Florida Getaway

by Max Allan Collins

  She nodded. “Sure. We liked each other. We were pals. We talked a lot, after him and his wife moved to Vegas. Just to stay in touch, y’know, and keep ‘love’ alive between his visits.”

  Caine frowned. “You told me Daniel Boyle was using a private investigator to try to catch his stepfather fooling around. You said Daniel told you himself.”

  She looked sheepish. “That was a…little white lie. It was Tom who told me about the PI—he knew what Daniel was up to, trying to expose him to Deborah Lessor. That’s why we had this place—why the place is in the Tee-Minor name.”

  “Lessor put the place in that name because of you?”

  “I don’t really know,” she said, and sipped her coffee again. “I’m sure I wasn’t the first singer he ever ‘helped’ and I’m pretty sure Tee-Minor figured into the thing with the girl in Vegas too.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She shrugged. “He was paying my way—why not hers?”

  Caine had to admit the singer had a point. He would pass that on to the CSIs in Las Vegas.

  “Daniel admitted to using a private eye in Vegas,” Caine said. “You mentioned a PI in Miami, too.”

  “Tom thought there was one—thought he was being followed. But that’s all I know. A guy cheating around like Tom, he’s going to be paranoid.”

  Caine studied her as she casually sipped her coffee. Then he said, “Sometimes a woman in a relationship like this starts out wanting nothing from a man except what he can do for her—for her career, in this case.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Only sometimes a woman in that kind of relationship can fall for the guy. Are you sure you didn’t want more from him than a career boost?”

  Maria shook her head. “What more could he have given me? Christ, I sure as hell didn’t want him around all the time. I’ve got my own goals. Tom could help me achieve them, but I never saw him as the man of my dreams that I would share it with. Why would I want a tomcat like that in my life, for real?”

  Caine frowned. “And you weren’t worried that he would shut you out in favor of the singer in Vegas?”

  Her smile turned lascivious. “Singing isn’t my only talent, Lieutenant. And in our relationship, I wasn’t the only one having fun. Tom was never going to shut me out completely. Besides, he knew that I knew Daniel was trying to bring him down.”

  Surprised, Caine said, “Are you implying you’d have blackmailed him, to get what you wanted?”

  “No. But Tom had to respect the possibility. Hey…Daniel wanted him out of the picture, big time.”

  “And Daniel never really suspected that you and his stepfather were…secretly an item?”

  She smirked. “You’ve met Daniel—does he strike you as a Rhodes scholar? He’s a silver-spoon baby. And he never suspected anything. Trust me.”

  “How deep would you say Daniel’s hatred for his stepfather runs?”

  “How deep ya got? So much so that Daniel followed Tom to Vegas. What’s that do for you?”

  Caine leaned forward. “Daniel followed his stepfather to Las Vegas?”

  “Oh yeah—hoping to catch him out there.” She snapped her fingers. “He was out there a buncha times…including when that other singer was killed.”

  Silence draped the little apartment, as that sank in for all concerned.

  Tentatively, Maria said, “You…you don’t think Daniel could have killed her…and tried to frame Tom?”

  Now Caine shrugged. “It is a possibility.”

  Another reason to call the Las Vegas crime lab.

  Maria sat in silence for several long seconds, seemingly mulling her theory.

  Finally, she said, “But why kill Tom when he got here…if he was going to frame him back there?”

  “ ‘He’ who?” Sevilla asked, frowning.

  “Daniel Boyle,” Caine explained, following Maria’s line of thought. “If Boyle killed the singer in Vegas and was going to frame Lessor for it, why kill the man, especially in Miami, in Boyle’s own backyard.”

  Maria nodded. “So—you do think Daniel killed Tom?”

  Caine held up a hand in a stop motion. “I never said that. You laid out a theory, and I clarified it.”

  “Okay, okay…” Compelling and dark, her eyes locked onto his. “Who do you think did it?”

  Caine only smiled, vaguely. “Maria—I’m a crime scene investigator. I don’t think anyone is a better suspect than anyone else…until the evidence points me in that direction.”

