He waited until Rusty put the beers on the table, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “He and I got to talking a few months back about the old days here. Back in the sixties.”
“He’s been here that long?”
“And then some. The thing is, we started comparing notes about something that happened in sixty-six. Things we knew from different sides of the fence, ya might say. Something that involves a shit-ton of money and could get us both killed.”
“I was four years old then,” I said.
“Have you ever heard of Dominic Russo?”
“Can’t say that I have,” I replied.
“He was originally out of Jersey,” O’Hare began. “A made man in the Gambino family.”
“That I’ve heard of.”
“Yeah, well, Russo had a bit of a falling-out with the family and was sent to Miami. Back then, Miami wasn’t like it is now. It was more like a mosquito infested frontier. Anyway, after a coupla years down here, the hate for what happened up there took over. The mob controlled most of the casino action over in the islands. Nassau, mostly. Nobody could touch them back then, and they became pretty brazen about their operation. Once a week, they flew cash out of the islands to Miami, where it was put on a truck and shipped north.”
“I’m with you so far,” I said, tilting my beer up. “What’s this got to do with you and Lawrence?”
“I’m gettin’ to that,” he growled. “Anyway, one week they had a big haul in the casinos. New Year’s weekend, it was. They couldn’t fit all the cash in the one plane, so they chartered a second one. Russo had been waiting for just this opportunity. He had a pilot in Nassau, a real scumbag by the name of Bill Rafferty, who he knew from his Jersey days. So Russo clues Rafferty in on when and where the second load of cash was leaving from, then Rafferty kills the pilot and steals the smaller plane. Ripping off the mob is something you just don’t do, but Russo and Rafferty did it. Woulda got away with it, too. Nobody saw Rafferty kill the pilot and his body was never found. The plane just disappeared. Flew right on top of the water toward Miami, but Rafferty got blown off course in a storm and had to ditch in the water.”
“Lemme guess,” I said. “You and Lawrence figured out where.”
“Pretty close,” Vince said, scooting closer to the table and taking a long pull from his bottle. “I went in with Lawrence fifty-fifty in trying to find it. Kind of a silent partner, you might say. We hired divers and they’ve been looking for it for a month, using an old Spanish wreck as cover.”
“You found it?”
“Would you just let me get to it, boy?” Vince snarled. He’d always had a short temper, which got him into trouble with the law on a regular basis. “Lawrence called me yesterday. Someone left a message on his windshield last night saying only, ‘This is a warning. Back off.’ Last night, the divers never came back. Lawrence called some people he knew and found out they’d both been killed.”
“This, I haven’t heard about,” I said. “Any idea who did it?”
“Cops think it was Lawrence.”
“What?” I nearly shouted.
“Keep your voice down, ya damned Gyrene. Ya want every man jack in the place to know? I called Lawrence this morning. No answer. I checked around with some people I know down island and sure enough, Lawrence is in custody in Cayo Hueso, suspected of murder and drug trafficking.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Anyone that knows the guy knows he wouldn’t hurt a sand flea.”
“Be that as it may,” Vince said. “The cops got something on him. He hasn’t been charged yet, but he hasn’t been released, either.”
“So why are you telling me all this?”
“I feel kinda responsible. Was hoping that, what with you being a Fed and all, maybe you could spring him?”
“I’m not a Fed,” I said.
“Yeah, and the Pope ain’t Catholic.”
“How much was on the plane?”
Vince looked around. “Three and a half million in cash. And the mob wants it back. They got people all over with ears to the ground.”
“That was over forty years ago,” I said. “If that cash went into the drink, it’s gone by now.”
Vince grinned. “Cash money ain’t made of regular paper. Ever leave a dollar bill in your jeans and run it through a washing machine? Besides, it was wrapped in plastic. It’s out there, and it’s still intact.”
“And you want me to go down to Key West, pretend to be something I’m not, and get Lawrence out?”
“Yeah, something like that,” he replied. “And then help us find the killers and the cash.”
