Tonight I Said Goodbye (St. Martin's Minotaur Mystery)

by Michael Koryta

  "We'll see." I used the club head to pull a ball into position and then took my first swing. I pulled my chin up as I made contact, and the ball sliced again, going about a hundred twenty yards, and almost an equal distance to the right. Burks laughed loudly. I set another ball up and rolled my shoulders, trying to relax. The smoother the swing, the better it would work for me. This time, I kept my head down and swung through the ball smoothly. It was the closest thing to a straight shot I'd hit yet, with just a slight slice, and I put it almost to the one seventy-five marker. I turned to Burks and smiled.

  "Bullshit," he said. "You didn't just do that! Damn, and it was on an ugly-ass swing, too. I mean an ugly-ass swing." He shook his head.

  I laughed. "The bet wasn't about swing quality, it was about distance. You owe me fifty, but I'll probably let it slide if you're cooperative."

  "I'll tell you only what I think I should tell you," he said seriously. "I'm an honest man, but I'm not the type of man who encourages trouble. If you're looking to cause Randy some sort of hassle, you'll need to look elsewhere."

  "I won't be causing him a hassle," I said. "Nor will anyone else. Mr. Hartwick was murdered in Cleveland yesterday, Lamar."

  He'd been taking practice swings with his pitching wedge. Now he dropped the club and turned to me, surprised. "Is that the truth?"

  "It is."

  He stared across the course, and I could see true sadness and compassion in his eyes. Lamar Burks had liked Randy Hartwick. Eventually, he picked his club back up and put it in the bag.

  "Let's you and I go have a drink," he said.

  We went up to the clubhouse and took seats on the patio that looked out on the driving range and practice green. Burks had a beer, and I had lemonade. All the good humor that had filled the man during our golf bet was gone. I had a way of spoiling people's days.

  "You don't drink?" he asked.

  I shook my head. "Not while I'm working. I had one bad night and lost my job because of it."

  "What was your job?"

  "I was a cop." I let it go at that, but he waited, obviously hoping for more details. I sipped some more lemonade and told him about it.

  "I was engaged to a woman I cared about a lot. More than she cared about me. I found out she was sleeping with a big-shot attorney, and I went down to the police bar to drown my sorrows in booze. Somewhere between the tenth and eleventh beer, I decided it would be a good idea to find the guy and talk it over with him. His helpful secretary told me he was having dinner at his country club, so I poured my drunken ass into the car and drove out there. I found him in the parking lot, and it didn't go so well. He kept smiling as if the situation were funny, and he called me 'champ' a few times too many."

  Burks was watching me with interest but not judgment. "I only hit him once," I said, "but it was a hell of a punch. When I left he was lying on his face in the parking lot with a broken nose. I drove away, and about ten minutes later a highway patrol officer pulled me over after being dispatched to look for my car. I was arrested for drunk driving and assault. Convicted on both counts and dismissed from the force. The chief told me I was an embarrassment to the department." I finished the lemonade and pushed it aside.

  "At least you got the satisfaction of breaking the bastard's nose," Burks said.

  "It wasn't nearly as satisfying as you'd think."

  He nodded. "So Randy's dead?"

  "Died two nights ago, I'm afraid. I was with him when it happened. Someone took him out with a rifle from long range."

  "What was he involved with?"

  I spread my hands. "That's what I'm trying to find out. He was killed before he could tell me anything. My partner and I are trying to find a missing woman and her daughter. The woman's husband was a shady operator; he might even have been involved with Russian organized crime. Hartwick supposedly has ties to the same folks, and he showed up in Cleveland a few days ago."

  "Randy Hartwick was involved with the Russian mob?" Burks said it as if he found this hard to believe.

  "That's what we've heard."

  He shook his head. "I suppose anything's possible, but I'm awfully surprised to hear that. He was a hell of a nice guy."

  "How long had he worked for you?"

  "About ten years. I bought the resort twelve years ago. I was hoping to upgrade the security, you know, to avoid liability issues and all, and I started asking around about security companies. One of the guys I talked to suggested Randy, said he was fresh out of the Marines and looking for a job. So I called him, and we worked it out. He's done a fine job for me, too."

