“Wonder what’s up,” she said.
“Speeder?”
“Must be more than that. Speeders usually stop when the siren gets their attention.”
The siren grew louder as it neared the bridge. We sat quietly waiting for whatever was coming. The bells on the bridge began to clang, warning motorists that the span was about to rise. A couple of cars came to a stop as the crossing gates came down blocking the travel lanes. We watched as a vehicle moving at a high rate of speed came around the slight curve just to the south of the bridge. It was a new Jaguar, traveling north toward Anna Maria Island. As it approached the stopped cars, the driver moved into the southbound lane, never slowing. Suddenly, the driver hit the brakes, hard. He was past the line of cars, now between the first car and the rising span. He must have just figured out that the span was on its way up. I glanced at the channel that ran under the bridge. No boats. None waiting on the other side. The bridge tender was helping the cops, raising the span to stop whoever was in the Jaguar from leaving the island.
The Jaguar’s tires were making that squeegee noise that comes with the hard application of disc brakes. The driver was in control, the car braking hard but staying on a straight-line course and within its lane. I was thinking he would not be able to stop before he hit the span when the noise from the braking tires stopped and the car accelerated. I heard the slight roar of the muffled engine and watched as the driver turned the steering wheel hard left. The car hit the curb that separated the vehicle lane from the bike and pedestrian path and went airborne, barely missing the bridge tender’s shack. The Jag’s undercarriage sliced off the top half of the bridge’s concrete railing, taking it into the channel below. The car’s trajectory took it a few feet from the bridge and into a flat landing in the water, where it briefly floated before beginning a nose-first descent toward the bottom. I knew this channel and knew that the water was about fifteen feet deep.
The cop car pursuing the Jaguar came to a stop behind the second car waiting for the drawbridge. I saw a uniformed officer throw open the driver’s side door and run toward the breach in the railing. J.D. was on her feet, shucking her equipment belt.
“What’re you doing?” I asked.
“I’ve got to get to that car. Maybe the guy’s still alive.”
I grabbed her arm. She shook loose. “No, J.D.,” I said. “You’ve got an outgoing tide, a strong current, and that car’s on the bottom with fifteen feet of water above it. You can’t save him.”
“I’m going to try.”
“No,” I said. “He’s dead. Let’s go to the bridge and see what’s going on.” I looked at her and saw challenge in her face. She didn’t like a mere man telling her what to do. Then it was gone and she shrugged, picked up her equipment belt, and started for my car. I followed.
By the time we reached the road, there were several cars stopped in the southbound lanes. A Bradenton Beach police cruiser was coming to a stop on the berm just before the bridge. I parked behind the cop. The officer recognized us as we got out of my car and walked toward him. “Hi, J.D.,” he said. “Matt.”
“Hey, Ned,” J.D. said. “Do you know what’s going on?”
“Not much. We got a call from Longboat P.D. asking us to intercept a Jaguar coming our way. I guess the bridge was going up to block the car, but it looks like the Jag went into the water.”
“Yeah,” J.D. said. “We saw him go in. Looked like it might have been deliberate. I’ll check in. Can you get these cars turned around and headed in the other direction? We’ll have a crime scene on the bridge.”
“No problem.”
The cop turned and walked toward the stopped cars.
The people were not going to be happy. It was a long drive back across Anna Maria Island, over to Tamiami Trail, down to Sarasota and back to the southern end of Longboat Key.
J.D. made a phone call, talked for a minute, and hung up. She turned to me and said, “They’re setting up on the other side of the bridge, sending people back the way they came. I told dispatch where I was and she said the bridge would be lowered in a few minutes and we can walk over and meet the Longboat guys.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“That was Steve Carey chasing the Jag. The driver shot and killed somebody down around mid-key. A witness saw him get in the car and called 911. Steve was just down the street when he got the call and started the pursuit.”
CHAPTER FIVE
J.D. and I had walked across the lowered bridge span and were standing with a group of Longboat Key police officers and a very distressed bridge tender. Divers from the Manatee County Sheriff’s office had been called and a wrecker was on its way.
“Do we have an ID on the victim?” J.D. asked Chief Bill Lester.
“A preliminary one,” the chief said. “His name was Ken Goodlow, according to a woman who lives in the condo complex where he was killed. He was an elderly guy who lived in Cortez and had stopped by to see her. He was leaving when the shooter pulled into the parking lot and shot him in the head. We have a couple of officers on the scene waiting for the medical examiner and the forensics people.”
“What about the witness?” J.D. asked. “Can she tell us any more about the victim?”
“The cops on the scene haven’t talked to her in any detail. She’s very upset and is with a neighbor.”
“I need to get a statement from her while it’s still fresh,” said J.D.
“Go ahead,” said Lester. “I don’t think there’s much you can do here until we get that car out of the drink.”
“I was with Matt. His car’s at the other end of the bridge. My car’s at his house.”
“Get one of the officers to drive you to your car,” said the chief.
J.D. turned to me. “Will you be all right?”
“Sure. Go on. I’ll stick around here until they clear the bridge.”
