The Last Breath

by Danny Lopez

“With Dana. We’re trying to patch things up, and you come up with that murder shit.”

  “Really?”

  “She’s off work, man. Lay off.”

  “Jesus, Rachel. Check her out. She’s all about death. She’s probably happy to talk about dead people.”

  “It’s her job. Do you want to be thinking about work when you’re chilling?”

  “I’m always thinking about work.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Right. I forgot who I was talking to.”

  “Take it easy. I’m going to finish this beer, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  A couple of minutes later, Dana came back, a beer bottle in each hand. She leaned over our table and pointed at me with one of the beers, a Ballast Point Manta Ray. “You know what, that other floater had a red mark on his right ankle.”

  “What was it?”

  “I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Just an old mark or something. Maybe from surfing. The guy had blond hair, a deep tan and shit. Made sense.”

  “Maybe that’s what it was,” Rachel said.

  “Maybe,” Dana said. “It was on his right ankle. If the guy surfed with his left foot forward, sure. But if it was the other way around, that’s another story.” She took a sip of one of the beers and pointed at Rachel. “We’re doing one more set. You gonna take more pictures or what?”

  Rachel leaned over her camera, fiddled with the controls. Changed memory cards. Dana marched off to the stage, set one of her beers on the ground next to a speaker.

  I stood and felt for my keys, glanced at Rachel. “I’m outta here.”

  * * *

  On my way out, I noticed a rack of free publications by the door. Real Estate. The cover had four photos of four very expensive looking houses. But what caught my eye was the name at the bottom: Alex J. Trainor, Realtor.

  I picked up the magazine. Looked at the thumbnail portrait. Alex Trainor was the one selling the condos next door to my house. But there was something else. He was the same man I’d seen at the bar of the Ritz-Carlton the other day.

  I tossed the magazine back on the rack and walked out, passed a group of skinheads smoking near the door. Behind them three Harley-Davidsons. At the end of the building was my dented Subaru. I got in and started the engine. Dana had given me something to go on. I figured Keith or Tessa might know Liam’s surfing stance.

  * * *

  I pulled out of the parking lot and headed south on Cattlemen Road, then turned right on Bahia Vista. My mind kept drifting back to the real estate guy: Alex J. Trainor. Why did real estate agents insist on putting their picture on their ads? They loved that shit. During the real estate boom, almost every bus stop had a picture of some real estate agent—as if someone who was riding our intermittent public transportation could throw down a load of cash for a new home. Was it ego? Or was there some marketing manual that told them to do that? I mean, shit. I wouldn’t buy a house from half the realtors in this town just from their looks. Criminals in suits.

  Just as I was passing Beneva, in the heart of the Pinecraft neighborhood, the blue-and-red police lights flashed behind me.

  I immediately did an inventory of my drinks: three beers at Copek’s then dinner, two at the Cock & Bull—all in the span of four and a half hours. If I blew into the breathalyzer, I’d be fine. I was stone sober.

  I slowed down, set my blinker, pulled over onto a parking lot on the opposite side of Bahia Vista from Yoder’s Restaurant. I turned the engine off and put my hands on the steering wheel.

  The police car’s PA blared: “Step out of the car, hands where I can see them.”

  I didn’t move.

  The spotlight on the driver’s side of the police cruiser beamed on me. The cop repeated his command.

  I didn’t like it. I’d been told by an officer to always turn the engine off, put my hands on the wheel, and wait for the officer to walk over. But one time, Brian Farinas told me never to argue and do exactly what the cops said.

  Either way, I was fucked.

  I lived with the memory of my father: the patrolman ordering him to step out of the car. When he did, he pumped him full of lead: two in the chest, one in the abdomen, one in the arm while he knelt with his hands up in the air. They said he died instantly. I saw it all from the back seat. Eight years old. My dad knelt, then turned to look at me. The fear in his eyes etched into my heart. Then boom-boom. He fell back, one leg folded awkwardly under him, and one arm extended out, the other half-over his chest. Blood on the pavement.

