Octopus Alibi

by Tom Corcoran

  “He get here today?”

  “I ran into him the night before last, in the Waterfront Market. He bought me a beer at Schooner Wharf, and we played ‘What happened to…’ for an hour or so. He’s been in town a few days and he might stick around another week. This morning he called the office and asked me to lunch, so I went. I told him about you, and he offered us dinner tonight.”

  “It’s been a long day,” I said.

  “A nice meal will improve your outlook.”

  “A good night’s sleep will make me better company at breakfast. I don’t want to be in a shit mood tomorrow like you were this morning.”

  “Oh. The direct shot.” She looked away, then back at me. “It was those mosquitoes in the shower. And I saw a scorpion yesterday, thank goodness after I was dry. At six-thirty it’s a rude, cold wake-up.”

  “The price of luxury. It’ll get better in summer.”

  “Your sarcasm is not reading well. Who’s shitty now?”

  “It wasn’t your first time in the outdoor shower,” I said. “You knew what you were getting into.”

  “Like I had a choice.”

  “You were forced into sharing my home?”

  “You want me gone?” she said.

  “I wasn’t saying that.”

  “You weren’t reading a recipe for key lime pie.”

  “And you weren’t complaining about mosquitoes and scorpions.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “It’s the end of a long day, Alex. Are you joining me and Whit?” She waved her hand at a small yellow car parked a few yards up Petronia. My eye followed her gesture. I hadn’t noticed the man in the BMW Z-3. He tilted his head to drink from a clear plastic water bottle.

  “Whit?” I said.

  “His name’s Whitney Randolph. People call him Whit, which is ten times better than Whitney. You want to meet him now?”

  “No. Just tell me where and what time.”

  They were headed for drinks at Louie’s Backyard, then an eight-thirty reservation at Camille’s on Simonton. I told her I would try to make it.

  She stepped aside and relinquished possession of the scooter. She said, “I don’t think Steve Gomez was suicide.”

  Was this neurosis or the judgment of a criminologist? “Did you voice your opinion?”

  She considered her answer. “Not in so many words.”

  “Like, ‘no’?”

  “Like, no one wanted to hear it.”

  “I do,” I said.

  Her eyes bored into mine. “No matter what happens tonight, let’s have coffee on the porch in the morning.”

  I told her that was a splendid idea. I wondered what would happen tonight that would qualify as “no matter.” The BMW drove away. I stayed at the curb and ate the whole sandwich before I started home.

  Three messages waited at the house. One for a photo job that conflicted with my trip to Grand Cayman. One from Sam asking me to call when I got home, to wake him from a nap. Marnie must’ve gone to her office to write the Gomez story. Jack Spottswood’s law office also called—no reason given—but his office closed at five, and I couldn’t respond until morning.

  I called Sam. He caught the second ring and said, “Nothing like Añejo rum and a heavy nap.”

  I asked him to call me on Teresa’s cell phone in forty-five minutes. His call would give me the option of faking an excuse and bailing out of dinner. He said I was a whiz at contingency planning. I laughed, but it made me think of Detective Marlow’s remark about Sam’s military training. Marlow had hit the nail on the head. I had seen several occasions when Sam had confronted danger, thought ahead, considered all possible actions and reactions. Each time he had prevailed. He was one of the lucky ones for whom time slowed in moments of peril.

  I showered and caught myself stupidly worrying about which brand of shampoo to use. I chose the one closest to hand, neglected to shave, put on shorts and a long-sleeved shirt, and rode my bike to Camille’s. The night had brought a chill; there would be cooler, clear weather in the morning.

  I reminded myself to take the high road. Whit Randolph was a friend of a friend. He was in town for a short time and, I needed to presume, had not come just to connect with Teresa. If I were to cause a scene, make a big deal of the man’s presence, it might self-fulfill and throw me a situation I didn’t want. He wasn’t a threat to my status quo, I thought, then wondered why “status quo” had come to mind rather than “happiness.”

  At the Truman light I stopped behind a bunch of young people in a funky old hearse. The bumper sticker on its back door read, FRIENDS HELP YOU MOVE. REAL FRIENDS HELP YOU MOVE BODIES.

