by Tom Corcoran
“We knew this from your photos, but we’ve confirmed that Beeson totally fouled the crime scene cubicle with his fingerprints. I’m still trying to get my mind around the fact that he lied to us about the recycle time on his building’s security videos. He told you seventy-two hours, and he told me one week.”
“Major confusion factors,” I said.
“Especially if we consider that she was brought into the building in the trunk of her own car,” said Steffey. “Luke would not have moved that Mercedes-Benz into the building if he thought that we would find hard evidence of her presence in the trunk. The man knew he was on camera.”
“Did you find evidence?”
“Start with urine stains and drops of blood,” he said. “She cut the back of one leg on something sharp in the trunk, maybe on purpose.”
“Hell of a start,” I said. “What came next?”
Steffey gave a sniff of hesitation then said, “Amanda had cocaine in her system and she had sex just before she died.”
“Consensual sex? With her killer?”
“No way to answer either question,” said Steffey.
“But someone dropped off the Benz with Amanda inside it, alive.”
“Correct,” said the detective. “Then Luke moved the car into the garage without knowing she was along for the ride. He certainly had no reason to check the trunk. She may have been alive when you were in the building that first evening you were in Sarasota.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “The last person to leave the building that night was Edwin Torres.”
“Let’s say that’s true.”
“Isn’t it about time for you to get away for a day or two in the Keys?”
“What are we talking about here, Rutledge?”
“Go pick up Edwin,” I said, “and tell him he won’t do life without parole if he identifies his co-conspirator. I’m betting I’ll see you down here in shorts and flip-flops by noon on Tuesday.”
“Tell me more.”
“Someone with building access trussed up Amanda Beeson and killed her,” I said. “That whittles it down to the real estate people and Edwin Torres. If she was the real owner of that building, as I believe she was, no real estate broker or salesperson in their right mind would want her dead. She meant income to those people. She meant something else to her killer, but Edwin Torres doesn’t have the gumption to pull it off by himself.”
“Gumption like balls?” he said.
“Yep. I think someone gave him a push, and I also think that Justin Beeson knew that Edwin had killed her within minutes of discovering her body. That makes him an accessory after the fact, correct?”
“Who pushed him, Rutledge, if it wasn’t Beeson? The saucy girlfriend?”
“I may not be 100 percent correct, so if I said a name, it would screw up your questions for Edwin. Show him some sympathy and understanding. He’s had a rough life. Take my word, Glenn, the man will explain everything. Call if you need me to recommend a good hotel.”
Dubbie Tanner had disappeared inside his house and Wiley Fecko was folding the tarp that had covered my Triumph. One of them had brought my helmet outside and placed it on the porch chair.
“Do we need to bring your fee invoice up to date?” I said to Fecko.
“We know where you live. What’s next on our list of impossible deeds?”
“Only one that I can think of right now,” I said. “Darrin Marsh was working for an electrical contractor, maybe more than one, before he became a cop. Can you find out who employed him and the types of jobs they did? Maybe we can find out if he ever did wiring work at The Tideline.”
“I’ll get on it.”
I started the Triumph, snugged my helmet strap and watched the city’s crime scene van stop in front of Southernmost Aristocratic Investigations. Beth Watkins exited the passenger-side door, clicked the locks on her Audi A5, and sat inside the car long enough to lower the windows. Then she walked over and hugged me while I removed my helmet.
“Home run on the white van,” she said. “One of our forensic techs used to work for the Border Patrol in Arizona. They dealt with a constant stream of dope, and he’s good at finding secret compartments. He found a stash in a vertical support pillar.”
“Empty?”
She shook her head. “About three hundred in loose fifties and twenties and one uncashed check stuck in a seam. It was a refund check from a U.S. phone company sent to an address in Montreal, maybe to an American who had moved.”
“If that’s how they brought the checks into the country, why would they risk using the van to move cash back out?”
“That’s someone else’s problem,” said Beth. “More important to us is that the van passed through Miami heading south on Sunday. It’s too bad there’s no way to know who was in it.”
