At least I’m not bald, I thought, picturing Rusty in my mind.
I went back to bed and was asleep before my head hit the pillow, but not for very long. It seemed like I’d only just closed my eyes when the alarm—aka my coffee maker—went off, the smell of Costa Rica’s finest filling my sleeping nostrils.
A hot cup on the bridge brought me back to life as I watched the rising sun silhouette Old Town in hazy gray shadows. As crazy and weird as it sometimes is, I still love Key West. Not for the rowdy tourist nightlife, but for moments like this. I can picture it like it must have been two centuries ago. Before Useless One, before the railroad, back when the Revenge would have been a schooner.
Movement on the dock caught my eye. It was early and few people were moving around yet, so the running woman drew my eye. I was pretty sure it was Devon. She had a long stride, and was obviously used to running along the sometimes-crowded waterfront. She glanced my way, saw me, and waved as she turned off the dock at Schooner Wharf. She disappeared up William Street and I lost her. But I was sure it was Devon.
Finn and I walked a block to Pepe’s on Caroline Street, where we both had a hearty breakfast of fresh eggs, bacon, and fried potatoes. Half an hour later, I tossed the lines and idled out of Key West Bight.
The sun was fully above the horizon now, as I turned south into the channel. I fished a pair of sunglasses from the overhead, put them on, and turned east around Whitehead Spit, speeding toward the rising sun at thirty knots. I wasn’t in a hurry, but I did want to grab a shower when I got to the Anchor.
I spent the time mulling over why someone would want to kill Isaksson and the girl. Thinking like a criminal was difficult for me. The enemy on the battlefield, I could understand, but the civilian who commits crimes against other people for personal gain or a cheap thrill, I didn’t get. Not naturally, anyway.
My friend Andrew Bourke would say their brains are wired differently; he’d been going to school to learn more about the criminal mind. He and Paul Bender would likely arrive today. Paul would be the closest thing Deuce’s new endeavor would have to an actual investigator. He’d been a police detective before the Secret Service, and had since earned a degree in forensic psychology. Both men were very capable, and I trusted them.
Could the nut in the boat yesterday have had anything to do with it? Maybe someone did have a grudge against Lawrence. Maybe he’d stepped on some toes he wasn’t aware of. I just couldn’t draw a connection between the murders and the old Androsian. Well, aside from the fact that the victims were working for him when they were murdered, his money box and gun had been stolen and left at the scene of the crime, and the gun had been used to kill James.
Devon kept interrupting my thought process, though I was hard put to say why. It was just a kiss, I told myself.
And several hours of conversation about a wide range of topics. And a comfort level that was unusual for me. We had the immediate bond of service in the Corps, but that quickly grew and I felt like I could talk to her easier than most women I’d met.
And I’d met quite a few. After all, it was the Keys and Key West.
These little islands at the end of the Florida peninsula have drawn wanderers, vagabonds, romantics, and pirates for centuries. Today, there is always an abundant availability of tourist women. Most of the people who come here are looking for a few days of escapism, including women. Vegas has nothing on the Keys. What happens here is quickly left behind and never mentioned again. But mutually using one another, while physically enjoyable, always seemed to leave me feeling empty inside.
It took almost two hours, but the ride was pleasant enough. I slowed to an idle before I entered Rusty’s canal. The empty pad at the boat ramp reminded me that I needed to get back to Labelle to get the Hopper. As expected, the debris from the storm was completely cleaned up. Except for the stage, which was still sitting on top of Dink’s skiff. Something about it was different, though. The stage looked like it had settled; the bottom now rode just above the water all the way around the boat. As I idled past, I could see that it was intentional. The stage was now attached to the boat, and the center console and some of the stage’s deck planks had been removed.
Rusty came out of the bar as I shifted the port engine to reverse, putting the Revenge into a slow spin in the turning basin. He stepped out onto the barge, kicked three fenders over the side, and headed toward my bow with a boat hook in hand. Seeing that the boat was drifting right to where I wanted it, I put the transmissions in neutral and killed the engines. Climbing quickly down the ladder to the cockpit, I looped the stern line onto one of the barge’s deck cleats, just as the Revenge bumped the fenders.
