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

by Tom Corcoran

  “So, you…”

  “Yes, like you said yesterday. I found her stash of diaries, including the one from when she was with you. I was stupid to pry into her past. But, at the time I did it, she was Miss Attitude, and I was worried that she was having a fling behind my back.”

  Oh, what a perfect time to shut up. I sneaked a glance at Sam. He was holding his drink with one hand, picking his teeth with a business card, staring at a convection oven behind the bar. Marsh was sweating. If I mentioned it, he would blame it on the post-rain humidity. I didn’t mention it. I wanted him to keep sweating.

  “Fling?” I finally said.

  “Yep, she spent an afternoon with some tourist, but it was history, over and done. I guess I picked up delayed signals. I wouldn’t have stayed with her if I’d thought she was still… If I knew for certain.”

  “Ask her about it?”

  He shook his head. “I was afraid of her answer. There were days and nights when I told myself that I hadn’t been this happy or contented in my life. I was also afraid what she’d say if she knew I had scoped the diaries. She had days when she was no walk on the beach.”

  “We all have those days,” I said.

  “Did she have any quirks, habits that bothered you?” said Marsh. “Anything that got under your skin?”

  Tread lightly, I thought. “One thing she did, no other girlfriends have done it. Whenever I was reading a good novel, she would get this message in her brain that told her when I’d hit the last two pages. She would interrupt and ruin the ending. I can’t tell you how many times it happened, like ugly telepathy. Maybe a half dozen paragraphs to go, and there she was, asking if I’d taken out the garbage or turned off the yard light. I would have to force myself not to toss books in the trash can right there and then. But other than that…”

  “By the way,” said Marsh, “when I was telling her my biggest regrets—at least biggest since I arrived in the Keys—she warned me that you and Carmen Sosa are close friends.”

  “That we are. Neighbors and friends.”

  “Carmen and I had drinks and dinner one night, years ago, before I started work with the city, and I acted like an ass.”

  “Maybe you should tell her someday that you’re sorry for that.”

  He shook his head. “She doesn’t want to see my face.”

  “You tried and she blew you off?”

  “No, I screwed up that one solid. She’s like the girls from junior high who think you’re an asshole for the rest of your life.”

  Marsh signaled Tim and ordered another Amstel and another Coke.

  Key West is a small island, and you hear almost every siren in town. You know which street they’re on and have a general idea where they’ve stopped. I hadn’t heard one all day long.

  “Puros Reynoso,” said Marsh. He pointed to a cigar vendor display among the bottles behind the bar. “They’re excellent, from the Dominican Republic. A friend of mine said they used to roll those between the thighs of virgins.”

  “That’s been an urban legend for 150 years,” I said.

  “Well, I can’t smoke in uniform.”

  “That’s right, you’re a cop, Marsh, a professional,” I said. “Have you worked up any theories? Made a list of who might have killed Teresa?”

  “One and only guess,” he said. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

  “Nothing more scientific?”

  “That’s what detectives are for, that science. If I got in their way, I’d never hear the end of it. One of them could write me up for obstructing. Screw my job, maybe end my career, no reflection on your lady friend.”

  “It sounds like a reflection. Are you saying she’s vindictive? Maybe she would appreciate your insight.”

  “All of us, we have our jobs to do,” said Marsh. “If we do them well, we don’t step on each other’s toes.”

  I wasn’t so sure of that. If I was in love with a murder victim I wouldn’t fucking care. I would tromp on toes, obstruct my ass off, force action, find what other officers couldn’t find or refused to find. Hell, I had pushed Teresa out of my life a while ago, but I was adamant about solving her murder. Why was Marsh complacent?

  Why was there no hair on his arms? I didn’t want to know.

  “You have training in this stuff,” I said. “On the job or did you go to school?”

  I knew the answer. But I didn’t want to tip him to the idea that Beth had dug up his background info.

  “College major, not that I’ll brag my GPA. Then I had to take a few courses at the college here to get my Florida certification. That was when I paid the bills working construction, installing electrical equipment, re-wiring old office buildings.”

