The Quick Adios (Times Six) (2 page)

“Your yard smells like fruit blossoms,” said Wiley Fecko.

I looked out, saw no blossoming trees, but had to agree about the scent. “You guys are all about details.”

“It’s our calling, such details,” said Tanner. “Mister Fecko, here, is my new senior partner.”

I checked out Wiley’s wino duds. “The word ‘senior’ works fine,” I said, “but am I supposed to match the word ‘calling’ to either of you?”

“We’ve made a huge change in our lives,”said Dubbie. “We’re the co-managers of a limited liability corporation. Your own State of Florida has certified us to be private investigators.”

“And now you two are on your way to a Chamber of Commerce meeting?”

“We live inside our camouflage,” said Fecko, brushing his shirt front. “To the town’s population, we’re two more street persons in a town long known to harbor society’s fringe elements. We’re the scum that everyone ignores. They look right through us, deny our existence and hope we won’t get in their faces. Who would suspect us of doing surveillance and following people?”

“Your corporation has a name?” I said.

Fecko raised his coffee on high. “Southernmost Aristocratic Investigations.”

“The Aristocrats,” said Tanner. “Gnarly but clean is our motto.”

My cell phone buzzed. The window identified Marnie Dunwoody.

I took the call. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Two things Alex, and I have to talk fast. Have we got a good connection?”

“You sound fine to me.”

“Okay,” said Marnie. “I’m standing right outside The Tideline at the north corner of Bertha and Atlantic. My camera’s lens is stuck open and the shutter won’t click. I need exterior pictures for this article but the newspaper’s regular salaried guys are doing photo ops at the Naval Air Station and a Tourist Development thing.”

“You need to borrow one of my point-and-shoots?” I said.

“Have you got an extra?”

“I have my big Nikon and two pocket-sized Canons.”

“I need to borrow one, yes,” she said, “but I need you to press the button on my behalf, too. I’ve got fifteen things to do, and they want me inside now. I promise not to bring your name into it. Get me some outside images and I’ll give my name for the photo credit.”

“What’s the second thing?”

“I talked to a building resident and got this far. Greg and a slightly older woman were caretakers for absentee owners. At least two condos in this building and more homes on the island. They showed up regularly, paid household bills, checked the air conditioning filter, whatever maintenance people do. I need the woman’s name and the name of their business. All that is shit I have to do and it’s not the second thing.”

“I’m with you so far,” I said. “What’s the…”

“They haven’t told me squat, but this might be larger than they’re letting on. Beth has three city scene techs with her plus a county detective with an audio bud in one ear. They’re keeping a lid on what they’re divulging, and I have yet to see another reporter. If this story goes big, Alex, I need it. I can sell it to the online wire services and update my resumé.”

“Okay,” I said. “You stay there and keep digging. I will see you in fifteen and give you a camera with a charged battery and an empty card. After I give it to you, ignore me. I’ll make you digital copies of everything I get, unless it’s classified as evidence. I think I can find someone to help you with the caretakers’ names and their business license, if there is one.”

“Ka-ching,” whispered Tanner.

Fecko victory-pumped his arm.

“Hug,” said Marnie. “And a dinner before the weekend, Alex.”

“First one’s free,” said Dubbie, before I shut off my phone.

The two men looked rational and determined. It might work, I thought, with a certain wonder. I hoped it would not become regret.

“You’ve got three hours max to deliver,” I said.

“Our first deadline.” Fecko shook his coffee cup hoping for a last ounce. “I have to take this as a good sign.”

“Unless it bites us in the ass,” said Dubbie. “If we go hunting background on a murder victim, won’t the cops come back on us?”

Fecko smiled. “Don’t sweat that, partner. I’ve got skills in dealing with cops.”

I explained Marnie’s dilemma, gave them our scant details and gave Tanner fifty bucks for “expenses.” They gave me their cell numbers, pledged themselves to secrecy and went away. With their concept and preparations, The Aristocrats stood a chance.

I had an odd, illogical feeling that they would deliver. At least for a while.

Dressing down to blend into the scenery was fine for The Aristocrats, but I went inside and changed my shirt. Even in Key West, looking respectable has a positive effect on crime scene access. I installed fresh batteries and memory cards, and put back-ups for each of those plus my digital recorder into my big camera bag. Behind my cottage, I locked the bicycle in favor of the quicker ride to the island’s south side.

