by Danny Lopez
“What?”
“What they were looking for!”
“Chill, dude.” He stepped back and pulled at one of his dreadlocks. “How the fuck would I know what someone else is looking for? I don’t even know who they are.”
“But you must know something.”
He bowed his head. “Dude, I don’t know.” His voice was low, fragile. “Liam was my friend, man. Dude never hurt anyone. The last of the good guys.”
“I’m not a cop,” I said. “Trust me, Jaybird. I want to find the people who hurt him.”
“They didn’t hurt him. They killed him.”
“Who?”
“I don’t fucking know, man.” He waved his hand in an arc. “You said it.”
“What about drugs?”
“What about them?”
“I don’t know. Drug dealers are criminals, right? Maybe …”
“Nah, man. We just smoked a little weed. Dude was into health and nature. Know what I mean? He worked out, swam, went kayaking, was learning to surf. That’s the shit that got him high. Nature. That’s the shit—”
I raised my hand to stop him. “Can you think of anything those men might’ve been looking for? Anything at all?”
“What men?”
I sighed. “The men who wrecked the damn place!”
“Oh, right. Shit. No, man. No clue.”
This was going nowhere. Jaybird was like a goddamn child. I moved to the kitchen. “You got any coffee?”
“Yeah, man, somewhere in that mess. Next to the toaster.”
The kitchen looked just like the rest of the house. Dirty dishes piled on the sink and counter, spaghetti sauce splattered over the stove, empty beer cans, and an open bag of Cheetos, an empty pizza box. The place reeked of sour milk and rotting fruit.
“This is disgusting,” I said as I rinsed out the coffeemaker. “How can you live like this?”
Jaybird didn’t answer. He was sitting on the couch huddled forward. I heard the gurgling of the water in the bong as Jaybird took in a long drag. Seconds later I got the sweet scent of burnt weed. I turned back to the kitchen and prepped the coffeemaker.
There was more gurgling, then Jaybird coughed.
I rinsed out two cups and poured two coffees. When I walked back into the living room, Jaybird was lying on the couch, snoring.
I stood leaning against the wall, watching him, wondering how I might get some information from him. Eight times out of ten, the victim knows the criminal. I didn’t suspect Jaybird.
At least not yet.
I sat on the recliner across from the sofa where Jaybird had fallen asleep and sipped my coffee. I watched him for a while. He was out. Didn’t even twitch.
I couldn’t figure it. Jaybird was filthy. He lived, looked, and smelled like a homeless person. What did he have in common with Liam Fleming?
No. That was presumptuous of me. I didn’t know Liam. But from what Jaybird said, he kept the house open to his friends. That meant anyone. My mind made a few circles. All I could think of was drugs. Rich kid lives the life of a beach bum, smoked weed, and floated around in a kayak all day. He had to get his dope from someone. And maybe that someone was owed some cash. Maybe that someone just knew there was money in the house. But would that lead to murder?
The men I’d encountered at the house yesterday knew exactly what they were doing. That one guy, he came directly at me, didn’t talk or try to negotiate or make excuses. And he knew exactly where to punch.
They had to be looking for something, and when I showed up, they knocked me out of the way. That’s not the work of a street dealer selling dime bags. That’s the work of a professional … hit man?
No. My imagination was running wild with this. I sipped my coffee. Jaybird didn’t move, dreadlocks spread out over the cushion.
I sifted through the papers on the top of the cable spool. There were a few National Geographics from the seventies, half a dozen surfing magazines, the stub from an electric bill, a Publix receipt for three six-packs of beer, and at least a dozen real estate publications.
I grabbed my cup and walked around the house. It had only one bedroom. I was pretty sure it was Liam’s. The furniture wasn’t fancy but it seemed organized: a double bed—unmade—a desk and a dresser. There was no computer, but there were cables to power a laptop and connect a printer that sat on the floor next to the desk, and a small trash can.
