by Tom Corcoran
“He’s been a cop half his life, lately gone to murder.”
“If I put one at your house, where would I hide it?”
“My outdoor shower, there’s a hook,” I said. “Behind the soap dish, between the house and slat wall. Reach through the croton bush.”
* * *
I passed the La Concha’s ground-floor bar. Carolyn Ferguson waved, got off her barstool, and came to the door. “Did you hear all those sirens?”
I hadn’t noticed them.
“I think there was a bad wreck on Whitehead. I’m not going to go gawk. I don’t gawk at accidents. I don’t gawk, I really don’t.”
The first bad sign was Wayne the Lemonade Man shutting down for the day. His Dalmatian looked worried by the schedule change. The next bad sign was the quiet on Fleming between the old Kress building and the hotel. No exhaust echoes, no traffic at all. The police had closed the intersection. I walked in the shade of the hotel’s ancient arcade. The closer I got to Whitehead, the less it looked like an accident.
I saw yellow crime tape, then started to check faces. Dexter Hayes with two other detectives. Cootie Ortega with his camera satchel. The action was between the First State Bank on the northwest corner and the county courthouse annex just south. That made three choices: a jailbreak, a robbery, or funky action in the post office. Pedestrians were being pushed from the corner, back toward me. Motorcycle cops were redirecting traffic the wrong way through the post office lot.
A uniformed patrolman tried to stop me as I caught Dexter’s eye.
Hayes called out, “That man stays where he is, Calametti, but no closer.”
The cop still wanted me back ten feet. I acquiesced to his power huff, moved backward. I still couldn’t see the problem, and the confusing crowd now consisted entirely of law officers.
I heard the blip of a siren closer to Duval, then commotion from behind me. Two motorcycles escorted three vehicles the wrong way down Fleming. The county’s new medical examiner van carried Larry Riley and an assistant. That confirmed that someone had died. The van was followed by a Dodge Intrepid, then the beat-up, windowless Dodge Ram van that belonged to the local FDLE office.
As the crowd of cops and detectives made space for the arriving vehicles, I got my first clear view of the scene. Whit Randolph’s yellow BMW roadster sat at an odd angle, halfway into the intersection. Its windshield was shattered and the driver’s-side headrest was shredded. I saw the top of Whit’s head, the dripping copper stains on the driver’s-side door.
I fixed my eyes on Hayes. He turned. I raised my hands and mouthed, “How many?”
He held up one finger.
Whitney Randolph’s criminal past was history.
He had reached his dead end at Mile Zero.
32
SIRENS FILLED KEY WEST. You would have thought the crime had happened two minutes ago, across the island, many dead in a stadium or mall. I tracked emergency vehicles going every direction but straight to the dead hustler.
Crime-scene analysts and supervisors blocked my view. A quick glimpse told me that a headlight had burst. I saw no other damage besides the windshield and headrest.
Dexter Hayes approached me. “Someone poked him a third eye.”
“Was anyone else in the car?” I said.
“A young woman with a bloody face ran from the scene. We think she got hit by broken glass. I’ll get a call from the hospital the minute she walks in. We put a civilian car on Fleming to scope the lane.”
“You’re wasting your time there. Check her place in the Shipyard.”
“We sealed it eight minutes ago.”
“Her mother’s house?” I said.
“Shit,” said Dexter. He made a fifteen-second call on his cell phone.
“She left me a message last night. She said Randolph was spooked by a car on his butt. The term he used was ‘unmarked,’ and it followed him to lunch, the same time every day. Maybe right about now.”
“It wasn’t us. I’ll ask my friend Liska. He wanted that bird to himself. Lewis wanted him even worse.” Dexter glanced at the murder scene. “Why a message, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I haven’t seen her since the funeral,” I said. “I saw the back of her head in church.”
“She got militant yesterday when the county picked up her friend. We had to send her home. I wrote it up as admin leave.”
“How did she take that?”
“She whined like cheap tires on the Seven-Mile Bridge. Told me I’d proclaimed her guilty by association.”
