Falafel Jones - Max Fried 02 - Payback's a Beach

by Falafel Jones

  “What? You think I dosed the bottles after the fact and did a poor job of wiping them down?”

  “No, not you. You have nothing to gain by doing that. In fact, you’d have a lot to lose if you did.”

  “You think Ed did it?”

  “Did he?”

  “No, of course not. Ask Torres.”

  “I did.”

  “You mean Torres said Ed did it?”

  Fleming leaned back in his chair. “No, in fact, Leon says neither you nor McCarthy did it.”

  “So, why are you asking me about it? Don’t you trust…?” As soon as I formed the words, I realized the answer. Fleming didn’t trust Torres. “How come you don’t trust him?”

  “Why should I? He never should have let you clowns on the boat or given any credence to that phony court order. So, why did he?”

  “Maybe he just felt bad for Ed? Maybe he sympathized about Ed’s daughter being in trouble?”

  Fleming opened his mouth as if to say something. Then he closed it, gave me that cop stare for a moment, and said, “You can go now, Fried.”

  As I walked down the hall to leave, I passed the break room. When I glanced inside, I saw Detective Fitzpatrick grimace as he tasted the contents of a ceramic mug. He saw me and saluted with his cup. “I’d offer you coffee but I don’t believe in police brutality.” He added sugar to his cup, tasted it and then added some more. “What did the captain want?”

  He wanted to talk to me about Torres. What’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It seems like Fleming doesn’t trust Torres, like maybe he did something he shouldn’t.”

  Fitzpatrick nodded knowingly. “Like the way he let you and McCarthy on the boat?”

  “Yeah, what’s the problem? Torres always does everything by the book. He’s a stickler, hard to imagine him bending any rules for anybody, especially Ed.”

  Fitzpatrick sipped his drink one more time, made a face and poured it into the sink. “You know about Jacksonville?”

  “No.”

  “Before my time too, but I’ve heard stories.”

  “And?”

  “Well, Leon wasn’t always like this. With his last partner, Torres played the good cop.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope, then things changed.”

  “What happened?”

  Fitzpatrick rinsed his mug and placed it on a shelf. “Not for me to say. You’ll have to ask Torres.”

  We left the police station and I drove Brenda home. When we pulled up in front of her condo, I had to navigate around police cars parked in front at odd angles. I wondered if they taught them to park like that at the police academy.

  Brenda put her hands on the dashboard and leaned towards the windshield. “What’s going on? Did somebody get robbed?”

  I parked and undid my seatbelt. “Wait here. Let me see what’s going on.”

  Brenda nodded as she pulled on her bottom lip. I walked up to Brenda’s building. The door was open and a police officer stood next to it. He held up his hand to stop me from entering. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Max Fried. This is my client’s building.”

  “Client’s name?”

  “Brenda McCarthy.”

  The cop stepped in front of the door and put his hands on his hips. “You her lawyer?”

  I showed him my PI license. “No. I handle personal security for Brenda McCarthy. This is her home.”

  “That’s not a security ID. That’s a PI license.”

  “And if you read the licensing law, you’ll learn that PIs are legally authorized to provide bodyguard services. My client has returned to her residence and I need to make sure it’s secure before she enters. Let me in.”

  Before the cop could answer, someone inside called out the open door. “What’s going on out there?”

  The cop turned to face inside and then stepped aside as Detective Torres exited Brenda’s condo. “Fried. I should have known it was you when I heard the noise out here. You representing Brenda McCarthy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then here.” Torres pressed some paper against my chest. I unfolded it. He had handed me a search warrant.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Flunitrazepam, Rohlrohypnol, andor similar drugs.”

  “Why?”

  “Somebody ruffied every bottle in Fisher’s liquor stash and the only fingerprints on any bottles belonged to guess who? Brenda.” Torres turned and went back through the door. I followed him into Brenda’s unit and when we entered the living room, he said, “Don’t touch anything. Don’t interfere. Don’t give me an excuse to toss you out.”