I set my coffee cup on the desk, opened the drawers, and flipped through the papers. All domestic stuff: bills, receipts, one for a new AC wall unit from Home Depot, a few soy sauce packets like the ones you get when you order Chinese takeout, a pair of sunglasses, pens. I crouched and sifted through the trash bin. More of the same.
On the dresser, I found a pile of clothes, a few real estate flyers, and a stack of Sarasota City magazines. I flipped through the issues. I found a recent one with an article I’d written about a newly redecorated house. It looked like an ad. But it had paid. I had no room to complain.
I turned the pages. Near the end was an ad for luxury real estate. One of the properties was circled with a red marker. It was a small lot in north Siesta Key.
I walked to the other side of the room and sat on the bedside and checked the drawer on the night side table. A John le Carré novel, an empty glass, a small jar of melatonin from Trader Joe’s, a roach clip, a small Swiss Army knife, Trojan condoms, and a few photos, faded and a little frayed at the edges. One was of a man and a woman that I quickly recognized as a young Bob Fleming and his first wife, Liam’s mother. The other photo was of her with a boy, maybe seven years old, probably Liam. They were sitting in an outdoor restaurant. It looked like it could be Florida, somewhere that seemed to say vacation. The other photo must have been of the same time, but it was the kid, Liam, making a sandcastle on a beach that could pass for Siesta Beach. His mother was lying on a towel to the side. She looked good. Young and pretty and happy. The last photo was more recent. It was crisp and clean and showed a young man smiling at the camera. Again, I imagined it was Liam. He was good-looking, dirty-blond hair, a nice smile, friendly eyes. It was taken in a bar. He was holding a beer and pointing at the camera. In the background, falling off the light and out of focus, people sat at the bar drinking and minding their own business. There was nothing written on the back of any of the photos.
I checked the closet and under the bed. Nothing. I looked around one last time. On the wall over the bed were a couple of surfing posters. On the other wall next to the desk was a detailed map of Siesta Key. Someone had taken a red marker and circled a few spots at the north end of the key near the beach and at the south end: Midnight Pass.
I grabbed my coffee and walked back to the living room, wondering where Jaybird slept because there was no other room or bed. But when I saw him laid out on the couch, I realized he probably just crashed wherever he fell asleep. There was a small pile of clothes on the corner behind a dinette between the kitchen and the living room. Next to it was his drum.
I nudged Jaybird’s shoulder with my foot. He let out a loud snore and turned on his side, away from me. A big brown cockroach appeared at the top of the couch and ran across his hair and face and disappeared under the blanket that covered the bottom cushion.
Jaybird didn’t move.
I took a long drink of coffee and set my cup on the counter, then made my way past the bathroom to the lanai where the two surfboards were propped against the wall. The paddleboard was on its side with a few oars stacked next to it. The rest of the room was empty.
I threw the latch on the door and walked outside. It was dawn. The sky was a deep blue except to the east where it had a light, translucent quality. It was hot and humid, but there was a freshness in the air that almost made it pleasant. I made my way to the end of the rickety dock. The mosquitoes and no-see-ums were out in force. The sound of my hands slapping my neck and arms was the only thing disturbing an otherwise quiet morning.
On the mangroves across the Intracoastal, dozens of egrets perch
ed quietly together. A great blue heron walked in slow motion in the shallow below, hunting for its breakfast.
When I walked back toward the house, I noticed the red plastic kayak Keith had brought back. It had molded seats and a deck hatch.
I grabbed an oar from the lanai and carried the kayak to the end of the dock. It was cumbersome because of the narrow dock. I flicked off my shoes, pulled off my socks, eased the kayak onto to the water, and got on. I pushed off with the oar and rowed gently out. The water was calm and clear and shallow enough—less than three or four feet. I could see the mud and grass below.
I rowed easily to the south, suffering the no-see-ums and mosquitoes. Pretty soon I was sweating, my shirt sticking to my skin. I stopped rowing and rested the paddle across my lap. The tide barely moved the kayak. I didn’t see how someone could tip over, much less drown.
To my left, the sun was tinting the eastern horizon a light pink and blue like a fine, well-polished jewel. Overhead an osprey floated like a kite. In the distance, I could hear an engine, a motorboat revving, someone getting ready to go out fishing.
