The Quick Adios (Times Six) (17 page)

She did the transaction and carried in two pizza flats. “I called the order while I was walking here. I had a feeling you wouldn’t want to go out.”

After we inhaled our first couple of slices, I asked about her B&E stakeout.

“We arrested a housewife from Sugarloaf, where the county also has a backlog of daytime break-ins. This babe was truly retro, trying to facilitate an old-fashioned diet pill habit. In fairness, I should give her credit for being clever. We caught her with twelve digital cameras, seven portable hard drives, a duffel full of iPods and iPhones and three laptops set up to create counterfeit prescription orders. She created bogus email accounts for a dozen doctors between here and Key Largo. As of five o’clock today, every drug store and grocery store pharmacy in the Keys will send follow-ups to doctors’ certified email addresses before dispensing drugs.”

“That should pull down some respect from Chicken Neck’s boys.”

“Remains to be seen,” she said. “Did you call your brother?”

I told her it had gone okay, and repeated Tim’s question about whether Darrin Marsh might have killed Teresa. “Before I forget,” I said, “didn’t you say that the security cameras at The Tideline were out of order when Marsh found the bodies?”

I caught her with her mouth full. Her eyes opened wider and she nodded.

“Carmen told me this evening that Darrin Marsh was an electrician before he became a cop. Here comes the other shoe. She went out with him once and never again. He didn’t threaten her, but he had a handgun stashed in an overhead console in his truck.”

“Lieutenant Trainor and I talked about Darrin today. He called him a ‘piece of work’ and made it sound ominously close to ‘piece of shit.’ Said he’d had to work with him for six years. Then he said, ‘Six years too long.’”

We finally quit eating and sat quietly, not talking for at least five minutes. I had no idea where Beth’s thoughts had gone until she said, “I love it when my job goes well, like it did today. I love it less when it gets complicated and jumbled up, but I don’t really blame you as much as I sound like I do.”

“You weed your way through the complications, lovely lady,” I said, “you’ll be proud again on the far side of the mess. Every so often you take risks. Calculated risks, I hope. You do it with your smarts and instinct, the payoff’s even sweeter.”

“Are you up for an early night of it?” said Beth. “I have to slide out early for two meetings at the county.”

“Yes,” I said. “Next question?”

“Care to dance?”

I loved the idea. “Tango colchón? Rumba reclinada?”

“Call it what you like,” she said, “but we’re going to be barefoot.”

We took turns making footprints on the ceiling.

B
eth Watkins’s phone alarm chirped before dawn. She turned on a light in the bath to find her clothing in three different rooms. I watched as she dressed in near-darkness then whispered a few words about being careful out there, and she kissed my forehead. The next time I opened my eyes the walls glowed with sunlight dappled by crotons in easy motion outside the window. The bedroom smelled great. The rest of the house smelled of day-old pizza. I opened windows.

More than allowing in fresh air, the open windows informed me that someone over on Eaton Street was using a gas-powered tree trimmer. The racket inspired me not to make coffee at home. I pulled on yesterday’s shorts, a fresh shirt and flip-flops and walked 200 yards to Azur on Grinnell for their “Morning After” breakfast.

As I approached the restaurant, a silver BMW X3 wagon backed out of a space near the entrance. The driver was E. Carlton Gamble, an attorney whom I had met several times over the years. His passenger was Robert Fonteneau, Canadian estate rep and pro yakker. Fonteneau fixed his eyes on me, said something to Gamble and pointed. I wondered whether Fonteneau knew of Caldwell’s business history—or if he was part of it. At least he had taken my advice on finding an established lawyer.

To my surprise, Gamble pulled back into the parking slot, lowered the windows on both front doors and introduced me to Fonteneau.

“Bob says you shared a cab last evening,” said Gamble. “I appreciate the advice you gave him regarding representation.”

“And I thank you for your friendly welcome to the island,” said Fonteneau. “It was a positive way to begin a mournful duty.”

“That’s the way Alex is,” said Gamble. “Maybe that’s why he dates one of the most lovely women in Key West, city detective Beth Watkins.”

“I look forward to meeting her,” said Fonteneau, “and seeing you again soon.”

