by Tom Corcoran
My mouth was shut, lips sealed. I wanted her to stop.
She didn’t. “You’re the first person I’ve told. Don’t feel obligated to pass it along. Especially to your friend Dunwoody from the Citizen. She’s always been a Gomez groupie. Most likely she still is, and she does a good job. So it’s our secret. I needed to say it to someone. Now it’s off my chest.”
Goodnight Irene Jones had warned Sam about the grieving process. “It’s hard to lose friends,” I said.
“It makes you relive history, for a few days at least. I didn’t think missing him was in the program. I was wrong.”
“Do you think he was capable of…”
Lewis glanced at me again. “Yes, Rutledge. I think he committed suicide. He talked about it twice while I was seeing him. That kind of talk is a big fat warning. It was part of the reason I went away. Hell, it was the main reason. I knew that our affair wasn’t helping his sanity. Some men, their dicks turn off their brains, but not Steve. Our romance chewed at his conscience. We were together, but he was always somewhere else. For a while I blamed the fact that he was a politician. For another while I blamed my job. Before I was over it, I blamed everything but the Russians.” She walked to the window. “You know the neighbor?”
I looked into the yard next door, saw a woman in her late thirties or early forties. “I’ve seen her at Fausto’s. I can’t put a name to her face.”
Lewis hurried out to the porch, peeled off her booties and gloves. I took off my stuff and caught up as she was saying, “Did Ms. Douglas have a lot of visitors?”
“I seen this man here,” said the woman. “And that lady that runs a fancy gift shop on Greene Street. She’d come by, I don’t know, once a week, late in the day.”
“Do you know the woman’s name?”
She shook her head. “They’d sit on that porch, drink their high-priced wine. They opened it with a corkscrew. Their first sips, they always clicked their glasses. Like every day was a damn celebration.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“That lady who talks to bugs.”
“I see,” said Lewis. “The woman who talks to bugs.”
“Right. She’s an exterminator who, well, I don’t know what she does. It looks like she has a prayer session with herself, telling the bugs to stay away from Mrs. Douglas’s house. I think that’s why I have so many over here. They all leave next door and come to me.”
Lewis said, “Is that your phone ringing?”
The woman laughed. “It’s my bird. It imitates more than words. It does the phone, the microwave beep, garbage truck brakes, you name it. I’ve had that bird for years. It does a great flushing toilet.”
Lewis bit inward on her lips, held back her reaction. “Let me ask you this. Did you see anyone who, say, looked like a domestic?”
“You mean, like a local person?”
“Someone who cleans houses.”
“Oh, that’s right. That black woman. I don’t know that woman’s name. Maybe I’m better off. She was not a friendly person. I’m not saying she was mean. I saw her feed stray cats. She’d wave to that old black man that rides the bike with American flags on it. He would wave back at her, and they’d smile like teenagers. She’d look at me, wouldn’t say hello, wouldn’t say boo. Like I was a damn stop sign.”
“So, no one else?” said Lewis.
“One other man, and this is how I knew that lady was so important. She worked on charities and all. I’d read in the paper that she met all the time with people from the Arts Council. But this one other person came by a lot. That good-looking mayor, bless his soul. I got to admit, I voted for his face.”
Lewis’s eyes caught mine for an instant as she looked to the treetops. A few seconds later she turned and thanked the woman, then led me back to Naomi’s porch. She had something to say, but couldn’t form her words. She went inside, gathered up her phone gear and toolbox, stared again at the walls. She finally said, “Naomi must have had a wallet and jewelry.”
“They’re locked up at my house. I found them yesterday afternoon and took them home.”
“Did she own a car?”
“I never knew of one,” I said.
Lewis nodded, went back to staring. “This is still a city case, you follow?”
“So I get to jump the political fence?”
“You get to bear bad tidings. Other than that, you don’t do anything.”
“So you confirm the shaky commonality, as you called it, then you sit on the sidelines?”