It was almost impossible for me to tell exactly where I was relative to the roads. To my right the condominiums disappeared as I came alongside Midnight Pass. To this day, Midnight Pass was a point of contention with the people of Sarasota. In the early eighties, the county and the Corps of Engineers closed the pass that led out to the Gulf in order to save a few beachfront houses that were being washed away by erosion just south of Turtle Beach. Despite closing the pass, a couple houses washed away. They never reopened the pass.
I saw a couple on paddleboards ahead of me. I picked up my oar and rowed toward them.
“Morning,” I said as I came up from behind.
They stopped paddling. They looked like husband and wife, both in their fifties, trim, healthy-looking.
“It’s a nice one, hey?” the man said.
“Sure is,” I said. “You know how deep it is around here?”
“Not very,” the man said. “Four feet.”
“It depends,” the woman said. “It’s more like six feet when it’s high tide.”
The man looked at her. “It doesn’t get that deep.”
“It does,” the woman said to him. “Maybe not right here, but there are places where it gets deeper.”
“Yeah, except for the channel at the center, it’s all pretty shallow,” the man said.
The woman pursed her lips and turned to me. “It’s not bad, but it’s not consistent. There are a couple of deep places once you pass Blackburn Point Bridge. And then the channel. That’s a good twelve to twenty feet deep.”
“It’s for the boats,” the man said.
“I’m sure he knows that,” the woman said to the man.
“You don’t know that,” he said to her.
“Well, thanks,” I said and paddled back a little.
“Sure thing,” the man said.
“Down that way you have some great mangrove islands. They get covered in birds this time of the morning,” the woman said. “Egrets and herons and cormorants.”
“Thanks,” I said and kept rowing backwards, away from them. They watched me move. I was pretty sure they were curious about my awkward handling of the kayak. The woman said something to the man. He said something back and then they started paddling south.
I rowed back to the house. Pulling the kayak out of the water onto the dock was not easy. When I finally managed to get it out, my legs were soaked. I sat on the dock and put my socks and shoes on. Then I carried the kayak to the patio and set it leaning against the back wall of the house. I walked into the lanai and placed the oar with the others and marched into the living room.
Jaybird was gone.
CHAPTER 7
I POURED MYSELF a fresh cup of coffee and paced around Liam’s house for about forty-five minutes, opening and closing drawers, rifling through papers, bills, and staring at the map on his bedroom wall and the places he had circled: a house on Beach Road, a lot near Siesta Village, and empty lots around Midnight Pass. I hoped to see some kind of pattern, but it could mean anything: places where he’d gotten drunk, friends’ houses, real estate he was interested in, or just places he liked. I made a note of it. No one marks up a map with a red Sharpie for no reason.
I checked the fridge. A few boxes of Chinese food, jelly, bread, leftovers of something foul, a small package of expired ham, and a six-pack and a half of Copek’s Siesta IPA.
I poured myself another cup of coffee and sat on the recliner, staring at the old rattan couch where Jaybird had been sleeping. What was his deal? And what did he have in common with Liam?
My mind wandered as it usually does, and pretty soon I was thinking of the men who knocked me out yesterday. It happened so damn fast. I had a flash of the man’s face: clean-shaven, grinning. His shoes. Boat shoes. Topsiders. And that’s it.
One thing I was pretty sure of was that Bob Fleming was right about Liam’s death not being an accident. Something must have happened. A strong swimmer drowning in four or five feet of water. And the Intracoastal was dead calm. How the hell do you even fall off a kayak in that kind of water?
I tried to imagine that day—a day just like this one. Sunset, maybe nighttime. Liam putting on a bathing suit, Jaybird sprawled on the couch, snoring. Liam carrying the kayak to the little rickety dock, lowering the kayak into the water and rowing out in the crystal calm water.
Then what?
I finished my coffee, got in my Subaru, and looked over the police report. Nothing jumped out at me. The body was discovered Friday morning almost two weeks ago just south of here, at an address on Kensey Lane in Osprey.
