Ron Base - Sanibel Sunset Detective 01 - The Sanibel Sunset Detective (23 page)

Tree asked, “Where do you go to school, Marcello?”

“Heights,” he promptly answered.

“Heights what?”

“Heights Elementary School,” he said.

Tree started for the house. “Where are you going?” Freddie asked.

“To get my camera.”

“Camera? What do you need a camera for?”

“So I can take a photo of Marcello,” he said.

33

T
he yellow umbrellas and the picnic-type tables in front of Heights Elementary did a nice job of diverting attention from the institutional look of the building. Tree parked the Beetle in the lot at the side, still kicking himself for being so stupid. Of course, the kid would go to school, and of course that might be the key to who he was, and where he lived, and who his parents were.

Of course.

Inside, Tree’s footsteps echoed along empty hallways, the children behind closed doors hard at work becoming tomorrow’s leaders. Tree found the front office. A sign on the wall read, “Reaching new heights; climbing the ladder of success.”

“Our school motto.” The woman behind the counter removed fashionable eyeglasses for a better look at him. “What can I do for you, sir? Are you here about one of the students?”

Tree took out his digital camera, adjusted the LCD screen until it displayed his photo of Marcello. “His name’s Marcello O’Hara. I’m wondering if he’s a student here.”

The woman frowned at the photo. “I think you had better talk to our principal, Mrs. Salter.”

The woman disappeared through a door at the back of the office. A couple of minutes later, she re-emerged followed by an authoritative-looking black woman in a dark pantsuit.

“Good morning,” she said in the no-nonsense tone he had not heard since high school. “I’m Mrs. Salter.”

Tree introduced himself and showed her the photo of Marcello. Mrs. Salter studied it longer than the woman behind the counter, then she too frowned. “What did you say his name was?”

“Marcello O’Hara,” Tree said.

“That’s not the name we have him registered under. We know him as Gregory Scott. He hasn’t been at school for a couple of weeks now. We’ve been worried about him and have been trying to get in touch with his father.”

“Who is his father?”

“A Mr. Mel Scott.”

Tree couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “The police detective? Mel Scott?”

“I don’t know what Mr. Scott does for a living.”

“And what about his mother?”

“I don’t know that we have a mother for Gregory. A stepmother. Dara Rait. We haven’t been able to get hold of either Mr. Scott or his partner. I even drove over to Dara’s studio a few days ago.”

“On Estero?”

“Yes, but there was no one there.” Her eyes narrowed. “What is your interest in this, sir? Are you a member of the family?”

“I’m a detective,” he said. “I’ve been hired to find the boy’s mother.”

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Can’t you talk to Mr. Scott about this?”

“Yes, I certainly intend to,” Tree said.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Callister. Tree Callister.”

“Mr. Callister, let’s go into my office.” In the same voice that used to give him detentions.

He started backing away. “I’m late for another appointment, Mrs. Salter. I’ll be in touch.”

The school principal transformed into a drill sergeant whose orders weren’t being obeyed. “Sir!”

“Thanks for you help.”

She called to him again as he exited the office. He hurried along the empty hall, half expecting Mrs. Salter to tackle him, delighted to defy school authority after so many years.

____

Tree pulled into a Winn Dixie parking lot off Gladiolus and made a phone call.

“Detective Boone.”

“It’s Tree Callister.”

“I was just thinking about you.” Suggesting that was not good.

“I have to see you,” Tree said.

“You have to see me. Okay. Come into the office.”

“No,” Tree said. “Lighthouse Beach in forty minutes—and you come alone.”

Tree hung up before she could object. A white van, its side displaying a body outlined in black, pulled up beside him. Todd Jackson waved. Tree turned off his engine and got out of the car. Todd rolled down his window hitting Tree with a blast of Johnny Cash and cold air.

Todd said. “Everything all right?”

“I pulled in to make a phone call,” Tree said. “What are you up to?”

“Just coming back from a job in Bonita Springs. How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay.”

“What about Freddie? How’s she doing?”

“She’s okay, too.”

“You know, given the circumstances.”

“What circumstances are you talking about, Todd?”’

“Her walking out on that son-of-a-bitch, Ray.”

“What?”

“Shit, I don’t blame you for hitting the guy. Still, I guess it makes it pretty tough on Freddie. I mean you punch out someone’s boss, what do you do?”

“What exactly do you mean by walking out?”

Todd looked confused. “Well, quitting. Freddie quit her job. Didn’t she?”

“How do you know this?”

“I dunno, Tree. I mean how can you not know? Everybody knows. It’s all over town.”

____

Incoming clouds reduced the sun to a yellow haze. A few brave souls faced down the breakers rolling in on the beach. Three little boys in floppy sun hats knelt over a crumbling sandcastle. A large man with a small dog passed the lighthouse.

Tree recalled playing on this beach as a kid. A long time ago, but as near as yesterday. He slumped on the sand, staring at the gunmetal sea. You could view a lifetime from here, the years spreading across the water, everything clear and easily reviewed for shortcomings and failures. Where had he gone from here? What had he done? What did it mean when you found yourself right back at the same spot where you more or less started?

Except he was no longer starting anything. He was verging on old age if he wasn’t there already. The fact that he could lay out most of his life sitting here on this beach was testament to that.

Then it hit him. That’s where he had seen those letters. They were as close as his past. Right there in front of him, as the past tended to be these days.

He stood and checked his watch. Cee Jay Boone was late. He would have left except the detective chose that moment to emerge from the parking lot.

