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

by Tom Corcoran

  “These people aren’t just deadbeats or stupid or down on their luck,” said Wiley. “Look at this guy, he’s still a kid. Aggravated battery with a deadly weapon. And this guy. Possession of a weapon by a convicted felon, firing a weapon in public and carrying concealed. Don’t get ahead of him in line at the grocery store. They’re all scummy louts and, if we see one of them, it can’t hurt to butter-up the big boys.”

  I stepped over to the bookcase. “What’s this?”

  “It’s exactly what it appears to be,” said Fecko. “A book.”

  “The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigating?”

  “You will note,” he said, “that it stands among a number of fine books in our growing professional library. It’s a valid source for knowledge and research. If we questioned its validity because of its title, we wouldn’t be true investigators.”

  “Can I use your laptop for a minute?” I said. “I need to send an email.”

  “Use mine,” said Tanner. “It’s already booted up.”

  I sat, opened the browser and entered my access password. I had to think for a moment to recall Detective Steffey’s email address. He hadn’t mentioned Beeson’s first wife, and I thought it was an important fact to pass along. I wrote a quick note, short, to the point.

  Just before I clicked the SEND button I said, “Wiley, have you got that old news article?”

  He pulled it from a stack of loose papers next to the printer, handed it to me. I read the first paragraph then jumped to the ending. I was glad that I looked. The veteran cop who had blabbed to the reporter was Detective Frank Steffey. He could have been an uncle or a much older brother, but I would bet that Frank was Glenn Steffey’s father. Glenn didn’t need me to remind him of that earlier case.

  Jumping to the present tense, I had to wonder how it would affect his handling of Amanda’s murder.

  I quit the webmail program, closed Dubbie’s laptop then noticed a photograph on the desk. It was a picture of Ocilla’s Honda Element printed on copy paper.

  “I forgot to mention that,” said Wiley. “There’s the house she disappeared into, and that’s her Honda where she left it.”

  The picture was pixilated and the color too blue. But there was something in it I wanted to see more clearly. “Have you got this image in one of these computers?”

  Wiley waved me out of his seat, sat and opened an iPhoto folder of pictures from William Street. Parked two cars in front of the Element was a bronze Hyundai four-door. I tapped my finger on it.

  “If you see this,” I said to Wiley and Dubbie, “and I think it’s a rental car, try to get a tag number. It was parked on Seidenberg yesterday across from her house.”

  “Do what we can,” said Tanner.

  “If you could call me a taxi, I’ll go away and let you keep working,” I said. “I’ll come back for the motorcycle when the rain stops. How do we stand for the time clock and expenses?”

  My question cost me a Franklin. I gave them the names Luke Tharpe and Edwin Torres, but asked Dubbie to keep digging on Darrin Marsh. “Before I forget,” I said, “is there any way to remove Sheriff Liska’s connection to Emerson Caldwell from the online search engines? That one feat could be worth endless brownie points.”

  Their faces widened into broad conspirators’ grins.

  “Anything yet on Anya or Tonya and Sonya, the Timber twins?” I said.

  “We got three hits,” said Wiley. “Sonya works for Novak Hardwood Lumber in Leon County upstate. Anya Timber has a Longboat Key zip code. Tonya and Sonya graduated from a high school in Lake Forest, Illinois. I’ve just scratched the surface on that assignment. Should I make it a priority?”

  “Get it when you can,” I said.

  Dubbie’s phone began to buzz. He took the call.

  Wiley offered to show me to the door. Out in the hallway, he pointed into a room on the right. “Walk fast here,” he said. “We call Tanner’s bedroom ‘Baghdad.’”

  I ignored Dubbie’s minor slum but looked into the bedroom across the hall. It was clean, organized. Wiley looked ill at ease, perhaps embarrassed by his room’s meager decor, or still not used to be sleeping in a house rather than a tent.

  “This is good for me,” he said. “I’m getting older and I was getting bitter. Nothing like a roof over your head to brighten your day.”