  Maria took a long drink from her coffee, then twitched a little smile. “I didn’t mean to pry, Lieutenant—I was just wondering if you thought it was safe for me to go to work. With a murderer on the loose and all.”

  This was said lightly, but with underlying seriousness, enough so that Sevilla gave Caine a look that said, “Oh, brother.”

  “Sure,” Caine said, “it’s safe for you to go to work. We just have to find out who the person behind the killing is…and why he or she wanted to have Tom killed.”

  “And you think you’ll succeed?”

  Rising, Caine said, “Maria, how convinced are you that you’re going to make a name for yourself?”

  She smiled. “Completely. Utterly. Ab-so-lute-ly.”

  “That’s how sure I am,” he said.

  And he rose. So did Sevilla. Maria kept her chair, though.

  “That’s reassuring,” the singer said. Whether there was irony in her tone, Caine couldn’t say. “I’ll sleep better.”

  Sevilla thanked the woman for the coffee and they found their own way to the door.

  Back in the Hummer, the CSI and the detective stayed quiet as Caine pulled away from the curb and started east toward Collins Avenue.

  “Well,” Sevilla said. “What do you think?”

  “She’s a woman who knows what she wants.”

  “Yes indeed…. Do you think one of the things she wanted was Tom Lessor dead?”

  Caine lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “If she’s telling the truth—and she wasn’t jealous of either the wife or the other singer—then what’s her motive?”

  Arms folded, Sevilla smirked and looked out the window. “If she wasn’t jealous, she’s a lot more liberated than I’m ever going to be.”

  He laughed lightly and pulled up to a stoplight as it turned red.

  “I will tell you one thing,” Caine said.

  “Which is?”

  “I would not get between Maria Chacon and anything that she wants.”

  The detective thought about that. “I wouldn’t disagree…but my money’s still on the stepson.”

  “Well, then,” Caine said, cheerily, “let’s go find out why he never told us about being in Las Vegas at the time of the murder of Erica Hardy.”

  “Why don’t we?” Sevilla said.

  The light turned green. Caine swung the Hummer left and drove toward the Conquistador to have one more chat with Daniel Boyle.

  9

  Hard-Boyled

  STUCK IN TRAFFIC with Detective Sevilla as his passenger, Horatio Caine used his cell phone to check in with Catherine Willows, or anyway try to—she wasn’t picking up and he ended up leaving a voice mail asking her to call him ASAP. Then he called HQ and none of the team had anything new to report.

  “You better wrap it up, then,” he advised Speedle. “All this overtime is gonna bite us where we sit.”

  “We were just getting ready to call it a day here, H. You need anything before I head out?”

  Caine momentarily mulled that over, then said, “Yeah, Speed—see if Detective Bernstein’s still around and check on whether Gino Forlani or the Cappelletti brothers—or more to the point, any of their flunkies—were in Las Vegas in the last six months.”

  “Why Vegas, H?”

  “The Forlanis and the Caps are acquaintances of Daniel Boyle. If he hired this done…”

  “Gotcha, boss. Anything else?”

  “Can’t think of anything. Sevilla and I have to follow up on Bo
yle…”

  “Jeez, how many times you gotta talk to that dip-stick?”

  “Until he stops lying and withholding information, I guess. After that, we’ll pack it in too.”

  Good-byes were said, and Caine clicked off.

  Tracking the mobsters might be a long shot, but this was looking like a contract job, and an organized-crime link made sense.

  This reminded him of his geriatric Murder, Inc. trio, and he asked Sevilla, “Did you check on Lipnick’s hearing aid?”

  “Oh! Yes…sorry. Neither the mortuary nor the hospital logged that in among his effects.”

  Another dead end.

  Still…

  Caine said, “Probably should check with Lipnick’s doctor.”

  “First thing tomorrow okay, Horatio?”

  “Sure.”

  The Hummer pulled into the Conquistador and—as he parked, then climbed down—Caine noticed that the valet parking attendants didn’t even look up when he drove in anymore.

  They strode into the lobby, the early evening wave of businessmen rushing in for happy hour already in the bar. The tourists were either heading for the pool—even though it was pretty cool already—or trooping out the front door to their waiting cars and whatever dinner attraction awaited them.

