by Danny Lopez
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “The houses on Beach Road.”
“No. A two-story, twelve-unit apartment on Calle Menorca.”
“You serious?”
“Stamped and notarized,” he said.
“Who’s getting it?”
“Tessa Davidson.”
I almost dropped the phone. I told myself I was jumping the gun. Yes, it gave Tessa motive. But she’d said she didn’t know Beach City Holdings was Liam’s company. If she was lying, she wouldn’t be the first one.
When I got to the light at Midnight Pass and Beach Boulevard, just before the public beach, I dialed the Massachusetts number.
A kid answered the phone and told me to hold on. A moment later George Finney announced himself over the line.
“My name’s Dexter Vega,” I said. “I’m looking into the transactions of a company on Siesta Key that purchased a property from you in April.”
“What are you talking about?” he said, getting defensive. “Everything was legal. Talk to my lawyer.”
“Absolutely,” I said quickly. I could feel he wanted to hang up. “There’s nothing wrong. I’m just trying to find out who you negotiated with.”
“The lawyer for Beach City Holdings.”
“Joaquin del Pino?”
“Yeah, I think that’s who. My lawyer handled all that.”
“My understanding is there were two interested parties, is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Absolutely. I just wanted to know who was on the other side of the bidding war with Beach City Holdings?”
He chuckled. “I don’t recall the name. Something with a W. Wesley or Wesleyan.”
“Waxler?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Something and Waxler.”
“Dieter and Waxler,” I said.
“That’s them. The scruffy fella kept nagging me. Said he’d been friends with Uncle Frank. But that young lady with Beach City Holdings—”
“Vivian McCutcheon.”
“Yeah, her. She was all class. Every time Waxler raised his offer, she countered with an even hundred K. No small talk.”
“What about Waxler?”
“I’m sorry, not Waxler. The scruffy guy. Sings at one of the bars around the corner from the house.”
“You mean Cap’n Cody?”
“Yeah.” He laughed. “Cap’n Cody. He was all over the place. Like a character out of Glengarry Glen Ross. You know the play?”
“I know the movie.”
“David Mamet,” he said. “Guy’s a freakin’ genius.”
“What do you mean by all over the place?”
“Desperate, you know? What happened was that the real estate guy, young man, what’s his name, Trainor—”
“Alex Trainor.”
“Yeah, yeah. I was getting ready to list the house, right? And that Cap’n Cody fella says he’s got an interested party and says how I could save on paying commission to a real estate agent. Six percent on a two-three-million-dollar house ain’t chump change, you know what I’m saying? So he introduces me to Trainor who made the original offer for Waxler.”
“But there was Vivian.”
“That’s right.” He laughed. “We had dinner at one of the places there and she said the company she worked for was interested in Frank’s house. When I told her I was already talking to someone else, she said she wanted the opportunity to counteroffer. I hadn’t signed a contract with Waxler, so we spent a couple of days going back and forth.”
“Where did Cap’n Cody come in?”
“When Vivian countered with two point seven, Trainor went AWOL, and Cap’n Cody took over. But I could tell that wasn’t his game.”
“Why’s that?”
“Too desperate. Kept giving me stories about how he grew up there, how I should make a moral decision and not be blinded by money, wanted to know who the other party was. Honestly, I didn’t think he and Waxler could get the funds.”
“Did you tell him?”
“Tell him what?”
“Who the other party was?”
“Yeah, why not?” he said. “You know, Uncle Frank bought that house a few years after the war. Paid like eleven grand for it. Who would’ve thought one day a couple of companies would be fighting to pay millions for it, hey?”
Those last words stayed with me like an ominous echo: fighting to pay millions.
There was no parking in front of the Old Salty Dog, and I had to circle around the block a few times. On my second pass, I found a tiny spot across the alley from the restaurant and tucked the Fiat into it without much difficulty. Nice little car.
I heard someone cuss across the alley, “Where the fuck are they?”
