“He’s walking down the highway. Tall, lanky, ruddy tan, black hair and beard, and a ragged straw cowboy hat. It’s the guy, I swear. Looks just like that drawing in the paper.”
“And you’re cruising along behind him?”
“I am.”
“You’re driving?”
“I’m in Dion’s gator.”
“What?”
“Jim Dion’s gator. Like a golf cart on steroids with big knobby wheels. Borrowed it from Jim at the Quik Mart.”
Paul stood up at his desk. “And he’s just walking on the side of the road?”
“Yep. He just got groceries at the Trading Post.”
He shot a doubtful glance over at the new officer the FDLE had insisted he hire on staff. The fresh-faced kid—what was his name, Ian?—could hear the whole conversation being taped on the emergency line. He shrugged.
Paul sat back down. “So, you’re telling me the alleged Cowboy Killer, murderer of more than one person, just made a grocery run and is now … walking down the road?”
“Uh huh.”
“Not running?”
“Jesus, sheriff. Are you listening to me? Yes. He is walking down the road, carrying a bag of groceries and I am following—shit, where’d he go?”
“What? What’s happening, Chad?”
“I lost him. I looked down for one second and—”
A loud, cacophonous banging suddenly blasted into the phone’s receiver. It was so intense, Paul jerked the headset he was wearing off his head and flung it across his desk. The new kid, Ian, had been surprised by the commotion and had jogged over to the sheriff’s desk.
“What the hell was that?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” Paul replied, rubbing his ears.
He picked up the mangled headset and gently placed the right earpiece back on his ear.
“Chad? Are you still there? What happened? What was that loud noise.”
There was a crackling sound and a high-pitched voice in the background yelling profanities.
“I just rear-ended a … well, a pink Mercedes.”
Paul pointed at Ian, twirled a finger in the air, and then pointed at the front door, indicating that he wanted him to take a patrol car and check it out.
“Okay, I have someone on the way.”
“But what about the Cowboy Killer? Do you want me to see if I can find him?”
“No. No. Now, just sit tight and wait for Officer Bass to get there. We’ll deal with the wreck first, then we’ll see if we can track down your cowboy.”
In the background, Paul heard the woman’s voice getting closer and more hysterical. He thought he heard a death threat mixed in with her curse-laden tirade.
“Hurry,” he said to Ian as he grabbed his hat and rushed out the door.
Chad held both arms up to deflect the repeated blows from the tiny, pink-sequined purse that the … man … was beating him with. It didn’t hurt much, but the flurry of blows was relentless.
“I just freaking bought it, you jerk,” he said. “I literally just bought the damn thing yesterday. Ugh, first I lose a boyfriend to a greaser and now my car, my beautiful car. Why do you hate me, God? Why?”
The tall person hitting him with his clutch, was a man, dressed as a woman. He/she stood at least six or seven inches taller than Chad, which was mostly due to the eight inch stiletto heels he/she wore.
“Look, I’m really, really sorry, sir,” Chad started.
“Ma’am,” the drag queen said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Ma’am. When I’m dressed like this,” she indicated the skin-tight pink sweater, black pencil skirt, and her pastel pink Jan Crouch wig, “I’m a woman.”
“Ah, okay. I see,” Chad stuttered. “Anyway, ma’am, as I was saying, I’m so sorry. I was on the trail of a murderer when I accidentally hit the back of your car. I mean, there doesn’t appear to be any damage.”
“No damage?” the woman shrieked. “Just look at this.”
She pointed to the bumper and a tiny sliver of a scratch that couldn’t have been thicker than a human hair, or longer than a matchstick. Chad was certain it was only the clear coat that was damaged and not the paint. A quick buff should take it out in seconds.
The woman looked down at her watch, a huge, jewel-encrusted affair. “And, wouldn’t you know it, now I’m going to be late for the six o’clock show.”
“I’m sorry,” Chad said, meekly.
“I don’t suppose you have insurance on that … thing?”
“Well, actually, it’s not mine.”