“How did you…”
“The Turnpike’s tolls are paid either by SunPass or direct billing to the license tag holder. Cameras read every tag and every number goes into a database. That’s why they bust so many people southbound in the Upper Keys who are driving with expired tags, revoked licenses or canceled insurance. Searching and cross-matching data is simple.”
Amazing, I thought. “Big Brother is alive and well.”
“As is Robert Fonteneau, unless he met the same fate as Ocilla.”
“There are too many vehicles and too many arrivals,” I said. “He flew down here on Tuesday, we know that. Did he also drive his van down here two days earlier? And let’s not forget, both the Corolla and Hyundai were rented in his name. Is he aware of that fact and has he driven either of them?”
“I want to thank you and hug you, Alex. Then I want to put a bag over your head and beg you to stop thinking long enough for me to catch up.”
“Give me one more thought,” I said. “I can’t believe that Fonteneau killed Ocilla and dumped her in his own truck. If he did that he would give up the check-cashing scam, taint his Canadian company, and make himself a murder suspect. I don’t think he killed her. I think someone’s trying to screw Bobby Fuck No.”
“Now he’s scrambling?” said Beth.
“He’d be a fool to stay in town. Even if he had to hitchhike… Unless he’s waiting for some kind of payoff.”
“He’s probably gone,” she said, “but I’ll put a BOLO on the Hyundai and a watch at the Key West and Miami airports.”
“The Greyhound Bus and the Ft. Myers Ferry?” I said.
Her eyelids drooped slightly. Not sultry at all. Slightly pissed.
“Maybe if we can find Christi Caldwell, we’ll find him,” I said. “They could be the masterminds at the top of the check-cashing operation.”
She made the “T” sign with her hands.
“The last time I saw her, she was face down in a bottle of wine with E. Carlton Gamble.”
Beth lunged for my throat. She stopped only to see if there were witnesses.
25.
I locked the motorcycle in its designer shed and eyed my back yard shower. If I couldn’t have forty minutes of slippery playtime with Beth Watkins, my next choice would be Little Feat full blast on the outside speakers until I ran out of hot water.
Indulgent, sure, but I could blame my plane crash aches. Or the weirdness of the past six days. Or incessant phone calls, not including the one that interrupted my idyll under the mango tree.
“Marnie drove somewhere to write about a dead woman,” said Sam.
“The other housekeeper. They found her inside the white van from that photo. Beth’s trying to find the van’s owner, Bobby Fuck No.”
“Some people come by their nicknames easily. Where was he last seen?”
“Captain Tony’s,” I said. “Two days ago, when Marnie overheard his chatter.”
“Would he keep going back to the same saloon?”
“Criminals aren’t always the smartest humans in the world. Ready for a beer?”
Sam drove and parked in the Hilton garage, and we hiked up Greene Street.
“Like we did wit
h that city cop on Thursday,” he said, “I’ll go in first.”
I dawdled on the corner at Duval long enough to give him time to order a beer. Our precaution was meaningless. The place was half-full of weekend tourists having one for the road, and Fonteneau wasn’t in sight. Every time I walked into Captain Tony’s, with all the photos, flags, business cards, license plates and nautical artifacts plastered about, I thought about “All Up on the Wall,” a song I particularly enjoyed. I joined Sam at the far end of the bar, a vantage point back toward the bandstand.
Sam began to talk about hanging out in there when he first got to town. He told me about sitting at a table right behind us while “The Captain” talked about losing the election, the first time he ran for mayor, and about losing Stacey Loux, the woman Tony called the love of his life.
“The only time I ever saw Tony get misty-eyed,” said Sam. “How we doing?”
“This isn’t working. Fonteneau’s not here. He’s probably in Toronto.”
“It was a good try and the beer is cold.”
“That’s all the excuse I need to sit right here for the next two hours,” I said. “Turn a hectic Sunday afternoon into a lazy Sunday afternoon.”
