Florida Getaway

by Max Allan Collins

  “Only prints on that were his own.”

  Caine drew in a deep breath, and let it out slow. “Okay, Eric—what say we go home, get some rest?”

  “I could be talked into that.”

  “Everybody else gone?”

  “Yeah—Calleigh and Speed stayed late, too, just so you know. Both took off a while ago, maybe half an hour ’fore you got here.”

  “All right,” Caine said, “now it’s our turn. Let’s get some rest and look at all this with fresh eyes, tomorrow.”

  As they walked into the parking lot, Delko said, “No rest for the wicked, they say. But the good guys gotta sleep.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Eric—the wicked get plenty of sleep.”

  “Yeah?” Delko grinned. “What do you suppose they dream of?”

  “They dream,” Caine said, with a whimsical smile, “they’re innocent.”

  And the two men went home.

  The next morning, Caine was in his condo, dressed and about to step out the door to get to work early. He had just holstered his side arm when his cell phone rang.

  He punched the button. “Horatio.”

  A warmly masculine voice was on the other line, laid-back and yet quietly intense: “Lieutenant Caine, this is Warrick Brown. Las Vegas crime lab.”

  “You must be wrapping up your shift, Mr. Brown. I don’t believe we’ve spoken since you were down here with Catherine Willows, last year.”

  “That’s right, sir, we haven’t—and it’s Warrick.”

  “And it’s not ‘sir,’ Warrick—it’s Horatio. What can I do for you?”

  “Catherine’s had me looking into Thomas Lessor from this end, trying to see if we could help your investigation.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Well, we have a kind of proprietary interest in the late Mr. Lessor—since he’s the one who got away.”

  “Considering his head was found in a garbage bag, Warrick, it wasn’t the best getaway a bad guy ever made.”

  “Yeah—that is kinda comforting. We’ve talked to the PI here in town, that Daniel Boyle hired to try and get the goods on stepdaddy? And the guy didn’t have a thing. We looked at his field notes, and Lessor was slippery. I mean, we know he was having an affair with Erica Hardy, and a divorce detective didn’t turn up diddly.”

  “There may be another PI on this end. We’ll be checking that.”

  “Good. But I do have one odd thing that might pan out for you—a phone number that Lessor called repeatedly in Miami. We just can’t find out who the number belongs to.”

  “Could I have that number, please?” Caine said.

  The Vegas CSI gave it to him.

  “Thanks, Warrick. I’ll look into it and let you know what we find.”

  “Cool…. Any luck on your end?”

  “Interesting ballistics match,” Caine said, and filled him in on the New Jersey connection.

  “Old mob guys,” Warrick said, quietly amused. “I guess you can take an old guy outa the Mafia, but you can’t take the Mafia out of the old guy.”

  “Could be the case. And it could be what we have is a weapon that just passed itself along from one nasty customer to another, over a lot of years.”

  “My supervisor could provide you with discouraging odds against a coincidence like that.”

  “Well, he’s a smart man, your Dr. Grissom—but coincidences do happen.”

  “I don’t suppose the rest of the body has turned up yet?”

  “No. Still looking…. But we’ve got some other leads. We’ll let you know when we’ve got some progress. Thanks, Warrick.”

  Warrick said, “Pleasure doing business with you, Horatio,” and hung up.

  Caine spent most of the day digging through records. The phone number belonged to a residence in the Art Deco district of the city. The address indicated this was an apartment, but the owner’s name wasn’t a person, as he’d expected; instead, the phone was registered in the name Tee-Minor, Inc.

  A business?

  He phoned the number himself and listened to it ring four times before an answering machine picked up. A metallic voice that came with the machine said simply: “Please leave a message.”

  Caine didn’t.

  Instead, he went to work on the company name. He searched the Better Business Bureau, the Chamber of Commerce, state, and even federal records, and could find no mention of Tee-Minor, Inc.

  Finally, with the shift winding down—and Caine starting to feel like he’d wasted a whole day—he decided, what the hell, to just go to the apartment and see for himself.

  But it wasn’t the sort of call a CSI made alone.

