Southern Heat

by David Burnsworth

  As the sun came up, Patricia and I stared silently at the charcoal remains of my bachelor-pad bungalow. Charred footings jutted out of the ground like an artist’s interpretation of Armageddon. I supposed this was Galston’s way of getting my attention, as if shooting at me wasn’t enough. Unless someone was trying to help with the termite problem I’d been fighting since I bought the place. My homeowner’s insurance company, the ones that promised to always be there for me in trying times, decided to initiate an arson investigation. I told the agent no investigation was needed. It was arson.

  He wasn’t amused and mentioned something about me being upgraded to high risk. I suppose that was because they also covered my car insurance. A new paint job followed by a total loss on a brand-new car might have had something to do with his need to recoup the claim costs.

  A couple hours later, once my unhappy dog had been fed his breakfast, I sat in a beach chair on the upper deck of the Pirate’s Cove staring at the ocean and the whitecaps relentlessly pursuing the shore. A layer of SPF 8 sunscreen covered my back while sunglasses hid my eyes. I chewed on a Cuban cigar, nursed an iced tea, and thought it had been a stupid idea to leave my guns in the Audi. At least Chauncey had been smart enough to pull strings and register the car under a fictitious company.

  “Stand up slowly, Pelton,” a loud voice behind me said. “You’re under arrest.”

  I turned in time to see two officers in uniform rush me and grab my arms.

  “What’s the charge this time? Trying to enjoy the day?”

  Chauncey sat beside me in the interrogation room. He’d advised me not to say anything and I was inclined to go along with it this time. The door to the room opened and Detective Wilson came in holding a clear evidence bag, one with a Glock semiautomatic pistol showing through. He turned on the recording equipment and poked the evidence bag in front of me. “Recognize this?”

  “Mr. Pelton doesn’t wish to make a statement at this time,” Chauncey said.

  “On the hook for three murders, one of them a cop,” Wilson said. “He better start talking.”

  I watched the bag with the gun dangle in the detective’s hand before he set it in the middle of the table.

  “Maybe you can help us out,” Chauncey said.

  Wilson sat in one of the chairs facing us. “How’s that, counselor?”

  Chauncey placed his elbows on the table. “What makes you think my client committed three murders?”

  Detective Wilson lifted the bag again. “Ballistics shows that bullets fired from this weapon killed Reginald Sails, David Fisher, and Detective Hamilton Rogers.”

  It took me a few seconds to comprehend what he’d just said. “So you’re finally going to call my uncle’s death a murder. It’s about time.”

  “The gun was discovered at your residence, Mr. Pelton. 315 Osceda Street, Sullivan’s Island.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said.

  “The firemen found it among the charred rubble.” Wilson set the bag on the table. “Unfortunately, no fingerprints were located on the weapon and it’s unregistered.”

  Chauncey said, “My client has no knowledge of any weapon found in his house.”

  Wilson raised his eyebrows. “Your client has already been charged with firing a weapon in a residential neighborhood.”

  “That is under appeal,” Chauncey said.

  “Haven’t you figured out yet that I’m being set up?” I asked Wilson. “That whoever murdered my uncle also trashed his house and my bungalow looking for something or trying to get me to quit looking for him, killed David Fisher, shot Darcy Wells, wrecked my car, and shot your partner?”

  Chauncey put his hand on my arm as if to stop me but I shook him off.

  “You really think I killed my own uncle?”

  Wilson assumed his favorite position—he folded his arms across his paunch. “You were in the alley with him. Makes sense to me.”

  Chauncey stood. “We’ll see you in court.”

  “I was at the Pirate’s Cove when Fisher was killed,” I said. “I’ve got the whole wait staff as my alibi.”

  The frown left Wilson’s face. “How do you know when it happened?”

  “I’ve got a good idea,” I said. “Check the cell phone records. His and mine. They’ll tell you I talked to him a few times. You’ll be able to track which towers my signal bounced from. If that’s not good enough, there are a bunch of witnesses who saw me at the bar.”