Even better than fruit and granola was the quiet restaurant’s solitude. My cell was muted. For the first time in three days, no one could find me. I lingered over coffee and a side-order croissant, and thought about how I might spend the fresh cash in my pocket and the additional money if Beeson honored my expense invoice. Maybe take Beth to the British Virgins for a week of nothing but sleep and air. I read the
Citizen
headline piece about the sting-arrest of a woman who was linked to a dozen breaking-and-entering complaints. She had been tagged “Scratchity Sue” by Stock Island neighbors who knew of her drug habit. Lieutenant Pete Trainor received credit for the bust, an obvious goodwill gesture on Beth Watkins’s part. I didn’t recognize the name of the KWPD’s “interim” spokesperson—Teresa Barga’s replacement.

On the verge of ordering a breakfast beer and blowing off the whole morning, I paid up and hiked back to the lane. A weather-worn bicycle leaning against the screen door warned me. Dubbie Tanner stood inside my porch door. He wore a
SCRUB CLUB
ball cap and a faded plaid madras sport shirt. He sipped from a can wrapped in a small brown paper bag.

“I like hosting parties at my house,” I said. “I never have to drive home through cop stops and roadblocks. What’s up?”

“Ocilla Ramirez,” he said. “Your call last evening at cocktail hour…” He raised his beer then continued. “You asked that we delay Internet and hit the streets, right?”

I nodded, fearful that the Aristocrats had run afoul of Sheriff Liska’s observers.

“Fecko and I were a step ahead of you. We drove out to Big Coppitt at lunchtime yesterday. I gotta say, it’s getting cute out there. Bunch of townhouses alongside the highway, pastel all to hell like Necco Wafers.”

“Whoa,” I said. “Didn’t we already decide that Ocilla sub-leases?”

“Right, we guessed… correctly. But my associate and I speculated, as private eyes will do, that it couldn’t hurt to look around.”

“Ignoring the sheriff’s office warning to keep clear of this woman…”

“We checked for surveillance from a block away,” said Wiley.

“But on Big Coppitt?” I said. “Even the sheriff can afford to pay a homeowner to mount a camera in the bushes. They could be watching Ocilla’s property around the clock.”

Dubbie agreed. “We thought of that after the fact,” he said. “That’s part two of the story.”

“Out of curiosity,” I said, “what color is Ocilla’s house on Big Coppitt?”

He didn’t have to think about it. “Stale yellow jelly bean.”

“Gotcha.”

“Continuing here,” said Tanner, “we went to her so-called address and eagle-eye recognized a food thief. In his tough times Fecko used to buy stolen pork chops from the guy.”

“Wiley was a food fence?”

“No, he bought them for himself,” said Dubbie. “Even winos have to eat. But don’t ask about his Night Train marinade.”

“What did this thief have to say?”

“He was the actual tenant’s cousin. He washes dishes for a living, in four different restaurants. The actual tenant’s brother works in five other kitchens. They’re all from Nicaragua, not Guatemala, and nine family members share the house.”

“Where’s this going?” I said.

“Immigration looks hard at restaurants, so kitchens stick to hiring legals for their shit work. People with up-to-date papers, Social Security numbers, people they can put on the books. Once these people are hired, the kitchen never sees them again. But someone always shows up for work. Always. It’s the most dependable labor on the island.”

“The jobs are sub-leased?” I said.

“Our actual tenant on Crawford has his green card, or white, whatever it takes to please Immigration. He’s the actual employee, too. He takes his cut across the board, gets a paycheck, pays taxes, and pays his relatives in cash. He’s the one paying the utility bill.”

For the second day in a row I felt like I was being schooled, reintroduced to Key West. “And the guys without documents sell pork chops clipped from restaurants?”

“Their jockstrap discount,”said Tanner.

Not a pretty picture. “Does this put us closer to Ocilla?” I said.

“Wiley called the cousin to the car, slipped him ten and asked in Spanish how to find the landlady. Wiley speaks the language like a champ. Because of that, we got an address on Seidenberg which brings us to Chapter Two.”

“Call it what you want,” I said. “But we keep away from Seidenberg.”

“We know that now,” said Tanner. “We bum-cruised the block and saw the dudes with fresh sunburns posing as cable repair techs. Wiley thinks they were pretending to replace a power supply on a repeater. But they were really swapping out the video transmitter.”

“So that’s where they have their twenty-four-seven surveillance,” I said.

“Either way,” added Tanner. “Wiley spotted their safety infractions and improper tools. There was an olive-green Honda Element wedged into the yard. It looked like there were broomsticks inside its back windows. We kept on rolling.”

“A handy work vehicle,” I said.

