The Quick Adios (Times Six) (22 page)

“Did you enjoy looking at my pussy four days ago?” she said.

“Sure,” I said. “Don’t we all enjoy watching a lovely sunset, a classic sailing yacht underway?”

“Well, your eyes sort of tended toward that region. Justin was still awake when I went to bed that night. For some reason he wanted me to shave myself before I came to bed. I trimmed it a little.” Anya unbuttoned and unzipped her shorts, pushed them down an inch or so. “Do you think too much?”

“I can’t see from here,” I said, “but it’s really none of my business.”

“We’re not talking business, Alex, we’re talking about the absence of pubic hair.”

“And tailpipes and a murder.”

“So,” she said, “that night in Sarasota, we didn’t make love.”

I stared through the screening at a croton bush. “Correct.”

“Can we say that you and I put one in the bank? A night of unfinished business, snug in the safe deposit? It could be ten years from now, but we’ll see each other, somewhere in the world, and we’ll both know.”

“Like, we’ll always have Paris, except we haven’t had it yet.”

“And maybe we’ll shake hands and smile and walk away.”

“Probably so,” I said. “Can I ask a question off the subject?”

She tilted her head and squinted.

“Why did Justin change his plans so quickly? Why did we all fly to Sarasota two days earlier than he said we would?”

“He mumbled something about Amanda’s bullshit. He said that only when they argued about Eileen. I could tell it wasn’t a good time to press for details.”

“I’m going to put on shorts and a shirt,” I said. “Can I get you anything? Water or coffee, a glass of wine?”

Anya went back to studying my bruises. She began to speak, then stopped and shook her head. “I don’t fuck Luke, just so you know.”

My turn to shake my head. “Again, none of my business, Anya. I am not the guilt god or the bed police. When I sit in judgment, it’s usually on saloon singers or pizza delivery service. A negative rating means I could do better myself. That’s not saying much.”

“Can I have two more minutes?” she said. “Then I will leave. You can put on your clothes and shoes and get on with your day.”

“That’s what all the girls say to me.”

It took her no more than three seconds to register my words. Then she went on a laughing jag that lasted nearly the whole two minutes. I was afraid every neighbor in the lane would come around to hear my joke. I have no idea why I cracked a tired old one-liner, except that I was weary of murders and recriminations and intrigue. I wanted to change the channel, kiss off the scammers and power geeks, the mystery women and pro victims. I felt like I needed another shower.

Anya pulled herself together. She made sure the joint was out, flicked off the ash then rolled the remaining sliver into a capsule-sized pill and swallowed it. “As you know,” she said, “Justin found you by asking around the island for a photographer. When your name came up, I overheard several people discuss your ability to… also to… make things right. Is that a good way to say it?”

“It sounds fine,” I said, “but it’s half right or half wrong, and that depends on how you look at life.”

“I’m looking back at death, Alex. Five of us need your help, because none of us knows who killed Amanda. I don’t know, and I’m certain that Justin couldn’t have done it. Amanda lived apart for the sake of the child. She also did a few things to boost her dismal self-esteem, things Justin and I couldn’t help her with. A few people who knew about us didn’t like the idea that we were a trio. We could give you a list of possible…”

“You’re getting to the heart of my selfishness,” I said.

“What does that mean?”

“Every time I’ve ever unraveled a knotted story, it was because someone close to me had been hurt. And, yes, I can focus. Once in a while I can help. But I can’t solve all the problems in the world.”

An angry expression crossed her face. “You sure as shit couldn’t solve mine four nights ago.” She stood and stormed off the porch, her lovely legs all the way up to her shorts.

Blame it on the second-hand smoke. I caught myself wishing for one last look at her bare ass. Then I told myself not to test a shark’s friendliness by sticking my hand in its mouth. Or something like that.

She wasn’t accustomed to being turned down.

Malcolm Mason’s office may be the most luxurious land-based 600-square-foot space on Stock Island. A few yachts in marinas equal its precision cabinetry, wall art, earth-tone tile flooring, and the touch and scent of its teak furniture and leather upholstery. But his oasis of affluence amazed everyone who set foot inside the place. It was the sizzle that sold the burgers. Every cubic inch helped to market used yachts. Ironically, his small building looked like a bait shack in a foliage-free “transition” neighborhood of trailer homes, rusted-out sedans and ten-foot chain link fencing.

