The Quick Adios (Times Six) (Alex Rutledge Mystery Series)

by Tom Corcoran

  “Two calls?”

  “A hang-up, which is guaranteed to generate a police visit. Then Marsh’s call.”

  “He could have wiped her prints off the phone then put his own all over it.”

  “That would be nice to prove,” said Beth. “Impossible, but…”

  “Is there any kind of security video?”

  She nodded, sighed deeply. “Inoperative since 4:00 am that morning.”

  “Was her garbage located at ground level?”

  “Hauled off by Waste Management about the exact time Marsh called 911.”

  “Coffee in her stomach?”

  “Yep. All bases covered.”

  “I’m afraid to react,” I said. “This is going to take some adjustment. Will the Feds come in because of this Marsh, the cop she lived with?”

  “Yes,” she said, “there’s a civil rights question. Which is one reason you couldn’t come near this case, but that was not why I sent you away. Your relationship to the victim, no matter how long ago it happened, could blow our chance for prosecution.”

  “Not if I was a work-for-hire employee.”

  “Especially for that reason. They’d take one look into your work history and my job would go blooey.” She sat back, stared at the far wall and exhaled. “Which might not be so bad. This whole thing sucks out loud. I questioned two condo dwellers who were angered by the inconvenience. I guess they thought their daily routines were more important than violent deaths in the building.”

  “They pay big bucks for those apartments,” I said. “A few think it insulates them from the street, from the rogue crap that the human horde creates.”

  Beth looked back to me. “Now you sound like our people when they’re out of the public eye. One woman, I asked her if she heard anything that morning. She said, ‘Screams.’ I asked if the screaming included words that she understood. She shook her head and said, ‘No, just normal screams.’”

  “Like normal gunshots?” I said.

  “So I asked her if the screams could have come from children at play.”

  “Don’t tell me.”

  Beth nodded. “She remembered it was kids running in the hallway. But it might have been the night before, the dingbat bitch. One witness was a true eagle-eye. She described a man with his hair done up in ‘spring rolls,’ wearing sleeveless jammies with calf-length bottoms and shoes with zebra stripes. We determined it was a black man who had delivered pizza two nights before the deaths.”

  “Speaking of normal gunshots,” I said. “Did no one report hearing gunfire during the time frame when Pulver could have been killed?”

  She shook her head.

  I had exhausted my limited investigative brilliance. My mind went purposefully blank, fogged with grief. We listened to several sirens on Eaton Street and White Street. They sounded like they converged about four blocks south and east of us.

  “Jesus,” she said. “It’s the usual time of night for domestic violence. I do not want my phone to ring.”

  Beth stood and came around behind me again to raise my shirt and resume my massage. Half the time she administered relief, her massages led to other activities. My favorite clue to the next step was when she rubbed her breasts against my back. The absolute giveaway was when she removed her top and lifted her bra and tickled my shoulder blades with her nipples. Which is exactly what she did.

  “Did you think about this in Sarasota?” she said.

  “You bet I did. The client’s girlfriend tried to get me to fuck her. She engaged in flagrant solo skinny-dipping after he had gone to bed. I’d have been a fool to turn her down if I wasn’t coming home to you.”

  “Please follow me to your bedroom, Alex Rutledge. Your perfect answer deserves a reward.”

  It was a reward we both redeemed, using bedpost leverage, multiple fingertip exploration, laughter and deep breathing.

  Before we zonked out, just before I blew out the candle, I brushed a strand of damp hair from Beth’s eyelashes and whispered, “I like your approach.”

  I eased awake to faint daylight, Beth Watkins’s smooth leg against mine, one of life’s great natural luxuries. Except it was a queen-sized pillow, and I had been fooled by a high thread count.

  She had slipped out early, a relief to my conscience. In spite of our lovemaking hours earlier, I had been virtually unfaithful just after dawn, ninety-eight percent asleep, dreaming of Teresa Barga.

