Just as I said: Stoney survived unharmed. Which is convenient, because Bill is already at work on the next Stoney novel.
I underlined the name of Marcus Lamont’s shotgun, a Benelli Super Black Eagle. That’s a fine example of a semiautomatic shotgun, maybe the best of the breed, along with the Beretta, Franchi, and Mossberg. I’d once fired a Benelli when I was invited to a private pheasant hunting preserve in northern Illinois owned by a former Loyola classmate of mine who went into commodity trading instead of police work. Apparently a knowledge of the pork belly futures market is very lucrative.
In my opinion, a scumbag like Lamont wouldn’t have a Benelli. So I made a note in the margin that Bill should change it to a Remington Model 870 Pump Action, which would do the job just as well at one-tenth the price, unless Lamont stole the Benelli from someone, in which case Bill should mention that. Otherwise Bill might get a letter from some rod-and-gun club member in Louisville or Latvia.
I continued reading:
The detective noted with professional interest that his shots were not grouped on the recently deceased’s chest as tightly as he would have liked, but hey, this wasn’t the police pistol range. And any gunfight you walked away from was a good one.
Stoney’s ears cleared from the gunfire noise and he became aware of screaming in the room. He turned to see a woman on the bed, clutching a sheet to her chin.
She was young and very pretty.
He swung the S&W toward her, walked over to the bed, and pulled down the sheet.
Not only was she unarmed, she was also unclothed, and almost certainly underage. She had a body that, properly managed, could have taken her a lot further in life than to this crime scene formerly known as her bedroom.
She stopped screaming and was shaking and looking at Stoney with teary, terrified eyes.
He lowered his gun and said, “Chicago police, ma’am. Please get dressed and wait with me for the officers to arrive.”
“I just wanna leave, mister,” she said. “Please let me go. I didn’t do nothin’ wrong . . .”
“Can’t do that,” Stoney told her.
She hadn’t pulled the sheet back up over her naked body and Stoney didn’t suggest it.
“You’re a witness to a shooting,” he told her. “You’ll need to give a statement.”
He took his cell phone from his pants pocket and called it in. Uniforms would arrive first to secure the scene, and then detectives would come to inquire about how the guy on the floor had come to be there. After that the assholes from Internal Affairs would look into whether or not this was a righteous shooting.
Detective Jack Stoney had been through that drill before. He hoped the girl would tell the truth about how it went down. He had a rep in the department as a gunslinger and he just did not need another reprimand on his record.
I LEANED back and smiled. Bill Stevens based that last part on my encounter with a jamoke named Demarius Little when, for the first and last time, I did not immediately call for backup.
Fortunately for my career, the girl did tell the truth.
12.
A FLATWARE CONUNDRUM
In my experience, a dinner party for “a few friends” involves grilling burgers and drinking beer in the backyard. Ash’s version resembled a state dinner at the White House, or how I imagined one to be.
A group of about thirty men and women were standing around chatting and sipping drinks under a big white tent on the back lawn. A string quartet from the Naples symphony was set up near the bar.
It was a black-tie event. I was wearing one of Sir Reginald’s tuxedoes. I thought I looked rather dashing in it, something of a James Bond-ish figure of a man, although I didn’t have Bond’s Walther PPK in a shoulder holster under my jacket. I’d thought about wearing my little Glock 26, aka the Baby Glock, in an ankle holster, but decided against it. It seemed unlikely that I’d have to shoot it out with a KGB agent at the dinner party. If trouble developed, I’d have to go hand-to-hand using a butter knife.
Ash looked stunning in a full-length purple silk evening gown with a side slit that went from Maine to Florida, revealing a very shapely leg. I told her she looked very nice. She replied by saying, “You look so handsome tonight that the only thing preventing me from jumping your bones is that I might break my hip.”
She was shepherding me around the tent, introducing me to her friends, when she got distracted by something amiss with the catering and walked away to make it right. I was left alone with a beautiful young woman named Jennifer who was wearing a red dress that looked like it was spray-painted on by an Earl Scheib shop.