  I had never been in Brenda’s home. All I knew was that when her mom came to stay with her, Sheila complained about the place only having one bedroom. I walked the perimeter of the room and looked for anything that might provide some help in defending Brenda. She had a number of plaques on one wall from the Coronado Yacht Club for winning various places in their regattas. A large painting of the lighthouse at Ponce Inlet graced the wall over the couch and she had the usual couch, TV, and chairs you’d expect to find. A counter with barstools separated the kitchen, which contained nothing other than the usual kitchen items. I looked at her refrigerator magnets. She apparently liked to collect them from various places she visited.

  I entered her bedroom and felt like an intruder. One cop opened and closed drawers while another one cataloged items in Brenda’s medicine cabinet. I looked briefly at the photos Brenda kept on her dresser and computer desk. I recognized Ed and Sheila but didn’t see any pictures of Brenda’s friends. I wondered if Kimberly’s face graced the collection before she started dating Scott.

  Embarrassed from roaming Brenda’s private space without her, I went back into the living room where Torres stood facing Brenda’s plaques. He wrote something on his pad and then pointed to the wall with his pencil. “Not looking good for your client, Fried. I found my connection. The dead guy participated in one of these regattas.”

  “How do you know he raced in a CYC Regatta?”

  “Spoke with Fisher’s home club on Long Island.”

  “So Douglas told you.”

  Torres seemed surprised. “So you already knew about the connection.”

  “No, I already knew about Douglas. Chatty guy. Ask you for a job?”

  “Yeah, he —. Wait, don’t side track me.”

  “OK, so Fisher competed. A lot of people race in these events. You can’t prove Brenda and Fisher ever met before the other day.”

  “We’ll see. Now, I’ve got somewhere to look, who knows what I’ll find.”

  The two cops who searched Brenda’s bedroom and bathroom came into the living room. One shook his head and said, “No good. No drugs except for OTC stuff.”

  I asked Torres, “So, you done now?”

  “Yeah, with this but not with her.”

  As I left Brenda’s unit, I glanced at Floyd’s. His door was shut but I had a creepy feeling someone might be watching me through the peephole.

  I left the police and went out to my car where Brenda sat pressed up against the side window. She was looking out at the officer guarding her door but when got in the car, she turned to face me. “Max. What happened?”

  I told her about the search warrant and then handed it to her. She said, “I’d better show this to Dad or Mom.” Then she gave me a forlorn look. “Did they find anything?”

  I wanted to ask her if there was anything to find but I didn’t. I just said, “No.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  We drove in silence and I dropped Brenda off at Ed’s. Then I drove up Peninsula Avenue to Flagler Avenue and parked in the lot for the Riverview Grille. From there, I was able to walk under the bridge to the stairs leading to the pedestrian walkway. I climbed the steps and approached the multi-story bridge tender tower. The bottom level had no windows but the top level made up for it. Floor to ceiling glass covered all four walls. I pounded on the heavy metal d
oor and waited. I pounded again. Still no answer.

  Frustrated, I turned to leave when I noticed what appeared to be metal mesh protecting a lamp next to the doorframe. Being a nosy guy, I pressed the round button under the mesh to see how bright the light might be in daylight. Instead of seeing a light, I heard a click and then a voice said. “Yes, may I help you?”

  I realized the mesh covered an intercom so I said, “I’m a private investigator and I need to see the bridge logs from Friday night.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. They don’t allow visitors in the control room. You know, security. You can mail the county a letter though.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have that much time.

  “Wait, Friday night?”

  “Yes.”

  “You looking into that boater that died in the channel?”

  “Yes, I’m trying to help out my friend.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “Ed McCarthy.”

  “Commodore McCarthy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, geez, come on up.” I heard a buzz and pushed on the door. It opened into a stairwell and I climbed the three flights to the top where a man leaned out an open door and waved me in. The tower had a magnificent view in all directions. On the bridge side, just under a window, the bridge tender had a control panel that apparently operated the span. Against the right wall, a couch faced a television set and next to the TV, a microwave sat on top of a small refrigerator. The man offered his hand, “I’m John.”