  * * *

  Teresa introduced her friend as Whitney, then called him Whit after that. We shook hands like opposing captains at midfield, though his grip was limp fish. Randolph, up close, was not what I had expected. I had imagined some square-jawed buff stud with a beaming smile and Devo hair. I found myself shaking hands with a slender man with a receding hairline, a pressed sport shirt and a plain Seiko watch. His face showed more intelligence than guile, his mannerisms more awkwardness than cool. It would take fewer than ten minutes for me to revise that first impression.

  A server arrived and placed a wineglass in front of me. Someone began moving things to make room for a bread basket, then made a commotion out of pouring olive oil into a jelly dish and grinding pepper.

  “I watched you lock your Cannondale out there,” said Randolph. “Nice wheels. What is it, an F600?”

  “Right, Mavic rims, clipless pedals…”

  “With a Super Fatty HeadShok front post,” he said. He poured wine for me, then for himself. A glance at Teresa’s glass told him she didn’t need more. He turned back to the window. “Why that bike on a flat island?”

  “Rough pavement. The shock absorber’s for chuckholes. I hate surprises in the dark.”

  Whit agreed. “Damage that thing, the repairs’ll set you back. What’s that expensive-looking seat?”

  “It’s a Bell.”

  “Must’ve gone a couple hundred…”

  “Eighteen ninety-five at Kmart. For day-to-day, it’s more crotch-friendly than the CODA that came with it.”

  “Gotcha. I hope you sealed the original seat in a Ziploc. I’d hate to see mildew…”

  “Done,” I said.

  “Cool.”

  Perhaps “cool” wasn’t the word for it. Whit Randolph hadn’t added wine to Teresa’s glass. He had left her out of the conversation, and I had fueled the fire. I looked and saw the squinty eyes I had seen at Dorothy’s Deli. I’d told myself to take the high road …

  “What brings you to Key West, Whit? Vacation?”

  “A couple business deals have been driving me nuts. I had to get out of Fort Myers, come down here to kick back, duck the lawyers and real-estate sharks. I’m shopping for a boat, like a twenty-three-foot twin out-board, and I’ve got a couple investors down here I need to talk to.”

  “Your deal in the Keys?”

  “Not here, no. But this isn’t a bad place for the future. I’ve got four or five things in the works … Savannah, Fort Myers, St. Augustine, Tarpon Springs. I play around.” He rethought his flip words, and qualified them: “I mean, I make deals that work for everyone, but it’s game-playing for me. It keeps my mind fresh. You know what I’m alluding to?”

  Alluding? Was this a vocabulary test? I knew who he was deluding. The slitty-eyed look on Teresa’s face had blossomed into admiration.

  “And you’re a photographer?” he said. “With the police department?”

  I shook my head. “The city work is minor income. I do advertising and magazine articles.”

  “And fine art, I understand.”

  Yes, I thought. Except that Naomi wasn’t around anymore to encourage me. “That’s my version of game-playing, I suspect.”

  “So, like, you live on an island. Do you own a car?”

  This guy was either an equipment freak or a smokescreen artist.

  “It’s a ’
sixty-six Shelby GT-350H. I keep it garaged, mostly use the bike.” Pour on the gear, I thought. “There’s also a 1970 Triumph Bonneville, a T120R. It’s a first-kicker and a ball.”

  “Must have cost you your ass.”

  I suspected that Butler Dunwoody, Marnie’s brother, had spent a strong dollar on it. “It was given to me,” I said. “I ruined an old Kawasaki doing this guy a favor last winter, so he—”

  Teresa said, “His Kawasaki was burned by a man on a killing spree.”

  Randolph wasn’t impressed. “Was he murdering machines? I hope he got burned, too.”

  “He took his exit with multiple wounds. He took out several people first.”

  “At least you’re still here,” he said. “Better your bike than your ass.”

  Teresa’s cell phone rang. She feigned embarrassment at disturbing other diners, then answered and handed it to me. “It’s Sam. Invite him to join us.”

  Sam said, “You want out of there, amigo?”

  I made my “Yes” sound tentative, listened to dead air for a moment. I leaned toward Teresa, “He’s outside.”

  “Invite him in.”

  “He doesn’t want to intrude, but he needs to talk with me.”

  “Fine. We’ll be right here.”