I arrived to find a tray of chilled seafood. Conch seviche, steamed shrimp, salmon mousse, thin-sliced ahi tuna, smoked fish dip and water crackers.

“Let me guess,” I said. “A promising client arriving in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, but help yourself,” said Malcolm, sitting behind his desk. “Hors d’oeuvres to sustain you in the elements.”

“I could call it breakfast, knock down a bottle of Pinot gris, take a nap and do the shoot tomorrow.”

He grinned. “Then I’d have to charge you restaurant prices.”

Malcolm let his office speak louder than his attire. He was dutifully laid back in shapeless Levi’s, white Nike Airs, and an aqua-toned Columbia shirt. I knew he was in his late thirties, so I guessed that his hair was cut short to mask premature gray. “Key West Point of View,” a 40-minute Key West photo DVD, played on an HDTV monitor above Malcolm’s chair. The aquarium DVD I had seen in Justin Beeson’s home in Sarasota filled a smaller screen on the opposite wall.

“I’ve seen that movie before, the fish,” I said. “Must be popular enough to warrant a sequel.”

“This boat I need you to document, they could shoot a few DVDs right where it sank,” said Malcolm. “Because it went down so close to the reef, it was easy to get salvage rights. But it was a huge chore to refloat it. We brought it here to the yard, and I subcontracted the hull, the fittings, all the wiring and the interior finish and glass work.”

“Why salvage rights?” I said. “Why didn’t the owner refloat her?”

“The owner panicked and drowned. We raised it on his wife’s okay.”

“How could a boater panic?” I said. “I mean, the requirements for safety gear. Who doesn’t have the sense to pull on a life vest?”

Malcolm shook his head. “You’re right. Even children have that going. His three passengers kept calm and lashed together everything that floated to the surface. They made themselves a raft of trash. They even took turns sleeping on furniture cushions. One of the survivors said the owner’s last words were, ‘I can’t think of what to do next.’”

“Then he used it like a car,” I said. “Turn the key and go. He didn’t have a plan. He didn’t think through the possibilities ahead of time.”

“Right you are. Like the leak he never discovered and the three bilge pumps that he ran off one instead of three separate breakers.”

Not one to micro-manage, Malcolm sent me outside to work alone. He trusted me to pick the best combination of flash and sunlight to show the boat’s design and quality materials. He knew I would capture the important details of seaworthiness and safety. Malcolm was the type of client I enjoyed most, the kind I had hoped for in Justin Beeson four days earlier.

Back outside, the southeast breeze was no warmer than my porch had been when I found Liska in his funk two hours earlier. The southeast wind carried a familiar scent. I wondered how many current Key West residents would know the smell and sound of diesel shrimpboat engines. The shrimpers, as a species, had been moved to Stock Island years ago so Key West could go into the marina business. The city could rent dock space by the foot and ambience by the week.

Alone with my gear and static subjects, I felt an almost Zen removal from five days of confusion and tragedy. I was alone with light, shadows, my camera and the boat’s internal structure. I had brought my Mini-Mag flashlight and a white parabolic umbrella to bounce flash and to filter the odd ray of sunlight that might sneak below. Sounds from the nearby shipyard were muffled, and my Triumph was locked safely inside Malcolm’s tall, barb-topped fence. This insulation from the world, the fact of the boat owner’s death and my proximity to the boat’s keel took me again to the past.

During my Navy days I had been sent to numerous single-day training schools. Two stood out in my mind. One was Buttercup; the other was the helo-dump.

The USS Buttercup is a shore-based mock-up of critical spaces below sea level on a Navy ship. Sailors attend class then go “aboard” to be subjected to a “missile attack.” Buttercup’s operators pull levers and flip switches that mimic battle damage at sea. Bulkheads split and pipes spring leaks. Teams must use anything they can find to keep their ship from “sinking.” I remember scrambling underwater, trying not to swallow the brackish cocktail, patching hull splits with mattresses, plywood and loose timber. We all learned that, in a real situation, our lives depended on teamwork and timing and ingenuity. We had to be inventive. We learned quickly, and I can’t believe that any of us would forget it.