  "A guy in Cleveland suggested Hartwick was using the security job as a front while he ran weapons in and out of the country," I said. "Was he around much?"

  "He took vacations now and then, but, yeah, he was around for the most part. I never had any complaints about him. We'd meet every few weeks to talk things over. He always seemed serious about the job."

  "Who's this man who recommended Hartwick to you?"

  "A guy named John Brewster. He manages another one of the hotels, and he's an ex-Marine like Randy. You know how those Marines are about helping each other out with jobs? It's almost like a fraternity thing, except the Marines aren't a bunch of rich, pansy white boys."

  "You think he could tell me more about Hartwick?"

  "More than I can, that's for sure."

  We kept at it for another half hour. Burks couldn't tell me much about Hartwick's personal affairs; he knew him only as a reliable and trusted employee. He did offer to pull Hartwick's personnel file and let me have a look at it. That might give me some new resources, if nothing else. He also gave me a phone number for John Brewster.

  "I'm sorry I couldn't help you more, son. And I'm sorry about what happened to Randy, too."

  "It's all right," I said. "You've helped as much as you can, and I appreciate that. Besides, it was fun taking your money."

  He laughed and shook his head. "Shit, son, it was worth a few dollars to see that ugly swing of yours in action."

  I left the golf course and drove back toward the Golden Breakers. I called John Brewster from the room and received no answer. Burks had promised to get me the personnel file by the next morning, but I didn't have it now. I left the room and found two of the resort's security guards, but neither of them could tell me anything about Hartwick. Apparently, he was the sort of guy who kept to himself. At five, I gave up and went for dinner.

  I ate at a calabash seafood restaurant that offered an all-you-could-eat buffet for a reasonable cost. I hadn't eaten any lunch, so I definitely took my money's worth. When I was full, I returned to the hotel and went for a walk along the strip, my stomach still too heavy for a run. The people on the sidewalks were mostly older couples--middle-aged women clutching bulging shopping bags while their husbands trailed behind, reliving the day's golf game in their minds. In the summer there would be families with young children, and college students looking to party, but now, in early March, the town was quiet. I had a feeling I'd like it less if I came in the summer.

  I walked a few miles south before I turned and went back. This time I left the sidewalk, cut behind the hotels, and walked across the sand, staying just a few feet ahead of where the waves washed up. The tide was rising, and in the morning this stretch of the beach would be submerged. It was dark now, and a full moon had risen, casting a pale glow on the black water and giving the waves a golden shimmer as they crested.

  Back in the hotel room, I flipped through the television channels just long enough to determine there was nothing worthwhile on and then tried calling Joe. I didn't get an answer at the office, and his cell phone went right to voice mail, which meant it was turned off. Perfect. I sat on the balcony and watched the water some more, then tried calling Joe again and had the same result.

  At ten I changed into an old pair of gym shorts and went downstairs. I hadn't packed swim trunks, as I'd been planning for business and not pleasure, but as long as I was here I might as well enjoy the whirlpool. />
  It was a beautiful night. The air was warm and smelled of saltwater and hyacinths. I turned on the jets in the whirlpool and settled into the steaming water. A cool breeze was coming in off the ocean, and the contrast of its feel across my face and the hot water on my body was a strange and invigorating sensation. I tilted my head back and looked at the moon, then closed my eyes and listened to the gentle thumps of the waves hitting the beach. I wondered what Joe was doing back in Cleveland and whether he and Kinkaid had been able to make any progress with the Russians or Hubbard. I wondered if they'd be disappointed in the utter lack of progress I'd had so far today. Probably. I thought about John Weston, and Randy Hartwick, and then flashes of Betsy Weston's smiling face and her beautiful mother slipped through my mind. It was easy to forget about them as I sat in the whirlpool with a refreshing night breeze bathing my face and the sound of waves in my ears. I didn't want to think about them. It was too nice a night.