  “You were with Teresa how many minutes before she died?”

  “Hard to tell,” said Marsh. “Probably less than twenty minutes.”

  “And the most sensible concept is that she walked into a crime-in-progress. The perp was still inside and she became a liability.”

  He nodded. “Just like on television. She walked into a neighbor’s condo. The only possible reason was because the door was open. She saw Caldwell on the floor, she went in to help him.”

  I wondered if Marsh was smoke-screening, trying to funnel an alibi through me to the investigators that counted. The people who could make him an accomplice or the sole perpetrator. But I didn’t know him well enough to separate truth from his lies. I had had a busy day and he’d had several days to write his own script. Also, he could be innocent as hell and still building a CYA wall around himself.

  I quit the silence: “Wouldn’t she come and get you first, before she went into the condo?”

  “I think her first reaction was compassion,” he said. “She saw a man slumped on the floor, or watched him fall, and had no way to know that a man had been shot in another room. She went in to help Caldwell and, somehow, saw the murderer. Or she tried to dial 911 and the murderer grabbed her from behind before she could speak. He killed her and left quicker than he wanted to, left the door wide open.”

  “A man shot?” I said.

  “Fuck, I thought you knew,” he said. “I found him and saw the head wound, but the detectives told me to stay quiet about it. They put out the false fact that Pulver had been cut to shreds. It was a way to filter out fake confessions.”

  “I’ll be damned,” I said, playing dumb. “I will have to speak to my girlfriend about that. Did either of you know Greg Pulver or Emerson Caldwell?”

  He shook his head. “I sure didn’t. I never heard Teresa mention them.”

  “Ever heard of Ocilla Ramirez?”

  “After the shit went down,” he said. “Never heard her name before this week.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “Are you worried?”

  Marsh twisted his head to face me. “Why would I be?”

  “Come out of the fog, Darrin,” I said. “You discovered three bodies when you were off duty. I hear there’s the issue of your missing gun. You went to college for this shit. You could be anything from a grieving boyfriend to a bad apple to a true suspect to a cop-abuse civil rights mudbath.”

  “What about you, Rutledge? She’s not your first ex-girlfriend to be found dead, to be murdered.”

  Success, Darrin, I thought. You landed a mental gut punch I didn’t see coming. Teresa must have told him about Julia Balbuena, not that I was ever considered a suspect.

  “That was the first time I ever worked for the county,” I said, “for Sheriff Tucker, the weasel. When Fred Liska was still a city detective.”

  “It must have been after he got tangled up with Caldwell.”

  Red flag. Play stupid. “Liska and Caldwell?” I said. “Tangled?”

  “They were partners in a Ponzi scheme fifteen years ago,” said Marsh.

  “Bullshit,” I said. “Liska was the lead detective in Key West. When would he have time to rip people off?”

  “This isn’t new scuttlebutt from the city, Rutledge. It’s bounced around the police department since I started t
here. Probably for a few years before that. I’m surprised you never heard. Whatever went down, it went backward for Liska. Caldwell ripped him off for his life savings, and no one got arrested. All Liska could do was eat shit. Now he’s hanging in the wind because he could be a suspect for revenge motive.”

  I had to think about that for a moment. Liska’s twin statements from earlier days informed me that he wasn’t involved. “Please stick with it, Aristocrats and all.” Then later, “Do you want to put your private eye rookies at death’s door? Draw bad guys to your doorstep? Endanger your girlfriend?”

  “I’m surprised that didn’t come out when he ran for office,” I said.

  Marsh shook his head. “Before my time.”

  “Did Teresa say anything about burial or cremation?”

  By changing the subject I stalled his train of thought.

  Marsh took another look around the bar. Fixed his gaze on Sam again, but didn’t flinch and turned back toward me. “She wanted her ashes spread around that Little Hamaca Park behind the airport,” he said. “She didn’t want a church service. I figure we can have a gathering at The Chart Room or, well, shit, she used to love PT’s, but that’s history. Kind of like she is, and there’s nothing we can do to bring her back.”

