King Tide

by A. J. Stewart

  Ronzoni broke the news to the crowd. He repeated his credentials and then told them there had been an accident, and asked if anyone knew the man in the gym. Two hands went up—the black woman and as expected the guy with the long face and Gallic nose. Then the tall guy next to the black woman put his hand up half-heartedly, as if he wasn’t sure of his stance on the question at hand.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Ronzoni said. “I understand that this is a shock, and Mr. Neville and his staff are here to help as much as they can. I will need to ask each of you a few questions regarding the deceased, as a matter of procedure. But as you know we also have the matter of an impending hurricane, so I’d like for you to give your attention for a moment to the hotel’s manager, Mr. Neville, as he will outline the procedures for the duration of the hurricane.”

  Ronzoni looked back to Neville and me, and Neville stepped forward. He spoke with his hands behind his back.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we at The Mornington are devastated by today’s accident, and offer our sincerest condolences to all.”

  I figured there would be a good amount of butt-covering going on. Hotels got sued for a lot less than death by dumb. Maybe it was the English accent, but Neville sounded genuine to me.

  “My staff and I are here for you, as always. Despite these events and the storm upon us, we aim to make your stay as pleasant as possible.”

  He looked around the room and then continued. “However, we must insist on the following protocols to ensure your comfort and safety. We ask that you restrict yourself to this lounge and your rooms. Please do not use other areas of the hotel without letting myself or one of my staff know. This building has faced many such storms before and come through grandly, but to ensure your safety you should remain in these areas. We will be serving cocktails and dinner here in the lounge.”

  I’d never had cocktails in a hurricane before, but it seemed a rather Palm Beach way to go about things. The black woman on the sofa raised her hand.

  “Can we still use the ballroom?” she asked.

  Neville turned to Ronzoni. “Detective?”

  “The ballroom?” asked Ronzoni, looking about as puzzled as I was.

  “Yes. It is on the mezzanine level above us, on the leeward side, and has been shuttered completely. ”

  Ronzoni shrugged. “I suppose. For now.”

  The woman dropped her hand and nodded as if that was all she needed to know.

  Neville finished up by telling everyone that the lounge would be the rendezvous point in case of an emergency. Ronzoni stepped forward.

  “We should also turn off the elevators.”

  Neville shook like he’d been hit by a small bolt of electricity. “Why on earth?”

  “In case the power goes out.”

  “I can assure you, Detective, we have backup generators.”

  “Which don’t always provide enough power to run the elevators. Don’t need anyone trapped in there during a storm.”

  “That is most inconvenient.”

  “So’s sitting in a coffin-sized box for the duration of a hurricane.”

  Neville nodded repeatedly. I don’t think he was keen on the word hurricane. I, on the other hand, played football and baseball at the University of Miami, otherwise known as the Hurricanes. I couldn’t wait to mention that.

  Neville directed his attention to the guy with the knife. “Chef Dean, some hors d'oeuvres, perhaps?”

  The chef nodded and moved away behind the bar, into what I assumed was the kitchen.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, we will serve drinks in but a moment.”

  Neville moved to the door and I intercepted him. “Where’s the maid?” I asked.

  “Still in bed, I’m afraid. She seemed rather shaken by her ordeal. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must shut down the elevators whilst I have everyone accounted for.”

  Chapter Nine

  I left the party in the lounge and went and found my room. I had a call to make. The fire stairs from the lobby were all concrete and steel and I got the impression they were rarely used by any guest except during those annoying fire drills that always happened to me at 2 a.m. but probably happened at The Mornington during midafternoon and culminated in champagne on the beach. My room was on the second floor, which was actually the third floor up, with a mezzanine having been sandwiched in between the first and second floors.

  My room was smaller than I figured it would be. It was stylishly done in taupes and browns, with a king bed and a flat-screen television. The bathroom was as white as a movie star’s teeth. I flicked on the television, which is something of a novelty for me. I don’t own a television. The general consensus seems to be that this is an eccentric quirk, but I just never saw the point. I wasn’t planning on living forever, so I had things to do, and I saw all the news I needed at Longboard’s, and all the football I needed at any number of establishments designed for the purpose.

  The picture was terrible, pulsing in and out and waving all over the screen. I wondered if the hotel used a satellite provider. I couldn’t imagine a hurricane did much for that kind of reception. Two guys were yelling at each other about football. They were debating trading quarterbacks like they were stocks or bonds. They were fading in and out, but I got the impression that didn’t harm the value of the conversation.

  I flicked around until I hit the weather channel. Despite the jumping picture I got enough of the graphic on screen to know that hurricane Beth had become a category two in the Florida Straits and was aiming toward landfall around Cape Canaveral. Then the scene jumped to a guy in a slicker who appeared to be standing in rain that was hitting him from the side. He was yelling excitedly, telling how the storm had built as a confluence of unseasonably warm water and low pressure. He made it sound better than Christmas, as if thousands of homes getting blown away was like losing your cellphone during a great night out on the town. Just the price of admission.

