by Mark Stone
*
Forty-five minutes later, I still hadn't heard “Margaritaville”, but I had enough tequila under my belt to be at least halfway there. Finishing what was my third drink, I decided to take my leave while I was still legally able to drive back. I didn't mind this place. While it certainly was no Rocco's, The Thirsty Seagull had its charms. It might have looked like a dank box from the outside, but the place was actually brighter than I would have imagined.
It, like every other place in this damned town or so it seemed, was covered with treasure type décor. Faux gold chests with pieces spilling out sat on every table, and fake telescopes that looked as though they could have been lifted from pirate ships dotted the windowsills.
It had its charm and, though it might have been the liquor talking, I had to admit I was starting to get it.
As I stood, throwing my jacket on and clearing my throat, I heard a quasi-familiar voice in the distance.
"You're not following me, are you?"
I tensed, turning toward the voice, and hoping it didn't belong to whom I thought it did.
I was sorely disappointed to find Mikey standing there, a pool cue in hand and sleepy eyes that spoke to just how much he'd had to drink since the last time I'd seen him.
"That depends," I said, swallowing hard and walking over to him. "Do I have a reason to be following you, Mikey?"
The mountain of a man chuckled. As I neared him, the stench almost picked me up and carried me right off. The guy was a walking distillery.
"Not unless you've got a thing for watching depressed guys at their lowest moments," he answered, laughing sluggishly. He jostled a little and started to stumble. Damn, this guy was out of it.
I grabbed him, steadying him and resting him against the wall. I felt like a child standing so close to him. He towered me.
"Not so much, my man," I said, sighing and looking him over. Now that I saw him sans the knife and indignation, I had to admit I could kind of see why Daisy, Tanya, and even Marcus were so intent on giving him another chance. He was a sad sack and, given his size, an intimidating one. Still, I doubted there was anything really dangerous about him.
That wouldn't have changed anything, of course. In my eyes, he had broken the law, and needed to be held accountable for that. It wasn't my call though, and I wasn't about to start lamenting it now.
"I would have suggested you lay off the booze," I added, looking him up and down. "Though, I can see I'm a little late for that."
"I just didn't want to feel so crappy," Mikey admitted, belching loudly. "You can understand that, can't you?"
"More than you might imagine," I said. "Maybe you should find a different way to do it though, bud. What you did tonight; it wasn't okay."
"I know that," Mikey said. His voice was a slur. His eyes were so glassy I was afraid they might shatter. "But what they did wasn't okay either. We were engaged. Did she tell you that? I asked her to marry me, and you know what she said?"
"Since you just told me that you were engaged, I'm going to guess she said yes," I answered.
"You're a good detective," Mikey answered. "That's what you said you were, right? A detective?"
"I actually don't think I said anything," I mused, narrowing my eyes. Perhaps Marcus had told him what my profession was, or maybe he'd learned Boomer was a detective before I entered the room and figured I was as well when he saw us working together. Either way, it wasn't like I could get a coherent answer out of him right now, now with the condition he was in.
"I bought a house at the edge of town. I even bought a damned dog." He shook his head groggily. "I don't even like dogs, but I bought one for her. And then she just walked away. She never said why. She never gave me any indication anything was wrong. She just walked out the door one day and stopped answering the phone. Every time I tried to ask her what was up, she just said we'd grown apart. She said her life was going to be something else, and I didn't fit into it anymore."
"That's pretty rough, Mikey," I said, patting him on the arm. "I'm sorry that happened to you. Maybe it's for the best though. Maybe there's someone else out there who—”
"That's bull," he said, stumbling forward and falling into my arms. I stumbled backward, but managed to hold him up. "It's nice of you to say, but it's bull."
"Alright," I said, holding my breath as much as I could, given the smell of the man. "I think you'd better get going, Mikey."
"I can't leave," he answered. "She's waiting for me."
"You got a girl here?" I asked, curious. "That's an interesting way of mourning your relationship, but I guess I understand. Either way, I'm not sure you're in any shape to be talking a walk on the wild side tonight. How about you let me drive you home."
"She has silver hair," he said, grinning like the drunken idiot this breakup had turned him into.
"Oh, a cougar?" I asked. "That's great, Mikey." I pushed him back up against the wall. "Give me your keys, dude. I'm cutting you off."
He nodding and, belching again, agreed. Dragging him to Boomer's car was like trying to lift a brick wall over my head. Still, I managed to do it. I even got his address out of him, though it took three tries.
By the time I got him home, and lugged him to his door, the poor lug was a walking zombie.
By the time I got myself back, plopping into my bed on The Good Storm, I wasn't much better off. The day had drained me, the conversation with my grandfather had taken it out of me too, and I was finally starting to feel the tequila. It took all of thirty seconds for me to fall unconscious.
*
The sun had barely crested over the ocean's horizon when a loud banging pulled me from my sleep. With an aching head and a foggy mind, I made my way to the door to find Boomer on the other side.
His face was grim and he was already dressed, a bad sign given the time of day.
"Late night?" he asked, the usual levity absent in his voice.
"Kind of," I answered.