“That’ll take at least a couple of hours,” said Lester. “We’ve got a wrecker coming over from the mainland to pull the car up on Coquina Beach. The crime-scene people are going to want to take a preliminary look at it before they haul it to the sheriff’s garage. They also have a lot to do here on the bridge.”
“You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you. I’ll walk home. I can come back for my car when you reopen the bridge.”
“We can drop you at home,” said J.D.
“No, thanks. I’ll stick around for a bit and see what happens. Call me when you finish.”
“That might take a while.” She and a cop walked toward the parked police cruisers, got into one, and backed down the bridge until they could turn around and head south to my cottage in the village.
The bridge tender had broadcast a warning to boats not to cross under the bridge and within a few minutes the Longboat Key Police boat and one from the Manatee Sheriff’s Marine Unit were on the scene to quarantine the area around where the car had sunk into the channel.
A wrecker drove onto the beach and backed up as close to the water’s edge as he dared. A police diver was in the water and attached a cable from the wrecker to the submerged car. I told Chief Lester that I was leaving, and he said he’d call me when the bridge reopened and I could come get my car.
I started walking south on the bridge, heading toward Longboat. The water in the pass was green and flat and dappled by the sun’s reflection, its face rippled in places where fish broke the surface. Boats rode at anchor, their occupants drinking beer and watching the police activity, waiting patiently for something to happen. A cooling breeze blowing in from the Gulf brought a hint of winter and brine, reminding me that it was February and the water was cold.
I pulled my windbreaker a little tighter and walked past the police cars stopped in the northbound lane and stepped off the bridge and onto the bike path that bordered Gulf of Mexico Drive. Ten minutes later, I was at Tiny’s Bar, a dimly lit tavern run by Susie Vaught, an island legend. She called the place “the best little bar in paradise,” and it was.
I ducked inside
, got the hug that Susie dispenses to all the regulars, and took a stool next to my buddy Logan Hamilton. “Starting early?” I asked.
“Indeed,” said Logan.
“Did you have lunch?”
“I did. With my paramour, the beautiful and saintly Marie Philips.”
“Sounds like you may have drunk your lunch.”
“The bartender at the Mar Vista has a way with a Scotch bottle. Pours a bit heavy.”
“And that suits you.”
“It does.”
Susie put a cold Miller Lite on the bar in front of me. “What brings you in here this time of day, Matt?”
“J.D. and I were having a picnic at Coquina Beach, down by the pass. A car went off the bridge, and the police have closed it to traffic. My car’s on the other side. I was walking home.”
“I guess that explains the sirens,” said Susie.
“Steve Carey was chasing the guy who went off the bridge,” I said. “They think he shot somebody at mid-key. J.D. went down there to interview a witness and get the investigation started.”
“Did the guy make it out of the car?” asked Logan.
“No.”
“That’s good,” said Logan. “Saves the taxpayers the cost of a trial.”
“You’re pretty cynical today,” I said.
“I think Marie is about to dump me.”
I was surprised at that. Marie was a wealthy woman who lived in a high-rise condo on the south end of the key. She and Logan had been together for more than a year, and it seemed to work for both of them. “Why?” I asked.
“Why is she about to dump me or why do I think she’s about to dump me?” The precision of the nearly drunk mind.
“Why do you think she’s about to dump you?”
“You know how women act when they start to pull away from you?”
I thought about that for a beat. “I guess so.”
“They get kind of twitchy,” Logan said.
“Twitchy?”
“You know. They don’t always return your calls. You go out to dinner and they say good night at the door. No inviting you in to spend the night. That sort of thing.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Since yesterday.”
“You might be jumping the gun, buddy. What do you think, Susie?”
She grinned. “Logan’s full of crap, as usual.”
Logan swished the ice in his glass, looked at it, and held it out to Susie. “One more.”
Susie shook her head. “It’s not even two o’clock, Logan, and you’ve already got a load on. Maybe you ought to let Matt take you home for a nap.”
Logan chuckled. “I don’t need no stinkin’ nap.”
“Logan,” I said, changing the subject. “You hang out some over at Annie’s. Do you know a man named Ken Goodlow?” Annie’s was a bait-and-tackle shop on the bayfront at the mainland end of the Cortez Bridge. It had a tiny bar that sold beer and wine and provided a small menu that included some of the best hamburgers and fried clams in the area.
“Yeah. Neat old guy. Comes in for a beer most afternoons. Lived in Cortez all his life.”
“He’s the one who was shot.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah.”
“Damn,” said Logan. “That’s too bad. He had a lot of stories. He was a soldier back in World War II. Military police, I think. Worked the fishing boats when he came back after the war. When he got too old for the boats, he drove the water taxi until that went belly-up. His wife died years ago and he never got remarried. Used to say he was too ornery for any one woman to put up with.”
“Sounds like an interesting guy,” I said.
“Yeah. I hope the son of a bitch who shot him died a slow death in that car.”
CHAPTER SIX
Ann Kuehnel was in her late seventies, tall and what one might call “stately.” Her skin was lightly tanned and her face smooth, so smooth that J.D. suspected the hand of a skilled surgeon had molded it. Her upswept hair was a reddish-blonde, her dress expensive, her necklace diamond, her voice cultured. She stood in the doorway of a condo unit that cost several million dollars.
