by Jude Hardin
“Good. We might need to talk to you again.”
“That’s fine. Like I said, I would be happy to help in any way I can.”
He handed me a business card. “Call me if you think of anything else that might me pertinent.”
“OK. I will.”
“Have a good night, Mr. Colt.”
I opened the door and started to climb out.
“Oh,” he said. “Could you give me your cell phone number, just in case I can’t reach you at the hotel?”
I gave him the number, happy to get out of that car and put some distance between myself and the law.
CHAPTER NINE
If the police had found out I was there working as a private investigator, I would have been carted off to jail. I would have gone directly to jail. I would not have passed GO, and I would not have collected $200.
Under normal circumstances, I probably would have been slapped with a hefty fine for unlawfully performing the duties of a licensed professional. But these weren’t normal circumstances. I’d lost my PI license because of a narcotics conviction. I was still on probation.
And with a murder case, they could have charged me with all kinds of things. Obstruction of justice came to mind. Tampering with evidence. Police detectives never seem to have a sense of humor about that stuff. Go figure.
Depending on what they charged me with and what kind of mood the judge was in, I could have served some real prison time. I’d dodged a bullet big-time, thanks to Wesley West. I planned on dropping an extra ten in his tip jar tonight.
I left the parking lot of the condo complex and stopped at the nearest McDonald’s. I bought two Big Macs and a large order of fries and a Sprite. The Sprite came in a cup you could have used for a mop bucket.
I ate both the burgers and half the fries and sucked the soda down to the ice. It was my first meal of the day. It hit the spot.
I left McDonald’s and drove back to the hotel.
I turned on the television and stared at it with the sound muted. It was a Seinfeld rerun. Jerry and Elaine were sitting on Jerry’s couch talking about something. I tried to forget about Alison Palmer’s ghostly pale face. I tried to forget about those dead eyes staring at the ceiling. But I couldn’t.
Two murders had occurred in the same apartment. First Phineas Carter, and now Alison Palmer. The location seemed to be the only similarity, but I wondered if there was more. I wondered if there was a connection.
I called Darcy Clermont again. This time she picked up on the first ring.
“Red Parrot Realty,” she said.
“Darcy, this is Nicholas Colt.”
“Oh, did you find something you’re interested in?”
“I have bad news,” I said. “Alison Palmer is dead. She was murdered in her apartment earlier today.”
“What? I can’t believe that. I was just talking to her yesterday. Surely there must be some—”
“It’s true,” I said. “I was there. I saw her. I’m sure it will be on the news later.”
“Oh my god.”
The timbre of Darcy’s voice told me she was on the verge of breaking down.
“I know it’s a shock,” I said. “I don’t want to sound insensitive, but I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions.”
“About Alison?”
“Yes. Like I told you before, I’m working for Phineas Carter’s daughter, and I was wondering if there might be a connection between the two murders.”
“Was Alison killed the same way?”
“No,” I said. “It looks like that serial killer got her. The Zombie.”
That was it. Darcy started sobbing then. It took her a minute to regain her composure.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s all right. I understand. I can call back later if you want. Or tomorrow.”
“Let me just grab a Kleenex. Hold on a second.”
I held on a second. Darcy came back sniffling, but her voice seemed a little steadier.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What would be the connection between the two killings?”
“The location,” I said. “It just seems like an incredible coincidence. And maybe that’s all it is. Maybe the two murders aren’t connected at all, but I want to make sure.”
“OK. So what did you want to ask me?”
“First of all, I have a confession to make. I’m not exactly current on my PI paperwork, so if the police come around again to question you—”
“You don’t want them to know you’re working on the case?”
“Right.”
“I can’t make any promises,” she said. “If I have to go to court, for example, I won’t perjure myself for you or anyone else. But if they don’t ask, I won’t tell. That’s the best I can do.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “OK, the first thing I wanted to know was why Alison subleased her condo to Phineas Carter in the first place?”
“Alison was a nurse. You knew that, right?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, she took a job with a traveling nurse company. She wanted to see the country, especially out West. Colorado, Wyoming, Montana. She wanted to travel around for a while, and that’s why she subleased her place.”
“So did she go to all those places?”
“No. Actually, she only got as far as St. Augustine.”
“I’m confused,” I said.
“She took a twelve-week assignment in St. Augustine while she was waiting for her Colorado nursing license to be processed. In the meantime—”
“Wait,” I said. “Why the hurry? Why didn’t she just stay in her condo while she was waiting for all the out-of-state paperwork to clear?”
Silence.
“There was a reason for that,” Darcy said. “But I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
“With all due respect, Alison Palmer is dead. I don’t see how—”
“There are other people involved. It’s complicated, Mr. Colt. I just don’t want to be the one to open that can of worms.”
“The person or people you’re protecting might be responsible for Alison’s death,” I said. “Or Phin’s. Or both. You need to think about that.”
More silence.
“I don’t want to talk about it over the phone,” she said. “Would it be possible for us to meet in person?”
“Certainly,” I said. “How about tonight?”
“I can’t tonight. In the morning. Can you meet me somewhere in the morning?”
