Florida Son

by W. J. Costello

  “What about the video, Mom? Didn’t you think the hands in the video looked like Max’s hands?”

  “Honestly? No. I think you just want to believe what you want to believe. Who doesn’t? We all do. But you can’t run away from the facts. You have to face the facts.”

  “Oh my God. I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  Julie’s phone beeped. She found it under a dish towel and picked it up. She looked at it, made a face.

  “Somebody called me but my phone never even rang. It just automatically went to voice mail.”

  “Mine does that sometimes too,” I said.

  Julie called up her voice mail, put the phone to her ear.

  Moments later she hung up.

  “It was Dusty. He left me a message.”

  “He finally returned your call,” I said. “What’d he say?”

  “He said he needs to talk to me about something.”

  “He say what?”

  “No.”

  “He say anything else?”

  “No. That was it.”

  “You going to call him back?”

  “Right now.”

  She dialed Dusty’s number and put the phone on speaker.

  It rang.

  And rang.

  And rang.

  Nobody answered.

  CHAPTER 45

  THE SUN WAS just coming up over the horizon and I was eating my breakfast at a picnic table when Mr. and Mrs. Messy came bounding out of their RV and began to raise their voices at each other.

  Smoke coiled in front of her squinted eyes as she sucked ferociously on a cigarette. He used both hands to wave away the smoke.

  I spooned some oats and blueberries into my mouth. The show was about to begin. Who needs TV when you have live entertainment right outside your door.

  “Back to smoking again?” Mr. Messy said to his wife. “You promised to quit. You know how bad those cancer sticks are for you. More and more studies show smoking can shorten your life.”

  “More and more smokers don’t care,” she said, and blew smoke at him. “I told you why I’m doing it.”

  “Just because that man threatened us? That’s no reason.”

  “It is for me. My nerves are on edge. Smoking relaxes me.”

  “You’ll be real relaxed when you’re dead from lung cancer.”

  “Stop being so dramatic.”

  “Me? Me? I’m the one being dramatic?”

  “I Googled him this morning. I did it before you woke up.”

  “You what?”

  “He threatened our lives, so I wanted to check his background. I read some articles about him on the web. Would you like to hear what I learned?”

  “Of course.”

  “Twenty years ago he was arrested for beating his neighbor to death. They charged him with manslaughter. The dispute began over a minor incident. Then a fight broke out. The neighbor was punched multiple times and then fell and hit his head. The paramedics arrived and tried to resuscitate him. They couldn’t. He died on the spot.”

  “Manslaughter? Did he go to prison?”

  “Nope. He got off. He had a good lawyer.”

  “Jesus. Did he do anything else?”

  “Plenty,” she said, and sucked at her cigarette. “Last year he was involved in another neighbor dispute. It began when a neighbor played her radio too loudly one night. He went over to her house and banged on her door and told her to turn down the music. She told him to go to hell.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “The following day she looked out her window and saw one of her cats staggering across the yard. When she went to check on it she saw it was frothing at the mouth. She drove it immediately to a veterinarian. On the way there the cat went into cardiac arrest and died. The veterinarian found traces of an unspecified toxin.”

  “Probably poison.”

  “The woman thought maybe her cat had eaten a poisonous lizard. But then the following day the same thing happened to two more of her cats. Tests showed they had ingested pentobarbital.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a barbiturate used by veterinarians to euthanize animals. Traces of it were also found in the woman’s yard—mostly near where her cats ate their meals. The police investigation lasted six weeks and then they closed the case. They found no signs of foul play.”

  “So that was the end of it then?”

  “Not quite. The woman hired a private detective to investigate her neighbor. They learned the man used to work in animal control until he got fired for misusing pentobarbital.”

  “I bet that’s what he used to kill our plants.”

  “I think so too. Anyway the woman took him to court. His lawyer called in an expert who testified about inconsistencies in the toxicology tests. The woman lost her case. A week later her house burnt to the ground.”

  “Jesus. Maybe we should leave this guy alone. He beat a man to death, poisoned some cats, probably set fire to that woman’s house too. Jesus. And now he wants to do harm to us.”

  “What do you suggest we do?”

  “I think we should hit the road. There’s plenty of other campgrounds where we can go. It’s too dangerous to stay here any longer.”

  “But we didn’t do anything wrong. Why should we be the ones to leave? That’s exactly what he wants us to do. Why should we do what he wants us to do?”

  “Why? Because he’s crazy, because he threatened us, because you’re so nervous you’re smoking again. How many reasons you need?”

  “What are you, a man or a mouse?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  “What do you think I am?”

  “A wimp. A big fat wimp.”

  “Nice. Very nice.”

  “This is all your fault, you know.”

  “I know. Everything always is.”

  “You should have stood up to him. You should have shown him you know how to protect your family. That would have stopped him. He would have left us alone after that. But you didn’t do that. You let him push you around. Why didn’t you push him around?”

  “A bulldozer couldn’t push him around.”

  “So now you’re ready to surrender to him? Maybe you should hoist your white underwear on a pole as a flag of surrender.”