  Still standing, Chauncey tapped the table. “I’ll definitely see you in court, Detective Wilson. Not just for these outlandish allegations, either. I plan on filing a harassment suit against the Charleston Police Department.”

  Wilson held up a hand. “Hold on a minute.”

  A knock at the door caused us to turn our heads. Wilson walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Ten to one we’re out of here in fifteen minutes,” Chauncey said.

  “That’s nice and all,” I said, “but someone killed my uncle and two others—one a cop. This isn’t over yet.”

  Chauncey was right, of course. Wilson came in the room and kicked me loose.

  “You know,” Chauncey said on our way out the door, “you’re more than welcome to come and stay with Trish and me.”

  “I appreciate it,” I said.

  We stopped in a corridor.

  He said, “You going to be all right?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve got a court appearance to make this morning so I have to say goodbye for now.”

  “Thanks Chauncey—for everything.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.”

  I watched him walk away.

  Wilson came up to me. “If I find out you had a hand in Rogers’s shooting,” he said, poking me in the chest again, “I’m going to feed you to the sharks.”

  I held his glare. “Don’t blame me. Your Rolex-wearing partner was dirt and you know it.”

  I saw him swing his fist but chose not to stop it. The impact was harder than I expected. Real hard. Like my head was a bell and his fist the gong. I hit the floor hard, too. When the ringing stopped, I lifted myself up and waited for the cobwebs to clear.

  “That all you got?” I slurred.

  Wilson wore the pain of his partner’s dishonesty like a badge. His fists were clenched, ready for the next round. Two men jumped in and restrained his arms.

  “Come on, Wilson,” said one of them. “Let’s take a walk.”

  Wilson’s gaze stayed fixed on me as the men guided him into another room.

  A uniformed man said, “Are you okay?”

  I spit blood onto the floor of the police station and grinned and felt a welt forming on the side of my face. “Tops.”

  Sometimes, the only way to feel alive is to feel pain.

  I didn’t press charges against Wilson. How could I? My uncle kept a lot from me. I guessed Wilson got a good taste of the same thing from his partner. I was tired of mooching from friends and found an old motor court north of Mount Pleasant on Seventeen, renting a room under an alias and paying in cash. If Galston wanted to come and get me, he’d have to work for it. The woman behind the counter barely looked away from a soap opera on the television when she handed me a form to fill out and the key. I decided my new name was Cary Bogart, a tribute to two classic tough guys. She stuck the form in a folder without a glance. I took the key and left.

  My luggage consisted of shopping bags full of clothes Patricia had bought me and toiletries I’d picked up at a drugstore on the way. Other than my dog, the Pirate’s Cove, and two storage units of stuff I didn’t want to deal with, it was all I had left.

  The bruise from Wilson’s sucker punch wasn’t bad. After a hot shower, I donned a new silk shirt, linen shorts, and cologne—all of them Patricia’s choices—and felt like a new man. I invited Darcy over.

  “How you feeling, kiddo?” I asked when I answered the door.

  “Better than you look.” Her eyes wandered over my room. “You sure have interesting taste. This p
lace is a bigger dump than the last one. At least that dump had a beach view to make up for it. This place doesn’t have anything except a trailer park.”

  “I know. It’s perfect, isn’t it?”

  “If you say so.”

  We sat in front of my small cottage in the motor court and drank iced tea from sweating glasses. Worn-out lawn chairs were included with the room. I treated myself to one of the Cuban cigars. The bug zapper hanging on the side of the office a hundred feet away popped and snapped as another mosquito met its end. Aside from three junkers on the opposite end of the lot, one of them on blocks, we had the place to ourselves. A slight breeze blew through and took the edge off the heat rising from the asphalt under our feet.

  Darcy said one of her sources told her Detective Wilson had gotten suspended and after an hour, she left, saying something about having to film a news clip.