“Sure. There’s a diner on Truman Avenue. I’ll buy you breakfast.”
“I know the place,” she said. “Is eight too early?”
“Perfect. I’ll see you there.”
“How will I be able to find you?”
“I’ll be the guy in the John Fogerty T-shirt sitting at the counter drinking coffee.”
“OK.”
I sat there and watched Seinfeld for a few more minutes with the volume down. I kept expecting Kramer to bust in on Jerry and Elaine, but he never did.
After a while I took a shower and got dressed and walked down to the lounge.
CHAPTER TEN
I ordered an Old Fitz on the rocks and took it to a table. Wesley West was singing “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone” with about as much soul as a cupcake. There were twenty or so people in the bar, mostly middle-aged couples. Not a bad little crowd for a Monday night. Most of the men were drinking imported beers, and most of the women were drinking martinis. That’s the way it seemed at a glance, anyway. Some of the martinis were tinted pink or green or purple. Under the barroom lights they looked like something from an episode of Star Trek.
When the song was over, Wesley said, “We have a distinguished guest in the audience tonight, ladies and gentlemen. I’m sure a lot of you remember the band Colt Forty-Five. They had a slew of hits back in the eighties, and their lead guitar player is sitting right over here having a cocktail. Maybe we can coax him up to the stage to play one. How about it? Let’s
give it up for Mr. Nicholas Colt!”
The twenty or so people applauded, and one of the more inebriated gentlemen sitting at the bar even started whistling.
I raised my palm and shook my head. There was no way I was getting up there. I hadn’t played a lick since a tripped-out idiot up in Tennessee stomped my left hand with the heel of his boot. I hadn’t played a lick because I couldn’t. My fingers didn’t work right anymore.
“Are you sure?” Wesley said, responding to my negative gestures.
I nodded. I was sure.
There was a collective Aw from the crowd, but they got over it soon enough. None of them came over and asked me for my autograph, or even offered to buy me a drink. Wesley jumped back in with a slow song called “Always and Forever,” and a bunch of them got up to dance. After that, Wesley took a break.
I reminded myself I owed the guy. He had promised to vouch for me if anyone asked about my presence at the apartment complex. I followed him to the bar, where he was ordering a mug of draft.
“Whatever he wants is on me for the rest of the night,” I said to the bartender. “Just add it to my tab.”
“Well thank you, Nicholas,” Wesley said. “Mind if I join you at your table?”
I waited for the bartender to fix me another drink, and then we walked back to the table together. We sat facing each other.
“You sound good tonight,” I lied.
“Thanks. Yeah, you know, some nights it just flows. Tonight’s one of those nights. How come you didn’t want to come up and play one?”
“My hand got busted up a while back,” I said. “I don’t play anymore.”
“But I thought that’s why you were coming over to my house. So we could pick and grin a little.”
“I mean I don’t play anymore in public,” I said, trying to cover the lie I’d told him at the complex. What a tangled web we weave, my grandmother would have said.
Wesley took a long pull on his beer. “Sorry to hear that,” he said. “But I’d still like to jam a bit over at my place sometime. You know, if you’re up for it. How about Wednesday night?”
“You’re not playing here?” I said.
“No, I just play here on Sunday and Monday. Then I have another regular gig on Saturday. On my nights off I go out on Duval Street and play for tips sometimes, but I was planning on staying in Wednesday. So how about it?”
I didn’t want to go to Wesley West’s apartment, but I was afraid to say no. Afraid he might not cover for me if the cops came back around asking questions. All I needed was Detective Craig P. Sullivan hassling me about my PI license.
“All right,” I said. “We’ll do it Wednesday night.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hard rock guitars scream and psychedelic colors swirl, signaling that the time-traveling zombie bikers from darkest hell are traveling to a different time period. As the frame settles into focus, the living-dead motorcycle gang speeds down a seemingly endless dusty dirt road. They come to a fork and follow a wooden sign that says Dodge City.
They ride on and on. Finally, they stop beside a dead tree on a hill. Hundreds of cows are grazing in the valley below.
Rex and Boomer climb off their bikes.
“I’m almost out of gas,” Boomer says.
“Me too,” says Rex.
“Well, let’s go steal some gasoline, man.”
“It’s eighteen forty-two, dumbass. There’s no such thing as fucking gasoline.”
“What the hell we doing in eighteen forty-two?” Boomer says.
“I miscalculated, that’s all.”
“And I’m the dumbass?”
Rex backhands Boomer across the face. Part of Boomer’s right ear falls off.
“Fuck you, Boomer.”
Green slime oozes from the wound on Boomer’s ear. “Well, shit, man, let’s just ride into another time,” he says.
“You know the rules. Once we choose a time period, we have to stay there for at least Twenty-four hours.”
“Oh yeah. I forgot. So what the hell we gonna do?”
“I reckon we’re going to get ourselves some horses and ride to town,” Rex says. “’Cause I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”
“More brains! More brains!” the other zombies chant in unison.