My ‘70 Triumph Bonneville lives in a backyard shed custom-built to protect it from storms, floods and lowlife. I rolled it around front to find a FedEx van stopped in the lane. The driver waved an envelope at me. I set the stand and walked over to accept a large, flat packet from Sarasota. I didn’t recognize the sender’s name.

Inside the packet was a heavy manila envelope labeled, “Quote Request. Prepared for Alex Rutledge Photography, Key West, Florida.” I took it as a bright launch of the year for my one-man enterprise. I didn’t have time to read it just then. I reopened my house, tossed the proposal on a chair and locked up.

Driving out of the lane, I speculated on Marnie’s warning about the scene being bigger than they were letting on. Right away I came up with three big ideas. A tie-in to other murders, local or elsewhere; dead famous visitors; or dead wealthy locals.

My mind was open, but my curiosity was under control.

It was not my gig, my problem or my style.

I
crossed Garrison Bight Bridge stuck behind three snowbirds on fume-spewing rental mopeds. Their pace past Houseboat Row let me slow my brain and collect my thoughts. Crime scene rules that applied to me, the civilian with connections, ranged from heavy-handed to loose and trusting. It depended on the presence of news media and which cops I dealt with. I knew not to foul evidence or contaminate a scene. I always knocked out quality work, but I refused to be upset the few times the cops asked me to leave. They had their reasons, and I had already swapped my ego for their fee. This time I was out to help two close friends at The Tideline condo. I would face disparate tasks on arrival, but I didn’t want to disappoint or embarrass either one by being shown the door.

Beth Watkins was after clues, hard evidence and respect from her fellow officers. Marnie Dunwoody, to syndicate her news article, needed photos that told of urgency and human suffering. Images to pitch tragedy and horror to the masses, but having little to do with forensics. My twin objectives made me wish that I was barefoot back on my porch, reviewing the elegant quote request from Sarasota, counting in advance the welcome boost to my bank account. Slugging down the beer that I had given away to Dubbie Tanner. But I had promised two friends…

The mopeds turned left on Roosevelt, and I ran down First, trying to dream up fly-on-the-wall vantage points for Marnie’s establishing shots. She could use views of the condo exterior, cops in uniform, their vehicles, and crowd control. I didn’t need the outside officers to take me for a gawker with YouTube aspirations. And I had to get inside quickly to help Beth Watkins fend off the sheriff’s investigators and hang on to her case.

Moments later I was no one’s white knight. On the only direct route between downtown and the airport, a green and white Crown Vic straddled the centerline of Bertha Street next to the Shanna Key Irish Pub. Why was a county vehicle working inside city limits? Why was there a roadblock for an incident three blocks away, inside a building?

“…bigger than they’re letting on.”

I foresaw no access at all.

Luck came through, for the moment. I recognized Chris Ericson, who knew that I had worked for his boss, Sheriff Liska, and for several detectives at the city. He also knew of my personal link to Beth Watkins. Like so many law officers, Deputy Ericson came to the job size large. Big neck, huge forearms, strong hands. In his Kevlar vest he looked like a sculpted robot with a tight-leash attitude. Scowling, his arms crossed, his butt pressed to the rear fender, he was a perfect roadblock. I stopped next to his cruiser’s rear bumper with my Triumph pointed toward the crime scene. I switched off the motor and removed my helmet.

“I got a call twenty minutes ago,” I said, “Do I need a wrist band?”

“You might be out of a pay check,” said Ericson.

“Did the city tell you to turn me around?”

He shook his head. “Ten minutes ago Sheriff Liska secured everything inside a five-block radius.”

“Well, shit,” I said, thinking more about Marnie losing her scoop than my being out a pay check.

“Look, Rutledge,” said Deputy Ericson. “I’m just the messenger.”

“How about residents of the area?”

“Let me guess,” he said. “You live on Josephine.”

“Let’s keep going with that.”

“You’re going straight home with medicine for a sick child.”

I nodded my acceptance of his little blue lie. “I was told a double murder. Why all the security?”

“They didn’t share their reasons,” said Ericson, “but it’s probably just crowd control. From what the office told me, it’s your typical drunk tourist bang-bang kind of deal.”