  There were only two wall decorations, but they caught my eye. It was a shrine to the man’s former life. Fecko explained that a county official had taken the Polaroid photo of his old Stock Island campsite when the camp was active, during some bullshit campaign to rid the Keys of indigent hobos.

  “That old tent of mine is the tarp we threw over your motorbike,” said Wiley.

  Next to the picture was one of Wiley’s cardboard panhandling signs. The message in thick black ink said, “HAVIN’ A NICE DAY? I’M NOT.”

  “Good sales pitch,” I said.

  He shook his head. “It’s on the edge of self-pity, but I call it nostalgia.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up over that,” I said. “Couple of hours ago, I swam in that muck myself. It’s therapeutic if you don’t overdo it.”

  Wiley looked me in the eye. “It’s a damn good reminder of where I don’t want to go next.”

  My phone buzzed. It showed J BEESON.

  I took the call and waited on the porch for my cab.

  “I have a favor to ask,” he said.

  “First, Mr. Beeson, I have a question,” I said. “Why did you hire me for a job that any decent photographer in Sarasota could have done?”

  “Frankly, Alex, I did it to build my reputation in Key West. You’re known on the island, and I thought that I would look more important if I hired you. Plus, Anya was intrigued by your reputation for helping to solving crimes. I understand you spoke with her earlier today.”

  “We had a puzzling mid-morning chat, yes,” I said.

  “All women are puzzling, Alex. Every last one of them. There’s also that classic rule that someone, somewhere thinks every woman is a pain in the ass. Anya could well be the exception.”

  I chose to let him bask in his belief.

  “What’s your favor?” I said.

  “The Manatee County prosecutor is considering the idea of calling a grand jury in regard to my ex-wife’s murder. I can’t imagine a more painful ordeal for my daughter to witness and endure. I would like you to fly back here, at my expense, for a meeting with my attorney and the county prosecutor. I want to convince the legal eagles that I couldn’t have been involved in the crime.”

  “Why would my presence have any bearing on their decisions?”

  “I don’t know how they think or work,” he said. “But you’re the only non-family member that I have to confirm my timeline and my state of mind. Your being there may make the difference between a difficult situation and an unbearable one.”

  I couldn’t imagine being a character witness for someone I had known for only four days. I was, however, being asked to tell the truth, not to tell lies.

  Beeson sensed my hesitation. “I would compensate you for your time as if you were here working, of course. Per diem expenses, you name it.”

  That was good news but he had misjudged my silence.

  “I’ll get Rodney, that same pilot, for you, Alex,” he said. “Round trip this time. Come in the morning, you can be back home before sundown.”

  “Tomorrow is Saturday,” I said.

  “Yes it is, but I need to act quickly. We discussed the hour between eleven and noon.”

  “I thought his name was Sherwin.”

  “That’s right,” said Beeson. “Rodney’s last name is Sherwin.”

  “Please give him my cell number. I’ll want to know Rodney’s schedule before I go to bed tonight.”

  “Thank you, Alex.”

  I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my life.

  17.

  Dubbie Tanner joined me on his porch, sat on a sun-bleached shellback chair. Still no beer in his hand, but I refused to tak
e the bait and mention it. The downpour sounded like a hot griddle and smelled like Garrison Bight. My cab hadn’t shown yet.

  “Ameebah Dobbins is a long way from her dirt patch hometown,”said Tanner. “She must have found a first class tutor in prison.”

  “And now, as Ocilla Ramirez, she’s abusing grown-ups,” I said. “Maybe they can deal with it better than her daughter did. I still can’t figure out what makes her such a premium target for surveillance. How does she rate her low-rent immunity?”

  “They see her as bait fish, that’s all,” said Tanner. “Cops tolerate minor bullshit when they’re after serious felons.”

  “A multi-agency task force is more than just cops,” I said. “She may be the tail end of the dragon, but something brought down Greg Pulver’s murder. That’s a huge step up from minor.”

  “Look at the major menu, Alex. The sex trade, financial fraud, dope smuggling, dope sales, illegal aliens and terrorism. Or mix and match. It’s heavier than jacking up 7-Elevens, also a felony.”

