Wreckers' Key

by Christine Kling

  “So he left,” Jeannie said. “I’m surprised you didn’t go with him.”

  “Believe me, I wanted to. But I had this damn hearing or whatever this is today. Jeannie, the thing is, he promised me he would call as soon as he got there. He left around midnight. He should have been in Key West by four or five in the morning.”

  “Maybe he just didn’t want to wake you.”

  “I was home until almost eight. He knows I’m an early riser. Why didn’t he call between seven and eight? I waited until the last possible minute to come here.”

  “Have you tried calling him?”

  “Of course. I only get his voice mail.” I twisted around in my seat to reach my shoulder bag and pulled out the digital camera, setting it on the place mat in front of Jeannie. “I’m sorry that I haven’t been more help to you with this lawsuit. B.J. and I went by the guy’s apartment. We took these photos of him moving furniture, getting into a fight. I didn’t have time to print them.”

  “You’re going after him, aren’t you?”

  “It’s not like him not to call.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle this business this morning on my own. You should eat something first, though. You look like you haven’t eaten in days. That’s not like you.”

  “Food,” I said, shaking my head. “No, something’s wrong. I’ve got to go. If I get hungry, I’ll stop along the road and eat while I drive. He’s in trouble or he would have called.”

  I swung by my cottage and threw a bunch of clothes and toiletries into a duffel. Jeannie had agreed to keep an eye on Abaco while I was gone, but I still kneeled down in the middle of my living room and crooked an arm around her, burying my face in the fur at her neck. “You be a good girl while I’m gone, okay?” She licked at my ear and gave one short whine. She didn’t like it when I left, but she had learned to live with it. Besides, if I knew Jeannie, she’d be bringing her meat bones from the butcher and cooking her scrambled eggs.

  The drive down to Key West gave me plenty of time to think. Lightnin’ roared down the turnpike, the engine having not so much as a single hiccup. Old Ben said that someone had stuffed a shop rag up the intake manifold. That was no accident. He’d cleaned it all out and gotten me back to running right, but the questions remained: who and why. The old guy said the Jeep should have quit—he was amazed that she had kept running at all. Someone had wanted my car to quit on the road that night that big vehicle had followed me. It had to have happened while I was at the Downtowner. Just like someone had broken into my home and rearranged things. Like someone had followed me to Hubcap Heaven and tried to—what? Knock me out? Again, I returned to why and who. All these near hits weren’t quite believable. Nestor and Quentin had wound up dead, but it seemed that someone was just messing with me.

  Involuntarily, my eyes flicked again to my rearview mirror. I’d been checking it compulsively ever since I pulled away from the Larsens’ place. So far, I hadn’t seen one single neon green vehicle, no black SUV, nor could I make any other vehicle following me. I wasn’t a pro or anything, but I was watching pretty closely. I remembered the smirk on Pinder’s face as he’d watched me across the bar in the Downtowner. Was it because he had just been messing around under my Jeep?

  Late morning certainly isn’t rush hour, but the traffic on the turnpike where it passed through the outskirts of Miami was miserable. Then there was an accident on the route between Florida City and Key Largo, and all the traffic was at a complete halt as the emergency vehicles cleared the mangled metal from the roadway. I switched on the radio I almost never used. The engine noise was usually too loud to hear it, but since we were stopped, I figured it would pass the time. I turned the dial trying to find a station with news and weather.

  Outside, the sky had gone slate gray and the temperature was rapidly dropping. I hadn’t listened to the Coast Guard marine weather in a couple of days. I’d been too distracted, but I could tell by the look and feel of the air that a low-pressure area was sweeping in over us and we were going to be feeling some nasty wind by nightfall.

  Right then I guessed it was only blowing five to ten knots out of the northwest, but once the front really moved through and the cold descended on the area, the wind would pick up and blow out of the northeast like a witch.

  I finally found a station that reported the weather at the top of the hour. I had to sit through ten minutes of a radio-team routine about today being Groundhog Day. Their stupid one-liners made me realize that I wasn’t missing much by doing without the radio in my noisy vehicle. It might have taken me three days to make this same Keys trip by boat, but I found myself getting more and more frustrated the longer I sat in the stalled traffic. The guys in the truck ahead of me had taken out their poles and were fishing in the lagoon off to the side of the road.

  The traffic had just started moving at eleven when the weatherman reported essentially the same thing I had already figured out—a cold front was moving through. The only real point of interest he added was that a second stationary front over the Bahamas was going to squeeze the air; the winds would be stronger than normal starting tonight and running through Saturday. He promised his listeners that by Sunday we’d see the sun again, but for the moment even that was hard to believe. The sky was solid gray flannel.

  When I drove over the bridge from Stock Island and found myself on the island of Key West at last, I decided to head straight to the police department and try to find Lassiter. I’d left him a message on his cell phone, but I hadn’t received a call back. First, I had trouble finding a space to park—Key West had been much easier to navigate on foot. Once I got there, the receptionist told me it was Lassiter’s day off. She wanted to know if another detective could help me. When I told her no and asked for Lassiter’s home address or phone, she gave me such a withering look that I simply thanked her and left.