“I got that, too,” I said. “As if Key West has anything typical.”

“Water puddles everywhere, that’s typical,” he said. “Plus, in this town, sooner or later, everyone fucks up.” He waved to direct a motorist down Flagler then turned back to me. “I mean everyone. Minor or major, local or visitor. You’re going straight to a private home?”

“Exactly what I had in mind.”

We both heard my cell phone buzz. I glanced down at my vibrating pocket.

“That’s your pretty boss looking for you,” said the deputy. “Don’t piss her off by dawdling. She might run over your foot with her slick motorcycle.”

Months earlier Ericson had come within a minute of busting Beth Watkins for a speed run on Cudjoe Key. She had bumped her Ducati well past 130 mph on Blimp Road, then departed for Key West after being summoned to a crime scene. I had been left behind with my antique Bonneville to deny all, to suggest that the deputy must have heard a passing jet. Ericson knew that planes weren’t allowed near the blimp. He also knew of Beth’s reputation for riding a powerful café racer. Out of respect for a fellow officer, he had let his query slide. But all three of us knew he was owed a favor in return, yet to be determined. Now I owed him another.

I thanked him with a silent nod, replaced my helmet, started the bike and rode away under the shade of a single cloud.

The Tideline Condominium, only 1,000 feet from the Atlantic side of the island, was built in the 1990s, directly across the street from the first major development in Key West, 1800 Atlantic. When “1800” was built in the mid-’80s, it drew boatloads of criticism, but it was legal and opulent. The place filled quickly and inspired similar projects on the island’s south side, including The Tideline with its ground-level protected parking, two residential levels, royal palms and peaked roof. I had heard that its condos were smaller but more luxurious than those of its larger neighbors.

The side street where I parked, by chance, behind Marnie Dunwoody’s Jeep, was quieter than I expected. I was only three hundred feet from The Tideline, perhaps three hundred yards from the ocean. The air carried beach smells, a musty odor of damp seaweed. I locked my helmet to the Triumph’s handlebar then, answering to habit, to assure myself that the camera was working, I removed it from its bag and pointed it south on Josephine Street. I clicked off several pictures without aiming or framing. Perfect exposure, fine focus. I was good to go.

I walked east on Atlantic Boulevard toward the crime scene. Most boulevards have medians, a line of trees, green grass or left-turn lanes. Atlantic is a skinny two-lane close to the beach, prone to flooding in storms. I once noticed on an eighty-year-old map that it used to be called Ruth Street.

Right away, for Marnie, I wanted an overall shot, the ground-level parking area around two sides of the building and three residential floors. I needed some altitude to see over the condo’s surrounding shrubs and give my shot perspective. An idea came to mind that was interrupted by the buzz of my phone. The missed-call screen told me that Tanner, not Beth, had rung while I chatted with Deputy Ericson.

“Yo, bro,” said Dubbie.

I didn’t respond.

“Okay,” he said. “I will never say ‘Yo, bro,’ again. Greg’s last name is Pulver.” He spelled it for me. “We found pictures on Facebook. I’ve seen the guy around town.”

“How about an address, his partner’s name?”

“No home address yet. Wiley knows someone to ask at Pepe’s. Best we can tell, from Facebook remarks, he’s also employed by a woman named Ocilla.”

“Hot damn,” I said, “I think your detective agency’s on track. Can you check him out, see if there’s dirt on the street? See if Greg was having affairs with his clients?”

Dubbie ignored me. “Wiley is running Ocilla through the search sites and, right away, having no luck. In order to better follow your orders and deplete your expense cash, I will report to the Green Parrot, the Bull and Whistle, Schooner Wharf and similar iconic saloons to learn more about Greg Pulver’s habits and associates.”

“A work ethic to which we all aspire,” I said.

Tanner hung up. It rang again.

“Change of plans, Alex” said Beth. “We won’t need your help after all. If you’ve left the house, you can turn around and go home.”

“I’ve left the house,” I said.

“You probably can’t get in here. Your friend the sheriff just set up a five-block perimeter. No vehicles in or out.”

“Why can’t my friend make one exception?”

“The response teams are crowding out into the roadway. The traffic issues…”