  “Play with it,” I said. “You’re the new snoop.”

  “Okay,” said Dubbie. “Sex would rate attention if she was pimping immigrants. Women from Eastern Europe or Central America who had overstayed their tourist permits. Or came to practice their trade in a safer country. This town has no shortage of women calling themselves dancers. And she had illegals staying in her home on Big Coppitt. She knows how to play the invisible economy, the men washing dishes and women polishing knobs.”

  “Do you think she owns on Big Coppitt, or she rents and sub-leases?”

  “It’s my bad I can’t answer that,” he said. “We plain forgot to check public records for ownership. But own or rent, it doesn’t really matter in the scope of things, unless, say, it’s owned by someone linked to the rest of our puzzle.”

  “Good start,” I said. “Give that one four stars.”

  “Dope makes sense paired with a housekeeping business,” he said, “but no sense in a town full of small-time dealers. Big-time crooks don’t trust druggies.”

  “Two stars,” I said.

  “If Ocilla Ramirez was a terrorist, she would already be in Guantanamo.”

  “Correct. Zero stars.”

  “She had access to clients’ computers, online bill-paying accounts and incoming mail deliveries.”

  Right there Tanner echoed Liska’s remark about Greg and Ocilla cleaning the homes of the vulnerable.

  “She tried to steer a client toward one particular investment counselor,” I said. “And Liska suggested that she’s been pilfering her customers’ retirement funds. But I can’t believe she’s engineering a big city Ponzi scheme. Financial fraud looks like four stars.”

  “She could be selling that access to the whole world,” said Tanner. “Big money’s part of the mix,” he added. “Pulver’s murder is proof of that.”

  “That puts us up to five stars. Check on that home ownership. And, what the hell, find out where she banks, carefully.”

  I asked the taxi driver to pull into Dredgers Lane and give me one minute inside the house. I wanted to stash my camera and grab a legal pad and a couple of felt tips before heading to my next stop. I had just walked into the kitchen when my landline rang. If I had been in another room, I might have ignored it. I picked it up without checking the Caller ID. One day I will learn.

  Darrin Marsh identified himself. I didn’t respond.

  “I need to talk with you Rutledge,” he said. “I didn’t want to knock on your door without calling ahead.”

  “I’m not at the house, Marsh.”

  “I’m calling your house.”

  “Call forwarding?”

  “If we could just get together,” he said. “I don’t care, wherever you are… Talk for a few. No rough stuff, you got my word. Your choice of location. You call it.”

  Rough stuff? A new legal term for assault and battery?

  I looked at the plain, round plastic clock on the wall. It read 1:55.

  “What’s in it for me, Darrin? You want to pour out your soul, go to church. Or the gym, wherever you worship.”

  “I want to say to your face that I’m sorry, and ask you a favor.”

  He hadn’t answered my question. I didn’t say anything.

  “You’re right,” he admitted. “It’s all about me. But we have one thing in common, and her murder is unsolved. We owe it to her to be in touch with each other.”

  It was a good line, but I couldn’t buy it as genuine.

  “I’m up the Keys,” I said. “I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

  “Like I say, you call it. Her stepfather’s useless. He claims she ignored him, shut him out after her mother died. I need to start thinking about a funeral or memorial service.”

  Much as I hate funerals, that was a better line.

  Anywhere but this house, I thought. I wanted witnesses, but I didn’t want to be seen with the hothead, at least by locals. If Beth ever decided to tell Internal Affairs that Marsh had slugged me, I didn’t want to beat her case at its outset. My mind ran a fast tour of Old Town. I wanted neutral ground where we could talk without being overheard. Out in the open, with people around. He still had first punch advantage, but if it happened again I would use the witnesses.

  “I’ll be in the mood for a beer when I get back,” I said. “How about the pool bar at the Southernmost Hotel?”

  “Next to South Beach?” said Marsh.

  “No, the Pineapple Bar next to the swimming pool, between South and United. How about you show up in uniform?”

  “Then you’ll be the only one drinking,” he said, “but I follow your reasoning.”