  As he strolled toward the front desk, Caine took off his sunglasses and placed them around his neck inside the open throat of his black dress shirt. He saw no sign of Daniel Boyle as he quickly scanned the area behind the check-in counter front. Three clerks were on duty back there—one helping a customer confused by a map, the other two chatting.

  With Sevilla at his side, Caine approached the pair, who were standing off to one side, and discreetly showed them his badge. “Daniel Boyle, please?”

  The young woman, whose name tag said JUANITA, froze. Both she and her male companion—neither of whom Caine had dealt with before—had clearly heard about the police coming around.

  Uneasily, Juanita said, “Mr. Boyle, he’s in his office.”

  The second clerk, turning toward the door marked PRIVATE, said, “I’ll announce you.”

  Caine shook his head. “Let’s keep it spontaneous.”

  The two wide-eyed hotel employees nodded and hustled off to do something they had suddenly remembered needed tending. If Caine didn’t miss his guess, their chores would take them away from the front desk by the time Boyle came out of that door.

  Sevilla followed Caine around the desk to the private office, and the two walked in without knocking, to find Boyle on the phone.

  The slender, boyishly handsome hotel manager wore an expensive gray suit with a blue dress shirt and a blue-and-red-striped tie. His cherry desk—so neatly organized on Caine’s last visit—was piled with papers and open folders. When Boyle looked up and saw who the intruders were, his face registered surprise and then irritation.

  “Let me get back to you,” Boyle said to the phone. “I’ve just had something unpleasant turn up.” He slammed the receiver in the hook, seemingly without waiting for a reply. “You don’t just burst into my office unannounced!”

  Caine put on mock surprise. “Actually, I think I just did, Daniel.”

  Politely, Caine held out one of the chairs opposite Boyle’s desk for Sevilla to sit, which she did. Then he sat himself, crossed a leg casually, folded his arms, and beamed at Daniel Boyle.

  “Jesus!” Boyle said. “What the hell do you want now?”

  “Well…just as a change of pace…I was thinking maybe—the truth?”

  “I haven’t lied to you!” The hotel manager sounded injured. Then he thought for a moment, and added, lamely, “Except for…about my relationship with Tom. And I explained that.”

  Caine nodded, conceding that. “This is more a…sin of omission.”

  The wing of Boyle’s desk curved around its owner giving him access to the computer monitor, which was humming—something on screen this time, though Caine couldn’t see what. Boyle reached over and touched the power button, the monitor going immediately black.

  “Really,” Boyle said. “I’ve tried to cooperate, but if this harassment continues, I may have to call my attorney.”

  “Why?” Caine said, with mock amazement. “Do you need one?”

  “You’re accusing me of lying in a murder investigation! What…what do you mean, anyway? What ‘sin of omission’?”

  “I was thinking about your trip to Las Vegas.”

  Boyle’s eyes tightened in confusion, and he leaned back in his chair as if doing his best to distance himself from the officers. “I’ve made a lot of Vegas trips. It’s part of my job with the company.”

  “I was thinking specifically of you being in Vegas at the time of Erica Hardy’s murder.”

  He made a face and shrugged. “Why is that important?”

  Caine sat forward. “You didn’t think a woman’s murder was important?”

  “I didn’t say that! Hell…how was I supposed to know it was important in this matter—to you? That’s a Vegas case. It’s a thousand miles from here.”

  Sevilla said, “You know very well, Mr. Boyle, that we’re exploring whether or not the Erica Hardy slaying had a bearing on your stepfather’s murder.”

  He snorted. “Do I? My world doesn’t revolve around you people.”

  Caine was watching Boyle carefully—were these natural reactions, or rehearsed ones? He asked, “Did you talk to the Las Vegas Police, while you were there?”

  Sitting forward again, on safer ground, Boyle let his hands drop onto the desktop. “Of course I talked to them. They questioned me the night it happened, but it didn’t take them long, at all, to determine my innocence.”

  Now Caine really wished he’d gotten through to Catherine Willows. “Did they ask who you were traveling with?”