  I worry about the word “fine.” I finished the ounce or two in my wineglass, grabbed a dinner roll as if I needed something to carry me through a quick chat. I assured them I’d be back as quickly as I could.

  An unmarked county car sat across the street in the First State Bank’s drive-thru lane. Dark paint, tinted windows, facing the wrong way, with a clear view of the street and the restaurant. An odd spot for surveillance, especially with Camille’s full of locals.

  I couldn’t be nosy on my bicycle, so I walked toward the vehicle. From fifteen feet away I recognized Deputy Billy “No Jokes” Bohner. I hated the idea that my least favorite officer had jumped the ranks to civilian-clothing stakeouts. Bohner knew that I had recognized him. As I walked past his door he lowered the window and said, “Howzit goin’?” in a tone that spoke, “Go shit in your shoes.”

  I said, “Doing great, Deputy.”

  “You gotta be, eatin’ in a place like that.” The window began to rise.

  I said, “How’s that badge life treating you?”

  The last words I heard from Bohner were, “High-ticket stuff.”

  My lost meal or his promotion?

  I left my bike locked at the restaurant and walked to Sam’s eighty-year-old house on Elizabeth between United and South. He had retrieved his car. The Bronco sat out front, and the entranceway door was ajar. I let myself into the yard, and found Sam sitting back on his screened front porch.

  “Was the dude a dude?” he said.

  “He was a used car with fresh paint.”

  “A walking warning?”

  “He looked like a puppy with attack training. I need to watch my wallet as well as my roommate.”

  “Clouds of hustle in the air?”

  “Thick ones.” I passed on the hard-seat rocker, picked a cushioned chair. “But that’s my perspective. No way to tell how Teresa’s reading it.”

  Sam handed me an open beer, then looked into his dark yard. I could tell his mind was churning, so I didn’t interrupt. A minute or so later he said, “I got to thinking, that dog-and-pony deal at the morgue, our flaky sit-down with Detective Odin Marlow…” He paused, took a slug. “This is strange territory for me. I did a lot of deep thinking after Nam. I came home, my friends didn’t. It took me awhile to sort it out. Good war or not—you ask me in a hundred years, maybe I’ll know—but I answered my country’s call. And I promised myself I would stop thinking, stop talking about it, and get on with my life. I took a long vacation from deep thought. I’m not saying I wanted to be numb in the gray room, but I wanted to deal with questions that really had answers. Questions from today with answers no later than tomorrow.”

  “Sounds like the road to sanity,” I said.

  “So here’s what I came up with. If the dead woman can lead me to Lorie, and Lorie’s dead, okay. But if Lorie’s alive, in some kind of danger, and I’m here in Key West ignoring warning signs, I could never forgive myself.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can I count on you?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “You promise not to use the ‘C’ word?” he said.

  “Closure?”

  “That’s it. The better word is…”

  “Revenge?”

  “No,” said Sam. “Satisfaction.”

  I let that one sit, figured it matched Sam’s personality.

  He said, “Do we know any Gold Coast attorneys?”

  “No name pops into my head.”

  Sam pondered it a moment. “Is your old girlfriend still in West Palm?”

  I nodded. Annie Minnette had lived with me for three years. Our only interactions since we had split had been e-mails about friends’ marriages, deaths, and births. “I haven’t heard from her since her Christmas card,” I said. “She was still with that law firm in Pompano.”

  “Here’s the plan. I don’t know what I’m going to do, who I’ll meet, who I might piss off. I want to report to you once a day, preferably close to six P.M. I’ll talk to you or your machine, tell you where I am. If I don’t call, I probably need help. If I don’t tell you where I am, I definitely need help.”

  “I leave for Grand Cayman the day after tomorrow.”

  “Shit, I forgot that.” Sam sat back in his chair, thought for a minute, then pulled a fat envelope out from under a stack of magazines. He tossed it onto the table and it fell open. Hundred-dollar bills fanned out. “How much you going to earn down there?”

  “About that much,” I said.

  “That’s ten grand.”

  “About half that.”

  “Good,” he said. “I just hired you away.”

  “And you’ll be…”

  “In Lauderdale.”

  I drank beer and raced my brain. I knew Sam Wheeler as well as I had known anyone in my life, his calm, his laid-back habits. But this version was an irrational stranger, fixed on a crusade, trying to buy my services. This was a headstrong Sam, on a quest that promised an unhappy ending.

