by Danny Lopez
“That’s possible.”
“Was,” I said. “When they found Jaybird in the Intracoastal, it killed that idea.”
Someone at the other end of the bar called for Tessa. She glanced over her shoulder. “Be right over,” she said and turned back to me. “So we scratch both those theories.”
She went over to the other end of the bar to check on her customers. I took a long drink of beer. The buzz was helping my nerves cool off. I’d expected a quick, easy job. But it was just beginning. I focused on two possibilities: Jaybird had witnessed Liam’s murder. Or at least knew who did it. So that person had to keep Jaybird quiet. And that could be anyone: Keith, Terrence … or even Tessa.
When Tessa came back, I told her another possibility. As far as I could tell, it was the only answer to the case: “Drugs.”
“Seriously?”
“Maybe they were both in cahoots with a dealer. Owed money. Or double-crossed someone.”
“Listen to you: double-cross. What is this, a seventies TV cop show? All those two ever did was smoke dope and drink beer. And Liam not so much. No hard stuff.”
“Honestly?”
She raised her right hand. “I swear.”
“Never.”
“Okay, sometimes when we worked closing, we’d go out, hang out at the Beach House or the Daiquiri Deck, or we’d meet up with the guys from the Oyster Bar and go to my place or Liam’s and party. There was always booze and pot. And occasionally a little coke. But that’s it.”
“And that’s not enough?”
“No. Absolutely not. And it wasn’t a big part of Liam’s life.”
“I don’t know. Coke’s heavy stuff.”
“And?” She drew back. “I don’t snort. And neither did Jaybird. Not that I ever saw.”
“What about Liam?”
“He was pretty straight. He had his shit together. But then again, he had money and a real business. This,” she said and waved a hand from left to right, “is our livelihood. The day shift bartender’s got two kids and a husband on disability. And the waitress, Amanda, is putting her kid through college. There’s a couple of guys at the Daiquiri Deck who also go to school. As far as I know, most everyone is holding two jobs to make ends meet.”
“Sarasota’s an expensive place.”
“You’re not kidding.”
“Where’d the dope come from?”
“I don’t know about the coke. Like I said, someone would just pull out a gram or two. It wasn’t a regular thing.”
“What about pills, heroin?”
“God no!”
“And the weed?”
“What about it?”
“Where did it come from?”
Her eyes turned to the steps that led out of the bar into the dining room. “Felipe.”
“Who’s Felipe?”
“The dishwasher. He hooks everyone up. I mean, I never bought any, but I know he deals. Jaybird bought from him.”
“And Liam?”
“Not while I was dating him.”
“Really?”
“Really, Dexter. You’re chasing the wrong lead. Besides, people don’t kill for a couple of joints.”
“If only,” I said because I knew better. People killed for a lot less than a buck. And more often than not, drugs or alcohol were part of the equation. But I understood where she was coming from. And I didn’t believe it myself. Liam and Jaybird and Tessa and Cap’n Cody and Keith and the hippie girl at the drum circle—none of them looked like criminals. They didn’t seem capable of it.
Tessa’s brown eyes seemed to grow bigger, tender, friendly. After a moment, she turned away and went to check on her customers. When she returned to me, her eyes were moist, red.
“Is Felipe working tonight?” I said.
She nodded.
“Does he know about Jaybird?”
“How would he?”
She shoved off and went to attend to a waitress who called out her order. A moment later, the blender was screaming, crushing ice as Tessa prepared more of those fancy tropical fruity drinks: a Pony Ride Margarita, an Awesome Rum Haven CoCo LoCo, a Fido’s Pain Killer.
I drank my beer and watched her move, her slim body leaning to the side to grab a beer from the cooler, her movements alert, sharp, professional. Slowly, a voice inside my head convinced me that she was okay. I scratched her off my suspect list.
When she finally came back, she pointed to my beer. “You okay there?”
I raised my glass. “Fine. But I need you to do me a favor.”