“To which you said…”
“Look, Rutledge,” said Hayes. “There’s a little more to it—”
“A municipal secret?”
“Thursday night, after Lewis told us on your porch about Randolph calling Naomi Douglas, I wanted to ignore the county and pop him on suspicion of murder. I had me a sit-down with Teresa, told her what I was going to do. You said yourself, he had eight arms, all dealing excuses. For all the hours from Sunday midnight until Monday morning, during the time Naomi died, your octopus had an alibi.”
“Do I want to know?”
“No, but I’ll tell you. Teresa Barga swore he was elsewhere when the crimes went down.”
“How would she know? She was in my bed from eleven o’clock on.”
“That’s our little problem,” said Hayes.
“So he doesn’t have an alibi at all?”
“She got up to use the bathroom?”
“Is that a question?” I said.
“He was in his car, parked on Fleming. They went to the Ramada.”
“Horsecrap. If they went anywhere, it’d be back to her old condo.”
“Well, for some reason, they didn’t. She snuck out, they did their thing, she came back to your place at sunup and went straight to the shower out back. When she got out of the shower, you and Sam Wheeler were leaving for Lauderdale.”
“Too complicated,” I said. “It’s horseshit.”
“She still had the motel receipt.”
“You called him a jellyfish?”
“Yep,” said Hayes.
“Bingo. Add slime.”
“It gets worse. You flew to Lauderdale, and she took a long lunch.”
“They did a double?” I said.
“So he’s got his alibi running well into our best guess at Gomez’s time of death. Unless we want to think that she’s an accomplice. In that case, they did a double, but it was murder.”
I pointed at the yellow car. “Any suspects?”
“Only you,” said Hayes. “That’s why I told the uniform to let you stick around.”
“Give me a minute. I’ll figure out how that makes sense.”
“Your girlfriend couldn’t make up her mind, right? Rutledge or Randolph. You wanted to help with her decision?”
“Not my style, Dexito. I would’ve spray-painted WASH ME on the trunk of his car. I would’ve short-sheeted his bed.”
His eyes wandered a moment, then came back to me hard. “You admit that revenge entered your mind?”
I pictured myself shackled into another backseat. My Cannondale would fuse to the bike rack before I ever got to the Green Parrot. “The last six days, what hasn’t entered my mind?”
“Must be crowded in there. Do you sift turds to find lost jewels?”
“The victim was doing me a favor,” I said. “My deal with Teresa had run its useful life. The way it went down, she split. I wasn’t the bad guy.”
“You were ready to rotate the stock?”
“No, I got dumped on. The way she did it told me she wasn’t the perfect package I’d hoped for. Not classy, not truthful.”
“Can we do a chemical test on your hands and clothing?”
“Don’t waste your time,” I said. “The past hour, lunch with Sam at PT’s, ten minutes in a gift shop on Greene talking with a friend of Naomi’s. I’ve got witnesses, receipts, beer breath, and a letter from my mom.”
“The bullet that put the third eye in Randolph�
��s forehead was a big one.” Dex pointed at the Florida Keys Publishing building. “We found a Winchester .270 hunting gun on the roof. If we’ve got an assassination here, it probably got set up by a phone call. Teresa might have facts we need quickly.”
“I can’t believe the shooter didn’t draw attention, climbing up there with a weapon.”
“Who looks at anything in this town? If he was dressed like a worker, it’s for sure nobody would pay him their mind.”
“Like a City Electric shirt?”
“Or a roofing company. Or no shirt at all, like he was going up there to fucking sunbathe.”
“That building’s open to a street view on three sides,” I said. “Shotguns aren’t quiet. How did he get down in a hurry?”
“You want to quit the snoop act, Rutledge?”
“You accused me. I have to prove myself innocent.”
Dexter pointed. “The men who own that house run a shop at the south end of Duval. They weren’t home. We think the shooter climbed down in that narrow alley, went out to the La Concha parking lot, and walked. Two dudes back there run the scooter and bike rental concession. They didn’t see shit. We questioned the parking valet. He sees fifteen or twenty people an hour cut through to Duval. He said they all look like freaks, one type or another.”
