Stairway to the Bottom - a Mick Murphy Key West Mystery

by Michael Haskins

  Stairway to the Bottom - a Mick Murphy Key West Mystery

  Michael Haskins

  (2011)

  * * *

  Rating: ★★★★☆

  After finding the murdered female killer from the Cold War era, Mick Murphy faces off with a hit man for recently arrested Boston gangster Whitey Bulger. The hit man has fled from witness protection to collect Bulger's hidden millions. At the same time, retired Cold War agents come to Key West looking for someone that walked off with more than $20 million in diamonds and they believe the missing hit man is their guy. Murphy thinks the situation is funny as he meets and talks to the agents, but dislikes the hit man even though Padre Thomas, the priest that sees and talks to angels, has given him absolution. Though the comedy of errors soon turns tragic for Murphy.

  It's not long before his government, black-bag buddy Norm Burke shows up with CIA agents in tow, looking for the diamonds. They are soon followed by the British, French, Israeli agents and the Russian mafia. Everyone assumes Murphy can lead them to the Cold War fugitive, while Murphy tries helplessly to explain the man they are looking for is a Boston gangster.

  On the water, snorkeling at the reef with his fiance Tita, Norm and a female CIA agent, everything in Murphy's world begins to unravel. As both those looking for the hit man and those looking for the diamonds collide,Murphy's world changes forever.

  Add a few disgruntled retired FBI agents, also looking for Bulger fortune, and willing to do anything to get it and Murphy's world in Paradise begins to resemble hell. In the end, Murphy's world is torn apart.

  About the Author

  Haskins has been the business editor for the daily Key West paper and the city's public information officer. He lives in Key West, where most of his A Mick Murphy Key West Mystery series is set.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  About the Author

  Stairway

  to the

  Bottom

  A Mick Murphy Key West Mystery

  By MICHAEL HASKINS

  Stairway to the Bottom—

  A Mick Murphy Key West Mystery

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Copyright © 2012 by Michael Haskins

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced, transmitted, stored, or used in any form or by any means graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, scanning, digitizing, taping, Web distribution, information networks, or information storage and retrieval systems, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Published in 2012

  Michael Haskins

  www.michaelhaskins.net

  Dedication

  For my sister Nina Patty. She set an example for me my whole life, even though I didn’t recognize it for a while. She showed me that life was what you made of it and when I finally understood that dreams were part of life, I got on with it and she was right.

  For my wife Celine. She has suffered the trials and tribulation of my wandering through life, looking for the reason of it all. She has waited all these years for me to grow up. Well, maybe one day, but right now the grownups in charge don’t seem to be doing a very good job.

  I’ve warned my daughters, Seanan & Chela, that soon they’d be older than me, so slow down kids. Do children ever listen? They’ve made my life enjoyable.

  I miss my brother Danny and son Sean. Their enthusiasm for my accomplishments, no matter how small, helped me focus. I wish they could’ve stuck around until some of their enthusiasm rubbed off. This book is for them and because of them.

  Thanks are due to many singer-songwriters but I single out Kris Kristofferson because his music helped me make it through the night and any number of days. We shared beers and whatever a few times upstairs at Doug Westin’s Troubadour, way back when. Times I’ll never forget. Thanks for the songs that made me realize I wasn’t alone.

  Acknowledgements

  This story is the result of many hours of being in locked a room alone with my imagination and a laptop. But the end result, the book you’re reading, is the combined efforts of others; Jim Linder who checked for my mistakes concerning weapons and tactics—any errors in the book are mine, poetic license allows that; Nadja Hansen, my editor who still is amazed that I can fool spell check and turn a perfectly good sentence into gibberish; thankfully, she does her magic and makes it readable—nhansen416@gmail.com; and Jen Musselman who took my imagination and was able to design a cover for it—jen@psquaredproductions.com; Bob Pierce for his expertise in sailing and sharing it with me; Bill Lane, for his willingness to share his advertising experience with me while at lunch or drinks and cigars—www.fastlaneadvertising.com/—I owe y’all a debt of gratitude; and for fellow writer Wayne Gales, thank you for your help and letting me borrow Bric, www.keywestdoorstepcom; thanks is due Key West photographer Rob O’Neal for taking my photo and running it through PhotoShop enough times to make me appear human—www.roboneal.com.

  I would be amiss if I didn’t thank the three people who allow me to sit with them Monday nights as we critique each other’s work. I get a hell of lot more than I give. Thank you for your insights Mike Dennis, Jessica Argyle, and Sarah Goodwin-Nguyen.