I took her to be in her late teens or early twenties and at first assumed she was someone’s granddaughter. But Ash had introduced her to me as Mrs. Jennifer Lemaire and pointed out a man in his seventies standing by the bar. The man, Ash said, was Peter Lemaire, the managing partner of a private equity firm in New York, and Jennifer’s husband.
So, trophy wife. Certainly not a rarity in a town like Naples. In my opinion, there is nothing wrong with some elderly gent dating or marrying a young lady as long as she is of legal age and has not been sold to him by human traffickers.
“So, Frank, how do you like Naples so far?” Jennifer asked as we stood sipping our drinks. Hers was a martini. Mine was not. “I understand you’re looking for a place of your own in town.”
“What’s not to like?” I said. “I find Palm Beach too showy, don’t you agree? Naples is so much more understated.”
Did I really say that? No, Frank Chance did.
“We’ve got a home here and one in Palm Beach, too,” Jennifer said.
Oops.
“But I agree with you,” she added. “Peter and I spend more time here than in Palm. We keep the boat there, and our polo ponies, but Naples is where we come to relax from that high-octane social whirl.”
I decided not to tell her that I keep my houseboat in Fort Myers Beach and come to Naples to chase murderers. I noticed that her hubby was walking toward us. She squeezed my bicep and said, “Peter travels a lot looking for companies to buy, leaving me with a lot of free time.”
Petey boy arrived before I could respond. I’m loyal to Marisa, but Jennifer wasn’t talking to me, she was talking to Frank Chance. Who knew how Frank would handle an offer like that?
WE WERE all seated in Ash’s dining room. Not since Marine Corps mess halls have I been at a table that could seat so many people—and here, no one said, “Pass the fucking salt.”
When I was growing up, our family’s Thanksgiving dinners always involved supplementing seating with card tables and folding chairs; it was always a big deal to be promoted from the “kids’ table” to the main one.
This definitely was the main table. Each place setting had multiple forks and spoons in all shapes and sizes. Before the guests arrived, Ash and I sat at the table and she, with great amusement, gave me instructions on which utensils to use when, but I’d forgotten, so I dealt with this dilemma by using the same fork and spoon for everything. Maybe I’d be the subject of catty comments by my fellow diners on their way home: “Did you see that horrible fellow, Clarence? Using his sorbet spoon for the soup? I thought I’d simply regurgitate.”
I was seated next to a woman named Marcie something whom I’d met at the country club lunch; I forgot who her husband used to be. On my other side was a distinguished-looking gentleman named Vasily Petrovich. He spoke with what sounded like an Eastern European accent, and was in his mid to late sixties, of medium height, with slicked-back dark hair flecked with grey, and a matching Van Dyke beard. He was wearing a white dinner jacket with a row of medals pinned on the left breast pocket over a starched white shirt with a red bow tie and tuxedo pants. All he lacked was a sash and a sword.
Marcie had introduced herself pleasantly and then conversed with a woman on her left all during dinner. But Vasily was quite talkative. He spoke about art, antiques, and the global financial markets, while I listened, nodding my head sagely and wondering how the B
lackhawks were doing against the Islanders that night.
As a dessert that was on fire was being served, Vasily said, “I’ve enjoyed speaking with you, Frank. I do hope we can continue the conversation another time.”
“Sure, that’d be nice,” I told him, realizing that he’d learned quite a bit about Frank Chance’s life (I was glad I’d practiced the details) but that I’d learned very little about his, other than that he had lived in London and New York before moving to Naples and was in the investment management business.
Later, when all the guests had departed, I asked Ash if she’d like me to help with the cleanup. Ha ha. After a backyard cookout with my family, I was in charge of scrubbing the grill and throwing away the paper plates and plastic cups. Instead, Ash and I sat in the library she with a snifter of brandy (it was very olde) while Martin and Suzette took care of the housekeeping.
“I noticed you chatted with Vasily all through dinner,” Ash said.
“He seems to be an interesting guy.”
