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

by Tom Corcoran

  The rain had stopped. The harbor came back to life, boat engines rumbling, yacht crews calling back and forth. The episode ended my worry about riding the Triumph home with rum in my system. I was cold sober. I also hurt too much to ride.

  Liska had warned me of hidden dangers. Or perils made worse by the fact that we hadn’t identified the bad guys. For my money, Darrin Marsh had just placed himself in that category, but I suspected that my big mouth hadn’t brought on the slug party. His rage had carried more than grief and frustration. His mood had been festering for a while and he had been waiting to act on impulse, to use someone’s upper body for a punching bag. He hadn’t come looking for me. I was a target of opportunity. My arrival had offered him a timely recipient. If deep-rooted anger was running his agenda after her death, he must have been a charmer beforehand.

  When would I see him next?

  I finally turned to Tanner and asked a question of him.

  “I was sitting on a lady friend’s sailboat when you walked past looking glum,” said Dubbie. “I saw you come in here. Figured I’d come over and cheer you up.”

  “You arrived just not in time.”

  “The first punch he threw, I was too far away,” said Dubbie. “I felt powerless, but you took it okay. It ended quickly.”

  14.

  Elizabeth Ann gave me a generous rum roadie for my pain, dropped in a lemon wedge that stung the inside of my mouth. I would have to check later for wobbly teeth and new purple skin tints. Dubbie Tanner helped me walk the Triumph home. He didn’t have a cycle license endorsement and I wasn’t sure I could turn quickly or hit the brakes if I had to. He pushed the bike up Caroline, and I tried to keep up without spilling. Rainwater dripped from trees near Pepe’s and balcony overhangs farther along. Wet leaves filled curb gutters, mist rose as cars hurried by. Nearing Margaret Street we watched a taxi round a corner, hit a puddle, splash brown muck on four people holding cameras and fresh drinks.

  What I saw next took me a few moments to absorb. A silver SUV angled into a parking slot across the street from Harpoon Harry’s. A slender man in a Hawaiian shirt and Ray–Bans got out, clicked his key remote to lock the Toyota, then walked toward the restaurant. He paid no attention to Dubbie or me. I looked back at the vehicle, but couldn’t read its tag. I held the bike vertical while Tanner ran over to look.

  “Sarasota County,” he said. “Your old stomping grounds.”

  I winced.

  “Sorry,” he said. “You know the car?”

  “I know it from here,” I said. “It pertains.”

  I had just watched Luke Tharpe park Anya Timber’s RAV4.

  Hanging back by Los Cubanitos marine hardware store, I scrolled through the messages I had received in the past two days. I clicked on the number that Detective Glenn Steffey had given me—only to reach a switchboard. Steffey wasn’t available, and the man on the line wouldn’t give me a cell number. I offered my name. He sounded as if he might find time to write a note for Steffey.

  I entered Harpoon Harry’s as Tharpe seated himself in a booth next to the east wall. I approached him, trying not to look like I had been pummeled by a muscular schmuck. Tharpe canted his head, slowly recognized me, and looked puzzled to see me somewhere other than 23 Beeson Way. He raised his chin, as if that meant “hello,” then looked down to scan the menu and ignore me. His hair was disheveled but the gel told of intended messiness. He wore an authentic–looking piece of eight on a neck chain. This was not the choirboy I had met in Justin Beeson’s auto maintenance shop. Nor was he the reluctant morning helper in his Ram pickup, or the man vomiting in revulsion on finding a trussed–up dead woman. This was version number four.

  “Good to see you here at the southern tip of Florida,” I said. “Who’s watching the classic cars up north?”

  He scratched the two–day stubble on his cheek, raised his eyes just enough to see my neck. “You’re a photographer, that’s it, right? That’s all you do, take pictures?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s what I do.”

  “Beeson said something about you working for the cops, too. You a cop?”

  “I get hired now and then. But I don’t have a badge. I work for myself.”

  “Huh.” He glanced away as if a passing gnat had snagged his interest. “Do me a favor and go away. I don’t need your frigging pictures.”