  The cop repeated his command. “Out of the car. Now. Hands where I can see them.”

  I took a deep breath, pushed the door open, stepped out with my hands at my sides, but slightly separated from my body so they could see I was clean.

  The officer adjusted the spotlight on me, blinding me. I narrowed my eyes, brought a hand up to shield my eyes.

  The officer yelled, “Don’t move.”

  I yelled back, “I’m not.”

  The officer in the passenger side stepped out and started slowly forward, holding his long flashlight over his shoulder—the other hand at his side, too close to his gun for my comfort. “You been drinking, sir?”

  “I had two beers in two hours,” I said. I couldn’t see him. The driver also stepped out, moved forward, same manner, but no flashlight. “I’m sober,” I said. “I’ll be glad to take the Breathalyzer.”

  When the driver stepped in front of the spotlight, I saw they were Sheriff’s deputies. Then he stepped to the side and the light blinded me again. “What was that?”

  “I said I was sober.”

  “You were doing forty in a thirty-mile speed zone.”

  Maybe it was true. I wasn’t paying attention. We were in the middle of an Amish neighborhood. They rode bikes.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t notice there was a change.”

  They came closer. Then I saw the deputy’s name tag: Norton.

  “You know you’re driving with a broken headlight?” the other deputy said as he came around my car.

  “Yeah. It just happened last night. I haven’t had—”

  “Let’s see your driver’s license, registration, and insurance, please.”

  “For a broken light?” I cried.

  “License, registration, and insurance,” Norton repeated.

  I ducked into my car and got the registration from the glove box. Then I came forward and handed my documents to Deputy Norton.

  The other deputy said, “Do we have your permission to search your car, sir?”

  “What?”

  Norton about-faced and went back to the cruiser. Checked my docs. The other one pointed at my car. “Sir?”

  I stepped to the side. “Sure. Whatever.”

  I watched him search the car. Then come out. He ran his hand over part of the dent near the door. Looked at me. “Did you report this?”

  “What?” I was getting a little pissed off. “That some douchebag ran me off the road last night? No. What for?”

  Deputy Norton stepped out of the cruiser, walked slowly toward me and the other deputy. Behind the cruiser, next to the sidewalk, I could make out the shape of three Amish men, heavyset, older, bushy beards and hats, sitting on their tricycles, staring at the show.

  “Will you turn around, please?” Deputy Norton ordered.

  I clenched my jaw, did what he asked.

  “Hands on the roof,” he said.

  I did as he said. A second later I felt the handcuff going around my right wrist. Then he pulled my arm behind my back and started with the Miranda rights.

  CHAPTER 26

  MOTHERFUCKERS WOULDN’T TELL me why they arrested me. I sat in the back of the cruiser asking, again and again. But the two deputies were like stones. It was just me and the occasional crack of the police radio. I took a deep breath, straightened myself in the seat, and stretched my legs. I noticed Norton take a quick glance at me through the rearview.

  I had to keep calm and not make a scene. I’d learned from
the past, from Brian Farinas: say nothing. I figured there was probably video. The footage would prove I did nothing wrong. I’d offered to take the Breathalyzer. I kept my head down, my mouth shut, did exactly as I was told. I was as docile as an ex-con who knew he was guilty.

  They took me straight to county and handed me off to a female deputy who fast-tracked me through booking. The charge was fleeing the scene of an accident.

  They sent me to the drunk tank with three homeless men that stank of piss. I didn’t protest. I knew they had the wrong guy. And in the back of my head, I even hoped it had been the assholes in the red pickup who had reported me. Brian would rip them a new one in court.

  * * *

  At one in the afternoon, I was marched with a handful of other losers out of the cell and into a room at the jail for first appearance via closed-circuit video to the courthouse. The judge on the monitor screen couldn’t be bothered. Ran us all through like a factory on deadline. Brian Farinas was there. He told the judge there had been a misunderstanding. Deputies had jumped the gun. It wasn’t the same accident that had been reported off Fruitville Road and Honore. He asked that the case be dismissed. But the judge wouldn’t have it. At least he released me without bond. And why not? I had no record and—according to Brian—was an outstanding and valuable member of the community.