I opened Google Maps on my phone and traced what I imagined had been Liam’s final trip, from his house to the address on the police report. It wasn’t far. Might take fifteen minutes from here to there by kayak, probably less. In that short period, the man lost his life.
But how?
The medical examiner’s report estimated time of death sometime between ten p.m. and two a.m. Thursday night–Friday morning. The cause of death was asphyxia due to drowning. The decedent showed no indication of trauma of any kind. He had marks on the skin of his left shoulder and on the left side of the torso consistent with scrapes from the barnacles of the pilings of the dock where the body was recovered.
According to responding Sheriff’s Deputy Lester Norton, the victim had gone out on a kayak Thursday evening. A woman by the name of Tina Parker discovered the body and called 911. Norton responded to the call, arriving at the house at 7:41 a.m. Parker led him to the back of the house where the deputy found the body facedown underwater, caught between the pilings of the wooden dock of the residence of Tina Parker.
The report was written by Detective Fenton Kendel, investigating officer who was called to the scene and arrived at 8:18 a.m. It was all pretty cut and dried and to the point.
I could understand Bob Fleming being suspicious of the report because the victim was his son. But the report raised no questions whatsoever for me. The only thing that kept me here, trying to figure this out, was the two men from yesterday. And from what I had seen in the house, I had the nagging suspicion they had stolen a laptop computer from Liam’s bedroom.
I sat in the car staring at the front of the house, trying to process. Sweat beads built on my brow and upper lip, mosquitoes and no-see-ums buzzing around my face. After a while, I started the car, put up the windows, and turned on the AC.
I needed to talk to Jaybird. I needed to know about Liam’s work, if he had an office, the name of his company, an address, what he did for a living. And about the computer. I figured I could sit in the messy house and wait for Jaybird. Or move on. Do my damn job. Besides, I was starving.
* * *
I went through the drive-through of the McDonald’s on the Trail at Stickney point, got a breakfast burrito and a large coffee, and drove down to Osprey. Tina Parker, the homeowner, lived in a beige pseudo-Mediterranean two-story house at the end
of Kensey Lane, a narrow dirt road. It wasn’t exclusive and it wasn’t big, but the backyard ended at the Intracoastal giving the property its value.
Tina Parker opened the door and stood with her arms crossed over her chest. She looked to be in her seventies, skinny, her white hair in rollers. And she didn’t look happy about me knocking on her door so early in the morning.
The first words out of her mouth were, “Not interested.”
“I’m not selling anything,” I said. “I’m just—”
“I’m a Christian and I’m very happy with my religion and my church,” she said and reached back to close the door.
“I’m not a Jehovah’s Witness, ma’am. I just have some questions about the body you found a couple weeks ago,” I said quickly, taking a step forward.
“What about it?” she said sharply.
She watched me like a hawk as I explained how I’d been hired by Bob Fleming to check into the death of his son.
“I told the detective everything I knew,” she said. “Why would I tell you any different?”
“I just want to see and understand what happened. Mr. Fleming is distraught about the loss of his son. He’s in terrible shape. He’s looking for closure.”
Tina glanced to the side suspiciously. Then she turned her little dark eyes on me and barked, “I’m a very private person. Why did this have to happen to me?”
“Well,” I said. “At least it wasn’t your son who died.”
She frowned and seemed to chew on that for a moment. Her eyes softened a little.
“If you could just give me five minutes,” I said quickly trying to take advantage of the moment, “and show me where you found the body, I’ll be on my way. Promise.”
She was reluctant. Didn’t let me in the house. Instead, she led me around the side of the house without saying anything more. We walked around the caged pool to the narrow dock that jutted out between the mangroves to the Intracoastal. It was a wide section of blackish water with a few small mangrove islands. We were directly across the north end of Casey Key and a little south of Midnight Pass. Siesta Key was to the north. A Robalo motorboat, about thirty feet, made its way along the center of the canal, heading south toward Venice, which was the next outlet to the Gulf.