The Quick Adios (Times Six) (3 page)

“Beth, am I fired because their scene techs don’t want… ?”

“Essentially, yes,” she said. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this incoming.”

The call ended. I had been dropped into the out basket, but my promise to Marnie Dunwoody still stood.

Dodging onlookers on foot, a few bike riders taking curiosity breaks, I made my way to the in-line skaters’ Southern–most Hockey Club, across Bertha from the condo. Though I had walked less than three hundred feet, I found the sea breeze carried even more pungent odors of beached plankton. A five-foot chain-link fence surrounded the vacant rink. I had no ladder, so a shot from its roof was out. With every cop in sight distracted by the headline crime, I saw no risk in light-duty trespassing. The club had mounted their home team sign on twin posts near the fence. With my camera bag strap around my neck, using gaps in the chain-link and stupid bravado, I managed a toehold. I hoisted myself, planted my feet on the top bar of the fence, and hung one elbow over the sign top.

The perch gave me a five-foot advantage and did wonders for the Nikon’s point of view. I framed the condo’s east wall and the cars in the near lot, then went back and forth for panoramic effect. I zoomed into the 1800 Atlantic parking area across the road, then photographed sidewalk onlookers closer to me. By the spectrum of attire, from T-shirts, sweat pants and flip-flops to dress shirts, shoes and sun dresses, the sidewalk group appeared to be Tideline condo dwellers evacuated on short notice.

I had a bitch of a time climbing down without snagging my ass on fence barbs or breaking my ankles. On my way to solid ground I noticed the sound of a low-flying single-engine aircraft. Someone else with the point of view I really needed.

I wasn’t sure that I had taken helpful photos, but my larger task would be getting a camera to Marnie. I crossed Bertha, stepped through a landscaped border into The Tideline parking lot and took a half-dozen random shots, cars and vans, only for the satisfaction of pressing the shutter button. Marnie would find the photos useless. And I was stuck. She was going to get scooped by a reporter in a small plane, and my first attempt at online journalism would end in failure.

Closer to the yellow incident streamer around the police command post, I finally saw a photo I wanted. A few cops stood around wearing MCSO and KWPD jackets, but no one noticed me. I pushed the button five times as I panned left to right, then pushed my luck, aimed the zoom toward the open rear door of the county’s forensic truck, shot several more. I knew that my camera’s sensor wasn’t capturing what I could clearly make out in the van’s dim interior light: a scene tech moving around, sorting gear, placing objects on a work counter. He was preparing for something, either to carry supplies inside or to receive evidence from inside the building. Digital pictures are free; I kept shooting.

I had been in that van on two occasions in the past four years, so I knew what it meant when the tech reached into the cabinet that held body bags. His arm moved twice from the high shelf to a hefty-looking backpack, confirming the two deaths that Beth had mentioned. He then raised his arm once again to the cabinet and placed a third black bag in the backpack. I hit the button several more times as the tech climbed out, slammed the van’s rear door and walked into the building.

Focusing on the technician’s chore, I had paid too little attention to the crowd around me. A city cop in a group of onlookers must have seen me snap the last few pictures. I didn’t recognize him, and he didn’t know why I was there. He keyed his shoulder mike and beckoned me with his free arm. Not wanting to get trapped in a long explanation, I put my camera into its carrying pouch, faded across Bertha Street and took out my cell to call Marnie.

My phone vibrated in my hand. The window read:
B WATKINS
.

I promised myself not to lie and pressed the button.

“Alex,” she said. “Why are you taking pictures out in the street?”

“Long story, but I’m doing someone a favor.”

“You’re not doing me any.”

I scanned The Tideline, saw her standing on a third-floor balcony. “It has nothing to do with you.”

“You’re wrong, Alex,” she said, sounding like a cop. “A lot of people associate the two of us. If one of my colleagues, one of the wrong ones, spots you taking pictures, I’m under the bus, and we already promised Marnie a photo op. Please go away.”

“Her camera crapped out on her…”

Again Beth spoke sharply: “She needs to borrow yours.”

“That’s why I’m here,” I said.

“She’s in a briefing room. I’ll send an officer out to get it.”

“What officer won’t associate the two of us?”

“I’ve managed to find a few friends at work,” she said. “Please stay where you are for a minute or two.”

