by Karl Tutt
Chapter 16
I asked Sunny about Tracy.
“Nice kid, really,” she said, “it isn’t what we thought. She is sort of an unofficial hostess on the HAT. Actually kind of a paid employee. She’s twenty-two, studied design in Savannah at SSAD, but didn’t graduate. She helps Harry with the boat. Does some odd jobs, runs some errands. He pays her in cash. It sounded okay. I liked her.”
“At least Harry’s not into jail bait this week.”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure about you. You’d better watch it, Tiger.”
I said yes m’am in the sweetest tones I could manage.
Sweaty bodies were exploding out of the back door at the Hog’s Breath Saloon. Rum Runners was pumping out rock’n’roll. There was a huge bouncer with Pat Riley hair and a dragon tattoo clawing at his shoulder. He was looking grim and trying to keep the tourists from falling onto the sidewalk. Every other one of them had Ernest Hemmingway or Jimmy Buffett emblazoned on the chest.
The gift shops and t-shirt joints were lit up like Christmas, hoping to entice some beer soaked bodies with thin resistance and fat credit lines on their Visas. The sidewalks were elbow to elbow. Mom and Pop grinning through the annual week’s vacation; lovers, both straight and gay holding hands and other things; boozed up yuppies trying hard to make jackasses of themselves; and bored teeny boppers trying to be cool. It was any night on Duval Street. A people watchers Garden of Eden with plenty of snakes.
We turned left on Caroline and made for Land’s End. The noise coming out of Sloppy Joe’s sounded like a train wreck. When we got to Turtle Kraals, I suggested a little nitecap. Sunny nodded. It was crowded but we found a couple of stools at the bar and ordered Irish coffee. A lone guitarist sat in the corner begging his girl to “Please come to Boston in the Springtime.” Without warning there was a monstrous clap of thunder and the rain began to hammer the tin roof. We watched the torrents pour in between the seams that separated the bar from the dining area. Soon there was a healthy stream of water running through the length of the building like a swollen creek. Nobody seemed to mind.
“Beautiful boat,” I said, “if you can call it a boat. More like a floating palace. If Tracy did the interior, she sure did a nice job. Harry’s taste can’t be that good.”
“Agreed. But she damned sure blew it on the bedspread in the master stateroom. Those multi-colored squares and circles remind me of the nightmares I have after a large thick-crust meat lover’s pizza.”
I silently scolded myself for almost asking if she ate the whole thing. She went on.
“I’ll tell you what Harry is good at. Photography. I didn’t know he could handle a camera like that. The stuff on the bulkheads in the staterooms was impressive. Tracy said he’d done shoots for some major magazines. High fashion. VOGUE, MADEMOISELLE, GENTLEMEN’S QUARTERLY. She said he still has some serious contacts in the industry.”
“I didn’t know all of that stuff was Harry’s. I’ll take a closer look next time. Oh, I did get the story on HAT TRICK.”
I explained how dear old Uncle Mort loved those Red Wings. Her reaction was the same as mine, but now we could laugh out loud. At least someone was living right.
We decided it had been fun overall. Neither of us missed Cy Watts. I thought Sunny was coming back to KAMALA, but she changed her mind. She had emails to catch up on, laundry to do. I offered to walk her home, but she insisted she was okay. It isn’t that far and despite the madness, Key West is a pretty safe place to walk after dark as long as you avoid the rough neighborhoods. In the Conch Republic people are either too laid back or having too much fun to mug you.
Chapter 17
When I got back to the boat, there was a note taped to the lifeline. I recognized Chris’s scribbling on a scrap of notebook paper. “Need to see you. Quick.” I started to go over to FOXES’ LAIR, but it was late and I was tired. Anyway, Chris had a flair for the dramatic. Sometimes it was entertaining, but mostly it was downright irritating. With him it’s always a crisis. Too many for me. Some people like to star in their own soap operas. I guess it injects meaning and excitement into otherwise dull lives. Me, I like it kind of quiet.
Chris would have to wait. The next morning would do.