She gave me a tired nod.
“Can you hook me up with Felipe?”
“You wanna buy pot?”
“I want him to think that. I just want to talk with him.”
“He didn’t do it, Dex.”
“You know that for sure?”
For a moment she seemed suspended, as if she couldn’t decide whether to tell me to fuck off or hug me. “He’s a good guy.”
“Don’t worry. And don’t tell him about Jaybird.”
She sighed, took a quick look around the bar. “Go around the back and hang out by the dumpsters. I’ll have him meet you there.”
I stretched my legs and dug for my wallet. She placed her hand on my arm. “It’s on me.”
* * *
The back of the Old Salty Dog stank like burnt grease and trash—typical restaurant shit. There were half a dozen cars parked right up to the building and a small path to the green industrial dumpster. The back door of the kitchen was held open by a cinderblock. White light spilled out into the alley in a perfect rectangle. About thirty yards away, near the street, was another light. Behind that, the glow of the gas station gave the night a seedy ambiance. Didn’t quite feel like beautiful Siesta Key.
I stood near the door but just outside the rectangle of light so I wouldn’t stand out. The heat and humidity seemed worse back here. There was no breeze. Not too far to the east, a flash of lightning caught my eye. It was going to rain again—hard.
About five minutes after I got there, a short middle-aged Latino man with dark brown skin, wearing a plastic apron and a hairnet, came slowly out of the Old Salty Dog.
“Felipe?”
“You Tessa’s friend?” he said in a thick Spanish accent.
“That’s me.”
“So wha’s going on?”
I came closer. He had deep brown eyes that made him look sad, and an old scar between his chin and his lower lip. I extended my hand. He shook it.
“I’m also a friend of Jaybird’s,” I said.
He nodded.
“I wanted to pay whatever money he owes you.”
He looked to the side, shook his head. “Jaybird don’t owe me nothing.”
“I thought maybe he did. You know … for the stuff.”
“For the weed? No, man. He’s good. He don’t buy that much. And he always pay. No problem.”
“That’s good to hear,” I said. “You know him pretty well?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “We work together, yes.”
“So.” I nodded and kicked at the ground. “Something happened.”
“Wha’ happen?”
“To Jaybird.”
“He okay?”
“He’s dead.”
Felipe glanced away at the darkness for a minute, kicked at the ground. “You for real?”
“I’m sorry.”
He pulled his hairnet off, held it with both hands against the top of his stomach, looked at me. “What happened?”
“Someone killed him.”
“What? Jaybird? Pero … Why?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m trying to find out. I thought maybe he owed you money and—”
“And you think I kill him?”
“I thought because of the drugs—”
“I don’t kill nobody, carbrón. Never. I just sell a little weed to my friends. Don’t hurt nobody.”
“I know,” I said. “I just had to make sure.”
“Yo
u a cop?”
I shook my head. “I’m a friend.”
“Yeah.” He gestured with a wave of his hand, as if he were tossing something out. “A friend. Chinga tu madre.” Then he turned and started back to the door of the Old Salty Dog.
“Hey, hold on.”
He stopped and turned. In the light that spilled from the open door of the restaurant, I saw a glint in his eyes.
“Look,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I had to check. Okay? I had to make sure.”
He spat to the side, put his hairnet back on.
“Let me ask you … Did he buy drugs from anyone else?”
He shook his head.
“He ever buy coke or pills, any hard stuff?”
“No, man. Jaybird just smoke weed. To relax, he say. He was … como se dice? Easygoing. Always like no problem.”
“Who do you get your shit from?”
His eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. “You don’t want nothin’ with them.”
“Is there any chance they could’ve hurt Jaybird?”
“They don’t know Jaybird, man. Shit. They want nothing to do with this. They sell a little weed to me. I sell to my friends. No one mess with Jaybird.”
“Well, someone messed with him pretty bad.”