I didn’t want to have my gear confiscated, lose the pictures I had taken. I waited a few seconds, took advantage of a sago palm, and stepped out of Beth’s line-of-sight. It took me fewer than fifteen seconds to swap an unused data chip into the Nikon and place the chip with photos in my pocket. I moved sideways so she could see me again, but she had gone away from the window.

The group of evacuees had pushed back a few yards closer to me. I approached a man dressed in striped shorts and a tank top. A brush cut and excellent earlobe-level sideburns.

“Excuse me.” I pointed to the southeast corner of the third floor. “Do you know what apartment number that is?”

He turned toward me, looked puzzled, and shook his head. He nudged a woman near him, mumbled in what I took to be Russian. She also had a brush cut and tank top plus a colorful dragon tattoo on her left shoulder. I believe our planet now has more dragon tattoos than pickup trucks.

Pointing again, hoping for better luck, I posed the question to the young woman.

She looked at the building then turned and stared at my chest without focusing. It took her about ten seconds to consider her answer. Without lifting her eyes to mine she said, in a crisp military voice, a perfect midwest accent, “Three-zero-two, sir.”

She looked away and didn’t respond when I thanked her.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

The shape of a linebacker, my height, the officer wore a white polo shirt over a white T-shirt, black shorts, no hat or hair, and opaque sunglasses. His neck was as big around as his bald head. His belt carried an array of restraints, communication equipment, weapons and chromium hardware. We backed away from the clutch of silent onlookers.

“You popping for tabs?” he said.

“Come again?”

“Paparazzi for the tabloids?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t shoot crime scenes for money.”

“Why do it?” he said.

“The same reason as you. To stop or solve crimes.”

The officer shook his head and laughed. “Shit, bubba, other people do that crap. My gig is to react, not stop or solve. The more crimes I react to, the more job security I nail down. I’m out here for rent plus my family’s health insurance, and it keeps me out of the bars.”

“And you get to carry a gun.” I pulled one of the small Canons from my pocket. “The power is all yours. Are you going to give this to Ms. Dunwoody?”

He adjusted his swagger, looked unsure how to react to my “power” remark. He let it slide and took the camera from my hand. “I’ll deliver it personally, Rutledge.”

“Why would the tabloids have an interest?” I said.

“I don’t know how those fuckers think. But even more I don’t know why a civilian would want to waste time taking pictures outside of a crime scene.”

I was stumped for an answer that made sense to either of us.

“I’m supposed to watch you go away,” he said. “Orders from the female detective, through me to you.”

“Great job you got,” I said.

“Whatever,” he said. “Guess we know who wears the gun in your house.”

He hadn’t let it slide after all.

I walked north on Josephine away from Atlantic Boulevard and away from the breeze. A January day, and my ballcap was damp with sweat. I wished for a cloud to pass above me. I heard another small plane, then a chopper, and knew that people with better views and video had scooped Marnie on visuals. Her best hope was the story behind the story. Stopping in front of a porch filled with colorful Styrofoam trapline floats, I tapped Dubbie Tanner’s number on my cell.

“Apartment 302 in The Tideline,” I said. “Try to compile a diagram of condos to either side of that one and any others on the third floor. Check ownership, mortgages and liens, current and past tenants, property tax status and previous owners. See whether those names show up as owners of other condos in the building. Also, see if anyone from that group has been recently arrested for disturbing the peace, domestic violence, DUI, or narcotics possession.”

“Or manslaughter?” he said.

“Anything at all. Parking tickets. If you can manage it, I want names to go with the crimes.”

“Got it,” he said. “We already have this. The business that employed Greg Pulver is Acting Chief Execs, LLC. The sole owner is Ocilla Ramirez, and it’s located at 490 Crawford Street on Big Coppitt.”

“Great. Keep rolling with it. A client list would make our day.”

“I’m beating the bushes,” he said.

“Beat away, Dubbie,” I said. “Try to restrict it to one beer per research location.”

There I was again, behind the backdrop, half in the fog, playing two-bit snoop in the wake of horrible violence. Drawn into another tropical puzzle, and I had failed at least one and maybe two friends who expected better of me. The worst part was being reminded that my patch of paradise—sea breeze, sand and palm trees included—was no less evil than the rest of the nation. Bad as I felt, there were people in this country who walked among gray buildings and bare trees dodging sidewalk ice, slush and snow drifts, swearing they would give anything to be in my sandy, tar-stained Nikes.