The drag queen threw her head back and laughed, a maniacal sound like an evil Disney sorceress mixed with Vincent Price. “That’s just rich. My baby just got defiled by a stolen redneck golf cart.”
“It’s not stolen. I borrowed it.”
“Uh huh. Heard that one before.”
“Look,” Chad said, pulling his wallet out of his pocket. “I have insurance. My agent is Fran up at Allstate. I’m sure I can get this all taken care of if we can just move on.”
He handed an information card to the man, dressed as a woman. She studied it for a second.
“Chad Harrison?”
He nodded and held out a hand. “You might know me as Cap Wayfarer, from Keysnews.com.”
Seeing no recognition from the woman, he added, “And I’ve written seven New York Times bestselling novels including Trimmer Man and Good Banana.”
A flash of something crossed the woman’s eyes. “You? You wrote Good Banana? I absolutely loved that book. I’ve read it so much the pages are falling out. It’s hilarious. Especially that part where the ape drives the boat up onto the sand and then hops out and wanders up to the beach bar. Classic Florida Keys.”
Chad laughed and felt a sudden pang of terror at the tingling in his nether regions. He was neither gay, nor bisexual, or any of the other new sexuality designations, but he found he was attracted to this person.
She dug into her purse and pulled out three pieces of paper. She handed them to Chad. He flipped through them. One was her insurance card, the other two were tickets of some kind.
The insurance card revealed that the woman’s name was Daniel Kane Kotlerson. Apparently, seeing his eyebrows dart up, she said, “I know. I go by Dani when I’m in drag.”
“Pleased to meet you, Dani.” Chad said, thumbing through the next two pieces of paper. “And what are these?”
“Tickets to my show. I star in the Kandy Kane’s Kicks review at the Bourbon Street Bar down in Key West—a show that I am currently running late to perform in right now.”
“Sounds like a good time,” Chad said with a smile, tucking the tickets and the insurance card into his pocket.
“Look, I appreciate your help, but I’ve got to go,” Dani said to Chad. “You’ll be there tonight?”
“I will.”
Chad walked her back to her car and they noticed for the first time, that the rear tire on the passenger’s side was flat.
“What the hell happened to my tire?” Dani yelled.
“You must’ve picked up a screw or a nail or something. I didn’t hit you hard enough to do that. Do you have a spare?”
Dani buried her head in her hands. “That is the spare. The previous owner told me she had used it, but I never had it replaced. I’m never going to make it to work for the early show. Maybe the nine o’ clock if I get a ride.”
Chad looked up to see if the anyone was nearby to help with the tire or getting Dani a ride, but they were deliciously alone. Deliciously? He thought. Did I just equate being alone with a crossdresser with deliciousness? He shrugged mentally. Maybe it was … time would tell.
“Shall we walk back to the Quik Mart to see about getting you a tow truck?” Chad asked.
Dani hooked her arm through his elbow and smiled. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”
Neither of them noticed the Islamorada Sheriff’s Ford Explorer pass them going south.
16
Dead Kayak
FD
LE Officer Ian Bass had been sent to the Florida Keys on what he thought was a very important case. Though he was an adequate officer, he was far from exemplary. He was the kind of person who didn’t get chosen first, nor did he get chosen last for things such as dodgeball teams, relay races, or trivia nights down at Hooters. Upon his release exam from the Chipola College Criminal Justice Training Center in Marianna, his trainer had written him a suitable recommendation saying, “Ian is a good officer. It would not hurt your team to have him on board.”
With such a flat referral, he was turned down for acceptance to the Miami, Jacksonville, Orlando, Tampa, Naples, Fort Lauderdale, Sarasota, Tallahassee, Pensacola, St. Petersburg, Clearwater, and Daytona Beach police departments. He was invited to apply in Vero Beach, but that was where the parents of his ex lived, so he’d politely declined. He finally applied for and got a position with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement as an OPS Office Automation Specialist. To this day, he is not certain what his exact duties were on that job. Mostly he fixed the computers that the other officers managed to screw up on a daily basis.