  We shook. “Max Fried.”

  “Hey, are you the guy who helped Ed solve those murders?”

  “Is that the way he said it?”

  “Yup, said he couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “That’s our Ed.”

  John chuckled, “You know, most folks call for an opening on the radio, they only mention the name of their ship. If a bridge tender needs to address them, we just call them Captain.” John made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Doesn’t matter if it’s a yacht or a bucket, everybody’s Captain, except Ed. When he calls for an opening, it’s ‘Commodore McCarthy on the Shimmering Sea.’” John smiled and shook his head. “He comes through, it brightens my day.” John pointed to his couch so I sat. He took a seat at a desk next to the control panel.

  He looked out the windows and then at me, “So, what do you need?”

  “I need to know which ships requested openings on Friday night.”

  John turned to the desk covered with office equipment and a two-way radio. He picked up a clipboard and thumbed through the pages. “What time?”

  “How about the 9:00, 9:20 and 9:40 openings?”

  John pulled a page loose and handed it to me. “Got it right here.”

  I looked at the list and saw the DeepSea Doodle crossed under the drawbridge at 9:20 pm. None of the other ship names looked familiar. “Can I get a copy of this?”

  “Sure.” John took pack the page and placed it on a photocopier.

  When he handed me the copy, I asked, “Can you write the words, ‘True copy’ on that, please?”

  John looked confused.

  “I may need to introduce this as evidence.”

  John nodded and said, “Guess you want me to sign and date this too.”

  “Yes, please. The best evidence is the original but the cops will probably want that. This copy will be the next best thing.”

  John finished writing and handed me the paper. I folded it and stuck it in my cargo shorts. I thanked John and left just in time. A ship was calling him on the radio for an opening.

  I left the drawbridge for home and as I turned south on Peninsula Avenue, my cell phone rang. This time I remembered to remove it from my pocket before I got into the car. Even as I prided myself on that, I knew I’d probably forget the next time. Since moving to the island, I only drove a few thousand miles a year. The caller ID displayed “Ed home.”

  “Hi, Ed?”

  “No, it’s Sheila. I was hoping Ed was with you.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “That’s what I want to know. He should have been back from court by now.”

  “Maybe they’re not done with him yet. I imagine they’re pretty angry with him.”

  “Yes, they are. The judge’s clerk told me all about it when I called to see if Ed was still there.”

  “Did you ask Brenda if she knows where he is?”

  “She’s not here and she’s not answering her cell.”

  I didn’t know if Sheila saw Brenda after I dropped her off and then Brenda went to meet Ed and me for lunch or if Brenda left before Sheila got home. I knew Ed and Brenda didn’t want Sheila to know about the drug test this morning. Who knew what else they weren’t telling her? I decided to play it safe and said, “Ed’s probably just driving around, trying to get his head together.”

  “I’m worried about him. He doesn’t handle defeat or criticism well.”

  “Who does?”

  “If you hear from him, please have him call me. It’s not like him to stay away from home like this.”

  “Sure.”

  “Thank you.”

  I closed my phone and turned left onto Third Avenue. It was lunchtime more or less and Ed said we’d meet and eat so I made another left onto Atlantic Avenue towards Bobbi and Jack’s. I saw Ed’s car as soon as I pulled into the small, unpaved lot.

  By the time I covered the short distance from the door to the bar, Jack had already placed my Amberbock beer and an empty cup in front of me. The man on the next stool whistled and said, “Now, that’s fast service.”

  I turned to him and said, “Jack likes to get me in and out fast before I start annoying the other customers.”

  The man’s smile disappeared and then he moved two seats down the bar.

  Jack laughed, “Boy, I could use you at closing time.” Then he pointed to the patio deck on the sand between the bar and the ocean. “Your buddy’s here.”