  The Tom Petty ringtone woke me. It was four in the afternoon and I’d fallen asleep watching TV. I didn’t recognize the number but risked answering it. “Hello?”

  The first sound from the other end of the connection was someone clearing their throat. “Yeah, this is Detec . . . this is Wilson, James Wilson.”

  “I’m full up on limp-wristed beatings at the moment, Detective.”

  “Real funny, Pelton.”

  I waited for him to say something else and heard a long inhale followed by a longer exhale.

  He said, “Look, I’m sorry I popped you. I was wrong.”

  I smiled to myself. “I’ll bet that hurt to say.”

  “Not as bad as being asked to take a few days off to think things over.”

  “I heard you’re on vacation,” I said. “That wasn’t my doing.”

  “I know.”

  “Next time,” I said, “don’t do anything stupid around witnesses. I learned that in Afghanistan.”

  “Are you finished with the lecture?”

  I was beginning to enjoy this. “Since it’s getting to you, no. But how about I buy you dinner while I’m at it?”

  “That’s a start.”

  “Meet me at the Cove in an hour.”

  “You got it.”

  “Oh, and hey, Wilson?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You hit like a girl.” I pressed End and rolled out of the creaky bed. It was a good thing Wilson called and woke me up. I needed to get to Chauncey’s and feed Shelby.

  The bartender was a kid with short hair parted on the side and no visible tats—too clean-cut to work at an island bar. He must’ve been one of Paige’s new hires because I didn’t recognize him. He said, “You guys want shots or something?”

  Wilson said, “How about a couple cherry Cokes?”

  The kid frowned and walked away.

  Wilson stuck a toothpick in his mouth. “I guess he thinks we’re gonna stiff him on the tip.”

  I tapped my fingers on the bar. “He doesn’t know I own it. Don’t tell him. It might spoil his day.”

  “Whatever.” Wilson reached into the pocket of his bright orange Bermuda shorts that were the hottest thing in 1986 and pulled out a key chain with two keys. “I found these in Rogers’s locker.”

  “What’re they to?”

  “A condo in the Caribbean.”

  I smiled. “Not bad. I don’t suppose you found any bank account numbers to go with them.”

  “No such luck.” He turned toward me and locked his eyes on mine. “How could I not have known my partner was dirt?”

  “Same reason I didn’t know my uncle was a renegade field agent for the EPA. He let me know only what he wanted to. I was too self-absorbed to see what was going on. The thing bugging me the most is the feeling that if I’d known what was going on, I could have helped him—been his backup—taken the bullet. I don’t know. Something, you know?”

  “At least your uncle was clean. I can’t imagine what I would’ve done if I’d known about Rogers. I guess . . . maybe after I kicked him around the block, I would’ve thrown him in jail.” Wilson took the toothpick out of his mouth and bent it with his thumb and index finger a few times. “Some partner, huh?”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said, “but I’m glad you called.” I opened my wallet and handed him the parking garage ticket from my uncle’s change pouch.

  He said, “This what I think it is?”

  I nodded. “A loose end.”

  “You know I’m off the case.”

  “Look at it,” I said. “He parked at seven o’clock.”

  “So?”

  “So, he wasn’t meeting me until eight. He was early. My uncle wasn’t early for anything in his life.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll bite. Why was he early?”

  “Considering everything he had going on at the time, I figure he was meeting someone.”

  “And you think it was the same someone who shot him.”

  “Yes.”

  Wilson put an arm on my shoulder and was about to speak when a well-built young blonde walked by, catching his attention. The see-through wrap failed to cover her bright orange bikini.

  He threw the old toothpick on the bar and selected a new one. “I could get used to this.”

  The bartender finally brought our Cokes.

  Wilson said, “Where’s the little plastic umbrellas?”

  The bartender stared at him. “Huh?”

  Wilson tilted his drink slightly so the bartender was looking at the top of it. “The plastic umbrellas. Everyone else around here’s got one. Where’re ours?”

  The kid smirked. “You didn’t order a mixed drink.”