  “It’s not just this job,” I said. “I kiss off this one, I lose a client. It’s a lot of jobs and money in the next few years.”

  Sam nodded and sat back. “I’m an asshole for asking.”

  “I feel like an asshole for turning you down.”

  “Can you check for messages?”

  Truth time. “I don’t like the sound of it. What happened to questions with answers?”

  He ignored me. “If I have to be found, I want someone to know my last location. That would be you.”

  “They use ‘found’ when a body’s discovered.”

  “Whatever,” he said. “How you fixed for cash?”

  “A couple grand in checking.”

  Sam pointed to the envelope. “It’s my personal bail-bond fund.”

  “I can’t carry this to Grand Cayman.”

  “Leave it here. You got a bank box?”

  I nodded.

  “Perfect. If I thought I needed you on six-hour notice, I wouldn’t do it. It’s good enough that we keep a regular link, same time of day, every day.”

  “Where you going first?”

  “I called my sisters. They remember old photos of Lorie with friends in bars where she hung out. I think I still have the last couple of letters she sent. Maybe I can dig through some boxes, pull ’em out, find a lead or two. I’ll go up there, check into a motel, rent a post office box so my sisters can send me pictures and addresses and names of roommates.”

  “Can I ask, as a sympathetic friend, why you’re doing this?”

  “Detective Marlow wasn’t there to talk about fishing or boat motors or newspaper pictures. He was sounding me out, sizing me up. He wouldn’t do that unless he had some kind of follow-up. I don’t know why he asked me not to snoop,
and that troubles me. Also, I think my sisters and I are guilty of neglect. We didn’t owe Lorie much more than keeping in touch and, most of the time, with her moving place to place, she made that a task. Most of the time she made friendship a task. Even so, we weren’t much good for it when we knew how to find her. Since she vanished, none of us has put much effort into tracking her down. We let it slide. Lorie was her own kid and had some goofy ideas about sibling rivalry and parental neglect, so there was always the chance she disappeared on purpose. Maybe we figured that chasing after her would amount to invading privacy, going places it wasn’t our business to go. Now it’s a different deal.”

  “Seeing the dead stranger multiplied the guilt?”

  “Getting that call this morning jacked the guilt. The dead stranger made me promise my sister better treatment. You want another beer?”

  “Still working this one.”

  We sat on the porch another fifteen minutes without speaking. It was a perfect night for open windows, a breeze, low humidity, but a neighbor’s air conditioner cycled on and off every few minutes. A gaggle of bicyclists on South gabbed loudly, one exclaiming, “Oh, my Gawd,” four times before they rode out of earshot.

  Sam said, “I don’t want to be rude, but I hear my bed calling. You want to sit here and relax, I’ll give you another free beer.”

  “My bed calls, too,” I said.

  I snapped Sam’s gate and started back to Camille’s for my bike. I had a million things to do, with thirty hours before my flight south. I patted my pocket to make sure I still had Sam’s ten grand.

  * * *

  One message waited at the house. Duffy Lee Hall, on a problem with two of the film rolls. “It doesn’t look like your work, Alex. It looks like a mild wide-angle lens, with a light leak. I can salvage most of these, but they’re fogged and it won’t be pretty.”

  The boat team member would be disappointed to learn that his waterproof camera wasn’t anything proof. I didn’t want to be attached to that problem. I decided to let Duffy Lee break the news to Dexter Hayes in the morning.

  6

  I WAS AWAKE MOST of the night, wide awake after five A.M. with my head in an old Elmore Leonard book. I worried for Teresa’s safety, and fought an urge to bike around town looking for the yellow BMW. My gut analysis was that I didn’t trust Whitney Randolph, so I didn’t trust Teresa in his company. But I feared if I found her and all was innocent, she would end our relationship out of embarrassment on short notice. My consoling thought was that there had been dozens of nights in past months when we hadn’t slept together. If she had seen other men, I never would’ve known. I had never felt betrayed, and after all that time, she had moved in with me. Common sense said that, if she had other interests, she’d have found a place of her own. Yet another voice warned that Randolph was a fresh interest who had shown up just as Teresa became my housemate.