  Readers have asked in what order my books, and short stories were written. I have to tell them that’s a tricky answer. The easiest way to understand is go to my website and read the Solares Hill piece entitled “The Lost Manuscripts.*” I’m going to l
ist the books and short stories by chronological order and next to it the published date, if any.

  Mick Murphy Mystery Novels:

  *Revenge, June 2011**

  *Tijuana Weekend, February 2011**

  *Who’s to Bless, Who’s to Blame, unpublished

  Chasin’ the Wind, February 2008**

  Free Range Institution, March 2011

  Car Wash Blues, August 2012

  Stairway to the Bottom, December 2011**

  Mick Murphy Mystery Short Stories:

  **Finding Picasso, Saturday Evening Post—Jan/Feb 2011

  **Murder in Key West, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine—March/April 2007

  **The Floater—June 2009

  **The Drum Stick Murder—July 2010

  Vampire Slayer Murder in Key West—Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine—Sept/Oct 2011

  **Also available on Kindle

  Chapter One

  If I hadn’t gone to watch the comedy showcase at the Key West Fringe Theater, I wouldn’t have silenced my cell phone. If I hadn’t silenced my cell, I would have answered Dick Walsh’s first call at 1:10 A.M., and then things might not have gone so badly. If is a damn big word for only having two letters.

  I unplugged the cell from its charger in the morning and the lighted screen reminded me it was on silent mode and that I had five messages.

  Each of Dick’s messages was more frantic and pleading than the last. He needed help, but didn’t say for what. By the third message, he was cussing but still wanted me to call and that was at 3:15. He didn’t sound drunk, like most three in the morning callers do, he sounded scared.

  The fifth and final message came at 5:36. He had calmed down, asked me to come by his house as soon as possible and gave me the address. His composed voice assured me I would understand the problem after I arrived and he would be in touch later.

  “Mick, I need you to believe me, it isn’t what it looks like. Please help me,” his message ended with a quiet plea.

  I dressed quickly in last night’s clothing and swallowed cold water from a bottle out of the cooler. Before I got into my Jeep and drove to Dick’s house on Von Phister Street, I called his cell but it went to voice mail and I left a message. We were playing phone tag.

  Von Phister is a narrow, tree-lined street in a quiet neighborhood of old and new houses. Dick’s was an old two-story house with a large gumbo-limbo tree in front and two more in back. He actually had a decent-size backyard, something that is at a premium in Key West.

  The house was dark. It was almost six-thirty, about an hour since his last call. The sky was a light gray with a reddish-purple sunrise pushing the dawn westward. Only a large yellow tomcat crossed my path on the empty street.

  I parked in front and noticed Dick’s scooter was gone. I went up the steps to the wraparound porch, rang the bell, and then knocked. Nothing. I looked into the living room window. Nothing. I knocked again and when no one answered, I tried the door. It was unlocked so I went in.

  The stench that greeted me in the hallway was familiar. The smell of death was strong and that told me somewhere in the house, death was very recent. Death, if left alone long enough cloaks all other odors, especially in the tropics—violent death even more so.

  I called Dick’s name but no one answered. I walked into the living room and it looked lived in—a big screen TV, stereo with CDs stacked next to it, a sectional sofa set. A hallway led to a kitchen, small dining room, and bathroom. The stairway on the right went upstairs to the bedrooms.

  Dick used the dining room as his office—medium-sized desk that was too big for the room, a computer, a printer, and a two-drawer file. I walked through into the kitchen. There was a table for two off to the side, dirty dishes in the sink and a woman’s body on the floor.

  She lay face down and a large part of her head was gone. Pieces of shattered skull, along with parts of her brain and blood, tarnished the otherwise clean kitchen wall.

  Blood and human waste soaked the tile floor and stained her clothing.

  The stench of death filled the kitchen. I didn’t bother looking for a pulse.

  An automatic with a silencer attached lay on the floor, her arm stretched out toward it as if reaching for the gun that had a small stream of brownish blood curled up next to it.

  I ran upstairs to check the two bedrooms, calling Dick’s name. Both rooms were neat and the beds made. Nothing broken or seemingly out of place. Dick’s closet looked full with only a couple of empty hangers in the mix. The guestroom closet was empty.

  Dick shot this woman, I thought as I looked down at her body. Whose gun was it on the floor? I didn’t touch anything, though I wanted to. My curiosity was getting the best of me.

  I’m Liam Murphy, a semi-retired journalist and fulltime sail bum, some say. Key West has been my home for almost eighteen years. Before that, I lived in Southern California and reported on Central American civil wars and when they ended I covered the drug wars for a weekly newsmagazine so a dead body wasn’t something that frightened me, it intrigued me.