  “Oh, I get it,” said Wilson. “We ain’t worthy of an umbrella.”

  The kid turned to help another customer.

  “Hey kid,” said Wilson.

  The bartender stopped.

  “Look, I was only joking.” Wilson motioned to me. “We’re kind of having a rough day here.”

  “Join the club,” he said.

  Bonny the Macaw chose that moment to leave her perch and fly to my shoulder.

  “Hey girl,” I said.

  She nibbled my ear. “Hi, Brack. Squawk!”

  The bartender’s face registered shock. He reached toward her.

  I didn’t know what he was about to attempt, but whatever it was it wouldn’t end up good for him.

  I said, “Don’t come any closer unless you want her to bite your hand.”

  He jerked his arm back.

  “And if she doesn’t,” I said, “I will.”

  “She’s supposed to be a good bird. I’ll get the manager.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We haven’t met. I’m the owner.”

  The kid opened his mouth but didn’t say anything.

  “First rule of employment, kid,” Wilson said. “Know who signs your paychecks.”

  Paige joined the kid behind the bar. “I see you met Grant.”

  “Bonny and I were giving him pointers,” I said.

  Bonny flew to her perch above the bar.

  I excused myself and headed for the restroom. On the wall above the urinal, I had written a familiar phrase as a reminder to myself and other miscreants: “Man cannot avoid reaping what he sows.”

  When I walked back to the bar, I said, “Someone’s gotta pay for all this.”

  Wilson flicked the toothpick to the other side of his mouth with his tongue. “Someone’s cleaned us out of witnesses.”

  “What do you know about a brothel in North Charleston called the Red Curtain?”

  Wilson’s face lit up. “Every cop on the beat knows about that place. They shortchange you?”

  “They’re involved.”

  As soon as I sat on the stool, my cell phone rang. It was my EPA contact, Graves.

  I answered. “What’s up, Ken?”

  “Brack,” he said, “wanted to let you know I sent a couple auditors down to check out the properties you mentioned. They reported back to me that the conditions of all three sites are far worse than we thought. Palmetto Properties is in a lot of t
rouble.”

  I said, “How much trouble?”

  “Of course there are all the fines we are going to heap on them. Then there’s the IRS.”

  “Great news.” I said it but didn’t feel it.

  Graves said, “Do you know of a Michael Galston?”

  I gave Wilson the thumbs up. “I might have heard the name before.”

  Graves said, “He is the primary shareholder in the properties. And it appears he has disappeared.”

  “Huh?”

  “The local law enforcement went to his home this morning and he was gone. They checked with family members and his place of business. Nothing.”

  I rested a hand on the bar. “Not good.”

  “The reason I’m calling, and this is an unorthodox request, I was wondering if you had any ideas where he might be? I mentioned your name to the police and, well, they said you were not a credible source, which I personally find hard to believe.”

  I said, “Me too.”

  “Anyway, you mentioned you had someone there who knew a lot about the city. I wondered if you might be able to locate Mr. Galston. We have already flagged his passport so if he tries to get on a plane, we’ve got him.”

  I winked at Wilson and said, “Ken, you just made my day. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  After Graves ended the call, I relayed the story to Wilson.

  He said, “Any ideas?”

  “Remember the Chrysler that exploded?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Dusk settled in as we pulled in front of the familiar row of houses on Harmon Street. I parked in the same spot as before across from Dora’s place.

  Wilson looked around. “Gee, Pelton, we sure don’t stick out driving this yuppie-mobile or anything.”

  The single red bulbs on each porch were lit up like Christmas. Windows were covered with plywood thanks to the car explosion. But apparently business was still booming. Maybe it was all the free press. A man left one of the houses and got into a Chevrolet pickup.

  “I’ll be,” Wilson said.

  “What?”

  “You know who that is?”

  I tried to get a look at the driver as he passed us. He wore a ball cap and the collar of his shirt was turned up. It was too hard to tell. “No, who is he?”