  I stood next to my Jeep in the motel parking lot where I had finally found a spot to park and tried to decide what to do next. The weather was worsening. I could see whitecaps on the water off Garrison Bight. The few tourists walking the streets wore faces of grim determination. The weather wasn’t cooperating for water sports, but they weren’t going to sit in their hotel rooms.

  Maybe I’d be lucky and the Sparkses would be listed in the telephone book. I crossed the lot and asked for a directory in the motel lobby. The man behind the desk, whose mutton chop sideburns made him look as if he’d time-traveled from the 1850s, told me that I could find one in my room. I leaned across the counter.

  “Look, I’m not staying here yet. I’m trying to decide what kind of customer service you offer. If you can loan me your phone book for just a minute, I might consider taking a room.”

  He replied that regulations did not permit him to loan out the front desk telephone books. While he was talking, he stared at his computer monitor, his fingers tap-tapping on the keys. He never even looked at me.

  I pushed my way out the door. As I was walking to Lightnin’, I saw a maid with a cart working outside a room. Under her blue pinafore uniform she wore what looked like a home-sewn dress, and her hair was tied up with a bandanna. I guessed she was Haitian. She responded to my question with a shy smile and invited me into the room. When I sat on the bed, I had a nearly overwhelming urge to climb in and pull the covers up over my head and hope the world would go away. I shook it off and reached into the nightstand drawer for the telephone book. I didn’t find anyone with the last name of Sparks, but I tipped the maid ten bucks. She deserved it—especially since she was probably working under the management of the asshole in the lobby.

  I hopped in the Jeep and turned back out onto Roosevelt. The rain started falling as I headed for Key West Bight Marina. The only other person I knew to turn to was Ben. Maybe he knew computers like B.J. did and would be able to find Sparks on the Internet. I parked in the lot behind the Turtle Kraals Restaurant and cut through the gap next to the Waterfront Market, my baseball cap pulled low over my eyes to keep out the r
ain.

  Out on the dock by the Schooner Wharf Bar, I was able to see the empty dock where Ben’s boat was usually tied up. Most of the other charter schooners were still in their berths, all charters canceled due to the nasty weather, but on Ben’s dock I had a clear view of his fishing boat, the Rapid. Wouldn’t you know he’d be the diehard sailor, taking folks out on a charter with Hawkeye no matter the weather? I could picture him telling them about his great-great-grandfather as he squinted into the rain and wind. I was wearing my rain slicker, but my pants were getting soaked. Damn. I was standing there cursing out loud when I looked down the dock and saw the stringy-haired fellow with his bike and dog, the same one we had seen that first morning I’d come ashore and had brunch with Nestor and Catalina. He was watching me swearing aloud to myself. Maybe he thought I was a kindred spirit of some sort.

  “Excuse me,” I said, walking closer to him. “Do you know the guy who runs that black schooner that usually docks out there?” I pointed out to the empty pier. “The one called Hawkeye?”

  “Most people don’t hear the voices like we do!” He seemed to be talking to someone sitting on my right shoulder. “They don’t understand that when the man says it is time to go, you have to go.”

  “That schooner, Hawkeye, do you know when he usually gets back?”

  “Alien abductions occur right under the noses of everyman. It happens all around us and we don’t even see. They walk right by and people don’t see the fear and the pain when the man is telling them it’s time to go. Go to the big mouth, he said. Stare into the precipice. Only the dark one has the courage to look you in the eye. Do you hear what I’m saying?” He reached out and grabbed my arm. “Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  “Sorry, man, I’ve got to go.” I tried to shake him loose, but his grip was strong.

  “The man says fuck you, and none of the others dared to look in the eyes of the damned.”

  “Shit,” I said as I twisted my arm free and began to trot back to the Jeep. I could still hear him hollering after me.

  “The dark one has eyes that look through to my soul. You must find him in your dreams.”

  Way to go, Sullivan, I thought as I slid behind the wheel of the Jeep once more. You ask for information from crazy people and you expect rational answers. Not only did that guy not know what I was talking about, but I’d been asking a man who didn’t even live on this planet.

  There was only one other thing to try. It was risky, but it might work. I had seen Arlen go into the offices of Ocean Towing that day. I turned up Simonton Street and headed for Fleming.

  XXIX

  The girl with the pierced nipple was sitting on top of her desk when I walked in. She was wearing a black hooded sweatshirt that had D.A.R.E. to Keep Kids Off Drugs written across the front, over white Capri-length pants and red Converse high-top sneakers, and she seemed to be holding some sort of yoga pose with her arms up high over her head, her fingers laced together.

  “Hi,” I said, not caring if she thought me rude to break her concentration.

  She didn’t look at me but she began whispering, “Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine.” When she reached fifty, she lowered her hands and started shaking them as though she were trying to dry them off. “Sorry,” she said, only it came out shorry, and I was reminded of her tongue stud. “Nobody was in here so I decided to try my stretches. I have to hold that one for fifty counts. It drains all the blood out of my hands, though. Totally pins-and-needles time.”

  I wanted to ask her why she did it, any of it—the piercings, the exercises—but after my experience with the man on the docks, I decided it might not be such a good idea.