  He phoned Sevilla. “Adele—care to go for a ride?”

  “Where to?”

  He told her.

  “An actual lead. I’m your girl. Meet you at the Hummer.”

  Little more than a half hour later, Caine parked in front of the apartment building—a two-story stucco four-plex on the corner of Tenth and Meridian, a block south of Flamingo Park. A flat roof gave it a squarish appearance and it had a gaudy facade, recently painted mint green with white trim. Other than its startling pastel makeover, the apartment building looked little different than any of the walk-up hotels that predominated in the Art Deco district.

  Caine checked the mailboxes and found “Tee-Minor, Inc.” on a tab stuffed into the box for number3. He nodded to Sevilla, pointed up, and they climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor. With bare, off-white plaster walls and indoor-outdoor carpeting, the place had zero personality and a transient air, but it looked clean and smelled like Lysol.

  They looked at the beige-painted wooden door on the right—bearing a brass “4” and a peephole. The other door, the one they were looking for, was at the other end and across the hall.

  Stepping to one side, Caine knocked on the door of number 3.

  Nothing.

  Number 3’s peephole stared at them and Caine wondered if anyone was on the other side. He glanced at Sevilla on the other side of the doorway; she shrugged.

  He knocked again. Still nothing.

  “Well,” Sevilla said, “we can probably justify a warrant.”

  “Why don’t we get one,” Caine said.

  But just as they were about to turn and walk away, the door cracked open, till a safety chain stopped it. Over the little metal link barrier, Caine saw the attractive if sleepy face of a familiar woman…

  …the Conquistador’s lounge singer, Maria Chacon.

  “Lieutenant Caine,” she said, eyes tight, as if she were summoning the name from memory as she spoke. “What are you doing here?”

  Caine graced her with a tiny smile. “Tell you truth—I was wondering the same about you, Maria.” He turned to Sevilla. “This is Maria Chacon—headlining in the Explorer Lounge.” And to Maria: “Why not ask us in?”

  She strained to see who was with him.

  “This is Detective Sevilla,” Caine said, as the detective moved next into Maria’s line of sight. “She’s investigating Thomas Lessor’s murder.”

  “I thought you were investigating that.”

  “It’s a group effort. Can we come in?”

  Maria said, “Hold it a sec,” and closed the door while she released the chain.

  She opened the door and gestured for them to step in, which they did. Her black hair was a little wild and she wore only a Dan Marino Dolphins jersey and white underwear, mostly covered by the shirt. Even with the CSI and detective inside now, Maria made no effort to put on more clothes.

  Though small and modestly furnished in a rent-to-own manner, the apartment had a homey feel. A tall floor lamp in the corner provided the only light; a red chenille sofa hugged the wall next to the door, a multicolored wing chair beyond that squatting under a picture window with the shades drawn tight. A twenty-five-inch TV sat on a cart across the living room from the sofa, a small boom box on a low table next to it, a few CDs scattered on the floor nearby. To the left of the front door, a small white dinette set w
ith two chairs sat on a white tile floor that marked the end of the living room. Past the table was a galley kitchen that looked small but well scrubbed.

  “Anyone else here, Maria?” he asked.

  She shook her head; yawned. “Just me. Sorry…I was sleeping.”

  “Sorry we woke you,” Sevilla said, not sounding terribly contrite, really.

  “It’s all right.” Maria shrugged. “The alarm was set for a half hour from now anyway. I work tonight.”

  “You put in a lot of hours,” Caine said.

  “It’s my choice,” Maria said. “I’m aggressive about my career, and we rehearse our asses off.” Another yawn. “You want some coffee or something?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “Mind if I do?…I gotta wake up.”

  “No,” Caine said, “go right ahead.”

  She motioned to the dinette. “Sit. Please.”

  Caine and Sevilla took opposite ends of the tiny table as Maria moved into the kitchen, flipped on the overhead light, and started working on putting together a pot of coffee.

  “Why did you come to see me?” the singer asked, perhaps too casually.

  “Actually, we didn’t,” Caine said.