“Mrs. Kuehnel? I’m Detective J.D. Duncan.”
“Please come in, Detective. This has been a terrible day.”
J.D. was led into a large and exquisitely decorated room overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. A middle-aged woman was standing in the center of the room. “Detective Duncan,” said Mrs. Kuehnel, “this is my neighbor, Cheryl Loeffler.”
“Don’t mind me, Detective,” the woman said. “I was just leaving.”
“Thanks for sticking around, Cheryl. I’ll call you later,” said Ann.
“Before you go, Ms. Loeffler,” J.D. said, “can you tell me if you saw the shooting?”
“No, thank goodness, but I think I heard it.”
“What did you hear?”
“Just a pop. I didn’t think anything about it. Figured it was a car out on the road. When I heard sirens and saw the police cars pull into our lot, I came out to see what was going on and saw Ann talking to the police. We came back up here to wait for you.”
“Thank you, Ms. Loeffler,” said J.D., handing her a business card. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”
“Certainly,” said Cheryl. “Ann, call me if you need anything. I’ll let myself out.”
“Please, have a seat, Detective,” said Mrs. Kuehnel. “Can I get you some iced tea or a glass of wine?”
“No, thank you. I’d like to ask you some questions about the shooting you saw.”
“Of course. Ken Goodlow was a friend. I’ll do anything I can to help.”
“I understand he was visiting you.”
“Yes.”
“Have you known Mr. Goodlow long?”
“A few years.”
“I don’t mean to pry,” said J.D., “but I have to ask you about your relationship.”
“Oh, dear. There was no relationship. Not in the way you’re implying.”
J.D. smiled. “I didn’t mean to imply anything, Mrs. Kuehnel.”
“Well, then, I didn’t mean to jump to conclusions. Ken was very much involved in the Cortez Historical Society. I met him some years ago because of my interest in local history.”
“Do you know his family?”
“I don’t think he had any. His wife died years ago and they never had any children. I think all his other relatives died out a long time ago.”
“What about his friends?”
“I only know the ones involved with the historical society.”
“What was your interest in Cortez?”
“My husband, God rest his soul, died ten years ago and left me more money than I’ll ever be able to spend. I have a number of charitable causes and one of them is the Cortez Historical Society. Ken Goodlow was the president. He’d lived his whole life in the village, except for some time out for military service during World War II.”
“So you give them money?”
“Yes. Not a lot, because they don’t require much. I just do what I can to support their efforts to maintain the memories of a way of life that has just about disappeared from Florida.”
“You mean the fishing?” asked J.D.
“Yes. The commercial fishing has pretty much died out. The net ban that took effect some years ago just about killed a whole way of life. Cortez may be the last village in the state that maintains itself with fishing. And the number of fishermen is declining every year. The old people are dying out and the young ones don’t want anything to do with fishing for a living. Soon, Cortez will be just a dim memory. We need to make sure that memory survives.”
“Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Mr. Goodlow?”
Ann sighed and her eyes welled with tears. She wiped them away and said, “No. He was a sweet and harmless old man.”
“Tell me what you saw,” J.D. said, switching gears.
“Ken took the elevator downstairs, and I was standing on the balcony overlookin
g the parking lot watching him go. He was getting into his truck when the man in the Jaguar drove into the parking lot and said something to Ken. He walked over to the car, and the driver shot him in the forehead and took off.”
“Did you notice from which direction he came on Gulf of Mexico Drive?”
She was quiet for a few moments, thinking. “No. In fact, I’m not even sure he came into the parking lot from that direction, from GMD.”
“There’s no other way to get in, is there?”
“No. As I think about it, he may have been parked in the lot when I first saw his car.”
“Do you remember where he was parked?”
Ann was quiet again. “His car was moving when I first saw it. He was coming out of a parking space and driving toward Gulf of Mexico Drive when he stopped and called to Ken. I don’t think I noticed which parking space he was in, but I think he was backed in, facing GMD. All he had to do when he saw Ken come out was drive forward. He just stopped, shot Ken, and drove off.”
“What did you do after the shooting?”
“I had my cell phone in the pocket of my sweater and I immediately called 911 and asked for an ambulance. I told the operator about the man in the Jaguar and that he took off north on GMD. I heard a siren almost immediately. I guess it was the officer chasing the Jaguar. One of your young officers told me about the man going off the bridge.”
“Can you describe the man in the Jaguar?”
“No. I didn’t get much of a look at him. I don’t think I saw anything except an arm coming out of the window.”
“Why did Mr. Goodlow come to see you today?”
“He wanted to show me some snapshots he’d come across that were taken shortly after the war. They were of a group of young people, most of whom are dead now. I think Bud Jamison was the only one still alive.”
“Do you know Mr. Jamison?”
“Oh, sure. He’s involved in the history projects. He’s lived in Cortez since the war. He and Ken Goodlow were the best of friends. Bud’s going to take this hard.”
“Do you have an address for Mr. Jamison?”
“No. But I can give you his phone number.”
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