  “So you think I’m a wimp. Any other complaints?”

  “You’re out of shape. You grunt when you move. You tell the same stories over and over again. You never listen. You fart too much. You’re a tightwad with money. You don’t spend enough time with our son. You allow your mother to meddle in our marriage. You’re too selfish to have another child with me. You snore. You respect your career goals but not mine. You’re more like a roommate than a husband. You’re still Facebook friends with your ex. Talking to you is sometimes like talking to a wall. You never help around the house. You can’t communicate. You always want to have sex when I want to sleep. You’re just so . . . different. You forget anniversaries. You stare at other women. You’re stubborn. You never care about what I want. You’re always playing video games. We have the same arguments every damn day. You drink too much. Your family drives me nuts. You don’t appreciate me enough. You never do what you say you’re going to do. You’re too much boy and not enough man.”

  “Somebody has put a lot of thought into this.”

  “You asked.”

  “Why did you marry me?”

  “I thought I could fix you.”

  “How’s that working for you?”

  She had emasculated him, though not completely. But the game was still young. She began to chip away at more weak points.

  Then he said something he shouldn’t have.

  She slapped him.

  He said it again.

  She slapped him again.

  They both froze for a moment.

  Then they burst out laughing. They threw back their heads and laughed and laughed and laughed for nearly a full minute.

  When they finally stopped they threw t
heir arms around each other. Their tongues wrestled hungrily. Their hands roamed freely.

  Then he bummed a cigarette from her. He lit it, puffed at it.

  Smoke drifted behind them as they climbed back into their RV.

  CHAPTER 46

  KNUCKLES RAPPED ON the entry door to Julie’s RV.

  My eyes blinked open. I yawned.

  It was late at night. The RV was dark. The only light came from the TV screen. Julie and I had fallen asleep on the sofa while watching Gone Girl on AMC.

  A commercial blared. I picked up the remote, turned down the volume, glanced at Julie. Still asleep under the sofa blanket.

  We had spent the day driving around Sarasota. It was a temporary escape from reality. A mental break.

  We drove through rich neighborhoods. We saw mansions galore. Pillared mansions with turrets and columns and fancy gates. Spacious lawns. Endless swaying palm trees. Lush tropical vegetation. Bubbling fountains. Balconies festooned with bougainvillea. Curved driveways. Limos.

  Everything looked expensive, smelled expensive, was expensive.

  “If you were rich,” Julie had said to me, “which of these mansions would you buy?”

  “Me? Rich? That requires quite a stretch of the imagination.”

  “Stretch it then. Which mansion?”

  “Hmm. None of them.”

  “Come on, seriously.”

  “Seriously.”

  “If you were rich, you wouldn’t buy a mansion?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where would you live then?”

  “Same place I live now.”

  “In your RV?”

  “Yep.”

  “Come on.”

  “I’m happy there.”

  “You wouldn’t be happier in a mansion?”

  “Nope.”

  “Most people would.”

  “Most people think they would.”

  “What’s wrong with owning a mansion?”

  “Constant maintenance.”

  “You can hire other people to do it for you.”

  “Hiring and managing people is a job in and of itself. You have to deal with a small army of housekeepers, pesticide sprayers, handymen, pool guys, property managers, administrative assistants, gardeners, landscapers. How could you ever have any privacy with all those people buzzing around your property?”

  “Constant maintenance—is that the only reason why you wouldn’t want to own a mansion? Or do you have other reasons too?”

  “I have other reasons.”

  “Like?”

  “What if you get a bad neighbor?”

  “You sell your mansion and move to another one.”

  “You have any idea how hard it is to sell a mansion? The pool of buyers looking for mansions is very limited. You know what I like about living in an RV? I never have to put up with an annoying neighbor for very long. I can just drive away.”

  “What if you decide one day that you’re tired of the mobile lifestyle. What if you decide to finally settle down somewhere. What would you do then? Would you buy a house? Would you rent one?”

  “We’re still pretending I’m rich?”

  “We are.”

  “Then I’d live in a hotel.”

  “What, like an Econo Lodge?”

  “Not if I’m rich. I’d do what Vladimir Nabokov did.”

  “Who?”

  “A novelist. He wrote Lolita. That’s his most famous novel.”

  “And he lived in a hotel?”

  “Not just any hotel. He lived in a suite at the Montreux Palace in Switzerland. The hotel overlooks the Alps. It’s located on the shores of Lake Geneva.”

  “It sounds more luxurious than the Econo Lodge.”

  “Lots of celebrities have lived in hotels at one time or another: Peter Ustinov, Robert De Niro, Keanu Reeves, Howard Hughes, John Belushi, James Woods, Dashiell Hammett, Ernest Hemingway, John Travolta, Kelly Preston, Oscar Wilde, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Marcel Proust, Coco Chanel, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Elizabeth Taylor.”

  “Why would you want to live in a hotel?”