“So the shooter was a local?”
“How did we jump to that?”
“The shooter knew the place was empty during the day. He knew how to walk away without attracting attention.”
Dexter Hayes stared at the house. “He had to get around those electrical wires. We might pull a shoe print off the top of the AC wall unit back there.”
“Anyone inside the print shop hear noises?”
“Saturday. It’s empty, too,” he said.
“So, a local put the weapon up there last night. Then he climbed up in daylight, looking official, like you said.”
“Want to be a detective? Go to school and take the exam.”
“My life’s dream, Dexter. Maybe you’ll have a real suspect by the next commercial. You ever heard of Artemio Fernandez?”
“Nope,” he said, uninterested. “But I saw your name in the Herald this morning. Anything you need to talk about?”
“Marnie turned up a beauty. If I told you, it’d make the Herald before she got her Citizen story into print.”
“Bullshit, Rutledge. I don’t talk to the press, and I never have. You play that crap in my business, your stairway to success gets fragile. I saw that paragraph about the pawn shop. I knew the minute I saw it, only the man at the top of the stairs could’ve let that one slip. Chief Salesberry.”
“Assuming a story develops, will she get it?”
“I’ll do what I can. I’m not going to gift wrap it, take it to her doorstep.”
I moved into the shade of a scrawny gumbo-limbo. “That condo development in the Herald? Its founder killed himself with a shotgun in 1983. He was standing next to his canal in Coral Gables.”
“That’s her scoop?” he said. “Two points close to Mayor Gomez, and it’s a four-star fucking coincidence? We live in Florida, Rutledge. The whole state is canal homes, permits to carry, and elderly suicides. Park it with your expertise on fluid dynamics. Put it with your theory about bloodstains not matching a shotgun blast.”
“I also had a theory about the same hometown.”
“It wasn’t a theory, Rutledge. It was an observation. So far it’s gotten us nowhere.”
“Do yourself a favor, Dex. That gun you found on the roof? See if it came from Gomez’s storage case. He must have had a purchase record, or listed it on his homeowner’s. Ask his old hunting buddies, Bruce Noe or Doc Wicker. They’ll know his gear. If you don’t find a match, you can bad-mouth coincidence all you want. And me, too.”
Hayes got a steely look in his eye. “You through?”
“You bet. That was my last good guess. I see you’re wearing your open mind today.”
“Where would it get me?” he said.
“Why would someone shoot Randolph? Did he already rip off a mark for big cash? Or did someone stand to gain by his death?”
“He can thank his redneck lawyer. That speech he made when he bonded him out. He said that Randolph would make fools of the police.”
“That riff about identifying the mayor’s murderer?”
“Right, and now he can’t.”
“Where’s that slick attorney from New Orleans?” I said.
“He checked out of the Casa this morning.”
“They come and they go, Detective. Naomi’s brother rolled into town this morning.”
“Great. We should all get together for lunch.”
His radio chirped. Someone barked a numeric code. “We need to clear the block,” he said. “Look at the good side, Rutledge. No one’s ever accused you of minding your own business. Take a hike, and be thankful you’re not taking pictures. Cootie’s here to bless us with his wizardry. Adios.”
“He’s Johnny-on-the-spot for a Saturday, isn’t he?”
“He was at the city, watching a stock car race with the desk sergeant when the call came in.” Dexter turned, hurried toward the mop-up.
I followed as if I belonged. Uniformed cops assumed I was tagging along with Dexter’s permission. The medical examiner’s people had seen me at crime scenes, so my presence wasn’t questioned, and Dexter didn’t hear me behind him. I accomplished my goal, saved myself the long-way walk to the Green Parrot via Duval Street. I ducked under the yellow tape, dodged two gophers pulling a body bag from Riley’s new van, and started down Whitehead.
Thirty feet away, Marnie sat on the steps of a gentrified Conch house, now an attorney’s office. I stood and said nothing while she wrote on her steno pad. She looked up at me with frazzled eyes, focused, and thought through her words. “I’ve stopped being pissed,” she said.