  “Ed?”

  “Yeah, the guy you helped solve those murders.” Jack reached across the bar and slapped me on the arm to show he was just kidding.

  “Thanks.” I emptied my bottle into my cup and walked out onto the deck. A lone guitarist with a pencil mustache was performing southern blues numbers on the patio stage. He wore a black pork pie hat and 1950s style sunglasses to coordinate with his music. I found Ed and Brenda at a table in a corner not readily visible from the bar.

  Ed looked up from his sandwich as I approached. “Hi, Max.”

  I sat down and said to Ed, “Sheila’s looking for you.” He nodded as if he already knew.

  I turned to face Brenda. “How you holding up?”

  “I thought I’d feel better after the drug test, but…”

  Ed took a bite from his pickle and then handed it to Brenda.

  She brought her knees up to her chin, put her heels on her seat, and placed one hand on the opposite ankle. “I still feel like a suspect, especially after that search warrant.”

  Ed said, “No worries. They didn’t find anything.”

  I thought about Torres’s comment regarding the connection between Brenda and Fisher. It looked like he wasn’t going to leave Brenda alone so I said, “Maybe we can do something to help that.”

  Brenda took a bite of the pickle.

  Ed brightened, “You found something?”

  “Maybe three things.”

  “Spill.”

  “First, a guy at the East End Yacht Club in New York says that Fisher took Captain Bucky from the DeepSea Doodle for about $500,000. Second, an East End PD Detective Snyder wants to talk to Fisher about a half a mill in gold. Third, Captain Bucky from the DeepSea Doodle crossed under the drawbridge at 9:20 pm.”

  Ed said, “That fits. The M.E. puts the time of death at 9:30 pm so Bucky made the bridge opening just in time to kill Fisher. Coming down the inlet, he could have sailed right past Fisher’s boat.”

  Brenda said, “Better to eat a pickle than to be in one. So, now can we call the police
and tell them to leave me alone?”

  Ed and I looked at each other. I suspected we each had the same thought and then Ed voiced it. I was glad I didn’t have to be the one to say it.

  Ed said. “We can call but that’s not going to get you off the hook. At the very least, Torres will want to talk to the folks in New York, see the bridge log to prove what we claim, and talk to Bucky. Even then, it may not be enough. I’m afraid you’re still a suspect until he arrests somebody else.”

  I said, “We have to tell him what we’ve got and see if he’ll search Bucky’s ship for the gold.”

  Ed said, “Yes, and if we give him that to chew on, I think he’ll hold off arresting Brenda.”

  Brenda put her feet down from her chair and her voice went up, “You think he’ll hold off on arresting me? You think?”

  “Calm down, doll. Trust your old man on this one.”

  I held up my hand. “Hang on a second, Ed. Not that we don’t have compelling information here but first, what’s up with you and Torres?”

  Ed gave me a puzzled look.

  “I just came from Captain Fleming. He seemed to think that Torres violated procedure and may have compromised the investigation. That’s not like Torres. What’s going on?”

  Ed held up his empty cup and asked Brenda. “Doll, can you get us a refill, please?”

  She took the cup. “Max?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Ed watched her walk away and shrugged. “I phoned him, said I had a court order, and I wanted to see the boat.”

  “And he knew you’re Brenda’s father?”

  “Yes.”

  “McCarthy is a pretty common name. How did he know?”

  Ed looked away at the surf lapping at the sand and said something.

  “What?”

  He turned back to face me. “Yes, I told him I was Brenda’s father.”

  “Why’d you tell him? Wouldn’t that discourage him from letting you on the boat?”

  “It could have but it didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Ed took a deep breath and then exhaled. “You’ve only been here a short time. You probably don’t know about Torres’s daughter, Angela. She lived with his ex about 90 minutes north of here. A few years back, Jacksonville police arrested Angela for drug trafficking, selling a couple of oxycodone pills to an undercover at a party.