  Nothing exotic or erotic, at least by my interpretation, but who knows the true meaning of dreams? She sat across from me at an art deco-patterned Formica table in a loud restaurant full of neon signs, a sly expression on her face. Her low-cut top and high-end bra put lovely tan skin on display. With all the shouting, rock music and clattering, I couldn’t hear what Teresa was saying to our server. He looked charmed. She pointed at me then at something in the bar area, and they laughed. I watched her squeeze his forearm. Were they sharing a little secret?

  I shouted above the din, asking if the joke was on me. Teresa waved her hand as if to say it was inconsequential, that I shouldn’t worry about it.

  Beth had left a note in the kitchen: PRESS THE BUTTON. THE ONE TO MAKE COFFEE, MY LOVE. She had prepped the filter and grounds, poured the water.

  I pressed, went to brush my teeth, and my cell phone rang.

  The readout: PRIVATE NUMBER. I hoped it wasn’t the Police Benevolent Association. My guess wasn’t that far off.

  “Glenn Steffey here, Mr. Rutledge,” he said, “from Manatee County.”

  “Morning, detective,” I said. “How can I help you?”

  “You know the term, ‘BOLO,’ I’m sure.”

  “I’ve heard it used on television.”

  “Well, we need your help there in Key West. Would you be on the lookout for the people we dealt with yesterday?”

  For the second time in thirty-six hours I envisioned hundred-dollar bills flying off into the sky.

  “All of the people?” I said. “Are they missing?”

  “Just Beeson and the mechanics. None of them are answering their cell phones. We found Anya Timber at her condominium on Longboat Key. She told us that she hasn’t seen or heard from any of them.”

  “Surely Beeson picked up his daughter at school yesterday,” I said.

  “Yes, then failed to return to our office for more discussions, as planned. “

  “Was he driving that Escape?”

  “The last time we saw him,”said Steffey. “Ford named their product well. None of his other cars have left the crime scene building.”

  “Maybe you don’t know this,” I said, “but that mechanic, Edwin Torres, told me that Beeson keeps several other collector cars in a warehouse up there somewhere. He may have traded the Escape for… shit, if I can remember…”

  “Did he say what models were stored?”

  “I’m trying to think. I know he mentioned a Mercury Marauder and a mid-90s Ford Lightning pickup truck.”

  “Marauder?”

  “It’s a glorified Grand Marquis,” I said. “It has dual exhausts and sporty wheels, more horsepower and monotone trim. It looks like those sneaky-ass stealth cars the Highway Patrol uses these days.”

  “Gotcha,” said Steffey. “I’ll access his state registration records, start looking for everything he owns. I’m looking at a photo of a Marauder on my laptop right now. It looks like a perfect alternative escape.”

  “I don’t know where his ex-wife lived, but…”

  “We checked it out completely, and left a deputy in the neighborhood.”

  My cell rang five seconds later.

  “Mr. Rutledge, sir?”

  “You don’t always have to say ‘Sir’ to the man with the cash, Mr. Fecko. What’s up?”

  “Time for a couple visitors? Newcomers to the local business community?”

  “Coffee?” I said.

  “Mountain Dew for me, if you have it,” said Wiley. “Otherwise black coffee for both of us, thanks.”

  10.

  Fecko and Tanne
r must have called from seventy-five steps away. One minute later, Dubbie softly rang my brass bell one time. I invited them onto the porch and asked Tanner if he would rather have beer than coffee.

  “I’ve already had two,” he said. “If I do three before ten in the morning, I lose count come evening. I get into too much trouble in the wee hours when the drink count goes haywire.”

  “Legal trouble?” I said.

  “A general reduction in standards. Guys who don’t deserve the drinks I buy them and women as ugly as the guys I bought drinks for.”

  “No fights?”

  “Against my religion,” he said. “When the knuckles come out, I crawl to the exit.”

  Dubbie wore ratty plaid Bermudas and a T-shirt that read, SPECIALLY DESIGNED TO PRESERVE FRESHNESS. Fecko looked more respectable in clean-looking jeans, a Blue Heaven ball cap and a blue striped sport shirt. He carried a manila folder with loose pages sticking out.