  Their hostess turned from her coffee prep to arch a confused eyebrow.

  Caine gave her a tight, meaningless smile. “This apartment isn’t in your name.”

  She turned her back to him as she ran water into the pot. “You’re right. Come to think of it, you wouldn’t know to come look for me here.”

  “So, Maria,” Caine said, “maybe you could explain that? Why an apartment we’ve tracked down has you living in it?”

  “I’m apartment-sitting for a friend.”

  “A friend named Tee-Minor, Inc.?”

  “Well, the person who owns Tee-Minor,” she said, perhaps too offhandedly, offering no further explanation as she poured the water into the machine. She flipped the switch to ON and, with the pot running now, turned, leaning against the counter and facing them.

  Caine bestowed another non-smile of a smile. “And who would that be, Maria?”

  Her smile was just half a one. “Didn’t you detectives figure that out yet?”

  “No,” Caine said, getting a little testy. “Why don’t you help us skip a step?”

  Shaking her head slowly, she began to say something, then her chin crinkled and her mouth quivered. Caine exchanged glances with an equally surprised Sevilla, and when they looked back at Maria, she was wiping a tear with the tip of her jersey.

  “The big dummy,” she was saying. “I told him no one would be fooled…but then, he was right, wasn’t he? Nobody ever figured it out. Except for you, finding the place…and even you still haven’t put two and two together.”

  Caine felt a snake slither through his stomach. “Thomas Lessor,” he said.

  Sevilla frowned at him, uncomprehending.

  Caine went on: “This is his apartment…or anyway, it belonged to him.”

  “Bravo,” Maria said, and another tear trickled and was dabbed away.

  “Tee-Minor—Thomas Minor, Thomas Lessor…?”

  “Tee-Minor owns this building,” Maria said, “and a few others.”

  Caine said, “You and Lessor were involved?”

  She studied him for a long moment. “Yes…but maybe not the way you think.”

  “He was providing you an apartment, but it wasn’t an intimate relationship?”

  She made a face. “Did I say it wasn’t intimate? It just wasn’t one of those…intense things, where I loved him madly and wanted him to leave his wife and all that storybook b.s.”

  “What did you want?”

  “To have a little fun—and hang onto the lounge job at the Conquistador, maybe get a shot at the new hotel, Oasis, the lounge there…Vegas. We were grown-ups having a good time.”

  “He was using you,” Sevilla said, “you were using him.”

  “And this is a bad thing,” Maria asked archly, “why?”

  Caine had just put something together. “The night Lessor arrived in Vegas—the night he was murdered—he was headed here, wasn’t he?”

  “You mean when he didn’t show up at the hotel?” Maria asked. “Yes. Here.”

  “Weren’t you upset when he didn’t show up?”

  “Upset? No. Maybe a little annoyed. See, with the kind of…arrangement we had, he might show up, or he might not.”

  “Didn’t he usually call, if he was canceling?”

  “Usually. But, what the hell—I just figured his wife decided to travel with him at the last minute or something. With her on his arm, he wouldn’t be stopping by to say hi to me, now would he?”

  Caine said nothing.

  She went on: “It wasn’t until I saw it on the news, that you’d found him on the beach, that I…I knew he was dead.” Her chin crinkled again, but no more tears flowed.

  “That wouldn’t annoy you,” Caine asked, “his wife coming along on a Miami visit with him?”

  Maria rubbed at her forehead. “No! How many times I gotta tell you? I knew he was married and that he was going to stay married.”

  “Your relationship was serious enough,” Sevilla said, “for him to pay for and maintain this apartment.”

  With a nod to the surroundings, Maria said, “Maybe so, but I make enough to keep it myself. He set me up here when I landed the job singing at the Conquistador. It was supposed to be a starter thing, help me get settled…but Tom just kept paying the rent, telling me to save my money.”

  “Is that when the sexual relationship started?” Sevilla asked.

  “Was I trading sex for rent? You want to bust me for prostitution or something? Lady, I’m trying to help here.”