  “Convenience. You have no lawn to maintain. No house to repair. No burden of ownership. You pay only one bill: your hotel bill. You don’t have the headache of paying for all the usual monthly expenses: water, electricity, cable, Internet, homeowner insurance, lawn care, maid service, gym membership. Hotels have many conveniences: room service, fitness centers, laundry service, business centers, pools, shuttle service, restaurants, bars, maid service, concierges.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  Knuckles rapped on the door again.

  “What was that?” Julie said from under the sofa blanket.

  “Somebody’s at the door,” I told her.

  She sat up, knuckled her eyes.

  “What time is it, Rip?”

  “Too late for a visitor.”

  “Who is it?”

  I got up from the sofa and walked to a window and peered out.

  “It’s Detective Woods from the Tampa Police Department.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “I bet they found the two dead bodies in Tina’s house.”

  “Do you think he knows we were there?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “What if he’s here to arrest us?”

  “He’s probably here to inform you your brother’s dead.”

  “I hope that’s why.”

  “Evening, Detective Woods,” I said when I opened the door.

  “Mr. Lane,” he said, “mind if I come in?”

  “Please do,” I said, and waved him in. “Something happen?”

  He stepped inside, looked around.

  “Nice motor home, Miss Collins. Very nice. Expensive?”

  “A brand-new Tiffin Phaeton motor home costs about the same as the average house. But I bought mine used. It was a lot cheaper that way.”

  “Good to know. Wife and I are thinking about getting an RV.”

  “You should. RVing is great fun. Care for some coffee, Detective Woods? How about some homemade zucchini bread?”

  “No thank you. I’m just here for a short visit. I tried to reach you on your phone but it kept going to voice mail.”

  “I’ve been having that problem lately.”

  He clicked his pen and wrote in his notepad.

  “Miss Collins, there been any new developments since we last spoke?”

  “Several.”

  He listened as she told him about some of the new developments: our visit to the Hillsborough County Coroner’s Office, the autopsy photos that had been deleted from their system, Dusty’s strange behavior, our visit with the guy who had bought Heath’s Social Security number from an ID place in New York City, Kirsten Love’s link to a website article about the Crowley family, Kirsten Love’s message that said I’VE BEEN WATCHING YOU, Kirsten Love’s decision to deactivate her Facebook account.

  Julie didn’t tell Detective Woods about all of the new developments. She skipped a few. She didn’t tell him we had run into Tina at the Piggly Wiggly supermarket in Sarasota, or that Tina had been dating Julie’s brother, or that we had broken into Tina’s house and discovered two dead bodies in the closet, or that we had found incriminating evidence on Tina’s computer.

  I wondered how Julie would react when Detective Woods informed her of her brother’s death. Would she feign surprise? Could she do it convincingly? Actors can. They make a living at it. They know the gestures of surprise: the lift of the eyebrows, the widening of the eyes, the hand to the mouth.

  I mentally rehearsed my own reaction to the forthcoming news of Moe’s untimely departure from the land of the living. I would raise my eyebrows à la Jack Nicholson, widen my eyes with a flavor of Marty Feldman, put my hand to my mouth as if I were Janet Leigh.

  Detective Woods cleared his throat.

  “Miss Collins, I’m afraid I have some, ah, bad news for you.”

  Here we go.

  I fully expected him to tell Julie her b
rother was found dead in an Orlando townhouse. Then she and I would deliver performances worthy of Academy Awards.

  “Miss Collins, we found a dead body late this afternoon.”

  I prepared myself.

  “Miss Collins, it was your ex-husband.”

  What? Ex-husband?

  The surprise on my face was genuine. No acting required.

  Julie and I exchanged a glance. She looked as surprised as I was.

  “Heath is dead?” she said in a low voice. “Where was his body?”

  “In a shallow grave in Lettuce Lake Park in Tampa. He was wrapped in a blanket.”

  Wrapped in a blanket? That was how Max’s body had been buried. Same MO. Could it have been the same killer?

  Julie sat forward on the edge of the sofa.

  “Was he murdered?”

  “No ma’am. Coroner’s office determined your ex-husband died of cancer. He’s been dead at least three years now.”

  “Cancer?”

  “Yes ma’am. According to the coroner’s office.”

  “I never knew he had cancer. What kind of cancer?”

  “Prostate.”

  “If he died at least three years ago, then he must have had the cancer when I last saw him. That was five years ago. He never said anything to me about it. Maybe he didn’t want me to know. Or maybe he didn’t find out about the cancer until later.”

  Detective Woods shrugged.

  “Don’t know, ma’am.”

  “How’d you find the body?” I said.

  “A jogger spotted it near a bicycle path. Somebody had dug it up, then dragged it there.”

  “So somebody wanted the body found.”

  “Be my guess.”

  “But who?” Julie said. “And why?”

  “And why now?” I said. “Why didn’t this mystery person dig up the body last year? Or the year before that? Why now?”

  Detective Woods frowned, clicked his pen, made some notes in his notepad.

  Julie’s phone made her flinch.

  Popcorn spilled out of her bowl onto the floor.