"You're going to have to shake it off, Dillon," he said. "Something happened last night. It's bad." He took a deep breath. "It's really bad."
Chapter 6
I stared at Boomer for about a second and a half, just long enough to know he meant business.
"Give me two minutes," I said plainly, my eyes adjusting to the rising Florida sun. Boomer nodded as I closed the door.
As it turned out, two minutes was more than enough time. In ninety seconds, I had my clothes on, had ran a comb through my hair (which had gotten a little shaggier than I usually cared for), and had met my best friend out on the dock.
By the time I was out there, he was looking out at the water, and not in the good way.
When you grow up in Florida, especially straddling the Gulf, like Boomer and I did, you learn there are two ways to look at the water. The first one is more understandable, and the one we use the most, to be fair. It's the bright and happy way to look out at the water, the way that speaks to knowing how lucky you are to actually be in a position to call a place like this home. It's the look you have when you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you are staring point blank into one of God's masterpieces.
The other way, the way Boomer was looking out at the ocean now, was much darker.
Though the water can be a source of great joy for people like us, it can also be a crutch. It can be the place you run to when things get rough. It can be the blank canvas where all your fears are painted out in stark clarity. It can be a confessional, sitting on your knees and begging for some higher power to show you purpose and direction.
Whatever happened last night, while I was in a half drunken slumber, was enough to put Boomer in that mindset, and that was troubling.
"How bad is it?" I asked, my heart leaping as a horrible possibility drilled its way into my mind. I hadn't noticed whether or not the door to my grandfather's room was closed when I groggily headed out to answer the door this morning. What if he had gotten up early? What if the cancer had gotten the better of him? What if he was lying in a h
ospital bed right now...or worse? "Grandpa?" I asked, my voice cracking with obvious fear.
"No," Boomer said quickly, shaking his head. "God no. I wouldn't have let you get dressed first. Your grandfather is fine. He's inside, having breakfast with his girlfriend."
"Girlfriend?" I asked, my forehead crinkling. "Do you mean Daisy? I don't- I don't think she's his girlfriend."
"Someone should tell the smile on his face then," Boomer muttered. "Not that it matters. There's something else, Dillon. There was a crime last night, and I need to know how you were involved."
"A crime?" I asked, my heart rate spiking all over again. Though I was more than relieved that my grandfather was okay- and more than okay, if Boomer was to be believed- the idea of a crime happening while I slept was horrible. The idea that I might be involved in it in some capacity was downright impossible though. "Unless this has to do with singing along poorly to Jimmy Buffet songs, I'm not sure what you're talking about, Boom," I said, swallowing hard. "What happened?"
Boomer shuffled out on the dock, staring out as the sun crested over the tranquil ocean waters. Today was going to be a beautiful day in Southern Florida, even if something ugly had happened.
"You remember Marcus Harris from yesterday?" Boomer asked.
"The Vero Beach Chief of Police?" I asked, nodding in agreement. "The one who tangoed with the MMA fighter? Of course, I remember him, Boom. What's that got to do with anything?"
"Well," Boomer started, sighing. "Last night, his daughter went missing."
A spike of shock jammed into my chest, tightening it and stealing the air from my lungs. "Tanya?" I asked, remembering the beautiful girl with the heart tattoo on her neck. "She's missing? Are you sure?"
"More than sure," Boomer said. "Apparently Marcus was on the phone with her when he heard a struggle. He called emergency services immediately but, by the time they got over to her bungalow, the place was completely trashed and she was nowhere to be found."
"That's horrible," I said, my mouth going dry as I considered everything Boomer had just told me. "Did they find her phone because, if not, it's possible she might still have it with her. That can be tracked. Also, you said she lives in a bungalow. Is that in a secure community along the beach? I know a lot of them are patrolled by 'for hire' security officers and visitors have to sign in for access. All of that should be looked at."
"And it will be," Boomer said. "If it isn't already. Marcus Harris is the Chief of Police over here, Dil. Given the fact that it's his own daughter, I doubt he’ll leave even a hint of a stone unturned." He shook his head. "And I doubt he needs our help. From what I've heard, he runs a pretty interesting ship here. He's a progressive type of a guy, thinks outside of the box and whatnot. I'm sure his best and brightest are on this. Besides, this isn't our jurisdiction. So, we keep our nose out of it professionally, unless he asks us to butt in. Got it?"
"Of course, I've got it," I answered, narrowing my eyes. "I know how things work, Boom. He made it clear who the boss here was last night when he let Mikey walk out of that house scot-free. I'm a little confused though," I admitted, folding my arms over my chest. "I mean, I appreciate you keeping me abreast of what's going on but, if we're supposed to keep our noses out of things, then what's the point of this whole conversation, and what the hell do you mean by me being connected to things?"
"Mikey was brought in about an hour ago," Boomer said. "He was arrested on suspicion of kidnapping."
"I see," I said, my jaw tightening.
"He didn't ask for a lawyer, Dil," Boomer said. "He said he didn't need one. Said the only person he needed to speak to was you."
Chapter 7
The Vero Beach Police Department was smaller than the one in Collier County, which made sense to me. Naples was a more populated place than Vero Beach, and filled with deep-pocketed tax payers who ensured the public service stations were state of the art, large, and well kept.