  I hit a button and killed the picture and then took out my phone. It was damp, but still ticking. I had three bars of coverage, which was two more than I usually got on a clear blue day sitting at the outdoor bar at Longboard Kelly’s. I tapped to the favorites and hit the only number there.

  It rang for a long time and I was about to end the call when I heard her pick up.

  “MJ,” Danielle said, in a voice that made me smile despite myself.

  “How’s school?” I said.

  “We’re all watching what’s happening down there. Everyone’s on alert. Where are you? When are you getting here?”

  “Change of plan, I’m afraid.”

  “MJ?”

  “Got stuck on the island. ”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Yep. Long story.”

  “Where are you?”

  “The Mornington.”

  “The Mornington? They run out of room at the Y?”

  “Long story.”

  “Can’t wait to hear it. At least you shouldn’t get into any trouble.”

  “You’d think, wouldn’t you?”

  “MJ?”

  I told her about the bridges flooding, and about the dead body in the gym. I skipped the part about nearly getting swept away in the Intracoastal.

  “Crushed larynx? Did he not know what he was doing?”

  “That’s the thing. He was a serious gym junkie. Seems like a bad mistake.”

  “My days are filled with guys making bad mistakes.”

  “True. If it walks like a duck.”

  “Right.”

  “But something just didn’t look right, you know?”

  “Like what?”

  “I can’t put my finger on it. Probably chasing shadows.”

  “Strange things happen when you chase shadows, MJ.”

  I said nothing to that.

  “You said you took some pics? Why don’t you email them to me? I can get some of the guys here to take a look.”

  “You mean Nixon?”

  “Yes, MJ, I mean Nixon. And a few o
thers, too. This is the headquarters for Florida’s state investigators. There are a few people here who know what they’re doing.”

  “I know that.” I did know that. And I didn’t quite know why Special Agent Nixon had gotten under my skin. He’d helped us on a previous case, and had been nothing but helpful. And then he’d gone and pulled some strings that got Danielle into the investigator program in Tallahassee. She was a great deputy and she would be an even better investigator. And Nixon had never done anything but right by me or her. But the guy was just too damn good-looking to be trusted.

  “Okay, I’ll send you some shots.”

  “You stay safe down there. It looks like this thing is going to hit somewhere between Canaveral and Jacksonville.”

  “Mick says Fort Pierce.”

  “I don’t know why, but Mick would know.”

  “He would.”

  “Be safe.”

  “Will do.”

  “I love you, MJ.”

  “And I you, ma chérie .”

  We ended the call and I sat on the bed wondering where the hell the ma chérie had come from. I had a whole French thing going. Before I forgot I sent Danielle a few snaps I had taken of the poor Frenchman in the gym. I wondered if he had a chérie . Which made me think such a person might be in the bar. Which made me think I should be in the bar. Which is a thought I am generally pretty comfortable with. I threw on my linen jacket and dropped my phone in my pocket and wandered out to get a drink.

  Chapter Ten

  I didn’t get my drink. Not right away. With the maid in bed and the chef preparing crab-stuffed pot stickers, and the assistant manager, Miss Taylor, still suffering the effects of having discovered a dead guest, I ended up behind the bar instead of in front of it. It wasn’t so bad. I think I’d make a decent bartender. I don’t know boo about mixing cocktails, but I wouldn’t work in that kind of a place. At Longboard Kelly’s the job involved pouring beers and rums, with the occasional squeeze of fruit. It was mostly a listening business, and I was generally okay with keeping my ears open and my mouth shut. Muriel, who actually did tend bar at Longboard’s, was equally good at it. Plus she had all kinds of curves I didn’t, which seemed to help her in the tip department.

  The general manager, Neville, waited tables and handled any beverages more complex than a straight pour, and once everyone had a drink in front of them I poured a beer, grabbed an Evian from the fridge and wandered out to where Ronzoni was sitting on a coffee table. I sat down next to him and offered him the water, which he took with a nod of thanks .

  We were sitting opposite the tall pale guy. The black woman who had been beside him had disappeared while I was at the bar, and Ronzoni had chosen to sit on the table rather than next to the guy on the sofa.

  “Jones, this is Anton Ribaud,” said Ronzoni, cracking the seal on his water.

  I offered my hand to Anton, and he took it with an effort that would best be described as less than enthusiastic. He was a strong-looking guy, but his handshake was like a dead fish. He didn’t speak, so Ronzoni did.

  “Mr. Ribaud is a friend of Mr. Zidane.”

  “Zidane?” I asked.

  “Paul Zidane is the name of the deceased.”

  I nodded. “Zidane, like the soccer player?”

  “Football, yes,” said Anton. “Only now Zidane is a coach.”

  “I’m sorry about your friend.”

  Anton shrugged, like I’d given a small child a choice between cauliflower and broccoli.

  “Were you close?”

  “I suppose you would say that. We knew him since we were boys at school.”

  “We?”

  “Me. And Leon.” He nudged his head in the direction of the long-faced guy who had moved to the bar and was pouring himself something amber in color. “We were at school together.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Bordeaux. The southwest of France.”

  I nodded. I knew Bordeaux. Or at least I had drunk something from there, once upon a time.