She gave me a “so what” shrug. “I’ll tell Liska I’m spooked. You stop the cremation, if it’s not too late. You track down the cleaning woman. Do what you can to find the brother. Play it out, however you need to. Bear in mind, though, you come back in here, you might foul evidence.”
“That cell number you gave a few months ago. Will it still get to you?”
Lewis shook her head. “My week off starts tomorrow. This is a break I need now more than ever. With what I just told you, you can understand. I need to get out on the water, wash the cobwebs. Put all the drudge work behind me. Get some windburn instead of this pallor. I called your friend Sam Wheeler to book a couple days of fishing. He said he’d be out of town for a few days.”
“Try his pal Captain Turk.”
“That’s what Sam told me to do. Maybe I can find a place up the Keys to veg out and sleep late. Anything on the water with no phone. With any luck, I can stay away until all this is over.”
“You don’t feel compelled to question two deaths?”
She shook her head. “I am a worn-out woman, and I’m part of a large team. No single case has to be tattooed on my shoulders. Anyway, why do you need my help? I’ve seen that look in your eyes, Alex. You’re on another quest. You won’t let up until the big prize is in your bag.”
“This vendetta stuff was your concept, not mine.”
She nodded. “I just have to wonder if, this time around, you’ll get your ass kicked all to hell.”
11
I HOPED BOBBI LEWIS felt great altruistic renewal. She had vacated the Residential Parking spot that had troubled her conscience. Little matter that she had ditched a potential murder investigation, willed it from her caseload, let it fall into the heap of good intentions gone slack.
I sat in Naomi Douglas’s compact, pine-paneled office, again pondered the woman I had known. Naomi had come to Key West to live out her life, had made friends quickly, shown style and energy. She had cultivated the island art scene, the preservation and cultural groups. Her checkbook had helped people find their visions, live their dreams. She had charmed and helped me as well, boosted my self-worth when I needed it. I saw her as a flower in the rock garden, and I owed her my best efforts to ensure that my “speculation of hometown commonality” was mere paranoia.
I called the funeral home. I wasn’t sure whom to ask for, but learned that the man who’d answered was the only person in the building. I told him my name. He introduced himself as Roger Fading. He had a nasal Conch accent.
“You’re calling about Mrs. Douglas? I saw your name on the forms.”
I asked if she’d been cremated yet.
“Sir, we have a backlog this week. Two kidney failures, a scuba-diving accident, and two cancerous livers. And, of course, our dear mayor. I was told there was no service planned, so I changed her priority.”
“You’ve put Naomi to the back of the line?”
His tone went defensive: “Yes, well…”
“That’s fine, Mr. Fading. What are the chances she could stay there for a few more days?”
A shift to formality: “Is there a problem with payment, sir?”
Fading and I got what we wanted. He would get quick cash and he would delay his work. He had no questions. I had one less problem.
I called Jack Spottswood’s office to ask about autopsy. He was not at his desk, and I didn’t want to leave a confusing message. I asked his assistant to send a check to the funeral home.
I hung
up, turned on Naomi’s Macintosh, found her Excel program, and went straight to her financial stats. She had built a schedule of upcoming bills versus expected income. She had maintained a stock-portfolio-tracking sheet. Blue chips anchored her holdings. She had played with a few small cap stocks. I figured that she had gambled no more than three grand. I found her check ledger, but it listed no checks written to individuals. They all were to companies: utilities, insurance, a broker, and two funds.
I used the finder function to search for files that had “Ernest,” “family,” “Bramblett,” “Akron,” or “brother” in their names. No hits, except for notes on One Human Family. I spent five minutes dreaming up alternative categories. My brain finally shifted into gear. I found her address book, phone numbers, and e-mail addresses, printed them, and shut down the Mac. I could use my phone for the drudge work.