“And there’s one last thing,” he said. “A blip or two in her social life. I’m not sure they pertain to matters at hand.”

“Blips tell tales,” I said.

“She might be a one-woman escort service.” Tanner drank from his beer. “This comes from a bartender at the Casa Marina who shall remain nameless. Except her name is Holly and she happens to drink at the Bottle Cap. Anyway, Holly went home one night last year with a wealthy local man who has since gotten married to a shrew from Dallas. He owns a well-disguised mini-mansion on Riviera. Holly and wealthy man were into a robust Round Two the next morning when his housekeeper, Ocilla Ramirez, walked into the bedroom. Ocilla made a few jealous remarks, so the guy invited her to join in. That’s how Holly came to know Ocilla.”

“Not the first three-way on the island,” I said.

“It was a first for Holly, but to quote: ‘I wasn’t going to tell her to stop.’ A couple of months later Holly saw Ocilla with an elderly tourist fellow at the Casa, doing the leg rub and chug-a-lug routine. Ocilla either didn’t recognize or pretended not to know Holly. The drunk pair left together, headed for the elevator. Couple of months after that, the same routine, in the Casa Marina bar, with a middle-aged woman.”

“That’s a significant blip,” I said.

“Not really,” said Tanner. “Not on this island. But Ocilla sounds like she’d do a snake with its lack of ears no problem.”

“How do you stumble into these tidbits, people like Holly?”

Dubbie scowled as if he disliked analyzing the process. “You’ve taken pictures for so many years, you know this town, right?”

“I thought I knew it well. I guess I do, visually.”

“You know about morning and evening light, blue or cloudy skies, cheerful and depressing colors. It’s all in the light and shadows.”

“Okay,” I said. “It’s second-nature to me now, but that’s about right.”

“While you master the scenery,” said Dubbie, “I do the social end, the highlights and the dark side, especially the shadows. I understand the street scene and what happens in parked vans and behind frosted jalousie windows. It’s part of the reason Wiley and I are going to succeed.”

“May I ask how you mastered your expertise?” I said.

Dubbie shook his head. “Nope, you can’t. For a long time I had to live by my wits. That’s all I’m going to say. How was your fancy breakfast?”

I asked by raising my eyebrows.

“I figured you’d gone to 5 Brothers for con leche. Worth the walk to find out.” He lifted his beer-in-a-bag. “You weren’t there, I played the possibilities and looked in a window at Azur.”

“One last thing,” I said. “Have Wiley look around for five more names, whatever he can find. First off, Justin Beeson and the late Amanda Beeson out of Sarasota. The other three share the last name Timber, what you yell when you chop a tree. Their first names are Anya, Sonya and Tonya.” I spelled all three. “To relieve you of undue confusion, Anya and Tonya are the same person.”

“On it, boss,” said Tanner.

He read my face.

“You are ‘boss’ no longer.” He crushed his beer can in his hand. “And, I suppose, ‘sir’ is forbidden, too.”

Ten minutes later my cell rang. Chicken Neck Liska, Monroe County Sheriff.

“When you’re out this way,” he said, “do me a favor. Drop by my office for a minute.”

“Stock Island isn’t one of my regular routes.”

“You never know,” he said. “Lunch at Hogfish, yesterday about this time. Drinks and beers, whooping it up, living your carefree life. Anything’s possible. If you could make it today, all the better. In, say, forty minutes.” He hung up.

A paperless summons. A cheap notice that he could find me, or I couldn’t hide, anywhere in his county. I decided to ride the Triumph. I was in no hurry.

He called back. “All right, El Siboney, but you buy.”

“And your healthy diet?”

“Oh, shit,” he said. “Make it the salad aisle at Publix.”

“You win. El Siboney in fifteen.”

We long for the days when El Siboney on Catherine was a quick, cheap meal for locals. The place has “gone snowbird,” but the food is still close enough to true Cuban fare to please everyone. I might need a yardstick to confirm this, but El Siboney could well be the Cuban-American restaurant nearest Havana. If you ever see them use that line for an ad slogan, you will know it came from the addled mind of Rutledge.

I got there early enough to avoid waiting in line. I asked for a back room table so Liska wouldn’t have to schmooze every bubba who came through the door. The place smelled of fish, plantains and grilled pork chops. It was packed with large tourists in golf clothes. I ordered espresso and sangria for each of us and asked the server to keep an eye out for “
El Jefe
.”