  Caine didn’t point out that if she’d really been trying to help, Maria Chacon might have come forward with this information long ago. Instead, he said, “We’re a little fuzzy on whether this is a personal relationship or a business one.”

  “Read my lips,” Maria said. “Both…. Believe it or not, Tom was a nice guy, who liked to do nice things for people he liked.”

  Such as beautiful lounge singers who gave him sexual favors.

  “Hey, sure, from jump, I could tell he wanted me.” She turned her gaze on Sevilla. “You’re attractive, Detective. You can read men. It’s not hard to know what they want.”

  “So he came on to you?” Sevilla asked.

  Maria thought about that. “Actually…I more came on to him. I mean, overtly came on, after I…got his number. Think what you want about me, but I was after a longer engagement here and I wanted my Vegas shot. Show business is hard—having a ‘friend’ like Tom made a lot of my dreams look like their coming true was a possibility.”

  Caine jumped back in. “Why the elaborate ruse? Why is ‘Tee-Minor’ your landlord?”

  “The hotel actually paid the first month’s rent—it was part of the deal. Tom gave me a six-month contract for the lounge, and helped me find an apartment. I didn’t realize till later that he had the hotel rent something from a company he secretly set up himself.”

  Shifting gears, Caine said, “You aren’t from here,” more statement than question.

  “That’s right—I’m a New York girl. Parents are still there.” She shrugged. “I did some singing in little clubs on the East Coast, and thought there had to be an easier place to break in. So I came to Miami.”

  “And you got the job at the Conquistador.”

  “Yeah, after like a hundred auditions at every rat hole along the beach and every dive between here and the ‘Glades. But I knew it would happen.”

  “Knew?”

  “With my looks, and Cuban heritage, I’m a natural for this market. Hey, damn straight, I got the job at the Conquistador. On my talent. Later on, okay, so I feathered my nest a little.”

  “Ms. Chacon,” Caine said, “if we’ve seemed judgmental…”

  “I got a thick skin, Lieutenant. Show business is a hard road. And I’m making it, too—I drew the people in, almos
t from the start. Got some good reviews, and audiences came, and I blew through the first six-month contract and now I’m into my second. Tom booked me into Vegas, supposed to be coming up, but I don’t know if it’ll be honored now…”

  “Why wouldn’t it?”

  With half a shrug, she said, “Daniel might be a prick about it. Might insist I stay put. What the hell…I’ve got mucho talent, mister, and every day I work at the Conquistador gives me the chance to polish the act a little more.”

  Caine changed course again. “Did you know Lessor had a similar relationship with another singer, in Vegas?”

  She drew in a breath, almost like she’d taken a punch. “I found out,” she finally said, letting out the air with the words. “I overheard him bragging about Erica to one of his buddies one night, when he thought I wasn’t listening.”

  “And how did you feel about that?”

  “Not all warm and fuzzy inside…but I wasn’t jealous.”

  “Right,” Caine said dryly. “It wasn’t that kind of relationship.”

  “Now you get it.” She shrugged. Her coffee was ready and she turned to it. “All it meant to me was that maybe there was someone between me and the Oasis gig…but there’s a hell of a lot more than one hotel in Las Vegas.”

  “You figured if Tom didn’t book you into the Oasis, he could pull some strings and get you in someplace else?”

  “Exactly.” Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she asked, “You sure you don’t want one?”

  The aroma filled the small room, but Caine said he was sure. Sevilla, however, relented and accepted a cup.

  “Cream and sugar?” Maria asked.

  “Black’s fine,” Sevilla said.

  She served Sevilla, saying, “I mean, Tom knew every booker in Vegas. After Vegas, I figure LA, and a record deal. So what if the guy had a big libido—a wife and girls in every port. Who gives a shit? Me making it—that’s all that matters.”

  Sevilla couldn’t let go of it. “So it was strictly business, then, sleeping with him?”

  Maria’s sad smile appeared over the rim of her cup. “And for the fun, lady—Tom Lessor could be a lot of fun. Is it okay if I don’t go into detail?”

  “It’s fine,” Caine said. “But there must have been more to it than just the physical. There were a lot of calls from his cell phone to here.”