  “Four-thirty?”

  “That’s when I write my shift report,” he said. “Ten of five okay?”

  “I’ll call you back if I change my mind, Marsh.”

  The Blackfin Bistro, dimly lighted, vegetable art and wine posters on the walls and every table taken. People forced indoors by the rain took their time eating as the weather lifted. Servers tapped their feet waiting for credit cards to wave. During the cab ride from Staples Avenue to Dredgers Lane to Duval Street, I craved a yellowtail snapper and avocado sandwich. I blamed my urge on the elegant seafood in Malcolm Mason’s office. I wanted that sandwich.

  The rain had just quit when I reached the restaurant. I looked out the back door to the small, walled patio. Not a soul. I borrowed two towels from behind the bar and walked out to my choice of tables. There was a vacant wine bar with a tin roof, two picnic tables with benches under a palm canopy, and a short upright fan. Antique bird cages hung from what looked like a rare long stem acacia tree. A candelabra was suspended from a tall sapodilla. I had stumbled upon a hidden corner in Key West, Internet jazz included. I chose a table big enough for four, asked my server to turn down the exterior speakers, and ordered the fish sandwich and a glass of Pinot gris.

  My visit with Wiley and Dubbie convinced me that I was dealing with an overload of facts. Escape helps. If every object in sight, especially in my house full of my stuff, distracts from a project, it’s time to flee. I sympathized with Chicken Neck Liska’s use of my porch as a satellite office. I counted on the Bistro patio to open my brain, lead me to simpler ways to view the ongoing storm.

  The wine, the legal pad, the pen. Think large, underline and draw arrows. Write down possibilities, create an outline. Ponder the concept of a grand jury summons. I wished I had brought pens of two different colors. Visual drama promotes alertness.

  “Your wine, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your sandwich should be up in five.”

  He wanted another “Thank you,” but I was already listing a cast of characters. Everyone met or mentioned during my Sarasota trip: Justin Beeson, Anya Timber, Eileen Beeson, Luke Tharpe, Edwin Torres, Amanda Beeson, Detective Glenn Steffey, Rodney Sherwin, the pilot, and Sonya Timber, the twin sister.

  Then came the questions, theory upon theory, no favorites allowed. The Rutledge grape-induced scientific method.
Starting with just one sip.

  What really had changed in Beeson’s schedule that required his quick departure from Key West? Had he known we would leave that day when I was at his home on Olivia? He had told Anya it had something to do with Eileen. I knew that school was in session because that’s where Anya had taken her the first morning in Sarasota. Had Amanda insisted that Eileen attend her classes?

  Or was Amanda already dead? If he knew that his ex-wife was dead, only two people could have told him. Someone who found her body, or the murderer. But if someone had found Amanda, why would they call Beeson instead of the cops? If the murderer had informed him, Beeson had hired her killer. Along that line, perhaps Anya had hired the killer, received the “mission accomplished” call, and made up a reason for them all to leave Key West immediately.

  Still, why would he go to 23 Beeson Way straight from the airport yet not find her body until the next day? He had done nothing in the building that evening except write me a check, introduce me to Tharpe and Torres and talk with Tharpe. He could have talked to him by phone and scribbled my check the next morning. Was it part of his plan to take me to his building—and not find her? Had he planned all along to let someone else make the discovery? The mechanic that didn’t kill her?

  Just a theory. And a moment to remind myself to slow down. I had written so quickly, I could barely make out my own handwriting.

  Luke Tharpe and Edwin Torres were an odd pair. The money they made couldn’t have been great, and both had day jobs. Torres had expressed his appreciation of the older, collectible vehicles. Tharpe had called them rattletraps. They were men with different lives and tastes. Tharpe’s day job was in an office; Torres did manual labor. Either could have found another place to moonlight. Edwin had suggested by his car-delivery timeline that Luke and Amanda were an item. Had he tossed that out in an attempt to steer the investigation toward a culprit or away from himself? One day later, when Edwin Torres called me at home, he had sounded afraid of Tharpe.

  Were both mechanics having affairs with Amanda?