  In Key West, I’ve made friends with all kinds of characters, including the chief of police, Richard Dowley. We have a two-sided relationship. One side is Richard the cop, the other is Richard the friend. He considers me a friend but always thinks of me as a journalist. He says I only have one side. I called him on my cell, sure of catching him at home, and knew I’d be talking to his cop side.

  I told him where I was and what I’d found.

  “What are you doing at that nut’s house?” I could hear him banging around in the kitchen.

  When I explained about the messages and Dick’s plea, he sighed loudly enough for me to hear on the phone.

  “Don’t touch anything and I’ll call it in,” he said. “Best thing is go outside and wait for the first unit, and I’ll make it there too.”

  “Okay, Richard, but tell the ambulance it doesn’t have to hurry,” I said and he hung up without replying.

  Outside, I sat and waited, thinking of Dick’s last message telling me it wasn’t what it looked like. It looked like murder.

  Chapter 2

  I sat on the front steps until the patrol car showed up. When Billy Wardlow arrived I knew it was his first assignment because the city’s tight budget didn’t allow for overtime. I showed him where the body was and he sent me outside.

  When he came out, Billy told me he found no sign of a struggle inside. I already knew that so I nodded. Of course, we were not considering how the body got there, just that nothing else was out of place. He began inspecting the porch windows and then went into the backyard looking for signs of forced entry.

  Detective Luis Morales showed up a little after seven. Cuban born, Luis came to the States as a child on a leaky boat with his mother. That’s how he remembers it, anyway. He was on the city’s police bike patrol when I came to Key West. Now he’s a lead detective and my nemesis because I’ve sailed to Cuba. Even as a patrol cop, he would turn boaters in to customs and immigration if he thought we’d been to the forbidden island. We don’t get along and my friend the police chief thinks Luis is a talented cop. Luis considers himself God’s gift to women and too often women seem to agree.

  I walked him into the kitchen and wondered how he’d handle me finding the body.

  “Do you know her?” He checked the blood smears and brain matter on the wall, careful not to step in the puddle of blood collected around the body and gun, as he talked to me. I wanted to ask him if he knew her, but kept my mouth shut.

  The body was face down, her arms stretched out toward the gun. Luis took it all in as he waited for my answer.

  “Not from this angle,” I said. I didn’t know her.

  Luis looked from the floor to the wall and back, ignoring my sarcasm. “She was shot in the face, hit the wall, and fell forward.” He was speaking to himself. “Probably close range.”

  “Her gun?” I pointed toward the blood-soaked automatic.

  “We’ll test it, see if it’s the murder weapon and f
ind out who owns it.”

  Outside, I told him about the phone messages. He listened to them on my cell and had Billy take it to the station.

  “I want copies of them,” Luis said. “I’ll get it back to you as soon as I can.”

  I couldn’t win the argument, so I said nothing.

  “The guy who lives here,” he checked his small notebook, “Dick Walsh. Tell me about him.”

  We sat on the steps waiting for others to show up.

  “He moved here about three years ago,” I said. “Bought this house and the water sports business on Simonton Beach. He said he’s from New Zealand.”

  “How do you know him?” He took notes.

  The sun was rising and it would soon bathe the street in heat and humidity, but the large tree in the front yard would keep Dick’s house shaded and cool. The morning breeze carried the scent of tropical flowers and brewing coffee.

  I needed a café con leche, the caffeine jolt of the strong espresso, steamed milk and extra sugar mixture could make this early morning fiasco bearable.

  Two police cars stopped out front and Sherlock Corcoran, the crime scene investigator, parked his van in the driveway. The nickname came with the job and few knew his real first name, or cared to. The cops, Harry Sawyer and Charlie Bauer, nodded but didn’t talk to me because of Luis.

  “Hold that thought.” Luis got up to meet them.

  They gathered at the van and spoke softly. Sherlock pointed at me and Luis nodded. The two cops helped Sherlock with bags and went into the house without acknowledging me as they passed.

  “How do you know Walsh?” Luis sat down.

  “I’d see him around. Schooner, the Hog, one of the bars,” I said. “After a while he was with someone I knew or I was with someone he knew and we were introduced.”

  “Simple as that,” Luis smiled.

  I hunched my shoulders and said nothing, but I thought what an asshole he was.

  “Yet when he kills this woman, you are the one person he calls.” It was an accusation not a question. “Interesting,” he said with a devious sneer.

  “You don’t know he shot her or if I’m the only one he called,” I said harshly. “He could have found her or he might’ve been abducted by her killer. Think of some alternatives, Luis, don’t be a shortsighted ass.”