  I carried out three tall cups of sweet, black Bustelo. Wiley sat in the chair I had used two days earlier when Liska was working on his computer. Dubbie chose to stand, so I sat at the table. On the wall above Wiley’s head was a yard-long section of driftwood I had found years ago on Boca Grande. Water and wind had shaped it to resemble a bird’s wings in graceful flight. I recalled that Liska’s eyes had drifted up to study it several times during our talk. I always had thought that the natural sculpture offered an image of absolute freedom. I wondered if Liska had seen it the same way, if it had added to his distraction.

  “What brings you two out so early?” I said.

  “We’re in a bind, procedure-wise,” said Wiley. “Something’s funky with Ocilla Ramirez.”

  “Is she dead?” I said.

  “I have no knowledge of that. But a county detective dropped by our secret hideout an hour ago and read me the riot act.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Your web search two days ago, before I advised Dubbie not to use your own computers.”

  “In so many words, that’s what he told us,”said Wiley. “We lifted a red flag on a county surveillance. Which means the woman is a heavy hitter with ongoing history. How did we rate a warning instead of a bust?”

  “Sheriff Liska called you the Bumsnoops.”

  It took Fecko about five seconds. “Of course. Our new status. Tallahassee told him that we had been granted our license.”

  “The city knows, too,” I said.

  Wiley and Dubbie exchanged glances, raised their eyebrows then nodded at me.

  I felt like I was running a two-man domestic spy ring.

  Hell… I was.

  I had no idea how far Marnie had progressed with her news scoop, or if she was still chasing details. “I’d still like to have Ocilla’s client list and work schedule,” I said. “But if the sheriff is monitoring local Internet traffic, you may need to limit your time in the library as well. Or not use it at all.”

  Wiley waved his hand to indicate no sweat.

  “I thought you had to show a library card,” I said. “Sign up to get in line to use their equipment. Can’t they trace these queries right back to you?”

  Wiley’s eyes showed pity. “Four things you carry in your wallet,” he said. “Your driver’s license, a credit card, a library card and your VA card. Correct?”

  “I have those,” I said. “I also have a discount card for B.O.’s Fish Wagon.”

  “Damn,” said Fecko. “That’s better than being mayor.”

  “Better than mayor means Buddy Owen buys you a beer. He does that only when your name is Buffett.”

  “That’s okay,” said Dubbie, “a friend’s a friend.”

  “Back to my explanation,” said Wiley, “the four items a homeless person needs are a welfare card, a Florida ID card, a VA card and a library card. Welfare and VA speak for themselves. The one from the state is almost identical to a driver’s license but, with the photo, it identifies you to cops you haven’t met yet. That can save trips to the Concrete Hotel because they know you’re not some out-of-state scumbag hiding from warrants. You’re just a local wino looking for a bush to sleep under.”

  “Gotcha,” I said. “How does that…”

  “The library card is important for two reasons,” he said. “First, the library is the Great Escape from cold and rain and sunburn. It’s the place to find air conditioning on hot summer days that’ll ruin a man who is two-thirds ruined already. And, like last week, it wards off hypothermia during a cold snap.”

  A world separate from my own, not by far. All I could do was nod my head.

  Wiley went on. “Second, the library is county property and the sheriff’s deputies earn overtime there. Their job is to keep bad cases from ranting or nodding out, or pissing on the sofas and chairs. Mostly the pissing. If you have a current card, they’re less likely to boot you if you stay awake and look busy. With me so far?”

  All I could do was nod the affirmative.

  “When one of our kindred souls catches the westbound,” said Fecko, “goes to hide in the Alley Up Above, the first things harvested from the body are the cash, the ID and the library card. Bear in mind, it’s usually a man who would want it that way. He surely doesn’t need those items anymore.”

  I felt like I had just attended a college seminar. Wiley’s pity had been for my lack of street smarts. “You’re packing a supply of library cards?” I said.

  Wiley shrugged. “I trade cigarettes for them.”

  “What if they’re watching you surf as you go?” I said. “What if that deputy taps you on the shoulder while you’re deep in your research?”