No such luck. My phone buzzed.
I thought quickly about which callers I could ignore and which might prompt me to answer. The name that flashed on the screen made it easy. It was Malcolm Mason, the boat broker.
“The noise tells me you’re in a bar,” he said. “I’m sorry to disturb your hometown holiday. I’ve got a favor to ask.”
“Anytime, Malcolm. Especially right now.”
“Alex, I didn’t tell you this when that man agreed to buy the boat the other day. I guess I didn’t want you to get a big head and boost your prices. When he told me he was interested in buying it, I told him you were outside taking pictures. That seemed to make up his mind. He said that Alex Rutledge wouldn’t bother to take pictures of junk. He bought the boat without inspecting it.”
“Sounds like I might be in line for a salesman’s commission,” I said.
“There may be a problem, Alex. When he and I shook hands on the deal, he gave me four thousand bucks in cash as down payment. Ten minutes ago he called me here at home. He wants to meet in the morning for a quick shakedown cruise then close the purchase. But he warned me that he would pay the rest of the money in cash. That’s forty-one thousand dollars.”
“That sounds a bit shaky to me,” I said. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him the boat wasn’t in the water, which is true, so I had to check with my hoist operator, which is not. I really needed to call you. He knew your name, Alex, so I figured it goes both ways. I was wondering if you could vouch for him.”
“Name?”
“Fonteneau,” he said. “Robert Fonteneau. Do you recognize his name?”
“Have you got a number for him?”
“No, he was calling from a pay phone. He’s calling me back in ten.”
“Can I get back to you, Malcolm? I’ll have to check something myself.”
“Please don’t leave me hanging,” he said. “I want this sale.”
I speed-spoke an explanation to Sam while I thumbed Beth’s number. She didn’t answer—no surprise. She was into an interview, or looking for E. Carlton Gamble or chasing down leads in Internet caves accessible only to badge holders. Which left me playing solo with the knowledge that a person of interest, my possible murderer, was still on the island. He was trying to schedule a meeting with a boat broker who wanted the deal but knew nothing of Bobby Fuck No’s background.
“All I know are five details,” said Sam, “but here’s the punch line. He called your friend on Sunday. He needs the boat. The man’s desperate, in a hurry.”
“Afraid of being killed or caught,” I said.
“The instant he gets a toehold, he’ll want to reschedule. You should start thinking that it’s going to happen tonight.” Sam checked his watch. “Just under two hours to sunset.”
I have learned never to doubt Sam Wheeler’s instinct. I tried again to reach Beth’s cell. It went to voicemail, and I asked her again to call because Fonteneau was still in town and potentially available. I hung up and pushed my beer away.
Come on, come on.
The young woman who had served our beers wore a bright orange T-shirt that said in block letters, SHE AIN’T RIGHT. She reached under the bar, tapped her phone, read a message and cracked a big grin. I waved her over and handed her my cell.
“I know how to receive a text,” I said, “but not how to send one. Could you please do me a…”
“To this last number you called?” she said. “What do you want to say?”
“‘Call right now about Fuck No.’”
She began tapping with both thumbs. “You are so golden with the words.” She handed back my phone, gave me a flirtatious but skeptical smile. “Done, dude. Are you really expecting an answer?”
“What have I got?” I said to Sam. “Three minutes to call Malcolm? It’s too noisy to think in here. I’ll meet you around the corner at the Smokin’ Tuna. Tip the woman an extra five, okay?”
Thirty seconds later I was walking down Telegraph Lane, thinking fast. I needed to keep Malcolm Mason clear but I didn’t have time to explain the danger. I needed to keep Fonteneau inside the city limits so Beth could arrest or detain him without involving Sheriff Liska. If someone started shooting, I didn’t want innocent victims.
My phone buzzed: it was Malcolm.
“If I have to hang up,” he said, “it’s because he’s calling me back.”
“I understand,” I said. “Where do you bank?”
“The, um… You know… The tall one behind Key Plaza.”