They all follow Rex down the hill…
Tuesday morning I got to the diner at 7:48. I sat at the counter, ordered a cup of coffee, read an abandoned copy of the Wall Street Journal. At 8:12 a female voice from behind me said, “Are you Nicholas Colt?”
I swiveled on the stool and faced her. “I am,” I said.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem. Want to sit at a table?”
“Yes.”
The hostess led us to a booth by the front windows. Darcy Clermont looked to be in her mid to late fifties. She wore a teal business suit and a white blouse. Her hair was dyed, but it was a good job. She was an attractive woman. Fit, medium height. I felt underdressed in black jeans and a tour T-shirt.
A waitress came and asked if we wanted coffee. Her nametag said Molly. I let her refill my cup, and Darcy ordered a glass of orange juice. Darcy’s eyes were red and puffy, as though she might have been crying before she came in.
“I have to be back at the office at nine,” Darcy said. “So I won’t have time for breakfast after all. Sorry.”
“I usually just have coffee for breakfast anyway,” I said. “So, since you’re short on time, maybe we could just—”
“Get right to the point,” she said, finishing my thought. “Alison Palmer was trying to get away from someone. That’s why she subleased her condo and moved to St. Augustine while she was waiting for her Colorado nursing license. That’s what you wanted to know, right?”
“Who was she trying to get away from?” I said.
“A man named Jim Ballard. She’d been in a relationship with him for a couple of years, and it ended badly.”
I took a sip of coffee. “People don’t usually move hundreds of miles away over a breakup,” I said. “There must be more to it than that.”
“Did I say it ended badly? It ended very badly. Jim had been drinking a lot and he got physical with her one night and pushed her around. That was it for Alison. She broke it off right away. She told him she never wanted to see him again, but he wouldn’t leave her alone. He kept calling her, twenty times a day sometimes.”
“There are anti-stalking laws in Florida,” I said.
Molly brought the orange juice and asked if we were ready to order. I told her just the coffee and the juice. She looked disappointed. She put the ticket on the table, turned and walked away.
“I think Alison was really scared of that guy,” Darcy said. “She was scared of what he might do to her, you know?”
“The two of you must have been close,” I said. “Most people don’t divulge that much personal information to their real estate agent.”
“I guess we kind of became friends. We talked on the phone quite a bit, went out to lunch a few times. I’m a good talker, and a good listener. It’s one of the reasons I can make a living selling houses.”
“There’s something else I’m still a little baffled about,” I said. “Alison moved to St. Augustine for a twelve-week assignment while she was waiting for her Colorado license, but then she moved back here to Key West. She never went to Colorado. How come?”
Darcy dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a napkin. “This is hard for me to talk about, Mr. Colt.”
“Nicholas. Please.”
“This is hard for me to talk about, Nicholas. Like I said, Alison and I had become friends. I still can’t believe she’s gone. Just like that. Anyway, you’re right. She never went to Colorado, or anywhere else. While she was in St. Augustine, she met another man. A guy named Robbie Asbury.”
“I met him,” I said. “At the apartment yesterday. We kind of found her together.”
“He’s a drummer,” Darcy said. “He was living in St. Augustine when Alison moved up there
, and they met at the beach and went out a couple of times. All this happened around the same time Phineas Carter was murdered. Robbie subbed for a drummer at a club down here in Key West, and the band ended up hiring him full-time.” She paused. “I’m trying to think of the name of the band. Blue Waves. That’s it. Believe it or not, their former drummer plays for Alice Cooper now. Anyway, Blue Waves ended up getting a job as the house band at the club, so all of a sudden Robbie Asbury had to move down here. Alison liked Robbie a lot, so she put her traveling plans on hold and moved back into her condo. Soon after that, Robbie moved in with her, and then they got married not long ago. It was such a nice little ceremony. I’d never seen Alison so happy.”
“Is Robbie still playing with the band?” I said.
“Yeah. That’s his job. But I’m sure he’ll have to find someone to sub for him while he’s dealing with everything that’s going on.”
“I’m sure,” I said. “What’s the name of the club?”
“Jake’s Key West Saloon. Oh, and get this. Jim Ballard hangs out there. Alison’s ex. Somehow, Jim and Alison and Robbie all managed to start getting along. Which seemed kind of strange, after everything that had happened between Alison and Jim. From the way Alison talked, it was like the three of them had actually become friends.”
Molly came and filled my coffee cup. She smiled and walked away.
“That is unusual,” I said. “From what you told me about this Jim Ballard guy, it sounds like he was a real asshole. Like he was obsessed with Alison. Guys like that usually have a problem letting go and moving on. I just can’t imagine him being very friendly toward Alison’s new love interest.”
“I know. It’s weird. But that’s what Alison said. She said Jim still comes to the club a lot, and that they all get along just fine. But it makes you wonder. I’m sure the police will want to question Jim Ballard.”
“I suppose,” I said. “Although the murder was obviously the work of The Zombie.”
I took a sip of coffee.
“Or a copycat,” I said. “You think Jim Ballard was crazy enough to saw the top of Alison’s skull off and steal her brain?”
Darcy suddenly looked pale. “Excuse me,” she said.