His big break came when no one—literally, not one officer—was available to investigate the trickle of rumors coming from the Keys about the mob. The current case involving the so-called Cowboy Killer was dominating the FDLE’s somewhat limited resources, so every top agent was on that case.
And though it wasn’t a stretch to imagine that there were dirty dealings, money laundering, and probably drug smuggling and perhaps even a touch of prostitution occurring in South Florida, there wasn’t enough credible information to send a top agent to check it out. Thus, Ian was sent to Islamorada when they posted an opening for an Assistant Deputy to the sheriff. In the two weeks he had been there, he had scoured the island for the mafia and had found … nothing. Just a bunch of fishermen, Navy personnel, tourists on their way farther south, and a vagrant or twelve. He had, however, picked up the sheriff’s dry-cleaning, kept the coffee machine filled with hot, black java, delivered the proper ratio of glazed, chocolate, and powdered donuts to the office on a daily basis, and brought the newspaper in before the daily afternoon storms.
As a result of this less-than-riveting time on the island, he’d been skeptical when the sheriff sent him out to investigate the possible Cowboy Killer sighting. He’d thought it was probably a kid on a weekend bender down from South Beach or maybe on the run from a challenging exam at FIU.
He spotted the pink Mercedes with a flat tire, leaning on the side of the road. Thankfully, the people involved had decided it was okay to move the car and the … golf cart to the side of the road. He flipped on the lights and pulled over in front of the disabled car. He walked to the driver’s side and rapped his knuckles on the glass. He stood there for a good twenty seconds before realizing there was no one inside. He circled around the car and peered into the passenger’s side. Empty.
He craned his neck to look over at the beefed up golf cart parked behind it. There was no one there either. He stepped around to examine the damage caused by the wreck, and besides the flat tire, he saw nothing. No dents, no dings, no nothing. He knelt down and pulled out his flashlight. Shining it all over the Mercedes bumper, he finally found a tiny, shallow gouge in the clear coat.
I had to come out here for this? He thought. He stood up and scanned the highway. Besides the random car racing along, slowing immediately upon seeing the lights, then cruising past picking up their speed again, there was no sign of the wreck participants. He shrugged and walked back to the Explorer. He flipped off the lights and radioed the station.
“Sheriff, there’s no one here,” he said. “And frankly, I don’t even think there’s enough damage to warrant a report. A little scratch in the paint, but it’ll probably buff right out.”
The crackle of static came back with Paul Puckett’s reply. “Any sign of the Cowboy Killer?”
Ian huffed. “No, sir. In fact, there’s not a soul around for miles.”
“Alright. Well, why don’t you cruise down to Marathon and back. Just see if you spot any hitchhikers wearing cowboy hats. Oh, and on your way back, I’ve got a pickup at Sudzy’s if you don’t mind.”
“Roger that,” Ian said with a sigh. So much for actual police work.
He put the Explorer in drive and eased on the highway. He hadn’t gone more than two miles when he reached the Islamorada Tennis Club. He’d passed it a thousand times and almost didn’t give it a second glance. But then he saw him. The Cowboy Killer.
He eased to a stop and watched through the mangroves along the front of the property as the man—wearing a straw cowboy hat, dark sunglasses, a white wife-beater tank top, khaki shorts, and flip flops—drove a tractor dragging a wide brush behind it. He made circles and figure eights all over the tennis courts. Having exactly no experience with a clay tennis court, Ian had no idea why someone would do this. Maybe the dude was on drugs or something, having a slow-speed joy ride on a stolen tractor.
He couldn’t see the man’s features well, so he decided to get out and have a closer look. Checking the battery life on his cell phone, he guessed if he could get within twenty feet or so of the man, he could click a few pics and send them up to the FDLE to verify the guy’s identity. The fence surrounding the tennis club was rusted and hardly sturdy, but there were no obvious breaks in it that he could crawl through.