  I'd been in the whirlpool for about twenty minutes when I heard the door to the hotel open and close. I opened one eye and saw a woman with dark hair standing in the shadows, unwrapping a towel from around her waist and placing it on a lounge chair. Even from the side and in the shadows, it was obvious she had an amazing body. For a moment she looked vaguely familiar, and I wondered briefly if it could be Rebecca, the desk receptionist. Then I realized the hair was too curly. I closed my eyes again, disappointed. Maybe Rebecca would be back behind the desk in the morning.

  The wind picked up off the ocean, cooling my face and neck and sending a chill down my spine despite the steaming temperature of the whirlpool. In the distance, someone was playing soft jazz music on one of the balconies. It was a fitting and welcome addition to the night. I heard the water splash beside me as the woman stepped into the whirlpool, and I reopened my eyes and looked at her. She gave me a shy smile and then did as I had done, leaning her head back, glancing at the moon, and closing her eyes. I kept mine open this time, though. There had been something familiar about the woman, all right. She was Julie Weston.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE JAZZ music kept playing, the waves kept crashing, and the wind kept blowing. Julie Weston kept her eyes closed, and I kept staring. I don't know how long I sat. My brain had caught up to the realization that Julie Weston--a woman sought by police across the country, a woman most people thought was dead--was sitting within feet of me, but it hadn't figured out what to do with this information. Eventually, I took a deep breath and looked away, out at the sea. I closed my eyes, took a few more deep breaths, and opened them again. She was still there. So much for the mirage theory. Now I'd actually have to deal with her.

  I sank lower in the water, the breeze more chilling than refreshing now. Julie Weston seemed content to remain in the whirlpool for a while, so there was no reason to rush into action. That was a relief, because I hadn't decided how to handle the situation yet. I was too caught up in trying to process the facts.

  Julie Weston was in Myrtle Beach, staying at the hotel where Randy Hartwick had worked. Hartwick was in a morgue in Cleveland. He'd been alive and in Cleveland for a few days prior to being murdered. Where had Julie Weston been during that time? Here? Then why had Hartwick left? And where was Betsy Weston? I'd tried to enter into the case without preconceived ideas of what had transpired the night of Wayne Weston's death, but deep down I'd always believed he'd been murdered and the wife and daughter abducted or killed. Betsy Weston's diary entry had given me more hope they were alive, but I'd still anticipated finding them in a situation of danger or crisis. I'd certainly never expected to find one of them here, lounging in a resort whirlpool. For the first time, I wondered if Julie Weston had murdered her own husband. But why? To run away with Hartwick, who then ran away to Cleveland? And where the hell did the Russians come into play? None of it made any sense. But none of it ever had. Tonight, though, I sat across from a woman who could finally make some sense of it for me.

  As if detecting the intense focus of my thoughts upon her, Julie Weston opened her eyes and looked directly into mine. I would have expected it to be impossible to distract my thoughts from the questions swirling through my mind, but she did it with one shy smile in my direction. The woman was breathtaking. Her fine-boned face was perfectly proportioned; her dark eyes were enchanting sparkles against smooth skin; her full red lips looked as if they could chase all the troubles in the world away with one soft touch. Her dark brown hair seemed almost black as it fell around her bare shoulders in curls that were wet from the steam of the whirlpool. The water hid her body, but I'd seen it once already, and that brief viewing had been enough to leave it permanently etched into my memory.

  "Nice night," she said. I didn't speak. She smiled again, seeming slightly awkward now, and I realized belatedly it was from my lack of response.

  "Beautiful night," I said, and I tore my eyes from her with an effort and looked up at the moon, which seemed to hang almost within reach above the palm trees, as if maybe by climbing to the top of the fronds and stretching to your fullest you could pull it down. She followed my eyes and sighed softly.

  "The moon's gorgeous, isn't it? It seems so different here."

  "So different from where?" I asked, and with that simple question the carefree attitude vanished from Julie Weston. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her shoulders tensed, and she shifted on the whirlpool bench.

  "Chicago," she said, her voice clipped and cold. "I'm from Chicago."