  “I tell him I was looking up football scores and the computer reverted to the last person’s Google search. If you mention the root kernel in directory mode, you really twist their heads.”

  “You guys are going to be good at this,” I said.

  Dubbie Tanner grinned broadly but said nothing.

  “Can I ask more questions? I said. “Such as, this ‘hideout,’ as you called it. Where the deputy knocked on your door this morning. What’s that?”

  “I graduated,” said Dubbie. “I quit living out of my Chevy Caprice and bought a three-bed, two-bath on Staples.”

  “And paid cash,” said Fecko. “His secret wealth’s no secret anymore. We have slummed-down New Town which is the stone opposite of gentrified. I’m his low-rent tenant and we have impressive office space in the third bedroom.”

  “I’ll need adjustment time to picture you two as suburban roommates,” I said.

  “He’s an okay guy with weird habits,” said Wiley, “but it works out. On a week-to-week basis I smell better for having regular showers. The only drawback is that my business partner would rather buy Natural Light than toilet bowl cleaner.”

  I withheld comment. “Okay, what does it take in the State of Florida to become a private eye? Two days ago you mentioned certification.”

  “Fecko,” said Tanner, pointing at Wiley, “this guy over here, long ago, had phone company experience. Before he sidetracked himself to cheap bourbon blends. He was doing undercover snoop work on line-hookup fraud and possible sabotage. The work required security clearances and tech schooling. His career was documented by what was then called Southern Bell. So he provided the state with the old documentation, and they waived his two-year requirement of a limited license. He went straight to a full-boogie manager’s ticket. I’m a licensed intern working under his supervision.”

  “What do you have for me?”

  “First,” said Dubbie, “I want you to know something. I wasn’t part of that silent conspiracy last night. I came by hoping you were home. They were all sitting here on the porch and they told me why. It wasn’t two minutes later you appeared. Hell, I knew Teresa, too. And I know you two were ancient history, but I’m sorry.”

  I nodded a thank-you. “It was a bad surprise. But it gives us even more incentive to chase down whatever the cops can’t find.”

  Fecko rattled through his sheaf of papers. “I printed out a bunch of sh
it in the office last night, if I may…”

  “Please.”

  “The late Emerson Caldwell started Currie Forms in Toronto almost twenty-five years ago with two partners. Their first products were knock-offs of Igloo coolers and ice trays that made cubes shaped like pyramids and half-circles and wiggly worms. Eventually they found their first real money-maker, a flexible, zebra-striped, multi-speed vibrator.”

  “Why not human necessities like yo-yos and wax lips?” I said.

  Fecko stared without saying a word.

  “Sorry… the pressure,” I said. “Go ahead.”

  “Currie Forms parlayed their earnings into better designs for boat hulls, hot tubs, shower enclosures and motel ice buckets, all of them manufactured in China. That’s when things began to escalate. Twelve years ago Emerson Caldwell bought out his minority partners and sold Currie to the Canadian conglomerate called Branchdale. He also agreed to stay on as CEO for seven years, but Branchdale bought him out of his job after three years.”

  “Sweet deal,” I said. “He made money twice, on the sale and the buyout.”

  “And he escaped a shitstorm,” said Fecko. “Currie Division is struggling because China closed two of their plants, allegedly due to PVC pollution of rivers. From what I’ve seen online, China likes to close foreign-owned operations after stealing their designs. To make matters worse, a company based in Valdosta, Georgia, is producing competing products with lower prices and shipping costs. Currie is hurting.”

  “It’s amazing there isn’t more violence in the business world,” I said.

  “It’s no different than the rest of society,”said Dubbie, “except it’s white collar crime when the honchos do it. And the stress at the top brings on strokes and heart attacks.”

  Wiley handed me a one-page printout. Its logo identified a cardiology clinic in Toronto. Its summary made out Emerson Caldwell to be a ticking clock. He was off the scale in several risk categories, close to danger in all the rest.

  “Bad report card,” I said. “Aren’t records like this supposed to be private?”

  Fecko agreed. “That’s what tipped me to keep digging. It wasn’t my genius that spit this out of my printer.”