A silver Range Rover was parked on the other side of the dumpster. I made my way slowly across the street.
The driver’s-side door of the Range Rover was open. A man was pulling at the driver’s arm, cussing like a sailor.
The driver leaned back on the seat and kicked the man on the chest, throwing him back. His back hit the dumpster. It was Cap’n Cody.
I ran over to him just as the Range Rover pulled out, almost hitting me. Then I saw the bumper sticker: Coexist.
It was the same SUV I’d seen at Liam’s place. I glanced at the driver. He was staring at me. I knew those eyes. But this time I recognized the face from the real estate ads: Alex J. Trainor.
The Range Rover spun its wheels on the gravel and took off away from Ocean Boulevard into the dark streets of the key.
I turned to go back to the Fiat then heard a noise, fabric moving. I stopped and turned, scanned the alley. Cap’n Cody was gone. I started again toward the Fiat when a violent blow smashed against the side of my head. My knees buckled. I dropped to the ground, body flat against the asphalt. I tried to push up, got a kick on my side, fell back down.
Before I could take another breath, Cap’n Cody was on top of me, pummeling my face and head with his fists. I covered my face with my arms but it didn’t do any good. I got it hard all over—stars and more stars.
Then Cap’n Cody flew off me, fell to the side, landed beside me on his back, his eyes dazed, then shut, arms stretched out like Sonny Liston at the Central Maine Youth Center in 1965.
I turned to the side. At Cap’n Cody’s feet, Felipe stood like Ali—only he was wearing an apron and holding a shovel in both hands. “You okay?” he said softly.
I shook my head, trying to pull out of the daze.
He dropped the shovel and knelt by my side.
“Thanks,” I said and forced a smile. My head was pounding.
Felipe helped me up. I looked down at Cap’n Cody. He lay flat on his back on the asphalt, a small cut on his cheek. But I knew he’d come around soon. I fumbled in my pocket for my phone and called 911.
Felipe led me a few steps to the back door of the restaurant and sat me on the cinderblock that held the door open. “I get you some water,” he said.
Before Felipe made it back, the blue and red of the Sheriff’s deputy cruiser flashed all over the back alley. Two of them. Cap’n Cody was already moving, slowly, dazed. The deputies went to him.
Felipe came back with a glass of water. Tessa was behind him, her hand over her mouth. “Dexter, what happened?” Then she looked past me at the street. “Oh, my God, Cap’n Cody.”
One of the deputies walked over to us. “What happened here?”
“Guy attacked me,” I said and pointed to Cap’n Cody.
“Ambulance is on its way,” he said and gestured to my face. I touched my cheek. Blood. I felt Tessa’s hand on my shoulder.
“Call Detective Kendel,” I said. “I think he needs to be in on this. And tell him Alex Trainor is involved.”
“Who’s that?” Tessa asked.
“Real estate guy. He was at Liam’s place when I went there the first time. I’m pretty sure it was him who knocked me out that day.” Then I nodded toward the road where the other deputy had Cap’n Cody sitting up. The a
mbulance was honking its horn a block or two away in the traffic of the Village. “I think these two killed Liam and Jaybird.”
CHAPTER 35
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I was woken from a deep sleep by an aggressive knock on the door. It was eight thirty a.m. I sat up in bed. My head and back ached. I touched my face, my cheek, felt the scar.
Then it came back to me: Cap’n Cody, the Range Rover, Alex Trainor, Felipe, the cops.
Kendel never showed up. We gave our statement to the deputies. Tessa didn’t ask me to come home to her place. I didn’t ask either. I gave her the keys to her Fiat and took an Uber back home.
Now I walked out in my pajama pants and no shirt to see who was trying to break down my door. I got a glimpse of dark green through one of the windows.
Still, I had to ask. “Who is it?”
“Mr. Vega?”
I stood at the door waiting, my hand on the latch. “Yeah, who is it?”
“The Sarasota Sheriff’s Office.”