I refilled my coffee mug and started down to Chris’s boat. When I got there all of the ports were battened and the teak hatch boards closed off the companionway. There was a bronze padlock through the hasp securing them in place. It was odd. No one at Land’s End locked their boats unless they expected to gone for a while. I decided to walk over to the fuel dock.
Jenny, our dock master, was lounging in a rocking chair with a broken arm, a raggedy straw hat down over her eyes. Her head was thrown back against the side of the fuel shack and her spindly legs propped up on an empty bucket. She looks like a reject from the bag ladies’ union. But if it happens at Land’s End, she knows about it and she’ll share every detail. All you have to do is ask.
“I seen him alright. The cops come and arrested him right early. They was on his boat for about an hour. Searchin’ would be my guess. They took him off. No cuffs, but I ain’t thinkin’ he volunteered to be the crossing guard at the elementary school.”
I asked her if she knew why.
“Reckon it had something to do with the kid’s murder.”
I thanked her. She touched the brim of the old hat, gave me a courtly nod, and sank back into the chair. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I figured my next stop was the police station. It was a short walk to the corner of Angela and Simonton. Just inside the door, a heavy set black woman was sitting in a glass booth at a counter shuffling papers. She smiled and asked if she could help.
“Detective Beamon?”
She picked up the phone, punched a couple of number, and mumbled something. Then she smiled again and pointed a finger toward the hallway on the left. The corridor was lined with empty gray cubicles. Wanted posters and notices covered every inch of each of the partitions. Frank’s office was at the top of a short flight of stairs. There was a desk for a secretary, but I guess she was out. I knocked on the door and heard a smooth voice say, “Come in.”
“Morning, T.K. Can’t say I’m surprised to see you. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”
“He is, Frank. What’s going on?”
“He’s not here now, but we detained him in connection with the murder of Alexis Lavalier. Got a tip. Eyewitness saw him with her near the scene around the time the crime was committed. Got a search warrant. Found some interesting things on board. Filet knife with traces of blood on it. Some prescription drugs. An old NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC with an article on voodoo. Some pictures on his cell phone. A few things on his computer and a manila folder with some more photos. Not enough to hold him, but it does make him a person of interest.”
“What does Chris say?”
“About what you’d expect.”
He studied me for a moment, gauging my reactions.
“Hell, Frank. There were probably a hundred people near the scene of the crime at that time of night. Filet knife? Could be fish blood or anything else. Magazine? Computer? Doesn’t sound like that much to me. And what about a motive?”
“We think we have one. Give us a little credit, T.K. We didn’t roust him for nothing. We’re running everything through the lab. We already know that not all of the blood on the sheet came from the child or that damned chicken. Foster’s blood type matches the blood we found. He’s got a couple of scratches on his hand. Could have been made by fingernails. Figure a normal healing rate, they time out near the night of the murder. We are using DNA to try for a positive ID. It will take a few days. Might not be conclusive, but we’re on it.”
“So what’s this business about the folder with the photos?”
“Sorry, T.K. I’ve already told you more than I should. I’m not at liberty to discuss that in any detail at this time. Anyway, no formal charges, yet. We let him go. Just wanted to take a look, ask a few questions It’s not even a real arrest. You’re a frie
nd of his. Ask him.”
“Frank, I’ve known Chris Foster since I was up in the Carolinas. He drinks too much sometimes, but there’s nothing mean about him. He’s a Pied Piper with kids. They love him.”
The chair creaked as he leaned back. He placed his elbows on the arms, put his hands together and made a steeple with his fingers. He looked at me like he had a bad case of heartburn.
“You don’t want to hear it, T.K. Yeah, they love him. Maybe a little too much. It might interest you to know that your “Piper” was charged with statutory rape in Charlotte in 2003. Little girl, twelve years old. The case never went to trial. She recanted her original testimony. I talked to the detective in charge of the investigation. They had him. But the kid wasn’t hurt physically. You usually can’t withdraw charges in a case like that, but her parents had some juice. They apparently decided it was publicity they could do without. When you talk to your Boy Scout, ask him about it.”