That wasn't to say the people in Vero Beach were slackers, not by a longshot. Though this place was smaller, one look at the bustling activity going on inside of it told me it was meticulously run.
Things were not in a shambles. Things had not gone to hell in the wake of the chief’s personal tragedy, and that was the only statement I needed about the state of this police department and its dedication to the man who ran it. They respected him enough to do their jobs, even when he perhaps wasn't in a position to make sure of it.
I instantly felt out of place here though. This might have been a department, and it might have looked a lot like the places I'd spent most of my adult professional life, but I knew why I was here. And, judging from the looks I got from most of the detectives as I made my way to one of the interrogation rooms near the back, they all did too.
"Dillon Storm?" A voice asked from the east side of the room.
I turned to find a dark-haired woman with a strong jaw and a pair of eyes that looked like they had seen more than her years would have allowed staring at me.
"That's me," I said, stopping in my tracks.
"Good," she answered in a clipped manner. "I'm going to need you to follow me."
"Lead the way," I said, looking back and motioning for Boomer to follow me.
Without so much as glancing over at Boomer, she lifted her hand, making a stop sign. "Just Mr. Storm right now, I'm afraid," she said.
I looked back at Boomer, who nodded at me. "I'll be right out here then."
I nodded in return. It wasn't that I needed him to stand stalwart for me here. I was a big boy. Regardless of what Mikey needed of me or what this woman asked, I could handle myself. Still, as big a deal as Marcus was here in Vero Beach, Boomer was an equally big deal back in Naples. Him being out here for me meant something. It was a statement. They weren't going to mess with me here, not without having to go through the full might of Collier County first.
"It's Detective Storm, ma'am," I answered. "And, like I said, lead the way."
The woman glared up at me, sighing as she turned and led me back toward what I knew to be an interrogation room.
"Thank you," I said, as she opened the door.
As I walked through, I expected to find Mikey sitting there. After all, he was the one who'd asked for me. What I found instead was Marcus sitting on the other end of a long metal table with a vaguely familiar looking blond man standing behind him.
Marcus looked more tired than I would have even imagined. I didn't need to ask to know he hadn't slept last night, and the ashtray filled to the brim with cigarette butts let me know his mind was racing.
The blond man, for his part, looked equally disheveled. Where the woman wore a pristine suite, combed hair, and light makeup; this guy wore a tan leather jacket over a crumpled shirt with pineapples on it. He looked like he hadn't shaved in at least two days and had rolled out of bed and directly into this room. Though, from the bronze on his skin, it was entirely possible he'd hit up the beach first.
The door closed hard behind me, and I felt the woman at my back.
"Please sit down, Detective Storm," she said, again in a clipped fashion.
I did as she asked, though hesitation was beginning to fill me. I had been through enough interrogations to know what one looked like. Though, to be fair, I had never been on this side of the table.
"I thought I was here to see Mikey," I said, looking around the room as I sat down.
"How long have you been on a first name basis with Mr. Coolidge?" The woman asked, circling me and settling midway up the table, so that she was standing right between Marcus, the blond man, and myself.
"Ever since I met him, which was about fifteen hours ago," I answered. "And that's only because, until right this minute, I had no idea what his last name was. Of course," I said, leaning back into the rudely uncomfortable chair they'd set out for me. "I could say the same thing about most of the people in this room."
My eyes moved to the notable exception. I didn't know Marcus, not really. I had met him last night, when Mikey went into his
tizzy and Boomer and I had to take him down. He was the chief of police though, which earned him more than a few points in my book, and he was close enough to either my grandfather or a woman who was close to my grandfather to be invited to his party. That earned him the rest.
"Are you sure this is something you need to be involved in, Marcus?" I asked, pursing my lips. "You've just been through something horrible, sir. Maybe you should sit back and let someone else do the heavy lifting on this one."
"I'm fine,' he answered quickly.
'I'm not saying you're not capable," I answered. "I'm just suggesting that your point of view might not be very clear right now." I shook my head. "And no one would blame you for that."
"Why don't you let us do the suggesting from this point forward, Detective Storm?" the woman asked, glaring down at me. "And, if Chief Harris's presence here is making you uncomfortable, then maybe you should ask why that is."
The blond man finally chimed in, grinning as he added, "Or maybe we should do it for him. Maybe we should ask him that question, Cross."
The woman winced, looking over at the man.
"Look, I'm not uncomfortable," I answered before the woman, apparently named Cross, could go any further. "He can stay here as long as he likes. Hell, he can hold my hand, for all I care. I'm just saying it might not be in anyone's best interest for someone with this kind of connection to the case to be working on it. Even if he is the chief of police."
"Is that what they told you when you accused your brother of murdering your father's lawyer?" The blond man asked brightly, still grinning at me. "Yeah. I did some research on you after Mikey started saying you could clear him. Wasn't too hard either. With a last name like yours, you're kind of an open book."
My heart leapt looking up at the man, whose face I still couldn't place. Anger ran through me. Why were they treating me like I'd done something wrong? I was just trying to help.