In the “helo-dump,” also a shore-based contraption, two sailors are strapped into the “cockpit” of a helicopter that is dunked into a deep, cold pool then flipped upside down. The trick is to keep your cool, hold your breath, release your restraining belts, make sure your dunk partner is free, then get out of the sinking chopper and find the surface. You do it once with lights on, then again in near darkness. You know it’s an exercise, but it gets your attention. Even the strongest of us had to admit to moments of apprehension.

I heard a knock on the hull. It was not a torpedo.

“You can quit work on this one,” said Malcolm. “I really could use photos of the pale blue hull at the end of this row.”

I threw him a puzzling look. I would have been done in ten more minutes.

“I just sold the damned boat,” he said. “The man inside the building paid my list price without even coming out here to inspect the damned thing. Please invoice me for this one as if you had finished up.”

It took me less than an hour to finish photographing the pale blue Bertram.

I checked my phone. I’d had a call from Wiley Fecko so I called him back.

“We’ve been getting frantic messages from Marnie Dunwoody,” he said. “How is that, and what’s she talking about, writing a book?”

“I gave her your numbers,” I said, “but this is the first I’ve heard of a book. Do what you want, but trust her. Anything else?”

“We should have a sit-down meeting,” said Fecko.

“I hope it’s because you found Ocilla Ramirez’s client list.”

“Let’s give your porch a break,” said Fecko. “It’s your private place to relax but it’s suffered a rash of meetings.”

“Rash?” I said.

“It’s turning into Mallory Square,” he said. “Come over here and see our company campus.”

“That sounds strange to me.”

“Don’t worry. It doesn’t smell that way.”

T
he co-owners of Southernmost Aristocratic Investigations were the last two men I expected to find living in the New Town section of the island. Especially so close to Bible hours and potluck dinners at Grace Lutheran Church. Wiley Fecko had given me their address on Staples, told me where to turn off Flagler. Fenced yards jammed with SUVs, vans and boats made it tough to find house numbers. I drove past it once, dodged a rain puddle at 11th Street, U-turned and found their place shaded by a huge sea grape tree.

The telling clue was Dubbie Tanner’s old Chevy Caprice in the carport. The beast had been his primary residence for years, his downscale Caroline Street crib before the city put parking meters east of Margaret. The new home was concrete block and stucco with fresh siding, a new roof and storm-proof windows. Dubbie had spent his money wisely. Except for its height above sea level, this structure was where I wanted to be during a hurricane. Fecko saw me arrive and opened the front door. He wore a lavender Tri-Delt sweatshirt. I doubted that he was up-to-date with his sorority dues.

I parked on the concrete walkway that ran to the porch, but Wiley motioned me around to the carport.

“I was watching the radar,” he said. “A big green blob is heading our way.”

After he helped me cover the Triumph with an old tarp, I carried in my camera bag. Two empty Dion’s chicken boxes sat on a table made out of an interior door slab. I couldn’t tell if it had been their noon meal or supper the night before.

The only furniture in the main room was a quartet of plastic-webbed lawn chairs and a five-foot television. Three Monkey Tom driftwood paintings hung on the wall opposite the TV. Sliding glass doors in the rear wall led to a screened lanai that also held four cheap yard chairs and a makeshift table. On the upside, the prevailing odor inside their home was that of fresh latex paint.

Dubbie pointed down a hallway. “Want to know what we have? My associate will escort you to our office.”

“What’s wrong?” I said.

Their expressions went from gross innocence to dueling shame. Rain began to fall outside, quickly becoming torrential. It was the first time in five days that I had seen Tanner without a beer in his hand.

“Why do I feel like I should be pissed off about something?”

They stared at me wondering how I had guessed.

“Come on,” I said. “You wanted this meeting and you wanted it here. Why?”

“We might have fucked up,” said Tanner.

“Why ‘might have?’” I said.

“Consequences unknown at this moment.”

The rain made it hard to hear. “Pardon me?” I said. “Might have… ?”

“We won’t know for a while.”

“Was it on the computer?” I said.

“Not at all,” said Wiley. “It started with luck and what we thought was first-rate sleuthing.”

“Your good intentions took you to… ?”

“Ocilla Ramirez,” said Wiley. “I rode my bike to the library this morning to spend time researching her background. They open the doors at 9:30, so I timed my ride to arrive a minute early. I was tooling down William Street and there she was, parallel parking her moss-green Honda Element, going to a client’s home.”