  “With all her fellow city employees who’ll want to attend, a restaurant might be better than a bar,” I said. “A Sunday afternoon at one of the hotels. Make it easier for the non-drinkers to show their faces. And maybe we shouldn’t discuss Little Hamaca except between us. I don’t know if we’d need a permit or anything.”

  “Good thought.” Marsh thrummed his fingers on the bar, signaling that his part of our chat was concluded.

  “One last item.” I handed him the thumb drive that held the video record of our altercation.

  He studied the plastic form without expression and finally guessed. “Pictures of Teresa?”

  “It’s a full-color clip starring you.”

  His lower lip drooped with his jaw, a perfect mouth-breather frozen moment.

  “A friend in the Tower Bar gave it to me,” I said. “You’ll be only the third person to watch it.”

  “Where you going with this, Rutledge?”

  “There’s no reason for it to go viral,” I said. “Isn’t that the YouTube term?”

  “Do you intend to blackmail me?”

  “I’m not looking for cash, Officer Marsh. But you assaulted me, which was illegal. Am I supposed to run to higher ground? Can’t I do something illegal in retaliation?”

  “What do you want?” he said.

  “A simple guarantee. Fewer fists and knees and makeshift weapons.”

  “Did you put some bad word on my ass, Rutledge? Is that why I’m being followed?”

  “Don’t let grief cloud your perceptions, Darrin. If you’re being followed, it’s not the city or county, and it started before yesterday.”

  He polished off his soft drink, surely from nervousness, turned to leave. “Fuck,” he said. “Now I get to mourn two things. My woman and the only job I’ve ever come close to liking.”

  “Your call, Marsh.”

  Sam gave him ten yards then followed him out toward United Street. Alone, I looked at the canopy over the bar, then the white posts with their mid-relief ceramic pineapple sculptures. I had concentrated so much on the conversation, I had almost forgotten where I was. The sun had disappeared and the air had gone chilly. A few chain-smoking diehards remained at the bar. They all wore jackets or sweaters. The German swimmers with their blue-striped towels had retreated to their rooms and left me a cold wind down from Hamburg. I was warmed only by the piped-in music, and a song I recognized called “Buoyancy.”

  I walked out to United Street where Sam waited in his Bronco to drive me home. The wind had eased and the moon, not quite full, rose above the Santa Maria Suites on Simonton. I heard the strong, low horn of a departing cruise ship and I thought about my faith in the wonders of nature.

  Back at the house a FedEx packet sat on the porch table.

  A check from Beeson. The expense money he owed me, plus a $500 bonus. Why extra money? Another endless list of possibilities.

  After two Amstels at the Pineapple Bar, I didn’t need another beer. I found the open bottle of J. Lohr Cabernet and took it to the porch to ponder my abrasive chat with Darrin Marsh. Unlike my brainstorm session at the bistro, no insights came to mind. I had given Darrin his soapbox, he talked himself up, made his plea, and I had shitcanned his apology with a QuickTime movie on a thumb drive.

  A rare occasion to appreciate today’s most overused cliché: Whatever.

  Rodney Sherwin called. I confirmed that I had talked with Beeson, and Sherwin said that he had promised to have me in Sarasota by ten-thirty. Could I meet him at the airport by eight-fifteen? Again not wanting to leave a vehicle in public parking, I asked for and was assured a ride.

  “Are you in trouble up there, or something?”said Sherwin. “I got a call from a cop who wants me to hang out, bring you back the day after.”

  “If they make it worth your while,” I said, “it’s your choice. Just don’t fly south without me.”

  When Beth Watkins arrived, around nine-thirty, the wine bottle still held enough to quench her thirst. Right away I made her promise not to discuss Marsh. We sat on the porch and listened to traffic on Fleming, a thumping, distorted reggaeton tune on a passing car’s stereo, the John Prine CD at low volume inside the house.

  “I think the absence of leads tires me more than having too many clues,” she said. “This vacuum of information is sucking me dry. Too many days have passed. Every day I worry that something I missed gets farther away.”

  “Can we think for the next two hours that something will turn up?” I said.