He shook his head. “Jaybird never leave the island. He always say he live free. Never messed with anyone es’scept that guy from the county that wanna close the beach.”
“What guy?”
“With the county government. He wanna close Beach Road.”
“What, Troy Varnel?”
He nodded. “I think that guy.”
“When you say he messed with him, how do mean? What did he do?”
“Nothing. He just complain like everyone.”
“But he didn’t do anything to the commissioner?”
“He start the petition to keep the road open.”
“But that’s it.”
“And complain.” Felipe smiled. “He complain all the time. Everyone complain about the beach all the time.”
“All right,” I said. “But that’s all he did.”
“And Tessa, too. They love the beach.”
The moment I felt I had something, it flew away. Varnel’s proposal to close Beach Road—a proposal that still had to be approved and passed by the commission and the board of development and possibly the courts.
“So, the petition and complain,” I said. “That’s all he did, right?”
“Yes.” Felipe nodded. “That’s all. Pinche Jaybird. He talk a lot and he bang on his drum.” He turned and started back to the Old Salty Dog.
“Felipe …”
He stopped and stood in the rectangle of light outside the kitchen door.
“I’m sorry.”
He bowed slightly and then disappeared into the restaurant. I slapped a mosquito on my neck. Then I made my way around to the front of the restaurant and went back to the bar.
CHAPTER 20
THE YOUNG MAN behind the bar came over and gave me a fake smile. “What can I get you, pal?”
I nodded to the taps. “A glass of that Big Top.” I looked up and down the bar, populated by the same customers, tourists, a few scruffy old fishermen. No sign of Tessa.
The young bartender came back and set my beer on the counter. “Wanna see a food menu?”
“I’m good,” I said. “Where’s Tessa?”
“She went home. Wasn’t feeling too good.” He pointed at my beer. “You wanna start a tab?”
* * *
I left the Old Salty Dog without finishing my beer, walked quickly through the Village in a blur of neon lights and pastel colors and the smell of suntan lotion and booze. The Siesta Key Oyster Bar was packed. Someone—I imagined Cap’n Cody—was playing the guitar. The Daiquiri Deck had pulled down plastic shields along its outside deck to cool their guests with AC. Tourists strolled up and down the sidewalk, flip-flops, t-shirts, glowing red faces, kids chasing lizards. The Beach Club was jamming. A light breeze picked up just enough to warn of a coming storm.
I could feel my emotions getting the best of me. I felt like crap about Jaybird. Maybe it was because I’d thought he was the key to Liam’s murder, or maybe it was because he came across as such an innocent man—someone who was ignorant of the world around him. But there was also Tessa. Maybe I was reading too much into her body language, the way she touched my arm, how she tossed her hair to the side, laughed at my stupid comments, how she looked at me—her beautiful brown eyes cutting into a part of me I usually kept guarded. Maybe my feelings were getting in the way of my objectivity and that was why I wandered to the blue apartment building, walking around it twice before going up the stairs and knocking on apartment number 8.
Tessa opened the door and looked through me, her eyes red and distant. She had an odd expression, one of either absolute relaxation or absolute exhaustion. Or, she was stoned.
“You okay?”
She nodded and moved aside to let me in. I walked past her. She turned and kept her eyes on me. In the soft light of the apartment, it was clear she’d been crying.
I went to her. She raised her hands to hold me at the same time that her lower lip trembled and her mouth twisted letting out the first of many sobs.
I held her. She leaned her head against my chest, arms around my neck, tight, cheek pressed against me. And she let it all out: the fear and the anger and the sadness of everything that had happened in the last two and a half weeks. She cried like a child alone in a room with her pain. It tugged at my own feelings more than I cared to admit even to myself. So much so that I clenched my jaw as tight as I could and swallowed the tight ball that was rising in my throat.
We stayed like that in the middle of the living room of the pretty apartment, the sound of her weeping like a soft memory from my childhood, for what felt like a lifetime. I caressed her hair, took in her smell of shampoo and sweat. And for a moment I actually closed my eyes and felt so close to her it would take a crowbar to pry us apart.