I paused a moment, then threw the latch and pulled the door open. A Sheriff’s deputy stood behind the screened door. He gave me a short grin. “Mr. Dexter Vega?”
I nodded and stepped aside. “Come in.”
He stepped inside the house, didn’t look around but turned to face me from inside the living room. “We need you to come downtown.”
“What for?”
“We got the driver of the hit-and-run you were involved in—”
“I told you guys I was never on Fruitville Road that night.”
“No, sir. I’m talking about the incident on Siesta Drive just before the bridge.”
“The red pickup?”
“Yessir.”
I made some coffee and the good deputy waited for me to put some clothes on and we drove to the station. For once I was in the front seat of a squad car. Nice.
I was escorted by the deputy right through the lobby and up the elevator to a small office that reminded me of the principal’s office at my high school: puke-yellow walls, fat industrial desk, a short and uncomfortable vinyl couch, and an old map of Sarasota on the wall. On the desk was a big ceramic cup with the slogan: World’s Greatest Grandpa.
The deputy left me alone in the office, and for a moment, I thought maybe it was a trick, that they were going to arrest me for something I didn’t do—the fracas with Cap’n Cody. Or Brandy Fleming turned on me with her poison and convinced the authorities I was the one drugging Bob Fleming.
Detective Kendel walked in, gave me one of those smiles where only one side of his mouth turns up—a kind of you’re-okay-but-not-really type of grin. Either way, I knew it couldn’t be that bad.
“Vega,” he said and tossed a couple of folders on the desk. He pushed his hat up and didn’t offer his hand. Instead he went around to the other side of the desk and sat, leaned forward, gave me another half smile, and added, “You seem to be everywhere, son.”
“That’s how I roll,” I said. “What’s going on?”
Kendel leaned back and took a deep breath, ran his hand over his mustache. “This guy Peterson …”
“Yeah, Keith.”
He nodded. “Guy’s a real piece of work. Took a plea deal from the DA before we could even charge him.”
“For his kids,” I said.
“Apparently so.”
“What’s the deal with the guys in the pickup?” I asked.
“Dealers,” he said. “Both of those jokers have records as long as my arm. Seems they were supplying Peterson and a whole lot of other people with pills and heroin.”
“And Keith was supplying Mrs. Fleming who was doping her husband.”
Kendel nodded, touched his glasses, and opened the folder on the top of the stack. “I guess them two thought you knew what was going on because of some conversation you had with Peterson at the beach a couple days back. So, they followed you that night and tried knocking you off. DA’s talking attempted murder.”
“Damn.”
He raised his eyes from the papers and looked at me. “You deny they tried to kill you?”
“I can’t assume their intentions.”
“They ran you off the damn road,” he huffed. “Right before the bridge on a rainy night. Ain’t that right?”
“I guess it is …”
“Good,” he said somewhat satisfied. “Now, Mrs. Fleming’s probably gonna end up with a slap on the hand. But Peterson’s another story. He’s got priors. He’s gonna see some time.”
I felt bad for Keith. I didn’t know him, but it just felt as if he’d been given a raw deal from the start. I latched onto the idea that he abused his wife and kids, that he was selling drugs. So he deserved it.
Still, I didn’t like it.
Kendel looked at me and shuffled his papers, opened another folder, scanned it up and down, tossed it to the side. Then he leaned back on his chair and set his hands on the armrests. “Now, about last night at the Old Salty Dog. Care to tell me about it?”
“Do I need my lawyer present?”
He turned his hands palms up and frowned.
“I went there for a drink after I left Fleming’s place. I parked in the back and I saw Cap’n Cody and Alex Trainor having an argument—”
“You know these guys?”
I shrugged. “It’s a long story.”
“I got four months ’til retirement,” he said. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
Against my better judgment, and the advice of Brian Farinas, I figured it was time to come clean. And Kendel was okay in my book. Maybe he was old and lazy because he was eyeing the rest of his life on a green manicured golf course, but he was a straight shooter. And I had nothing to feel guilty about. I’d done nothing.