  “We can try,”said Beth. “You work on suspects and I’ll imagine that I’m watching a million-dollar lottery ticket float into my wallet.”

  “An event that would prompt you to keep your job and buy a faster Ducati.”

  “Me? A lightweight Panigale?” she said. “Moi?

  The knock at the door was timid, as hesitant as the dimly lighted face outside the screen.

  “Can I help you?” I said, knowing immediately who it was.

  “Look, I know there’s shit flying all about me. But I didn’t kill Greg and I didn’t kill my client. That’s not how I do things. I’m not a model citizen, but I don’t ever do very bad things.”

  I had thought that a woman named Ocilla Ramirez might have, at least, a hint of Hispanic in her facial features. Her lank hair mixed dark brown and bronze. Her face was gaunt, almost haunted.

  I came back with a tentative, “Okay…”

  “Not talking to you, mister. Don’t know who you are. I’m here to tell the lady cop a thing or two.”

  Beth didn’t turn to look, didn’t move at all. “I’m listening.”

  “Someone’s been watching me. I don’t know if it’s the county or the state. They even had phony cable guys on a utility pole in front of my house tapping my phone or putting a camera up there to watch my come-and-go, and my visitors. I know we got murders, but they are plum wasting time on me. If it’s any help to your case, I think Mr. Caldwell, he liked to blow Gregory.”

  I recalled Dubbie’s words: “She’d do a snake with its lack of ears no problem.”

  “Thank you for finding me,” said Beth. “Or following me, whichever.”

  “Well, I just need a good night’s sleep,” said Ocilla. “Thought this might help us both. Be seeing you.”

  We watched her silhouette as she walked back toward Fleming Street.

  “That was weird,” I said.

  “Worse,” said Beth. “It bugs me that I didn’t know I’d been followed. That fact scares me almost more than a gun.”

  We put together enough snack food to call supper, then discussed methods of pleasure that would aggravate my fight injuries less than “doing it.” Two of the arrangements were well worth the pain. Lo and behold, the best pleasure came from the met
hod we had tried to avoid.

  Beth is hellacious fun to watch when she is on top.

  19.

  I woke to watch Beth put on her panties and bra. My eyes have seen the glories, the goosebumps, the elastic and adjustments. I wished her a safe day on the job, as I always do, and she reminded me that it was Saturday, so she didn’t have to work. She was going in to finish some paperwork, then quit by noon. When I climbed out of bed to make coffee, I found no filters, but I had time to walk to 5 Brothers for high octane cafe con leche and a sugar bomb guava pastry to fuel my day.

  Anya Timber walked out of the grocery as I began to cross Southard Street, no surprise as I already knew her to be an early riser. My thought from ten yards away was that she must have spent money in a hair salon since visiting my porch. Her hair looked shorter, a little lighter. My second thought was that I didn’t want to get into another horny or spite-filled conversation.

  I approached and offered a harmless, “How are things for you today?”

  She looked at me oddly and said, “Pardon me?” with a southern accent.

  I saw the subtle differences. The shoes more utilitarian than stylish. The muscle tone in her forearms and a lack of gold jewelry. A surprising sparkle in her eyes. This one, Sonya, had solid moves. Her athletic grace made her the more beautiful of the two.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’ve met your sister and I mistook you for the other twin.”

  “It happens.” She turned away, walked toward Duval.

  They were nearly identical, and each had a solid steel core. Fifty yards down the street Sonya climbed into the passenger side of the silver RAV4. I couldn’t see the driver but assumed it was Luke because the vehicle’s departure lacked the authority of Anya’s Boxster-inspired lead foot.

  Toweling off next to the yard shower, I remembered. My motorcycle was not in its mini-garage. It was safe in the Aristocrats’s carport, and I would ask the pilot to drop me on Staples when we returned—if I hadn’t been slapped into the Manatee County jail for failing to register as an amateur sleuth.

  Inside the house, in long sleeves and trousers for Sarasota’s cooler weather, I had twenty minutes to meet Rodney Sherwin for my ride to the airport.