Just then, there was a loud screeching sound from outside. I looked out the window, just in time to see the wind lift the stage off the deck out back. It hesitated a moment and nearly flopped back down, then another gust got under it and sent it flying into the canal. Everyone in the bar went to the windows to see what had happened.
The stage was a five-sided raised platform that jutted out from the end of the deck like an arrow. It had flipped across the yard and into the canal, barely missing Deuce and Julie’s Whitby, but landing right on top of someone’s skiff tied off in the canal. The console must have been built better than the stage, because several of the stage’s planks were broken, splintered upward, with the console sticking up out of the stage. Rusty stared in disbelief.
“How the hell did that come loose?” I asked, joining him at the window, looking out at the damage. I saw Deuce stick his head up out of the hatch in their ketch.
“My fault,” Rusty said. “We built the stage as an afterthought, when we added the deck. Had plenty enough lumber left over, but we didn’t have enough metal straps to anchor it to the underpinnings. It was only toe-nailed to the deck planks. I’d planned to fix it, but completely forgot.”
“Hey, that’s my damned boat,” a fishing guide by the name of Dink Wilcox shouted. Dink wasn’t his real name, but that’s what everyone called him. It suited his looks a lot more than his real name, Brian. Dink’s a tall, gangly-looking guy who’s constantly bumping into stuff and tripping over things that aren’t there. Kind of like a waterman might walk when he steps off his boat after two whole days on the pitching deck. But on his boat, Dink was perfectly at home. He kind of reminded me of the country music singer, Mel Tillis, who could sing like nobody’s business, but stuttered when he talked. Dink had permanent sea legs. Next to Julie and my late wife, he was probably the best guide the Middle Keys had ever seen.
“Sorry about that, Dink,” Rusty said. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere tonight anyway.”
“Dammit, Rusty! That’s my bread and butter, right there.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” Rusty said. “You ain’t gonna be fishin’ for a coupla days, what with this storm. Yeah, it’s a hundred percent my fault. I’ll put you in something identical or better as soon as this blows over, okay?”
That’s just the way Rusty, like most other people around here, does business, and Dink knew he was good for it. The fact was, a lot of clients met Dink here at the Anchor for their charters. Rusty made a lot of money off charter fishermen in the form of cases of beer before they left and a ravenous appetite when they got back.
I had no doubt that Rusty would put him in a much nicer boat than the one that sat in the canal looking like a center console barge. It was a sound business move to keep Dink bringing his clients here.
Everyone returned to their seats, and I sat back down with O’Hare. Rusty continued to stare down at the wrecked boat, a puzzled look on his face.
“Something wrong, bro?” I asked him. “I mean, besides the twenty-thousand-dollar lesson in carpentry.”
He stood there a moment, then turned suddenly, as if just hearing my voice. “Huh?”
“You all right?” Vince asked.
Rusty looked out the window again. “Yeah. I’m okay. That there just gave me an idea.”
In the observation room of the sheriff’s Stock Island facility, Ben and Devon watched a clo
sed-circuit TV monitor. The feed was from the room next door. Just outside that room’s door was a sign: Interrogation Room One. It was, however, the only interrogation room in the building and it was also used to take statements and conduct witness interviews. The two detectives didn’t have enough evidence to make an arrest yet, so the subject they were watching on the small black and white screen would be interviewed.
Someone above Ben’s paygrade thought putting suspects in an interrogation room would have some psychological effect on the suspect and it would work to the benefit of the Department. Let them think they were being interrogated. In an interview, the subject is free to leave at any time.
On the screen, the prime suspect in the double homicide sat in a metal chair, anchored in place in front of a metal table, which was also anchored in place. Suspects sometimes reacted suddenly or violently, tipping over furniture. The chair was placed closer to the table than a person would ordinarily sit, unless they were eating. But, it was too close to get comfortable and cross your legs and it wasn’t so close that you could prop your elbows without leaning forward. In other words, the furniture was intentionally arranged to create discomfort.