“What the heck are you doing to Dink’s boat?” I asked, as I stepped up onto the barge.
“It ain’t Dink’s anymore,” Rusty said. “Bought it last night. Like it?”
“What is it?”
“The Rusty Taxi,” he replied with a broad grin.
I looked at the monstrosity again and it hit me. The stage had been a narrow pentagon about twelve feet wide and twenty feet long. It had been at the corner of the deck, extending along the back to where the deck jogged forty-five degrees. That jog was now the starboard bow. The stage now fit over the entire deck of the low twenty-foot skiff, and it had sort of a boat shape to it.
“I’m gonna sell the outboard and put a little fifty horse on it, build a Tiki bar where the console was, and put the steering wheel at the end of the wraparound bar.”
“A water taxi for boat drunks?”
“Pretty much,” he replied as we walked toward the bar. Finn took off across the backyard, headed toward his favorite sandbar, stopping only to pee on a tree.
“I leave for one day,” I said, “and you’re already on to some crazy new scheme. You got enough work right here, without going out and running a water taxi.”
“I ain’t gonna run it,” he replied, opening the door to the bar. “I already have four applications from bartenders with boating experience, or boat people with bartending experience. Hell, it could become a tourist attraction. The Middle Keys’ only floating Tiki bar taxi.”
I laughed and went through the door, pausing to let my eyes adjust to the dim light inside. Two familiar faces were looking at me from the bar and Andrew Bourke’s baritone voice announced, “Good Lord, the man’s gone native.”
I spent the next half hour catching up with him and Paul Bender, and bringing them up to speed on what we’d learned so far. Both men had been a part of Deuce’s team, Andrew from the Coast Guard and Paul from the Secret Service.
Excusing myself half an hour before noon, I went back down to the Revenge. Finn was napping in the cockpit—probably sleeping off a meal of clams. Before showering, I looked at myself in the mirror again and decided to shave. It took two disposables and fifteen minutes to get the job done, but after showering and changing into clean boat clothes, I felt better.
My phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out, stepping up into the salon. The number wasn’t familiar, but it was local, so I answered it.
“What the hell’s this about meeting with the cops?” I heard Vince O’Hare’s gruff voice ask.
“You should be here already,” I told him. “Where are you?”
“I’m at my house, ya dumb ox. You tryin’ to set me up, or something?”
“Look, O’Hare, I know you’re not a big fan of authority. But, like it or not, I think this deal you and Lawrence are involved in is what got the Isaksson kid killed.”
“What makes you think that?” he asked, suspiciously.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, sarcastically. “Might be that Lawrence’s gun was used to kill him, and Lawrence’s money box was found on his boat with drugs in it.”
“Drugs? Lawrence don’t do drugs.”
“I know,” I said, getting irritated. “Look, the cops are gonna want to talk to you. If you’d prefer, they can come to your house, or maybe hold you for a whole day, like they did him. Or you can be at Rus
ty’s in about ten minutes and tell them what you know, like the concerned citizen I know you are.”
I ended the call, filled a thermos with coffee and went up to the bridge. O’Hare’s a grumpy old guy, but I knew he’d show. If nothing else, he’d want to find out what happened to James.
From the fly bridge, all was quiet but for the soft sound of someone playing a guitar. The sun was high overhead, the sky was blue, and the wind came gently out of the east at about five knots. It’d be a good day to try to catch that big bone.
Instead, I sat in my chair, facing aft, and watched the goings-on in Rusty’s little marina community. All the regular live-aboards’ boats were back, tied up in their usual spots. Some had chosen to bug out in advance of the storm, taking refuge up along the southwest Florida coast. My own hurricane hole is just a couple of hours away, several miles up Shark River. Leap of Faith, the boat that had taken refuge during the storm, was gone, probably moved on out to Boot Key Harbor. Robinson had said they were going to meet up with their friends there, to cross over to the Bahamas together.
