will you?”
“Sure Sarge. I’ll let you know if anything new comes up too.”
“Check with you later.”
Turning his attention to us, the guy went straight to Stan while keeping is eye on me.
“Stan Lee,” Stan said accepting Skinner’s hand “and MacDonald Everett. He’s a PI, but don’t hold that against him. We appreciate your call.”
I offered Skinner my hand, but he refused to take it.
“I don’t get what you want here.” he said to Stan. “You have an interest in Greer?” Skinner asked.
“Like I said on the phone, she’s a person of interest in a couple of things we’re looking at,” Stan replied warily.
“Was a person of interest. She won’t be doin’ much talkin’ now, will she?” Skinner smirked. “What were you looking at her for?”
“Murder and investment fraud for starters,” Stan replied. “I think we can help you on this one detective. The registration on the vehicle may come back to Sharon Greer, but we have reason to believe that’s not her body in there,” Stan said pointing to the smoldering mess behind us.
“What? Why not?” Skinner was not a happy camper.
“The corpse has several gold teeth. Mr. Everett believes that’s the body of one Luck Taylor. He interviewed him yesterday.”
“You can’t forget that mouth full of gold,” I chimed in. “I’ve spoken to Greer recently too. She didn’t have any gold dental work that I could see. Your corpse has a mint’s worth of gold in his mouth.”
“Where were you last night, Everett?” Skinner demanded, “and who the hell is Luck Taylor?” Skinner demanded.
I was about to answer when Stan interrupted and said, “Mr. Everett was in the hospital or with me last night, detective. I can have a full profile on Taylor and Greer to you by this afternoon. I think it’s safe to assume Greer would be a good suspect.”
“Person of interest,” Skinner corrected.
“Right, person of interest,” Stan agreed. “Detective Skinner, was any evidence found in the search of the area around the vehicle?”
“We found some tire tracks over there,” Skinner pointed to the left of the car’s remains. “A small car pulled in behind the burned vehicle. Someone walked up to the driver’s door then back to the other car and left the way they came. The tracks are small, maybe a woman, or a short man.”
“Greer is about 5’6,” I said. “She was hearing high heels when I saw her.”
“We’re doing casts of the tire tracks and the shoe impressions,” he said. “Why would someone else be driving her ride?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“We found a cigarette butt near the tracks of the second car. I’ve never seen this brand before. Black paper with…”
“Black paper with a white ring and the words Djarum Black, a solid red triangle in place of the letter ‘a’ in the word black?” I asked.
“Yeah, how did you know that? Are you holding out on me?” Skinner accused.
“Yeah, what are you holding back?” Stan looked askance at me too.
“No, not holding out, just putting the evidence together,” I said. “I found butts like that near the scene of another homicide,” I said looking square at Stan.
Stan scowled at me.
“Detective Skinner, did the one you found here have lipstick?” I asked.
“Yeah it did,” Skinner replied.
“I’ll FAX you an evidence request when I get back to the office,” Stan said. “Maybe we can work this as a joint investigation.”
Skinner didn’t look like that was his idea of a good plan. I decided Roscoe and I should leave the high-level negotiations to the two cops.
“I’m not feeling too great,” I said. “We had better head back to the car.”
“You’ll get a full run-down on what we have by tomorrow afternoon,” Stan said to Skinner.
We excused ourselves, and walked toward our cars.
“When were you going to tell me about the cigarette butts?” Stan asked when Skinner was out of earshot.
“I didn’t understand the significance until now, Stan. I’m sorry.”
“I want everything you have by the end of the day, Mac. An obstruction charge is one you’ll have a hard time beating.” Stan had given me a friendly warning, but he was serious.
“I found a pile of butts near the Hunt place,” I said. “They were behind an empty condo. That’s where Cary Hunt said he saw a strange car parked. They looked like they’d been planted.”
“Where are these cigarette butts?” Stan asked.
“I’ve got them in the car. I was going to give them to you,” I said.
Stan lightened up when he remembered I was on his side.