  “I also do art shots,” I said. “I like to combine objects to contrast texture or age. Like a Google Earth photo truck passing in front of a 100–year–old Conch house. A Maserati on a dock with a beat–up shrimpboat in the background. I also love to show objects in unlikely settings, such as your face next to that silver RAV4’s license tag. Think I could sell that somewhere?”

  “You’re bigger than I am, Rutledge,” said Tharpe. “But don’t judge this book by its skinny–ass cover. I mean what I say. You don’t want your balls to live in a new home up behind your belly button, stay the fuck away from me.”

  I had lost fights to bigger men in the past hour.

  “My pleasure, Luke,” I said with a touch of volume. Even louder I said, “Thanks for the great advice about my scrotum.”

  Every head in the place turned. Kelly Finnegan, a server and island resident for years, said, “Oh, don’t shave it, Alex. It’ll look like a squashed tennis ball with pepper sprinkles.”

  The laughter in the restaurant drove Luke Tharpe out the side door and around to Caroline and the Toyota. Subtract one more name from my list of best friends. When Tharpe drove away, I looked around. People still were laughing at Kelly’s one–liner. And again, there was Dubbie Tanner, small camera in hand. I squinted and raised my eyebrows.

  He read the question, smiled and patted the camera.

  Walking down Grinnell, Tanner said, “Did he really use the word frigging?”

  We left the Triumph in the backyard. The rain had gone away and I wanted to wash it, but I didn’t have the energy. An alternative reason: the pain between my cranium and waistline outweighed my desire to be neat and clean.

  Before he walked back to Key West Bight to retrieve his bicycle, Dubbie let me duplicate his camera memory card. For future reference, each of us would have a copy of his movie features, my short fandangos with Marsh and Tharpe.

  “One more small assignment for your partner,” I said. “I learned last evening that our boy Marsh was once an electrician. Please ask Wiley to find and download the schematics for the security system at The Tideline condominium.”

  Tanner was less than a minute out the door when I heard my name being called from the bedroom. It was a low, tempting growl. It was the mattress crying out for company, reminding me that my body needed to heal. My two–hour slumber was almost dream free. Just before I woke, I reviewed the lunch I had bought for Liska. By not mentioning Teresa, the circumstances of her death, he had done nothing to keep me away from a murder investigation. He had put fear in me, but not enough. The depression he had inspired was not quite cured by a beach tour and the Haitian rum. The motorcycle ride was eclipsed by the scene in the Tower Bar.

  Smart as I thought I was, however, I had missed part of Liska’s message.

  He had wanted me to keep away from Darrin Marsh.

  My nap ended with a call from Malcolm, the boat broker. He didn’t want to “bug” me, but the rain had blown eastward and the next few days’ weather would be great for documenting the boats new to his inventory. With a twinge of guilt I promised him a morning call and a fresh photo session within twenty–four hours.

  Under my mango tree, under a violet twilight streaked with fading reds, with an upbeat Tom Petty song playing in the house, I wiped salt residue from my Triumph and locked it away. Its shelter had been repainted inside and out several months ago and, for good reason at the time, a deadbolt installed.

  My phone buzzed. As usual I wanted to ignore it but succumbed to curiosity. To my delight it illuminated: B WATKINS.

  “It is our dutiful, beautiful civil servant,” I said.

  “Alex, what
are you doing?”

  “Playing with it and thinking of you.”

  “You are so dependably subtle and romantic. Do you want help?”

  “Only if it’s you.”

  “That better not be a smoke screen, mister. See you in ten.”

  I didn’t check the clock but it felt like ten minutes to the second. Enough time to turn on some lights, open wine and switch the music to a low–stress Jim Hall jazz guitar session.

  Beth flicked her fingernail on my brass bell and stepped in off the porch. I bowed and handed her a cool glass of St. Supery Virtu, her favorite white meri–tage. I raised my own glass to recite a short toast to our having two nights in a row.

  She raised an index finger—a silent “wait”—while she put her glass on a table, hugged me with both arms, kissed my lips with a subtle pelvic bump, then returned to her wine for a solid sip.

  “You smell like you had an hour in the shower,” I said.