“I just had lunch with him.”
“I know.” She tapped her cell phone, then flipped through her notepad. “The City of Key West fired Odin Marlow in February 1978. Within a week he was chief of security for the Borroto Brinas Development Corporation.”
“He must know some wonderful old secrets. Was he a shareholder?”
“No,” she said. “We would’ve noticed when the Herald printed the list.”
“Borroto Brinas didn’t need security,” I said. “They had nothing to guard but one man’s dream and a bunch of lawyers’ briefcases.”
“Now it’s one lawyer’s briefcase,” she said.
“Artemio Fernandez, in Coral Gables?”
“He’s had a mega-buck dream for over twenty years. Wouldn’t he kill for the payoff?”
“Wouldn’t we all?”
Marnie shook her head. “No.”
“I don’t know where that came from,” I said. “But I just blasted Dex Hayes for not having an open mind.”
“Would you kill for big money?” she said.
“No, and neither would you. And I have to wonder about Artemio. For all these years he went after it through the courts, the legal process. He took it this far the right way. Would he risk screwing it now?”
“He might,” she said. “Where does an open mind come in?”
“You said this morning that Remigio Partners might have been formed using fake names, and the partners could’ve invested tainted cash. Maybe Borroto Brinas was the righteous side, and Remigio was the dark.”
Marnie gazed at the action beyond the crime-scene tape. Her expression showed defiance and pride in doing a fine job. “Am I getting closer to a good story, or farther away?”
“Your story is coming right to you.”
* * *
Trust the Green Parrot. My bike was right where I had left it. A crust of beer residue never hurt anyone. Before I unlocked it, I walked to Jeanna’s Deli, bought two bananas and a box of crackers, and asked for a damp napkin. I freed the Cannondale, wiped the seat clean, then coasted back down Whitehead to deliver food to Marnie.
“Sam called me back,” she sa
id. “He’d contacted friends, told them what he wanted to find. One of the guides got right back to him. Marlow’s boat is docked at Oceanside.”
“Like I said, your story’s coming to you.”
“What happens now?” she said.
“I don’t know. He used his boat to get here, but he won’t use it to leave.”
* * *
Carmen heard me in the garage that I rented behind her house. Prepping my old Shelby Mustang for the road is a ten-minute process of wires, cables, switches, pressure checks, and airing out. I use it once or twice a month, and only for trips off the island.
“God, you look rough,” she said.
“I’ve had a disgusting week. You?”
“Do I have to apologize?” she said. “This year it’s been perfect.”
“A new gentleman friend?”
“No,” she said. “It’s my favorite week of the year, every year.”
“I’m listening.”
“My body is past its adjustments for Daylight Savings Time, so I’m not dinged out. Tourists are gone, so my town becomes my town again. The streets are calm, Publix isn’t a zoo, my plants know that summer’s coming, and mosquitoes are two weeks away. Everybody in town acts different, like they aren’t sure why, but they love this week, too. All you have to do is sit back and enjoy it. It’s pretty much a no-fuckin’-brainer.”
“Quaint.” I snapped the clips on my distributor cap.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know your thing with Teresa’s gone sour. I wish I could help.”
“Your mind is a steel trap. The name Remigio mean anything to you?”
“The trap’s a little rusty. I’ve seen that name, but I don’t know … How far back do I have to think?”
“You were a teenager,” I said.
“Like when I just started at the post office? My job then was sorting mail for the house-to-house carriers.”
“If any connection comes to mind…”
Carmen squeezed my arm. “I’ll let you know in person.”
The Shelby started on my second try, with six quick pumps on the gas pedal. It blew stinky smoke into Carmen’s yard, then ran fine. I backed out, locked up behind me.
As I reached the stop sign, it clicked. I backed up, shut it down, walked to my backyard. The neighbor’s springer spaniel yelped at me. I reached behind the pinewood shower enclosure. Sam had hung a Para-Companion, a small .45, on the hook. I checked out the safety, found seven rounds in its stubby magazine. I wrapped it in my ball cap, took a minute to swap secrets with the dog.