The two detectives had been watching him for ten minutes. As they let him stew, he’d gone from looking confused to looking scared. Everything in the room was designed to make a subject more and more uncomfortable. Yet the man sat erect in the straight-backed chair, both hands resting comfortably on his thighs. Though his face showed concern about where he was, nothing was evident in his posture.
“He’s big enough,” Ben said.
“Yeah,” Devon agreed, concentrating on his face. “But he’s a lot older than what I’d figured the man who killed the girl would be. How do you want to handle it?”
“I’ll stand; you sit and ask the questions. Get him to relax and open up. Easy questions—he looks scared. Get him to establish where he was, what he was doing, who he was with. Get him to set a timeline. Then I’ll hit him with the evidence. See if his story changes.”
Ben picked up the metal box. On top of it were several file folders, all of which held unrelated paperwork. On top of the files was a fingerprint card, also unrelated. Just some clutter from Ben’s desk.
“You ready?”
“Let’s do it,” Devon replied.
Together, the two detectives left the observation room, went a short ten feet down the hallway and entered Interrogation Room One, with Devon leading the way. She quickly crossed to the table and sat down, as Ben placed the box and folders on the far end of the table, separating them, then picking up one of the files and opening it. He leafed through the pages and pretended to be reading.
“Mister Lovett,” Devon said. “You drive a cab here in Key West, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Devon had had people call her “ma’am” before, but the way he said it made her feel like it was simply his natural response, not a perp trying to suck up.
“What company do you drive for?”
“I own di company, ma’am,” Lawrence replied. “Just di one cab.”
“Must be kind of tough being an independent in a tourist town.”
Lawrence seemed to relax a little. “Not so much. I treat people di way I want to be treated and a lot of di locals prefer ridin’ with me.”
“Can you tell me where you were yesterday from noon to four pm?”
“Yestuhday?” Lawrence said, his voice cracking slightly, in the sing-song accent of island people.
“Yes, sir,” Devon said. Her face was calm, with only the slightest trace of a disarming smile. “Yesterday afternoon.”
Though fairly new with the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office, Devon had already established herself as the go-to interrogator to get people to relax and open up. She had the uncanny ability to make people feel as if she related to the problem they were facing.
“I was working, driving my cab.”
“Any particular fares jump out at you? Anyone seem unusual?”
“Dis is Key West, ma’am,” Lawrence replied, with a half-grin. “Jest about everyone here is a little unusual.”
“Anyone in particular stand out yesterday afternoon? Seem a bit more unusual than others?”
Devon watched the man’s face. His eyes strayed to the ceiling over Devon’s right shoulder. “Well, lesse. Der was one couple, a young man and woman. Dey was very drunk and it was just after lunch time. She wanted to go back to di cruise ship, but he wanted her to dance at Rick’s again. Dat was his very words, dance again. She was a pretty girl, but him not so much. I thought it a little weirder dan usual. She so pretty and him kinda ugly, but wantin’ her to dance naked in front of strangers.”
“Anyone else?”
“Itta be helpful if yuh tell me who yuh looking for.”
“Just anyone out of the ordinary,” Devon said, turning the smile up a bit and lowering her eyelids just a little. “I haven’t been here long, but I’ve seen a lot of weird.”
“Jest di usual tourists from di cruise ship, early on. Mostly normal folks from di mid-west taking a vacation. Den, ’bout three o’clock, I start my rounds.”
“Your rounds?”
“Di local bars have a schedule for di girls, so dat I pick several of dem up at once, at staggered times, and get dem home safely at di end of dere shift. Dis takes me from three to five every day and again from two to four in di morning.”
“What do you do between these rounds?”
“I staht my workin’ day at noon, eat my lunch and take a nap while di island enjoys di happy hour, den I go back to work from midnight to four. About nine hours all together. After all di girls are home safe, I go home and go to bed. Den do it all over again di next day.
The girls? Devon thought. He said it twice.
“These girls?” Devon said. “Who are they exactly?”