  “Why did you flinch when I hugged you?”

  When I shook my head I felt a new ache in my ribs. “I attended a short anger management seminar three hours ago.”

  “Oh, shit. Were you at the Kraals? I heard the radio call for a disturbance.”

  I pictured the scene in the bar, the banging around, my barstool scraping on the deck, Elizabeth Ann’s threat to call 911. Did I remember correctly that two men at the bar also yelled at Marsh? When the dust cleared those two weren’t in sight. How did they get down the stairway past the arriving cops? Dubbie’s digital movie would settle the question, but I didn’t want to put Beth in an awkward place by watching it immediately.

  “You may want to steer clear of this story,” I said.

  “Allow me, for a few minutes, to separate my concern for my lover from my duty as a law officer.”

  “I will allow you anything,” I said. “Will a judge do the same if you have to testify in court?”

  “I can cross that mine field when the time comes,” said Beth. “Right now there’s no field and I don’t know a damn thing. Just to be safe, are you about to admit to me that you broke the law?”

  “I broke none that I know of, today.”

  “Sorry I hugged you.”

  “You can do it again if you’d like to.”

  I pulled a second chair to my desk, woke my laptop and opened Dubbie Tanner’s first movie in QuickTime. The first eight or ten seconds were unfocused, blurred. The sound was obscured, perhaps by a thumb or finger over the pinhole openings of the pocket camera’s microphone.

  Beth said, “What are we…”

  I held up my hand to ask for patience. As the image brightened the soundtrack became clearer. I heard Marsh say, “Fuck weather talk,” and I could see the top of the Tower Bar stairway. Tanner was shooting from hip level so as not to draw attention to his camera. I heard my distant voice say, “…diary? I know she kept one.” The camera steadied, auto–focused on several empty barstools then panned left. Its lens caught the men in dark colored shorts and shirts at the north end of the bar, and I heard, “…brass balls, too.” More loudly, Elizabeth Ann said, “Ready for another beer, Darrin?” Words I hadn’t heard when things were happening fast. A question to calm my attacker, defuse the craziness.

  The camera’s point of view lifted and the image grew as Dubbie zoomed. Marsh set his empty beer bottle on the bar, and I thanked my luck that he hadn’t clocked me with it. Then I watched myself say, “I like to keep my distance from disagreeable people.” Marsh said something I couldn’t make out, then I spoke in response. Every movement from that moment forward was news to me. I moved my rum drink away from myself as I stood to take Marsh’s first punch. I saw a blur in the background.

  When male voices close to the camera shouted, “Back off, buddy!” and, “Whoa just a minute,” the zoom pulled back. One of the men started to go around the bar in Marsh’s direction. The other grabbed his friend’s shirt and pulled him back. When they faced each other, the second man shook his head one time. Their heads turned in time to see Marsh nail my left shoulder. At that instant a wind gust sent bar cups and napkins airborne. Again Tanner zoomed. His microphone caught the kick that knocked apart the wooden railing behind Marsh. The wind eased and the faint siren could be heard, its doppler warning of its approach. Marsh’s arm rose with the splintered slat. I head–butted his chest as he banged it down on the railing. I saw blood dripping from his nostrils. I watched myself push my barstool backward, then droop down onto it.

  I promised myself not to forget that head–butting is an awful idea.

  While Marsh counted money from his wallet to the bartop, Tanner pulled back on the zoom and dropped his camera to belt level. He caught the two men in dark shirts going for the stairway. But they weren’t fast enough. They had to stand back to allow Darrin space to go first. By the timing of their exit, they must have encountered the uniformed officers at the base of the stairs. Maybe six or seven seconds later the first policeman’s head appeared. An instant later the “home” movie ended.

  Only one explanation. The feds had flashed badges and told the city officers that the problem was still up top.

  Beth looked exhausted just from watching it. “Can I see it one more time?” she said.

  I traded seats with her, set the video clip to play again. She hit the space bar twice to pause the action, catch her breath. I saw nothing that I hadn’t seen the first time. When it reached the end, she closed the laptop.