“Okay, Malcolm, your sale to Mr. Fonteneau is a done deal. The shakedown ride, we understand that, so let’s get your money first. Tell him to meet you at the bank because you don’t want to be walking around with forty-one grand in your pocket.”
“I’ve got a safe in my office.”
“I’ll explain later why that’s not a good idea. He’s also a very demanding person. Since it’s a cash deal, I’m guessing he’ll want to move fast and meet you this evening before sundown.”
“Of course, the bank won’t be open,” said Malcolm.
“Right, but tell him to meet you there right away,” I said. “Take a big envelope and a deposit slip for the night deposit drop box. Do not tell him you’ve called me to vouch for him. For absolute sure, don’t tell him that.”
“What the hell’s going on, Alex?” he said. “Shit, there he is, calling now.”
“Do what I said, Malcolm. Call me right back.”
Sam Wheeler found me sitting on the curb on Charles Street, inside that gray area between pensiveness and puking. Half-fearing his judgment, I told him what I’d said to Malcolm Mason.
“Off to a good start,” he said. “What can we do without Beth?”
“Stall Fonteneau, I suppose,” I said. “Keep him in one place until Beth comes to our rescue. We can’t let Malcolm near him.”
“That works,” said Sam. “Let’s get the car.”
In the near-darkness of the Hilton parking garage, I noticed that Sam had fresh white decals on his old Bronco’s tailgate, silhouettes of fish with a year under each one.
“What are those?” I said. “I thought I knew my native species.”
“You’ve seen those death notices on the back windows of cars, right? Rolling obits and memoriams? I did it for the fish. Those are local extinct ones.”
So dependable in so many ways.
“Why are the streets so empty?” I said.
“NFL Playoff games today. Where are we going?”
“Key Plaza, and please step on it, driver.”
“My foot will go through the floor.”
We were coming off Eaton onto Palm Avenue when my phone rang. I answered and told Wiley Fecko that I couldn’t talk.
“This is hot, so don’t hang up,” he said. “Marsh worked
for Rafael Mendoza Electric when they rewired the security system at The Tideline. He had plans and codes.”
“Jesus. Thank you,” I said, trying not to think about Teresa. I clicked off.
Malcolm called back. “You were right, Alex. He wants to do the deal today. He wasn’t happy but he agreed to meet me in the bank parking lot near the drive-through.”
“Good,” I said. “Will he recognize your car?”
“I forgot to tell him, I’m in my wife’s car today. She took mine to Miami.”
“Okay, Malcolm, I want you to meet me first in Key Plaza, at the front door of Office Max. I’ll be there in three minutes.”
“What the hell is going on, Rutledge?”
“You’ll understand everything right away.”
“Fonteneau knows you, right?” said Sam. “Your face will scare him off.”
“Shit, I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
“I’ll go in with some kind of excuse, like I’m Malcolm’s assistant.”
“No,” I said. “you’re the substitute hoist operator, because his full-time guy is out of town. That’s good, but where is he? Where are the NFL Playoffs being played this year?”
“I don’t have to know that. I don’t have to be a football expert. Just a hoist jockey working overtime.”
“He’ll probably be in a bronze Hyundai,” I said, “parked a good distance from the bank’s security cameras. Mispronounce his name at first. He’ll jump all over that, give us an extra minute or two. Talk about your forklift career.”
“Didn’t you say that somebody might be trying to screw with the criminal?”
“Beth and I thought so. You don’t, by chance, have your weapon…”
“Under your seat,” said Sam, “but that’s a good idea. You and Malcolm can bring his car the long way around.”
“Am I going to protect you with your gun?”
“I’m not Wyatt Earp. If he has a weapon, I’d rather depend on your aim than my quickness. You and Malcolm drive around and south on Kennedy, pull in the row just beyond that line of utility trucks that’s always there. Put up the hood, mess with the distributor cap. Do something to make yourself credible. Park at an odd angle as if you just broke down.”