Vince had told me that Lawrence received a message, warning him to back off. Back off what? The treasure hunt? Or the other cash treasure that they were both convinced was out there? Or, as I’d wondered earlier, had Lawrence just stepped on the wrong person’s toes? He was always trying to help others out of jams. Maybe he’d gotten in over his head trying to help some Key West wharf rat.
A blue sedan pulled into the parking lot and parked next to Devon’s brown one. The cars were alike in every detail, except for the color. Devon got out of the passenger side, dressed in jeans and sneakers, with a blue blazer covering a light blue blouse. She didn’t look like a cop.
Morgan got out of the driver’s side, looking very much like a cop, in his typical suit and tie. As they headed toward the door of the bar, Devon looked all around the parking lot and yard. Head on a swivel, Russ used to say. I guess he wasn’t the only platoon sergeant who trained his Marines to be always aware of their situation. As the two detectives neared the door, she saw my boat. She said something to Morgan, who glanced my way for a second, and then continued inside.
Devon turned and approached the Revenge. I climbed down and met her at the gunwale. “Cup of coffee?” I offered, extending my hand. “We have a few minutes. Everyone’s not here yet.”
“You shaved,” she said, taking my hand and stepping aboard.
“It’s more me,” I said, leading the way up to the bridge, where I poured a cup for her from my thermos.
She sat down on the port bench, studying my face. “Yeah, I’m inclined to agree. Going back to the high and tight, too?”
“Naw,” I said, running my fingers through my hair. “I kinda like it like this now.”
“Who are we waiting for?” She took a sip of her coffee. “Mmm, thanks. This is good.”
“The owner of the Anchor gets it.” I nodded over my shoulder toward the bar. “You’ll meet him. Rusty and I went through boot camp together. The coffee’s from a little farm in Costa Rica.”
I placed my mug on the dash. “Lawrence’s partner is a local lobsterman, Vince O’Hare. He’s a salty old cuss who doesn’t much like the government, or cops, or anyone else for that matter.”
“Cuss?” she asked. “My grandfather used to say that.”
“I was raised by my grandparents. Guess some of my ways are a little old-fashioned on account of that.”
“Known this lobsterman a long time?”
“Not really, and not well,” I replied. “He’s lived here all his life, but pretty much keeps to himself since his wife died several years ago.”
“So, what’s this earth-shaking news he’s going to tell us about?”
I thought about it a moment. “Probably better if you wait and hear what he and Lawrence have to say first. I might be completely wrong, or you might pick up on it yourself and not need my input at all.”
I could tell something else was on her mind, so I just looked out over the little marina and waited for her to get the words right in her mind.
She took another sip and set her mug next to mine. “About last night.”
“What about it?” I asked, watching a decrepit old Dodge pickup pull into the parking area, followed by Lawrence’s cab.
“I may have given you the wrong impression,” she said.
Not the first time I’d heard that. Here comes the attempt at an easy let-down. “Oh?” I asked, turning and considering her big brown eyes. “I find it’s easier to just say what’s on my mind rather than try to make an impression and have people take it wrong.”
“Okay,” she said, and took a deep breath. “I like you and I was very tempted to invite you in last night. And then your poor dog probably wouldn’t have gotten his steak until breakfast.”
Thankfully, the sound of three car doors got her attention.
Why the hell am I always getting women’s signals crossed? “They’re here,” I stammered. “We’d better get inside.”
After making the deposit at the bank, Harley had dropped Duke off at the home of one of his regular street dealers. Tim had a boat, and owed Harley a favor. Tim took Duke to where he’d stashed the boat and then followed him out to a half mile beyond Pelican Shoal.
Before abandoning the rental boat, Duke had stuck a rag in the gas tank and lit it. The little boat had exploded in a fireball when they were just a hundred yards away. Duke had done this before. The hot fire would consume the fiberglass boat quickly and completely, right down to the waterline. Then the weight of the motor would pull it down to the bottom, more than a hundred and fifty feet below.