My chair had suddenly gotten very hard. Chris and I talked about damned near everything, but I‘d never heard anything about a rape charge. I could do nothing but keep my mouth shut.
I felt like I knew Chris as well as I knew myself, but we all hide things inside ourselves. It’s the dark within us, and it’s as old as the human race. The best we can do is keep it under control for as long as possible. Maybe Chris hadn’t.
There was no reason to stay. I thanked Beamon and left.
Chapter 18
When I got back to Land’s End, I left a note on FOXES’ LAIR that I’d be on KAMALA all afternoon. Just after lunch I saw him coming down the dock, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His gait was hurried and he kept twisting his head from side to side like he was expecting a sniper to squeeze off a round in his direction any minute. I motioned him aboard. He stubbed the butt out on the dock and stuffed it in his pocket. Then we went below.
“Those guys are all over me, T.K. I haven’t done anything. I guess everyone in Key West knows the cops busted me this morning.”
“Probably so, but it’s done. I talked to Beamon. He doesn’t think you’re guilty,” I lied,“ he called it a routine detainment. Apparently they had a witness place you near the crime scene on the night of the murder.”
“Yeah, me and the other half of the drunks in Key West. I was there, but I went a lot of places. You know me, I was scouting the eligible ladies. I just wish it had been one in particular. My luck was bad that night. I did talk to one girl in a bar for a long time, but I hardly remember what she looked like. Went home alone. I don’t have an alibi that anyone can confirm.”
“What about the stuff they found on the boat?”
He rolled his eyes and raised his palms heavenward.
“Oh yeah, the stuff. A filet knife with blood on it. Big shock. What do you usually find on a filet knife, silly putty? Blood might be mine, might belong to that big Bonito I hooked last week. Some painkillers? I have the prescriptions. And the magazine. So I’m into nature. My sister gave me the subscription last year for Christmas. Hell, I didn’t even read that issue yet. I didn’t know there was an article on voodoo. Yeah, there’s porn on my computer and pictures of some drunk chicks on my cell. And now I’m a murder suspect.”
I stared at him for a moment. He looked like the Chris I knew, but I had to ask him.
“Beamon told me about the thing in Charlotte.”
“The sonovabitch. I ought to have him in court, but it’s all public record these days. I should have known they’d get that anyway. But I’m sorry you had to find out. Makes me look pretty bad, doesn’t it?”
“Come on, Chris. Tell me why it shouldn’t.”
“Hell, it was dark in there. I was at that little beer joint near the lake. Had a few drinks. Too many, I guess. She looked pretty damned good in all that makeup. Heels, jeans that looked like they’d been painted on, tank top, no bra. Jesus, T.K., I took her for at least twenty. When we started talking I knew she was young, but still I figured eighteen or so. I had a feeling I should leave her alone.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know. She kept coming on to me. Leaning over to show me her tits, putting her hand on my knee. Stuff like that. I just caved. What the hell, she was in this bar; she ought to know how to take care of herself. Okay, so I blew it. But I swear I didn’t force her to do anything. Used a condom and everything.”
He grew silent, then twisted his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger. He shook his head and went on.
“Guess she got home too late. Mommy and Daddy were raising hell. She needed a story. Did the tears and named nasty old Chris. The evil Svengali who had suckered their poor, innocent, virgin child into a bed of sin. I wish I could tell you it didn’t happen. But I can’t. I don’t know what else to say. Anyway the cops picked me up. Lots of questions. This one detective wanted to burn me real bad. But it became pretty clear what actually happened. They dropped the whole damned thing. I found out later that wasn’t the first time Daddy’s little sweetheart had pulled some crap like that. Wrong place, wrong time, man.”
He dropped his head into his hands. His fingers began to clench and his hands become fists. His eyes grew moist. He looked up at me.
“Alexis. She was like a little sister to me. I would’ve crushed anyone who tried to hurt her. We were buddies. I wouldn’t touch her. You’ve got to tell that to Billy and Monique. They’ll believe you, T.K. It wasn’t me. We’ve been friends a long time. You know me, T.K. Tell them. Tell them.”