He put both hands on the top of the fence and heaved. He pulled himself up until he was able to bend his upper body over. It was at that point that his belt—the one with the pepper spray, taser, flashlight, batteries, gloves, keys, multi-tool, window punch, and his Glock 22—got caught on the V-shaped barbs at the top of the fence. He tried to wriggle free, but only ended up gouging himself in a few tender locations. Rather than endure further injury, he unclasped the belt and was able to lift himself up and over, leaving it dangling from the fence. He pulled several times on it, but something was wedged tightly and he was afraid the noise of wrenching it free might alert the Cowboy Killer.
Though unremarkable as a law enforcement officer, Ian Bass was not an idiot. He pulled his Glock from the holster and carried it along with him. After four steps, he found himself knee-deep in the murky mud and the tangle of roots common to the Islamorada mangroves. He could barely make out the tennis courts through the jungle of vegetation, but he could still hear the tractor running. The closer he got, he realized he could also hear the man’s voice … singing.
The not-altogether-unpleasant strains of Sweet Home Alabama rose out of the swampy marsh. He trudged along, slowly and methodically. The water was now almost to his waist and he wondered what manner of creatures were circling him just below the surface. He wondered if the blood from the cuts on his thighs would draw animals in the dark water like it did with sharks in the ocean.
Without warning, his hands pushed through a thick curtain of foliage and he fell forward. He crashed into the fence surrounding the courts and was certain his cover was blown. He quickly dunked himself down into the water so that only his eyes were exposed. Luckily, he realized the man was facing away from him and had a thick pair of vintage headphones on—blasting Lynyrd Skynyrd's Greatest Hits, no doubt.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it up, waiting patiently for the man to turn back toward him. All he needed was a profile from each side and a straight on view of … he lost his train of thought as he clicked the power button to wake his phone. Nothing happened. As a trail of water dripped down the screen, he realized with horror that his phone was not waterproof. He tapped it against his palm, willing it to work. But still, the screen remained black. All of this for nothing, he thought, feeling the oozing mud sinking into his clothes.
He studied the man for a few minutes and from this distance, he was fairly sure that he’d found the Cowboy Killer. He was sure enough that he would radio Paul Puckett once he got back to the SUV and have him put a call in to the FDLE. Jurisdiction notwithstanding, this was a case for the big boys up on the mainland.
Turning aroun
d he heard a sound—a familiar sound to any that have lived near the Everglades for any length of time—that made his heart stop. Some call it a purr or a cough, most describe it as a chumpf. It is distinctive and clear and can mean only one thing—there’s a female gator nearby … and she’s in heat.
Watching the murk that rose up to his waist, he stilled himself, scanning for motion. Maybe he had imagined it. Nothing was moving and the water was dead calm … for about three seconds. And then, the massive muscled bulk of an enormous alligator thrust out of the water at him. He dove to the side and somehow squeezed between two larger trunks out of reach of the gator. The beast’s jaws slammed into the left trunk and she bit into it with a fury, screaming as she did.
Ian Bass filled his underwear with his own mud. And then he ran. The trudging, agonizingly slow lunges he made through the water couldn’t possibly be fast enough, but somehow, the monster hadn’t eaten him yet. He glanced over his shoulder to see the gator still attacking the tree trunk. Daggers of sharp flora stabbed at his arms and legs, one particularly sharp thorn from some ancient tree caught the side of his face and he was sure he’d need stitches in that one.
Just ahead, he saw something. The Explorer? Thank God! He surged forward and then breaking into a small clearing, realized it wasn’t the SUV. It was … a beach. He stepped out onto a slim, one-foot wide section of scraggly beach. The horror pounded in his brain. He’d gone the wrong way. He hadn’t made it to the road because he’d gotten turned around and trudged all the way across the island to a small, isolated beach.
There was jungle to the left and right, he couldn’t pass either way. He thought he might wait to signal a passing boat, however, the fishing capital of the world was suddenly deserted. No one, nothing but gently splashing waves for miles and miles. He realized the alligator’s furious noise had stopped.
He turned around and studied the dense jungle behind him. Nothing was moving. Maybe the gator had given up and gone away. It was at that point, he realized he was still holding his gun.
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