  “Sure they did.”

  “Who were you traveling with?”

  “Me, myself, and I.”

  “Were either Gino Forlani or the Cappelletti brothers in Vegas that week? Or their people?”

  Boyle’s palms flew wide and so did his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Caine! How the fuck should I know?”

  “You might be interested to learn that we’re checking on that now.”

  “Well, aren’t you the thorough little Eagle Scout.”

  Caine notched his voice up. “And if your mob pals were in Vegas, you won’t just be talking to me. It’ll be the organized-crime task force, and probably the FBI. That won’t be good for your reputation as a hotel man—particularly in Vegas. The gaming commission will take real interest.”

  “Why are you hounding me?” Boyle’s voice was almost a whine. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t kill my stepfather and I sure as hell didn’t murder that conniving little whore!”

  “What did you say?” Sevilla asked sharply, rising in her chair; her voice was as cold and cutting as a well-honed knife blade.

  Boyle whitened. “I…I’m sorry. I mean, what would you call a woman who was stealing your mother’s husband?”

  Caine’s smile was icy. “Choice of words aside, Daniel…this all sounds suspiciously like a motive.”

  Boyle pounded his desk with his fist. “I…did…not…do it.”

  An awkward silence just hung there, for several seconds.

  Then Caine said, “You didn’t do it…. Even though with Thomas Lessor’s death, you’re in line for a promotion—both here at the hotel, and in your bank account, should anything happen to your mother.”

  Boyle leaned on both elbows, his face largely covered with his hands. “Please, Lieutenant Caine…just get off my back, will you? I’ve been over this, endlessly, with the Las Vegas cops.”

  “Go over it just once, for us.”

  Boyle lowered his hands; sat up; tasted his tongue; gathered himself. Then, calmly, he said, “When Erica Hardy was murdered, I was at the craps table at the Romanov. I was making out like a bandit, and there were a hundred witnesses…not to mention the hotel’s videotape. Ask Las Vegas: I haven’t killed anyone.”

&n
bsp; Caine shrugged. “Well, maybe not personally…”

  “…Not personally? What are you saying?…You think I hired it done?”

  Caine leaned forward and raised three fingers; it was not an Eagle Scout salute. “Three men were involved in arranging the abduction and murder of your stepfather. It has all the earmarks of a mob-related assassination. You are a known associate of organized crime.”

  “What complete and utter bullshit!”

  Ever since Boyle’s unfortunate outburst, Sevilla had been staring at him coldly. She said, “You’re a mama’s boy, aren’t you, Daniel?”

  Caine glanced at the detective, keeping himself outwardly blank, if inwardly amused.

  Boyle’s eyes popped. “What did you say?”

  Calmly, Sevilla said, “Two people were doing your mother wrong—your stepfather and his…woman. Maybe Mama would love you even more, if you took them out of the picture?”

  Boyle was clearly unnerved; his lower lip trembling, he said, looking from the detective to the CSI and back again, “You better leave. Both of you. You better just leave. I want you—”

  Caine’s phone rang, interrupting the hotel manager in mid-rant. He held up a finger in “please wait” fashion, saying, “Hold that thought, Daniel.”

  Boyle’s mouth dropped open and a breathy, you-gotta-be-kidding-me grunt emanated from down deep.

  Punching the cell phone button, Caine said, “Horatio.”

  “It’s Catherine Willows. You called?”

  “Yeah, give me just a minute.” He turned to Sevilla. “I need to take this—I’m gonna step out in the hall.” He raised a finger and moved it from Boyle to Sevilla. “You two play nice while I’m away.”

  “Take your time,” Sevilla said, and Boyle made the breathy grunt sound again.

  In the hall, having closed the door, Caine said into the phone, “Sorry, Catherine…. I’m in the middle of an interview with a guy who just could be a suspect in your Erica Hardy case.”

  “All due respect, Horatio,” she said. “I doubt you’ve got a new and valid suspect for us—DNA don’t lie. And I’ve got Thomas Lessor’s DNA under the victim’s fingernails. Lessor murdered Erica Hardy, no question.”