  “If those two are the ones keeping an eye on Darrin Marsh,” I said, “they sure as hell chose not to blow their cover.”

  “I don’t recognize either of them,” she said. “If they’re his babysitters, they had to know that a Key West cop was in a bar fight. They’re carrying badges, so by choosing not to interfere, they became Darrin’s accomplices.”

  “Is it a civil rights violation if the cop isn’t on duty?” I said.

  “Tricky,” said Beth. “Did he tell you he was a cop?”

  “No, he introduced himself. He said his name. Of course, I already knew he was a cop.”

  “I hate to say it,” she said, “but that scores points in his favor. If he had claimed to have official power, then slugged you, he’d be a goner. Just his name… that’s a big gray area.”

  “Not that I would report it, anyway,” I said. “But someone should bust him for saying that Teresa had a nice ass. Even if he said it just to rile me up. That’s a real touching memory of his lover.”

  “Did I see it right?”said Beth. “He threw the first punch?”

  “The first, third, fourth and fifth, but I can shut up. If the feds have to ignore my discomfort to nail Teresa’s killer, I’m all for it.”

  “With this video in hand,” she said, “whatever we do about Marsh, we don’t have to hurry. Please copy this to a thumb drive for me.”

  Ten minutes later we were more relaxed, sitting in the main room.

  “Thank God I made detective,” said Beth. “There’s so little these days that street officers can do. They have to think like lawyers. It makes me long for the days when a cop could slap a kid upside the head and tell him to stop stealing. It worked a lot of the time. These days punks thumb their noses and get away with it. Even if they’re hauled downtown, two, three days later they’re back on the sidewalk. It’s a vicious circle. At least I get to use my brain.” She returned to her wine glass and raised her own toast. “Enough about Darrin Marsh, the screw–up cop. Last night I came here to apologize. This evening I’ve come to thank you.”

  “For letting you call the dance last night?” I said. “I recall that you favored the Bone Island Mambo.”

  “Yes,” she said, “and you fell asleep five minutes too soon, but I understood your fatigue. Let’s move to another subject. On your insistence, I requested an autopsy of Emerson Caldwell one hour before the State Department ordered Monroe County to do it. The feds acted on a request from the Canadian government. I beat everyone to the punch.”

  “Do you get to wear a feather in your hat? A sta
r on your forehead?”

  “Chief Salesberry was copied on the message, as was the district FDLE supervisor. Salesberry was overjoyed to report back to all recipients that Detective Watkins of his department already had taken the initiative. He told me that a letter would be placed in my permanent file. It would include the words ‘professional’ and ‘foresighted.’”

  “Did he question your ordering an autopsy on a simple heart attack?” I said.

  “He did,” she said, “but he gave me slack, probably because of my case–closure record. I explained that it made no sense for us to order autopsies on two victims and not the third since the deceased all were discovered in the same condo. If we catch a killer and go to trial, a defense attorney might toss a wrench by demanding to know why we hadn’t treated each body identically. It might not be a strong point, but then it might put a cloud on the prosecution. Best to play it safe.”

  “Has the autopsy been performed?” I said.

  “Yes, but Homeland double–jumped me. Their guy said he needed first look because another Canadian died from a potassium chloride injection less than a year ago. Also in Florida.”

  “Piss you off?”

  “Not really my case, anyway,” said Beth. “But if they start seeing the whole scene as a single crime, I might lose the little I have.”

  “Would that piss you off?”

  Beth swirled her wine, up–ended the glass, swallowed and smiled. “Not if it gave me more time with you.”

  She must have detected my involuntary wince.

  “After you heal, of course,” she said. “Two of my rules. It’s not smart to ride a broken motorcycle, and it’s no fun to ride a lame horse. I can be very patient.”

  15.

  Later that night, after Beth had gone to sleep, I sat down to edit my photos of 23 Beeson Way in Sarasota. I couldn’t expect to be paid expenses if I didn’t provide the man with product. I wanted to trash the bad ones and burn a disc of high-resolution pictures to mail in the morning. I also needed to charge my batteries and format data cards so I could start fresh with Malcolm Mason’s boat detail photos.