  * * *

  “Don’t say anything until we’re in the car,” Brian said when I walked out of jail and met him in the lobby of the Sheriff’s office. He placed his hand on my shoulder, drew me close, and whispered in my ear. “You don’t want to piss anyone off. Not now, okay?”

  He stank of yesterday’s booze. I looked sideways at him, said nothing, just as he asked.

  “I have a splitting headache,” he said as we made our way out of the County Building and down a couple of blocks to the parking lot, up the steps to the third floor where his Range Rover was parked.

  He started the car and cranked the AC. He stared ahead.

  I waited, taking in the cool air.

  Finally, Brian took a deep breath and spoke real soft. “Okay. Tell me what happened?”

  I told him about being run off the road in Siesta and being at the Cock & Bull with Rachel. “They’re trying to nail me for the wrong accident. I was never near Fruitville and Honore.”

  “No problem.” He continued to stare ahead. “If you’re telling me the truth, then the paint won’t match. Besides, you have Rachel to corroborate your story and—”

  “What the fuck, man? This shouldn’t even go to trial.”

  “Please let me do my job,” he said quietly. “Now, why didn’t you report the accident on Siesta?”

  “Because I didn’t get a license plate. What was I going to tell the cops?”

  “You tell them what happened. Keeps things clean and legal.”

  “Right.”

  He turned to face me. He looked like crap, red eyes, dark bags under them, sagging like old paper. “Is there anything you’re not telling me?”

  I grinned. I could tell he wasn’t in the mood for jokes, which was rare for him. I said, “Why don’t we go to my place. I’ll cook us up a little breakfast. You look like you could use it.”

  He smiled and put the car in reverse. “So could you.”

  We backed out and made our way out of the parking lot and out onto Ringling Boulevard toward Washington. We stopped at a crosswalk where a large group of men and women in suits walked in front of us, from the County Building to the courthouse.

  “Look,” I said and smiled at Brian. “A herd of lawyers. I’ve never seen one in the wild before.”

  He didn’t find it funny. “That’s your county government at work.”

  I watched them walking slowly in a tight group as if they were scared to break off the group—like elementary school children on a field trip.

  “What’s their deal?” I said.

  “They wanted to see how the Sheriff’s office operates because they’re requesting more money.” “For riot gear, no doubt.”

  Brian glanced at me. “For a guy who just got out of jail, you sure sound peppy.”

  “Did you just say peppy?”

  Brian looked away, didn’t smile. I watched the commissioners and their assistants, folders and papers under their arms. One of them looked familiar: oval face, slightly bald. Looked like the kind of guy who managed a tire shop.

  “We elected these guys?”

  Brian shook his head. The crosswalk cleared, and he stepped on the gas. It had been a long time since I’d seen Brian in such a mood. No fun, no talk. Just business. I figured he must’ve had a hell of a night.

  When we got to my house, I picked up my copy of the Sarasota Herald from the front porch and tossed it on the coffee table, then I went straight for the fridge and popped open a couple of Siesta IPAs and handed one to Brian.

  He finally cracked a little smile. “You can tell, huh?”

  “You look like shit.”

  “I met a woman.”

  “Well, good for you. That’s why you bailed on me?”

  He nodded.

  I raised my beer. “Is it love?”

  “It is for me,” he said with an honest smile. “I think. Or at least lust.”

  “She a lawyer?”

  “Works at the county clerk’s office.”

  “Nice. Government job. Great benefits.”

  We sat on the couch, both of us looking like we’d had a terrible night and were ready to just tune out and crash. The beer helped. I sat on the floor and flipped through my records, see what music to put on.

  “So,” Brian said, “you gonna tell me what’s going on, or what?”

  I picked out Frampton Comes Alive, side four. I wanted to hear “Do You Feel Like We Do.” I set it on the old Thorens and let the Scott do its magic.