  She hadn't changed her appearance since she left Cleveland. Her hair wasn't cut in a different style or dyed to another shade. She'd made no effort to change her complexion with makeup. Maybe that was what surprised me more than anything. She'd vanished from Cleveland more than a week ago, and now she was here, apparently unharmed. If she wanted to hide, why had she not attempted to alter her appearance? Since she hadn't altered it, how had she avoided being spotted? Her face had been on national news stations. Someone should have recognized her by now.

  "Chicago," I said, and she nodded. "Nice town," I told her. "I'm from a lake city, myself."

  "Really?" Her bored voice implied a complete lack of interest, and she slid down into the whirlpool and leaned her head back again, closing her eyes. It was forced, though, an act designed to end any questioning.

  "Uh-huh," I said, pretending to be oblivious to her signals. "Similar city but a different lake. I'm from Cleveland."

  She sat so still in the water she seemed not even to breathe. I realized after a few seconds that she actually was holding her breath, whether she was aware of it or not. For a moment I considered joining her in the silence, leaving her with the Cleveland comment lingering in her mind while I thought of a better way to approach her. Then I gave up on that idea. There wasn't going to be an easy way to approach her. Screw it.

  "What are you doing here, Julie?" I said softly.

  Her eyelids snapped open like shades pulled down and then released too quickly, and there was terror in her eyes. She pushed herself out of the water and lunged for the purse she'd brought to the edge of the whirlpool. I went after her, the weight of the water slowing my movements. She had her hand inside the purse now, and I dived toward her, aware she was probably reaching for a weapon. My outstretched left arm caught her around the waist as I fell back into the water, pulling her away from the edge and down with me. She had something in her right hand: a small, slim canister I recognized as pepper spray. I chopped at her wrist, harder than I wanted to, but hard enough to ensure she wasn't going to be able to use the pepper spray against me. She dropped it into the water and turned against me, trying to put her knee into my groin. The weight of the water killed her momentum, though, and the blow glanced harmlessly off my upper thigh. I grabbed her forearms and forced them behind her back, pinning her, as she tried to use the knee again. She opened her mouth to scream, but I got my left hand over her lips, muffling the yell as I held both of her slim wrists in one hand.

  "Relax, dammit," I said, pulling her body against mine to limit her ability to u
se the knee jabs with success. "I'm not here to hurt you. I work for John Weston. I work for your husband's father."

  She continued to struggle, but her eyes changed with the words, and she was no longer attempting to scream. She tried to bite my hand, so I removed it from her lips. She didn't use it as an opportunity to shout for help, though.

  "Relax," I repeated. "If I'd come here to kill you, Mrs. Weston, you'd be dead already."

  I released her and stepped into the center of the whirlpool, rubbing my foot across the tile floor in search of the pepper spray. I found it, bent at the knees, and picked it up, keeping my eyes on her. She backed to the edge of the whirlpool and stood with her arms wrapped around her torso, hugging herself like a small child. Her damp hair hung in her face, and she was breathing heavily, watching me with the wary eyes of an animal that was used to being the prey and not the predator.

  "There are a few things you can do now," I said, returning to the edge of the whirlpool and lifting my body out of the water to sit on the concrete. The moisture on my skin immediately chilled as the breeze caught it. "You can get out of the water and run like hell. But I'll be right behind you. Not because I want to hurt you, but because it's my job. You can start screaming like a banshee, and you'll attract some attention. But do you really want to attract more attention? You're the woman the world is looking for." It was a bit of an overstatement, but for a Cleveland resident who had seen Julie Weston on the news every night, it didn't feel like one. "Or," I continued, "you can trust me, Mrs. Weston. I'd recommend you take that third option."

  She retreated to the opposite edge of the whirlpool and sat on the concrete as I had done. She was still hugging herself tightly, but I didn't think it was because of the cool wind. She looked like a woman who felt very vulnerable. A woman who had felt very vulnerable for a while, maybe. She rubbed her hands over her upper arms and stared at me.

  "You said John hired you?"