“The day Fleming hired me to find out what happened to his son, I went to the cottage on Midnight Pass Road. There was a silver Range Rover parked in the driveway—”
“Plates?”
“I don’t know. But it had one of those Coexist bumper stickers in the back. You know, where they use all the different religious symbols as letters …”
He nodded.
“I checked around the house and then this guy comes around the corner and belts me one in the gut and the back of the head. Puts me out.”
“You’re such an amateur.” Kendel chuckled. “Always check the plates. Take notes. Proceed with caution.”
“You want the rest of it?”
He gave me a little wave of his hand to proceed.
“So I’m trying to put this thing together when Terrence Oliver gets killed. Now, I’ve seen Cap’n Cody around—”
“His name’s Cody Harkin.”
“Okay,” I said. “When I saw him behind the Salty Dog, I thought maybe he needed help.”
“What were they fighting about?”
“I don’t know.”
Kendel stared at me. I couldn’t read his poker face. But I could tell he wanted to put this case to bed. And so did I.
He took a deep breath and leaned forward on his chair and shuffled his papers, picked one up and looked it over. “We took Alex Trainor into custody late last night. We’re getting a warrant to search his place.”
“I guess you’re not retired yet, huh?”
He didn’t find that funny. He pushed himself up from his chair, adjusted his hat, and motioned to me. “I want you to talk to Harkin.”
“What for?”
“You know more about this than we do. You’ll know what to ask.”
I followed Kendel across an open office with a few deputies sitting at computers, the smell of grease from someone’s breakfast hanging in the air like Fabreze. Then we went down a hallway and paused by a door.
“You go in alone. He’ll talk to you.”
I frowned.
He gave me one of those half smiles. “He’s cuffed to the table. And I’ll be in the other room. We’re recording.”
What could I say?
He opened the door. The room was small and nothing like the plush digs of the Sar
asota PD. County had it bad. If you left me in this room for a few hours—yellow walls, no window, concrete floor, table bolted to the wall—I would confess to anything just to get the hell out.
Cap’n Cody was sitting on the only chair in the room, folded over, his forearms resting on his knees, his right wrist cuffed to the table. When he saw me standing behind Kendel’s big frame, he straightened up. Didn’t smile.
“Here he is,” Kendel said and left the room, shut the door behind him.
Cap’n Cody stared at his shoes, Converse, no shoelaces. After a moment I said, “What’s going on, Cap’n Cody?”
He raised his eyes to the little black dome on the corner of the ceiling, then to me. “Christ, man, just call me Cody.”
“All right.”
He sighed, looked at his hands. “You think they’ll gimme the chair?”
“It’s an injection. But that’s something for a lawyer, not me.”
He laughed nervously and looked up at the camera again. “I bet Alex gets off.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The rich ones always do.”
“What happened, Cody?”
He was quiet, his breathing speeding up. Maybe he was figuring out things in his head. Maybe he was assessing his punishment. Maybe he was trying to figure out how to get out of whatever mess he’d gotten himself into. Or maybe he was just scared.
“You and Alex Trainor were at the cottage the other day, right? He knocked me out.”
He nodded.
“What were you doing there?”
“Liam’s computer,” he mumbled. “We wanted the documents on the properties.”
“That’s how you learned Liam had a partner. That Jaybird was Terrence Oliver.”
He raised his head and his eyes narrowed. “I toured with Jimmy Buffet, man. I played with Petty. Fuck this bullshit—”
“Cody.”
He shook his head. “Alex suckered me into the deal. He said it was a sure thing. Then he said if I expected the deal to work, I’d have to get Beach City Holdings outta the damn way.”
“Meaning Liam and Jaybird.”
“Shit threw me for a goddamn loop, man.”
“I’m not—”
“I was just trying to get set up. Make a nice investment. Retire well. You think I dig playin’ the bars, same songs over and over like a broken record?”