But just as I fell into it, she pulled away. She wiped her tears with the sides of her hands and forced a chuckle. “I’m so sorry.”
I wanted to hold her, take care of her. Protect her. Her eyes moved through me as if there was something past my skin.
She backed away a step. Two. Then she turned and walked into the kitchen and grabbed a paper napkin from the counter and used it to wipe her cheeks, blow her nose.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just … it just hit me, you know? I was standing behind the bar after you left and remembered how Jaybird used to walk out of the kitchen with his goofy smile and that hawk nose of his, giving me a wink to let me know he and Felipe were going out back to smoke a joint. And then … and then I … I imagined him fighting to get out of the water, struggling.”
“I understand,” I said.
She sobbed, blew her nose again. “Christ,” she cried looking up at the ceiling. “I hate this.”
She tossed the napkin in the trash and pulled out another and held it up to her face, dabbing the corners of her eyes.
I walked farther into the living room. “I don’t know what’s going on,” I said. “But people don’t go through all the trouble of tying someone up to a cinderblock and tossing them in the water because of a dime bag of weed or a couple grams of coke. There has to be a strong motive.”
Tessa came out from around the kitchen counter and sat on the couch. I followed her and took the place next to her, my head low on my shoulders as I tried to process the scene, what Felipe had said.
Tessa leaned forward, her forearms resting on her knees. She looked ahead at the sliding glass doors that led out to the narrow balcony, and beyond it the low glow of the lights from the Village.
“He was a good guy,” she said. “Jaybird was Siesta Key—old-school Siesta Key. He was always at the beach or hanging out around the Village. Everyone knew him. He was a big part of the drum circle and he helped organize volleyball tournaments, even though he never played. He
was just a nice guy. He organized protests against the developer that wanted to tear down the Summerhouse.”
“You can’t stop progress.”
“But you can manage it,” she said wisely. “Jaybird used to say that all the time. It wasn’t about stopping development or progress. It was about integrity winning over greed.”
“Tell that to the developers,” I said, thinking of Dieter & Waxler and the nine-story building they were erecting next door to my little cracker house.
“Jaybird started the petition drive to keep Beach Road public.” She sat up and straightened her back and pointed to the corner of the living room. “It’s one of the coolest parts of Siesta and the county wants to give it away to the homeowners.”
To Beach City Holdings, which meant Terrence Oliver. Liam Fleming’s partner now owned two properties on Beach Road. His company could tear them down, build a beachfront condo. I tried a little math: seven stories, two units per floor at three or four million per unit. It sure gave one Terrence Oliver a hell of a lot of motive to kill Liam. Maybe Jaybird knew—maybe he was a witness. Maybe he was going to go to the cops. Maybe Terrence wanted to silence him.
“How did Jaybird find out about Liam?” I said.
“That he drowned?”
“Yeah. How did that go about?”
“I told him,” she said quietly. “I saw it in the news that afternoon before work. At first, I thought it was a mistake. I couldn’t believe it.”
“And you went to work and told Jaybird?”
She nodded.
I hadn’t noticed my right hand was clenched in a fist. Tessa placed her hand on it and forced her fingers into it, eased her fingers between mine.
“Take it easy,” she said soothingly.
“I can’t. It bugs the hell out of me.” I took in a long deep breath and leaned back on the sofa. Tessa looked at me with sad, apologetic eyes.
I was barking up all the wrong trees. Maybe I was trying to rush, trying too hard to solve something that had to play itself out. I had to find Terrence Oliver. He had the clearest motive as far as I could tell.
At least Detective Kendel couldn’t brush Jaybird’s murder under the rug—call it an accident. It was an active case. There was certainly going to be an autopsy. And maybe Kendel would get off his fat ass despite his impending retirement and do a little work. Something might turn up.