“Jist di girls dat work as bartenders, waitresses, store clerks and all. Some don’t have anyone to take dem home and it used to be dey sometimes got harassed or worse. Me and Mizz McKenna worked things out with all di bar owners and came up with a schedule, where dey could all get home safe and sound.”
“Mizz McKenna?”
“Mizz Dawn McKenna, ma’am. She a spiritualist. And kinda di muddah hen for some of di locals.”
“Do you know James Isaksson and Jennifer Marshall?”
Lawrence’s gaze fell to the middle of the table. “Yes, and I know dey are dead.”
It surprised Devon that he would admit that. No mention of the murders had been leaked to the press. “How do you know this?”
“Di coconut telegraph.”
“Do you recognize this money box?” Ben asked, moving it to the center of the table.
Lawrence looked at it as if seeing it for the first time. “It looks like di money box dat was stole from my cab last night.”
“You didn’t file a stolen property report?” Ben asked, laying the file down and picking up the fingerprint card.
Lawrence looked up at the older detective. “No, suh. It not di first time I been robbed and di police can nevuh catch di crooks. I jest figure dey needed di money more dan I.”
“This box was found on James Isaksson’s boat. The boat he and Jennifer Marshall were killed on. Inside this box was a lot of money and an ounce of cocaine. Fingerprints were all over the scene of the murder.” Ben tossed the print-card in front of Lawrence with a practiced hand. “Are your fingerprints going to be a match?”
It was an open-ended question, one Ben had used many times to trip up a suspect, if only in his own mind. A criminal might have used gloves and left no prints. They’d be smug and deny any match, which told him as much as a verbal answer. A guilty suspect who hadn’t worn gloves would deny it also. But their reaction would be more vehement and they might exhibit a questioning look, wondering if they’d wiped down the scene of the crime adequately.
Lawrence’s eyes grew wide. “I been on di boat a few times, suh. Cap’n James was working for me. I don’t know anything
’bout drugs and don’t ’sociate wit di druggies. Same wit Cap’n James.”
“Were you on the boat yesterday between two and four?” Devon asked suddenly.
“No, ma’am. Not yestuhday. I was out dere three days ago. Do I need a lawyer, ma’am?
“Do you have something to hide?” Devon asked, skirting the question, since he hadn’t demanded an attorney, only asking her advice. So far, this was just an interview, and Lovett was free to get up and leave at any time.
“All I can tell you is di truth,” Lawrence replied. He began to tell the detectives about the search for the lost ships of the Nuestra España Fleet. Of the twenty-one ships in the convoy that left Havana in 1733, most were driven into the shallows around the Keys by a hurricane. Thirteen of the wreck sites were known, stretching eighty miles along the Keys. Lawrence went on to explain how he’d gotten a preliminary search permit for one of the wrecks that he believed to have been miraculously blown through the natural channels and into the Gulf, where it had finally grounded in what was now the Great White Heron National Wildlife Refuge.
“I hired James to do di surveys,” Lawrence said. “If he found di ship, di law say we have to turn it over to di archeologists. When dey finish, we may get a small part of di value of di treasure. It be a small part, but more dan I make in di cab in a lifetime.”
“And the drugs in your money box?” Ben asked. “It was locked when it was recovered on Isaksson’s boat. The coke and money locked inside it.”
Lawrence sat back in his chair and looked Ben in the eye. “I don’t know anyting ’bout drugs, suh. Dat be di truth.”
“Wait here,” Ben said, nodding Devon toward the door.
In the hallway, Ben leaned against the far wall. “What do you think?”
“He didn’t seem to be evasive about anything,” Devon replied. “But I still think he’s not telling everything he knows.”
“I agree,” Ben said. “If he did indeed hire Isaksson, and I believe that part’s true, and he admits being on the boat numerous times, which makes sense if the dead guy was working for him, then we can’t hold him on the prints at the scene. What about the coke?”
Fallen Hero: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 10) Page 8