  I stood, grabbed my beer, and leaned against the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. “I just told you. Some asshole tried to run me off the road the night before last.”

  “No,” he said. “The job. What’s up?”

  “I was hired to look into the death of Liam Fleming, a kid, twenty-seven years old. Drowned on the Intracoastal a couple of weeks ago.”

  “What, you’re Sherlock Holmes now?”

  “I need the money.”

  “So what’s the deal?”

  I didn’t have an answer, but I knew I was getting close. “It’s weird,” I said and moved into the kitchen, started on breakfast: scrambled eggs and hot dogs and Sriracha sauce. The frying pan sizzled with hot oil as I broke five eggs into it. “The cops are calling it an accident. Turns out Fenton Kendel is retiring and chose to take the easy way out. Then two nights ago the guy’s roommate was also found drowned in the Intracoastal—only his is definitely a homicide. Someone tied him up to a cinderblock and dropped him in the deep end.”

  “How do you find these cases?” He stood and came over to the counter and looked over my shoulder. “Smells good.”

  “Nothing like a hot greasy breakfast to cure the blues.”

  He nodded and held up his beer. “And this.”

  I touched his beer can with mine. “Indeed.”

  I got us two more beers and we sat down to breakfast in the dining room. Mimi appeared out of nowhere and joined us at the table. I shoved her off. She sat on the floor and complained, begged, then moved around our feet, rubbing against our ankles, meowing incessantly.

  “Tell me about your arrest,” Brian said, his body folded over his plate and shoveling food into his mouth.

  “Not much to tell. They followed procedure. Except one of the deputies is the same one who was the responding officer when they found Liam Fleming in the Intracoastal.”

  “You think he’s involved?”

  “I don’t know. Coincidence?”

  “Could be,” Brian said. “They’ll probably drop the charges on you. But if it happens again, report the accident. Even if you don’t have the license plate. It creates a record. Gets you off the hook.”


  “What are the chances of two hit-and-runs in the same twenty-four-hour period?”

  “Better safe than sorry,” he said.

  * * *

  After Brian left, I sat back on the couch to take a nap. I grabbed the newspaper from the coffee table and browsed the pages, mostly news from the AP wire. Then I saw Rachel’s photo from the night of Jaybird’s murder off Blackburn Point Park. There was a small brief. The body had been identified: Terrence Oliver.

  CHAPTER 27

  I TOOK A quick shower and ran out of the house. But the driveway was empty. My car was in Pinecraft, or the pound. I went back inside, called Rachel.

  “I can’t,” Rachel said.

  “Come on,” I pleaded, “just drop me off at Yoder’s.”

  “First of all, I’m up here by the airport—”

  “So?”

  “In bed.”

  “I can wait.”

  “With Dana.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I have a shoot in a couple hours up in Bradenton.”

  “Well … have a nice time.”

  Rachel giggled. “I already did.”

  I had an Uber pick me up a few blocks from my house in the parking lot of the Women’s Exchange on the corner of Orange Avenue and Oak Street. I found my car where I left it in Pinecraft. No ticket.

  I drove straight to Siesta Village.

  I parked in a neat little spot on the side of the blue apartments and ran up the stairs to number 8. No answer. I ran back down, already breaking into a sweat.

  Across the street, people were making their way to the corner and disappearing down to where Beach Road turned into the short, narrow dead end along the Gulf. I could hear chants, drumming.

  I crossed Ocean Boulevard at the Siesta Key Oyster Bar and turned right to the little section of Beach Road where at least two dozen people, hippies and surfers, most of them familiar to me from the drum circle, had gathered. They held signs, chanted, and danced. A couple of men tapped their drums.

  I recognized Cap’n Cody standing on the sidewalk with his arms crossed, staring at the show. Behind him were the two houses that belonged to Beach City Holdings.

  The hippie girl who had first pointed out Jaybird to me a few days ago at the drum circle climbed up on a rock. The crowd cheered. She raised her hands and motioned for everyone to be quiet.