I put my hand on his shoulder.
“Okay, Chris. I will. I’ll talk to them. Tonight if I can. But you’ve got to do something for me. Be straight with Beamon. You want him on your side. He can help you or bury you. I don’t believe he’s out to get you. It’s not some kind of a witch hunt. He wants the killer.”
He nodded and got up slowly. But there was one more question.
“Beamon said something about a manila folder with some photos in it. Said they found them on your boat. What’s that all about?’
He looked away for a moment and ran his tongue over his teeth.
“Hell if I know. They tore the boat apart. They probably found stuff I didn’t even know I had. I don’t know anything about manila folders with mysterious photos.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” He looked away as he spoke.
“Okay, I must have misunderstood him. Go back to the FOXES’ LAIR. I got some things to do. I’ll check with you after I talk to Billy and Monique.”
He lit a cigarette and left KAMALA. I watched him hurry down the dock.
Chris was right. We had been friends for a long time. He was fond of the ladies, but I knew lots of guys who shared that diversion. He’d had a problem with the booze when I first met him, but in the last year he’d made a serious effort to control it. It hadn’t gone completely away, but he was better. I thought about what I’d said to Beamon. There really wasn’t anything mean in Chris.
It couldn’t be him, but the thing in Charlotte bothered me. I was surprised he hadn’t told me in some whiskey-laced confessional. It had to be something he wanted to forget. I also knew I was only getting his version of what happened. That was no surprise, either.
People tell you what they want you to know. And they tell it to make you think what they want you to think. It’s a game and the rules are dictated by self-preservation. Only a fool expects anything else. I wanted to believe him and the story made sense.
There are too many little girls out there trying to be women. They struggle to live up to the hype they see on Jersey Shore or the Kardashians. Phony ID’s, too much make-up, tight clothes, and things pulsing inside them that they don’t understand. They want to grow up overnight and live the lives they’ve been promised by MTV and People Magazine. For most of us, that’s not life. Too bad they can’t learn it before they’ve lost something they can never regain.
Chapter 19
I still didn’t understand the folder with the photos. There was no hesitatio
n in Frank’s voice when he mentioned them. The cops can’t take things in a search without cataloguing them and giving the owner a receipt. Chris knew about it and didn’t want to admit it or maybe the police were playing with the rules. Knowing Beamon, I didn’t think so.
I thought about Billy and Monique, what they must be going through. I’d promised Chris I would talk to them. I didn’t want to, but I needed to do it quickly. There was too much menace in Billy’s voice when he told me to find the killer and he would “take care of the rest”. Besides, the last few days had been crammed with things I didn’t want to do. I would talk to them even if it was to tell them I wasn’t catching any ghosts.
Monique had gone back to work. I dialed the shop to find out when I could come by their home. She answered with a voice out of a vacuum. She was polite and seemed coherent, but I figured she was still on valium or something. She told me she got off at six and they would be expecting me.
I ran through a mental list of things I could say to them. First, I’d tell them Chris didn’t do it. That was the easy part. But what else would I say? That I’d found nothing? That I couldn’t help? That the whole thing was one dead end?
I pulled out the Evan Williams and poured a healthy shot. A couple of ice cubes and a little water made the medicine. It had a thick, sweet smell. I swirled it in my glass, then took a long swallow. I tried to hear the right words in my mind, but they wouldn’t come. It was all hollow and starved.
About 5:30 I showered, shaved, and put on a clean shirt. It wasn’t far to their house, but my legs grew heavy as I walked.
Billy met me at the door. Monique was sitting on a tattered sofa in the small living room. She stared at the frayed edge of the carpet. Her hands were locked in her lap and she rocked gently on the threadbare cushion. Her eyes were driven back into her head, but they were dry. She looked older than she had at the funeral, but even in the depths of mourning she had that dark beauty that was mirrored in Alexis.
There was a plaster crucifix with a bleeding Christ hanging on the back wall. A framed photo of the child sat on the coffee table. A black rosary was draped over it. Nothing was new, but the place was clean and neat. The smell of simmering red beans and rice wafted out of the kitchen.