“He is. His full name is Count Vasily Petrovich. He’s descended from Russian nobility, I hear. He’s not married, or at least no wife is in the picture now. He mostly dates younger women.”
Like so many of the old geezers in town, as I’ve noted. I wondered what the minimum net worth was in order for a cheerleader to notice you.
“Who did he used to be?” I asked her.
“He still is. He runs an investment firm of some sort. Reggie put money into one of his funds. I think I still have money in it. That’s up to my financial advisors. I don’t pay much attention to that kind of stuff. I think some of the people at the dinner are in that fund too. The Atocha Fund, I think it’s called. It’s very exclusive, apparently. The buzz is that Vasily is very selective about taking on a client. He has to know and like you, I’m told.”
Just like Bernie Madoff.
THE NEXT morning, I was up at six thirty, did one hundred pushups and sit-ups, and went for a run along the beach before having breakfast on the patio. Ash had an appointment so did not join me.
During my run, I passed a tai chi class on the sand where ancient Caucasians were performing flowing and graceful ancient Chinese movements, poetry in motion led by a young female instructor wearing a pink leotard that almost caused me to stumble on a rock and fall down.
The workout allowed me to pig out on another one of Suzette’s sumptuous breakfasts without guilt. All alone, I pretended I was in China and enjoyed a nice after-meal burp.
I’d asked Ash if she’d mind having an extra guest at the house and told her whom I had in mind. She said sure, she’d be delighted. So after breakfast, I borrowed the Shelby Cobra and drove back to Fort Myers Beach to pick up Joe. I knew I’d be staying in Naples for a while, and I missed him.
Ash sent Martin to PetSmart to stock up on cat supplies because I hadn’t thought to pack Joe’s gear, including a bed, which I knew Joe would never use, a litter box, food and water dish, and a supply of the brand of cat food I specified, to be supplemented by whatever Ash and I ate.
Before I went to Marisa’s house for Joe, I stopped by the Fort Myers Beach police station to visit Cubby Cullen. I found him in the parking lot behind the building, standing beside a tan military Humvee with a .50-caliber machine gun mounted on the top.
“Spring break gets wilder every year,” I said.
Cubby grinned and patted the fender of the vehicle as you would a horse. “Courtesy of the federal government. Can’t say I’ve ever felt the need for one of these bad boys, but why turn down a gift from Uncle Sugar?”
The militarization of police departments via surplus government armaments had become a national controversy. There were days toward the end of my time on the job in Chicago when I could have used one of those Humvees to answer calls on the South and West Sides. That is not profiling or prejudice, it is just a fact. That’s where the shooting was, and I wasn’t at all eager to get hit again.
“I just stopped by to tell you I took that consulting job in Naples,” I told Cubby.
“So I heard. How’s it going?”
“It’s turning out to be something more than consulting, Cubby.”
“Wade told me that. You can borrow the Humvee whenever you want. Just pay for any bullets you use, and make sure to top off the gas tank when you return it.”
“I might take you up on that before I’m done.”
“Let me show you something,” he said.
I followed him to the rear of the Humvee. It had a name freshly painted in white on the bumper: MYRNA.
“After my mother,” Cubby said. “She could really kick ass too.”
ON THE drive back to Naples, Joe stood on the front seat with his paws up on the dashboard, enjoying the scenery while the wind ruffled his fur.
I explained to him what was going on with my detective job. I was pretending to be Ash’s nephew, I told him, and he would be undercover, too, posing as Frank Chance’s cat. He took this exciting news by curling up on the seat and going to sleep.
13.
THE FUNERAL HOME KING OF IOWA
When Joe and I arrived at Ash’s house, I carried him inside through the front door. Ash met us in the foyer, scratched Joe behind his ears, and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Joe. What a handsome kitty you are.”
He looked at her and meowed.
“I think he just said that I have good taste in felines,” Ash told me with a laugh.
She said that a messenger had delivered a large envelope for me while I was gone, and Martin had left it in my bedroom. I put Joe down, and he followed me upstairs.