  “I was in here a little over a week ago. I don’t know if you remember me.”

  “Sure I do. The boss was really pissed off after you left. What did you do to him?”

  “Nothing. Really. I don’t know why he was mad. Anyway, today I have a favor to ask. When I was in here last time I met an old friend right outside. He came in after me. His name is Arlen Sparks.”

  “Oh yeah, Sparky. I know him. He’s a cool old dude.”

  So far so good. I’d come in here hoping I could get what I needed without crossing paths with Pinder. “Well, I’m trying to find Mr. Sparks. I’ve known him since I was a kid up in Fort Lauderdale, but I don’t have his Key West address. I was wondering if you could give it to me.”

  “I don’t know about that. We’re not supposed to. I’d better go ask.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” I said, but before I could say or do any more she twisted her body and yelled in a surprisingly loud voice.

  “Boss! Somebody here to see you.”

  I contemplated running for the door. The fact remained, though, that this was my last hope of finding out what was going on, of finding Catalina and B.J., and the desire to know overrode any concerns about my personal safety. Well, almost. I backed my way to the door and noted the busy Chinese restaurant across the street as a possible escape path.

  “Oh shit. What’re you doing here?” Pinder said when he appeared from the back office. His hair was disheveled, his clothes wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot. He looked like he was still hung over from a long night’s revelry. Judging from the look on the girl’s face, he didn’t smell too great, either. He didn’t give me a chance to answer. “One time you took a job from me. It was fucking pocket change. You’re like all the mainland chicks. So fucking superior.”

  “I just came here to see if you would give me Arlen Sparks’s phone number and address.”

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “Mr. Pinder, don’t jerk me around. You know who I’m talking about.”

  Pinder looked genuinely baffled. He glanced at his secretary, who was in the process of unbending her legs and climbing down off her desk.

  “You know him,” she said. “Sparky, the sweet old guy with the really bad comb-over who sometimes delivers envelopes here for your partner?”

  “Oh yeah, that guy. What do you want with him?”

  Neville Pinder must have made a hell of a con man judging from his acting ability. “You know, I could almost believe you,” I said. “You’re good.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? You’re some crazy bitch. I don’t have time for this.” He turned to the girl, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Give her what she wants.” He turned back to me. “Then you get out of my office and stay out. You’re like a pimple on my ass. You’re yesterday’s news. I heard you’re selling out. About time. Like they say, don’t send a woman to do a man’s job.” He gave a couple of dry chuckles before he turned and disappeared down the hall.

  The girl extended a tentative hand, holding a sheet of paper with an address and phone number scribbled on it. “He always says stuff like that to me, too.”

  I took the paper and left the office, but as I walked back to where I had parked the Jeep on Simonton, I thought about how the girl had misunderstood my reaction to her boss. I wasn’t mad. I didn’t care if a twit like Pinder insulted me. The look on my face had been one of astonishment. If Neville Pinder really didn’t know anything about Arlen, who did?

  The address she had given me was for a place on a street called Venetian Drive. I drove out of Old Town and headed back over to the commercial district along Roosevelt, where I pulled into a touristy shop that promised to sell me tickets for the Conch Train and various boat and snorkel trips. I checked out the free maps in the rack of brochures by the door but couldn’t find one that showed a Venetian Drive, so I wound up buying a detailed street map. I found the street located on the other side of the island, over by the airport. Ten minutes later, I was pulling to the curb in front of a small pink, boxy-looking house with a white-tile roof. The day had grown dark with the low clouds and slanting rain, but no lights illuminated the interior of the house. Arlen’s car was parked in the carport; farther up the street, I saw the familiar black lines of B.J.’s El Camino.

  No one answered my knock. There was no doorbell. T
he knob would not twist in my hand. I tried going around into the carport where there was another door, this one with jalousie windows that probably led to the kitchen. My knocks there weren’t answered, either. I decided to try this knob. It was unlocked and turned easily in my hand.

  The kitchen looked clean and tidy except for the fact that one of the chairs by the little eat-in kitchen table lay on its side. Through the arched passage, I could see into the living room, where a lamp lay on the floor. My wet boat shoes squeaked on the linoleum in the kitchen. I considered calling out, but decided I didn’t want to announce my presence.

  From the kitchen doorway, I could see the front door and entry to my left, the living room mostly off to my right and the hall to the bedrooms straight ahead. All the doors were closed. It wasn’t until I was in the hall proper that I began to hear the sobs.

  I put my ear to the first door. Nothing. I turned the knob and found a bathroom on the other side. The next door was quiet also. It led to what looked like a sewing room. I wondered how long it had been since she’d last worked in there. The second bedroom looked like a much more extensive radio room than the one he had at home. The equipment looked newer, too. A wooden workbench ran the entire length of the room, and conduit snaked up the wall to a four-outlet box above the table.

  I knew even before I went into the radio room that the sobs came from the last room on the hall. It had to be the master bedroom. Hearing the depth of the anguish should have spurred me forward to try to help, but something told me it was too late. There is a sound to grief. I was afraid to go through that last door. I was searching for people I loved and in this moment for me they were alive still.