I walked to Naomi’s living room, wishing I had a better feel for her mind, her secrets, and her fears. I also needed to sort my own thoughts, reexamine my motives. Had I let the Akron, Iowa, connection drag my logic too far? Had I turned a hometown into a bogus assumption? Was I crying wolf, whispering murder and hollering bullshit? The next door neighbor’s linking of Naomi and Gomez had boosted my theory, at least to me. It hadn’t affected Bobbi Lewis the same way. Something had turned her off, maybe during her concentration. Lewis was conflicted, but she was sharp and a pro. I couldn’t believe that she would torpedo a case to save herself a few bad memories.
I closed up Naomi’s home. The outside air was moist and smelled of faint mildew in the porch chair cushions, moss under the concrete steps, and beyond the porch, turned dirt and fertilizer. The neighbor was still working in her yard.
I waited until she looked up, then said, “Can I ask you one more thing?”
She rubbed her nose with a knuckle. “They think she was killed, don’t they? I know who you are. My nephew develops your crime pictures. They aren’t letting that woman die in peace.”
“You said the gift shop owner came by at a regular time.”
“That’s right, I did.”
“How about the mayor? Any particular time of day?”
She leaned on her rake, worked a finger into her ear. “I seen him come midday. He’d be just before lunch, or just after it.”
“He never came by any other time? Or at night?”
She checked her fingertip. “Not that I recall. But what do I know?”
* * *
By the time I arrived home, I thought I understood Bobbi Lewis’s quick departure. She had sensed what I had deduced. Steve Gomez had not been in love with his wife. He had been in love with Naomi Douglas. Lewis had left the Grinnell house consumed by grief, falsehood, and the reminders of a ruined love affair.
My mind clicked on a zinger, and its clarity surprised me. I had started my day making love with Teresa, but wary of her feelings for Whit Randolph, fearful of her desire to create a secret lovers’ triangle. I was ending the day juggling three other names. Bobbi Lewis felt jealous of Naomi Douglas. I felt affection toward Naomi and, with that, jealousy toward Steve Gomez. Was I guilty of building a secret quadrangle?
No wonder I felt tired.
* * *
I checked my phone, found one saved message. I was treated to a lovely English accent. “Hello, Alex Rutledge. This is Jennifer Royce-Cooper at the Island of Calm Resort and Bath Club. We were so disappointed that you weren’t on your scheduled flight. We sent our van to Owen Roberts Airport for the day’s last arrival, to no success. So sorry you can’t join crew for our reception supper and midnight greeter. We will look for you on tomorrow’s high-noon flight. Bye, now.”
Oh, Jennifer.
* * *
I was uncapping a beer when the phone rang. Monty Aghajanian, my old Key West cop friend, now with the FBI in New Jersey.
“Good of you to call,” I said. “You once saved my life. By Native American tradition, you’re always responsible for me.”
“Again it needs saving? What are you begging for now?”
“I’m in what you Feebs call ‘high gear.’”
“Tell me about it,” he said. “I’ll tell you about my last ten months.”
“I’ve got twenty-four hours before I catch a plane. My bank account needs this job to happen. I need some fast info.”
“No can do.”
“I know, I know. Rules, more rules, eyes in the ceiling, ears in the wall. Are you allowed to look up anything?”
“You got a work file, a federal case number, and an access code?”
“You got a minute to hear me out?”
“Blow on, Mr. Breeze. The meter’s running.”
I told him about the two deaths. Monty had heard about Mayor Gomez from a former fellow police officer. He remembered Naomi and expressed his dismay. I explained the Akron link and asked him to help locate Naomi’s brother, Ernest Bramblett.
He said, “Lemme look into it. I can’t promise you a grain of sand.”
“Even if you don’t give out the information?”
“Right.”
I said, “Why did you call?”
“You said an airplane. Where’s this so-called job?”
“When did you master the New Jersey accent?”
“I got a surprise vacation,” he said. “I got to use it or lose it. Is your house going to be empty this weekend?”