I found the envelope on the dresser. It contained two manila file folders with the additional background on the deceased Eileen Stephenson and Lester Gandolf that I’d asked Chief Hansen to pull together. I decided that I’d take the folders out to the backyard table to read. Joe hopped onto the bed for a nap, the nap during the drive here having apparently worn him out.
I sat at the table and began reading. Martin appeared with a pitcher of iced tea, a tall glass, a container filled with ice, and a small plate with lemon slices. He put the iced tea and accompaniments on the table and went back into the house without saying a word. Apparently, butlers should be seen and not heard. Which is fine with me, as long as they deliver something to eat.
The background included more detailed information about Eileen and Charles than the case files I’d read. I made notes on the yellow legal pad I’d asked Martin to bring. Eileen and Charles’s lives did intersect in a number of places. They both attended the First Episcopal Church. They both belonged to the Olde Naples Country Club and to the Collier Yacht Club, and they served on the boards of several of the same charities. They had different financial advisors, but they both were invested in Vasily Petrovich’s Atocha Fund. I assumed that Mayor Beaumont had connections allowing him access to their financial records without obtaining a subpoena.
Hmmm. Was this finally a clue? Money is one of the main motivations for murder, and a hedge fund is all about building wealth. Maybe The Atocha Fund had a substantial penalty for early withdrawal. I made a note to look into Vasily’s background too.
Just as I finished reading the files, Martin reappeared, followed by Wade Hansen. Hansen took a seat at the table and waited for Martin to depart. He looked upset. He rubbed his eyes, sighed, and said, “There’s been another one. Another suspicious death. Jesus, Jack, this thing is getting completely out of control . . .”
“Tell me.”
“It’s a guy named Bob Appleby. He and his wife, Janet, are from Cedar Rapids. They have a home on a canal in Port Royal. He owns a chain of funeral homes. Yesterday morning, he apparently decided to take a cruise on his boat, a big Carver motor yacht moored at a dock behind his house. It looks like he started the engines and the boat blew sky high, scattering parts of him and debris all over the neighborhood. We’re still trying to figure out exactly what happened. We haven’t ruled out a bomb.”
“Sometimes boats blow up,” I said. “G
as fumes build up in the engine compartment, or there’s a leak in the fuel line, or the battery sparks and sets off a fire. Mostly with older boats.”
One more reason to keep Phoenix at the dock.
“That’s right,” Hansen said. “But this boat was brand new, just delivered a few weeks ago. One of my detectives talked to the dealer. It passed a sea trial just before delivery. Sure, it could have been an accident. But now we have a third death that looks suspicious.”
“Who’s examining the wreckage?”
“The Coast Guard will go over it, just like the FAA does after an airplane crash. I know the chief petty officer who’ll supervise it. He owes me a favor for going easy on two of his men after a bar fight. So he’ll keep the results under wraps for as long as he can.”
“Was the wife on the boat too?”
“Nope. Janet Appleby was back in Cedar Rapids doing something or other. But we did find the body of a young woman. Or at least parts of her. Appleby’s girlfriend, I’m guessing. We haven’t ID’d her yet.”
“I’ll need a background check on him.”
“Already in the works. But I can tell you that, although he’d made a lot of money planting customers six feet under in the Great Plains, he didn’t exactly fit in here.”
“Meaning?”
“People considered him . . . well, boorish, I’m told. Loud, and rather obnoxious. Not someone who was welcomed into the inner circle. His nickname was The Funeral Home King of Iowa, and he apparently was proud of it. Maybe even coined it himself, from what I hear. I don’t think he had much in common with the likes of Eileen Stephenson and Lester Gandolf.”
He smiled.
“What?”
“Ironically, we didn’t find enough of the Funeral Home King to bury.”
14.
BLOODTHIRSTY KILLER LOOSE IN PARADISE
Frank Chance and I spent the next few days enjoying the life of a member of the ruling class while I waited for the Coast Guard report and for the background check on Bob Appleby.
Detective Fiction Page 7