As they motored away from the burning wreckage, Duke remembered that he’d left his bag in the fish box. In it was a change of clothes, a little jar with an eight-ball of blow, and some of what he called his muscle drugs. It also held the GPS that had been in the cab driver’s money box, when he’d paid a street whore to steal it for him.
Harley’s gonna be pissed, Duke thought. He hadn’t told Harley about the GPS yet. Maybe it was better if he didn’t. He’d learned about the people diving near their place a week ago and had watched them from a distance with binoculars. When the taxi driver came out, Duke had followed him back to Key West, then went back and told Harley. His brother had set things up carefully from the start.
It was nearly sunrise when Tim dropped him off at Sugarloaf Marina. Exhausted, Duke climbed into the little cave-like vee-berth below the foredeck and slept till past noon.
A buzzing noise woke him. The noise stopped, and Duke flopped back on the pillow, closing his eyes. The buzzing started again, and Duke sat up, looking around the little cabin. The noise was coming from the salon. Stumbling through the little doorway, he found the source of the buzzing. He hadn’t turned up the ringer on the new phone Harley had given him and it was vibrating on the small table.
When Duke answered it, his brother started chewing him out for being late again. “I did what ya told me, Harley. It was almost sunrise when I got home. I hadda sleep.”
“Meanwhile,” Harley said, “Waldo’s halfway to Georgia. Did you forget about him?”
“Naw, I didn’t forget. Tim told me last night that he heard Waldo moved to a trailer park on Ramrod. Shouldn’t be hard to find.”
“That’s your job for today, little brother. Find Waldo. He owes me five grand. If he doesn’t have the whole five grand, knock his ass out and take something worth what he owes for collateral. You know what that means?”
“Sure, Harley. Something worth a lot more than he owes, so he’s sure to come get it when he has the money.”
“Close enough,” Harley said. “Bring either the cash or the collateral to the club. And call me at sunset if you haven’t found him. I might have something else for you to do.”
It didn’t take Duke long to find Waldo’s car. A blue hearse with pictures of parrots and fish painted on it stuck out anywhere. Waldo’s new place was a step up from his old one. In the circle of people Waldo hung with
, Duke knew that this meant he’d probably spent Harley’s money. A gray Toyota ‘Keys car’ was parked behind the hearse. Both cars combined didn’t look to be worth five thousand.
Duke circled the block. There were two trailers right behind Waldo’s with For Sale signs taped in their front windows. Duke parked in the common driveway between them and got out. He hadn’t seen another car in the trailer park, other than Waldo’s and the Toyota. This was a working-class trailer park, so it was doubtful there was anyone in any of them.
Walking between the two trailers, he pretended to be looking at the one with the facing door, just in case there was a neighbor snooping. Not seeing anyone, or any drapes moving, he crossed the small backyard to Waldo’s trailer and knelt by one of the tall, skinny windows.
Looking through it, all he could see was a bed on his left, at eye level, and a closet door straight ahead. He moved to the other window and looked in. The bed was to the right of this window and directly ahead was a hallway that led to the front of the trailer. Waldo was turned partly away from him, sitting in one of those swiveling barrel kind of chairs, with his arms draped over the sides.
There didn’t appear to be anyone home at the trailer facing the back of Waldo’s place, so Duke moved along the side to the back door. It was unlocked. As quietly as he could, Duke mounted the three metal steps and slowly pulled the door open. He stuck his head in just far enough to see Waldo. His head was leaning back now, and his eyes were closed.
This is almost too easy, Duke thought, as he stepped up into the trailer. Moving slowly toward him, Duke could see over Waldo’s shoulder. He instantly recognized Waldo’s girlfriend, Tammy. All she had on was a bra and panties. Her red, orange, and yellow hair bobbed up and down in Waldo’s lap.
Fallen Hero: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 10) Page 21