“Sorry,” she said, shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare for a better view of him. “Something at the office I had to take care of.”

She pulled a pack of Camels from her shoulder purse and shoved one into her mouth, turning against the wind coming off the gulf, cupping her hand over the cigarette while she used a Bic to light it.

“You look a little tense, Tree. Everything all right?”

Tree watched her inhale. “Why did I think you didn’t smoke?”

“For five years I didn’t,” she said. “I started again a week or so ago.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know. The pressure of police work? That’s as good an excuse as any, I guess. Maybe we’re both a little tense these days.”

“You never know about people,” he said.

“Are you just now learning that, Tree? You’re late to the party.”

“You could be right. For instance, I’m just learning about Mel Scott.”

While her right hand held the cigarette, she again employed her left hand as a sun shield.

“You know, Mel and Michelle Crowley.”

She lowered her hand and said, “What about them?”

“I saw them coming down a flight of stairs together. Mel was holding Marcello.”

Cee Jay didn’t say anything. She took a long drag on her cigarette.

“I was hoping for a snappier comeback,” he said.

“I’m trying to decide whether I can trust you.”

“Over at Heights Elementary where Marcello is registered as Gregory Scott, they think Mel is his father. Dara’s the stepmother, according to the principal. Interesting combination, don’t you think?”

“Interesting is not the word I would use when talking about Mel.”

“Yeah? What word should I use talking about you?”

“Trustworthy,” Cee Jay said.

“So then help me out.”

“Here’s the deal. Mel’s working this thing undercover,” Cee Jay said. “His relationship with Dara was part of that. She’s been raising Marcello the last couple of years. When it came to time register him at Heights, I guess for some reason they thought it better to use that name.”

“Mel’s working undercover? What for?”

“Dara was a body parts dealer, running a posse out of Mexico. These are the people Mel and I are after.”

“A body parts dealer? What the hell is that?”

Cee Jay flicked more ashes. “You need a kidney? Tissues? Organs? A heart, even. Dara could get it for you. Big business these days. Reno and Dara were partners. Mel says they weren’t getting along. Reno was out of control, attracting too much attention, including your friend at the FBI. He was afraid Dara might give him up. So he dealt with it the way Reno deals with problems—he cut off Dara’s head.”

“Then who killed Reno?”

Cee Jay dropped the remainder of the cigarette to the sand and ground it out with her heel.

“You’re Reno O’Hara. You’re a scumbag. You make enemies on both sides of the border. Lots of competition in the body parts business these days. The number of candidates is endless.”

The sun broke free of the low-hanging cloud cover drenching the sky in crimson. Then the clouds swallowed up the escaping light, and it grew darker.

“Looks like rain,” Cee Jay said. She shifted her eyes to Tree. “I’m being honest with you, Tree. Now I need you to be honest with me.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me where Marcello is.”

When Tree didn’t respond, Cee Jay said, “You have to trust me, Tree. Okay? Mel and I can protect Marcello from Mickey Crowley and her pals, but first we need to know where he is.”

“Give me until tomorrow.”

“You’re cutting it close here, Tree. Dwayne Crowley is out of prison. They are desperate to get hold of the boy. Better if you give him up now.”

“I know where he is, but it’s going to take me until tomorrow to get him,” Tree said.

“Tomorrow. No tricks.”

“You’re sure about Mel?”

“As sure as I am about anything,” Cee Jay said. “Can I count on you or not, Tree?”

“Looks like we’ll have to count on each other, Cee Jay.”

“Just be careful. Dwayne is a whole bunch worse than Reno when it comes to being a homicidal son of a bitch.”

Cee Jay headed back to the parking lot. He could see her trying to light another cigarette a moment before she disappeared. Out in the gulf, lightning stitched against the darkening clouds. The sky turned velvety black. Tree stood in the wind.

____

Freddie wasn’t in the house when he got home and neither was the boy. He remembered she was taking him over to the mall for a haircut. He went into the garage, to the cabinet in the corner Freddie had been after him to clean out—the battered repository for his messy past.

He searched his pockets until he found his reading glasses. He opened the top drawer and began flipping through file folders and old photo albums, the collected evidence of failed marriages and past lives, barely recognizable faces in fading Kodak colors. Yellowed newspaper clippings recounted nearly-forgotten stories—an obit of Richard Burton he barely remembered writing. A
Cosmopolitan
magazine profile about Michael Douglas, anonymously rewritten to make him sound like a giddy young thing, madly infatuated with Michael. Why had he held onto that?

He found a dog-eared photograph of him with actor William Hurt. Hurt looked as though he would rather be anywhere else in the world. A publicity shot of a bathing suit model he briefly dated. More photos. Ex-wives looking happier than they were; children looking sadder.

And finally, what he was searching for. The letter.

My love

I don’t know how it is two people who get along as well as we basically do, get into fights like this. Am I just being immature? I don’t know. I don’t know about us sometimes, except I do. When I think about us, I think about loving you, because, dear Tree, I do love you. We never discuss the subject, but there it is; I love you. Does that surprise you? It shouldn’t. We are together after all, even when we fight. I know you don’t want me away this weekend, but it is only for the weekend, and I will be thinking of you.

And how much I love you.

S

After all this time the words still haunted and stung. But he didn’t want to think about that. The words were beside the point now. He took the letter into his office, unlocked the top drawer of his desk, and took out the blue cards from Marcello’s mom. He laid them beside the letter from Savannah.