“A couple people in this case smoke that brand. Greer was smoking one last night. I got a sample from her too.”
I dug in my pants pocket and came up with the envelope.
“Good thing I didn’t change my pants,” I said. “If these butts matches the other ones it could tie this crap all together.”
“But we still don’t know who the killer is,” Stan said.
“Did they do a search of Greer’s place last night? It was part of the crime scene.”
“No they didn’t. We’ll have to get a warrant.”
I dug in the center console of my car then handed Stan three plastic bags, each labeled with the date and location of collection.
“Ask the lab to run all these for DNA then compare them. See if there’s a match with the butt found near this car and the ones near the Hunt’s condo.”
“You never know until you ask,” he replied. “We could nail Greer with this. You think she did it?”
“She’s got a violent history. I think Greer killed Mrs. Hunt, but I’m not sure why. It could have been a lover’s quarrel or something to do with money, who knows. It’s all connected, but which domino fell first?” I said.
“You mean who bumped who off,” Stan corrected.
“Maybe Mrs. Hunt was skimming, you know the old Chinese squeeze,” Roscoe suggested.
“She was rich,” I replied.
“When you’re rich you never have enough,” Stan said.
“Like you’d know,” Roscoe shot back.
“I guess,” he muttered.
“Wait… one of the women I talked to yesterday said Mrs. Hunt was never satisfied. She never had enough. These people are all connected. It has to be Greer,” I said.
Once we got back to my place we hashed and rehashed the evidence, speculated all we could, but there was no clear conclusion. The evidence led right to Sharon Greer’s door, that much was clear, but was she a killer. We didn’t have enough to say one way or the other. I’d wasted another day. Stan and Roscoe left about two. I let my buddies out the front door and went down to the Drunk Monk.
“Hey Dave, I called to the night bartender. “ Mind if I have one while you clean up?”
“I thought you were in recovery,” Dave replied with a smile. I’d made him promise not to serve me. “I hate to see one of my best customers find religion, but you’re looking a hell of a lot better these days.”
“I am. I forgot. Thanks” I said. “Make that a double coke with plenty of ice.”
Dave laughed and said, “Want that in a to-go cup?”
“Sure,” I said. “You know, not drinking is an amazing hangover c
ure.”
I shot the breeze with Dave while he cleaned up and I sipped on my coke. Dave was a good guy and I enjoyed chatting with him. I found out he was having a problem with his boss.
“He’s on my back about bar shortages and the till not being right,” Dave said. “The drawer is never short and the beverage management system measures every drink. I think he just complains to hear himself talk.”
“Didn’t you tell me he was looking for a buyer?”
“Again, just talk. This place is a gold mine and it could be even better if he’d put in some food and class the place up a little.”
“Cheap drinks and cheap women make the world go round,” I said. “Why don’t you make him an offer?”
“With what, my good looks?”
“No really, how much would it take?”
“What, to buy him out?”
“Buy him out of the bar; buy the building, whatever it takes. There’s what, three of you tending bar, and Becky waitressing on weekends. If you pooled your money…”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“I get that a lot. Look, I could kick in some money and…”
“Now I know you’re out of your mind.”
“Think about it. Talk to the others. We could make it work.”
We kicked around ideas for another hour then it was time for Dave to go. I said goodnight and Dave let me out the back door. I started up the steps only to find Ashton waiting for me on the landing.
“About time you got home,” she said. She sniffed my breath. “How is it a recovering alcoholic can sit in a bar for hours and not have a drink?”
I smiled at her and said, “I didn’t expect to see you again.” I gave her a kiss on the forehead and a hand up.
“I guess I was feeling guilty for ambushing you and then getting mad when you didn’t do what I wanted.”
“I could have handled it better,” I said. “It’s complicated.”
“So what is a guy on the wagon doing in a bar until closing time?” she said.
“Doing some healthy unwinding with a coke,” I replied. I held up my Styrofoam cup and rattled the ice. “It’s been a long day and my noggin’s killing me.”
“I could help you with that,” she cooed as she took my hand.