Two ideas appealed to me. The fuel value of my Pepe’s breakfast had dropped to zero, so I needed a meal. I called Saluté at Higgs Beach and ordered a shrimp salad sandwich. Rick, the owner, said he would set me up at the bar. He assured me that there would be no yellow crime scene tape strung around the beer cooler.

After the hubbub had died down, I needed to connect Marnie Dunwoody with the Aristocrats. If I made them a team I could make myself scarce. That trio could chase her three-body-bag story up to Pulitzer level without me.

Or so I thought.

A
block from The Tideline I felt removed from evidence, solutions and rivalries. Distance is good but overrated. Four blocks farther along I hit a new roadblock.

Two wide-shouldered city cops at Atlantic and White ordered me to halt. They demanded my ID, registration and insurance chits, and wanted to know where I was coming from. Each had his right thumb hooked in his tactical utility belt, right next to his quick-action holster. I don’t begrudge their wariness, but the hostility gets old.

I pulled out my phone, pressed two buttons.
B WATKINS
popped into the window. I showed it to the officer nearest to me, then looked him in the eye. “I’ll dial and you talk, okay?”

He looked away, told me I could proceed. He made it sound like a favor that ran counter to his fine judgment. I wondered if he acted like a prick when he talked to his kids. To be fair, I had snapped at him too quickly, and Beth had enough problems. I didn’t want a testy exchange to come back on her as bad office politics.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to sound appreciative. “Guess that ugly business down the road got to me a bit.”

He stared at me, a tilt to his head, a sneer and no response.

I made sure to exceed the limit in the last two hundred yards to the restaurant.

The meal and cold Beck’s Light at Saluté restored my strength except I faced the liquor racks instead of the shoreline. My request, my fault. The TV flickered down by the door. The Weather Channel showed Kansas City snow drifts and Buffalo’s famous Vehicles on Ice Ballet. I perused inshore waves in the mirror just above the rum rack. An outside table with an ocean view might have tempered my thoughts on personal work ethic and lives ending ahead of schedule.

A voice I didn’t know stopped me from memorizing my beer bottle label.

“Alex, Mr. Rutledge, how you doing?”

A stocky man stood near the restaurant’s west exit. Bright daylight shone behind him. It hurt to look.

“Sorry, do I know you?”

“Sure,” he said. “Justin Beeson.” He approached to shake my hand. “We were introduced on New Year’s Eve. You and your beautiful detective friend. We talked about your classic Shelby and restoring old Ford Mustangs.”

I didn’t recall Mr. Beeson’s face, but something rang a bell. “You had a Nightmist Blue, sixty-seven fastback with a four-speed and a 390?”

“Still have it, Alex, garaged, climate-controlled and maintained in Sarasota. I would love to show it to you, give you a ride. Did you receive my proposal today?”

It took me a second. “The FedEx?”

“What did you think?”

I explained about leaving my house in a hurry.

“I apologize for presuming your schedule,” he said. “ I hate rudeness, and here I am…”

Justin Beeson looked about fifty, well dressed, like a tennis player who shopped Brooks Brothers. He was about five-ten and had thinning blond and silver-streaked hair, overdue for a trim but no issue in the Keys. Light khaki trousers, a blue oxford cloth shirt, tassel loafers, and the forearms of a carpenter.

“Can you give me a preview?” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “If you have a minute.”

“All afternoon, Mr. Beeson.”

“Justin, please,” he said. “This might sound glorified, but it’s an architectural job in Sarasota, two full days at the most, if the weather cooperates. My cover letter suggested we meet to discuss it at your convenience, though I expect to leave town…” He checked his watch, a slender Patek Philippe. “I’ll be leaving two days from now, almost to the minute.”

A striking brunette as tall as Beeson, perhaps fifteen years his junior, strode from the doorway to his side. A dark brown linen top, gold bracelets, gold earrings, and a gold Rolex accented her light tan. Beeson introduced her as Anya Timber. With a casual elegance Anya removed her sunglasses, nailed me with her baby blues and stuck out her hand to shake mine.