“I now have a roommate. Your successor at city liaison. But I can find you a free condo. I smell a favor in return.”
“I wrote down the name. How’s your lady friend doing?”
“When you did the media job,” I said, “was it sixty hours a week?”
“You need to remind me of my previous life?”
“Well?”
“Maybe once or twice in two years I worked that long. It was yachting nine-to-five, Alex. Months of boredom, moments of panic.”
“You didn’t have to work late or weekends?”
“Unless I had a situation. Why? Your lady friend doing the grindstone?”
I shortened my story, cried the blues to play a sympathy note. I jokingly asked him to grab background on Whitney Randolph, occupations, legal hassles, addresses. I also told him about Sam Wheeler’s trip to Lauderdale and his sister’s ID turning up on a mystery woman’s body.
He said, “I swear you can’t do the fox-trot without stepping in it. Leave a key to the condo and directions with Carmen.”
* * *
I heard a skid in gravel out front. I knew the squeaks, the rattle when the door thudded shut on Dexter Hayes’s toady, city-issue Caprice. He looked grim, and his expression got worse when he saw me on the porch.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” I said. “You can take me to the airport.”
“I heard you were sticking around.”
“I left my cameras and a duffel out there.”
We stared at each other. I read lines of torment in his forehead. Hammers echoed down Fleming. Scents of fresh pine lumber drifted in the breeze.
I said, “You’re at the epicenter for rebuild teams.”
Hayes shook his head. “Every nail pounder I’ve seen in the last hour has been yakking into a cell phone. The grunts are all junior execs.”
“Fits their pay scale, if you ask the contractors.”
“Thank goodness you and I aren’t sawing wood in the hot sun, laying tar strips.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I might be out of a job. Chief Salesberry’s been strange with me. Almost from the day I started working for him, I’ve felt like a contract employee. Like they’d use me as long as I was useful, then cut me loose.”
“Why now, out of a job?”
“When Liska called the chief regarding your Akron, Iowa, discovery, he also told him I might have blown scene details. I’m wondering what brought the sheriff to his opinion.”
“You didn’t give a shit,” I said. “Was I supposed to keep that a secret?”
“Salesberry, in a pure CYA move, asked for
my scene notes. To help him, quote, write his report, unquote. One of my men botched his pictures, too. The buck stopped at me.”
“Look at it this way,” I said. “Your dedication to duty took the afternoon off. Your code of ethics slipped a notch. It happens a lot in Key West. Most of the time it’s worse than even you can pull off.”
“What is it, you’re my ally when I’m my own worst enemy?”
“What else did you do Monday night, Dexter?” I said. “Oh, that’s right. You drank beer.”
“I never got off the clock. We had a bar fight on Duval. Two boys from Eastern Europe wanted to marry a Chi Omega from Ohio. She was a cutie. She wouldn’t pick one over the other. She said she didn’t want to be a free pass to a green card.”
“Did you defend your Gomez report?” I said.
“I didn’t say shit. He had me cold.”
“Tell the chief you’re going to expand it. Tell him your investigation was correct, you didn’t miss a thing. Tell him you’ve thought about it, you did your job, but the report sucked. Blame fatigue.”
“I got nothing more to write.”
“Did you note the scrape marks on the concrete seawall?”
Hayes’s eyebrows lifted. “You get a picture of that?”
I said that I had. “That’s assuming I didn’t screw up my film.”
The gloom lifted from his face. “Give me one more thing.”
“Did you mention scrapes on the gun butt? Or a lack of scrapes? How did you explain finding the gun next to the victim? I would have expected to find it halfway to the house.”
He stared at me.
“Anything strange about the wife’s statement, her manner, her attire?”
Dex exhaled. His forehead unwrinkled. “Okay, say some dork blew off the back of Steve’s head. We got no eyewitness, we got zilch. We go to the State’s Attorney, we say ‘Same hometown’? Where’s that take us?”
“Eventually, maybe, to a murderer?”