  “What brings you to Florida?”

  Anton sipped on a drink that smelled like licorice. “I live here. ”

  I frowned. “In The Mornington?”

  He looked at me like he had just walked me in on the bottom of his shoe.

  “This is a hotel, no? I live in Miami.”

  Ronzoni chimed in. “But you’re French?”

  Now Anton gave Ronzoni the look. I was glad it wasn’t just me. “You are quite the detective.”

  “What brought you to the United States?”

  Anton leaned back in the sofa. “Tennis.”

  “Tennis?” asked Ronzoni.

  Anton said nothing.

  “What do you mean, tennis?”

  “You don’t know tennis?”

  “I know tennis. What I don’t know is how it brought you here.”

  “I play tennis. I came here when I was fourteen to practice.”

  “Where was that?” I asked.

  “Case Academy. You know it?”

  I nodded. I knew it. Case Academy was a tennis camp that became a tennis ranch that became the leading producer of wunderkind tennis talent in the world. It was the brainchild of Rodney Case, himself a decent but not extraordinary tennis player. The ranch was on a massive campus outside of Tampa, and had been sold a few years previous to an athlete management company who had added baseball, softball and football to their roster of sports. It was like a high school for gifted athletes.

  “You look a little old for Case Academy,” I said.

  Anton grunted. “I am on the tour now.”

  “The ATP?”

  “Of course.”

  “You ranked? ”

  “I have been top ten.”

  I made my impressed lip curl. Making the top ten tennis players in the world was pretty impressive. The kid could play.

  “So if you live in Miami, what brings you to Palm Beach?” Ronzoni asked.

  “It is what you Americans would call the bachelor party.”

  “You’re getting married?”

  “Yes.”

  “To who?”

  “My fiancée.”

  I took a drink and watched Ronzoni. There’s nothing a cop loves more than interviewing a guy who thinks he’s the smartest guy in the room, and the cop is the dumbest. Ronzoni took a sip from his water but he didn’t take his eyes off Anton.

  “Does your fiancée have a name?”

  “Shania.” He pronounced it Shan-E-ah.

  “I assume she is not here.”

  “No, she is not here.”

  We all took another sip and then I leaned in toward Anton.

  “So Paul, he was into the gym pretty hard.”

  “Yes.” Anton scrunched his nose as if he thought his friend’s gym obsession was a waste of time. Either that or he had eaten a pickle that was repeating on him.

  “You must do plenty of gym work yourself. Did you ever work out with him?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You guys compete?”

  “Compete?”

  “Yeah, you know. Guys in a gym. There’s competition. Who can lift the most, that sort of thing.”

  “No.”

  “Never? ”

  “No. I am not, what do you call it? Gym monkey?”

  “Junkie.”

  He grunted. “I am a professional athlete. I don’t work out for fun.” He jutted his chin at me. “You get old, you try to keep off the fat. You just waste time in the gym. Me, I don’t play around. I have a program. I do what I need to do to be the best player. Not the big muscle guy. You don’t get it.”

  I got it just fine. I wasn’t any kind of gym monkey either. I used the weights to do what I had to do. I was lucky to have good trainers at Miami, guys who knew the difference between working out for beach muscle and working out to become a better pitcher. So I knew exactly what Anton was saying. I just wasn’t digging the crack about getting old.

  “So you never lifted against him?”

 
; Anton shook his head. “He was stronger than me. It was not a secret, it did not need to be proven. But I did not want to lift like him. I wanted to play tennis. And we both knew who was the better tennis player.”

  No competition, my sweet patootie.

  “So would Paul normally try to lift big all by himself? Without a spotter?”

  “Normally? No. But what is normal?”

  I had nothing to say to that. It was questions like that that kept me away from French cinema.

  I noticed Anton’s friend Leon had moved from the bar and I nodded to him that he should join us. He sat on the sofa and spoke to Anton.

  “Tu vas bien? ” he asked.

  “Oui ,” said Anton.

  We introduced ourselves and I watched Leon. He looked shaken by Paul’s death. Shaken but not devastated. Perhaps it was a cultural thing. European stoicism or some such .

  “So you guys all grew up together, huh?” I said.

  Leon nodded. “Oui. Bordeaux.”

  I noted that Leon’s English was pretty good but his accent was heavier.

  “You still live in France?” I asked.

  “Oui, yes. In Paris.” He pronounced it Paree, as I supposed was right. He made it sound like one hell of a good time.

  “And you came for the bachelor weekend?”

  “Bachelor weekend?”

  “L’enterrement de vie de garçon ,” said Anton.

  “Oh, oui. Yes, I come for this party.”

  “And Paul?” asked Ronzoni. “Where did he live?”

  “Here and there,” said Leon. “Bordeaux, mostly.”

  I asked him, “What do you think, Leon? Paul was a serious lifter. Would he lift a dangerous weight alone like that?”

  Leon thought for a moment and then sipped on his drink, which I figured was brandy. Then he frowned.

  “Why do you ask me this question?”

  “Just curious.”

  “If you think he would not do such a thing, then you think he was not alone.”