A Reservation for Murder_A Lieutenant Morales Mystery

by AJ Basinski

  Chapter 15

  When Shipley’s deputy dropped me off at the Bonita Inn, I was surprised to see Zeke Chandler waiting in the lobby to greet me. I could see that he was anxious to talk to me.

  “Mr. Mario, sir, you got to get out of here and fast. This island ain’t safe no more. No sir, ain’t safe for nobody.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked Zeke.

  “The murder of Mr. Mark and somebody tried to kill you. Something’s going on here and I don’t like it.”

  What do you think is going on here, Zeke” I asked Chandler. I was a little surprised he knew about the shooting at the restaurant already, but I guess word travels fast on an island as small as this.

  “Did you see that big house going up just down the road from the Inn near the Calusa refuge? Some millionaire, or maybe billionaire from New York City, I don’t know which, is building a big house right there. And he wants to put in a whole bunch more over there. ‘Estates’ he calls them. He wants to turn this quiet little island into another Sanibel Island or maybe even a Miami Beach.”

  “So what does that have to do with the murder of Sullivan and the shooting today at the restaurant where I was meeting with Chief Shipley?”

  “Those shell mounds is sacred to the Calusa Indians. They was the ones who put them there hundreds of years ago. And over the years since I have been on the island, I heard lots of stories that if anyone builds on those old shell mounds, those old Indians are going to come back and destroy the whole island,” Zeke answered almost breathlessly. It was like he couldn’t wait to get all the words out.

  “He’s building his house right on top of one of the shell mounds and everyone on this island is in danger. Yes sir, they could destroy the whole, damn island.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you, Zeke? And I thought everyone was barred from doing any building on those mounds that are part of the Calusa Indian settlement.”

  “I’m not sure about all that but someone said that he was building this place on some property that’s not part of the settlement itself. Just right next door.”

  “I don’t’ know, Mr. Mario, those Indians got some powerful medicine. Yes, sir. Real powerful stuff. And how about that Mr. Mark Sullivan turning up dead? I never liked him too much myself, but he didn’t deserve to die like that, shot in the back of his head. And I heard you almost got shot yourself when you were eating with Chief Shipley. You got to wonder what’s going on here. Maybe those Indians is behind that murder and shooting. We ain’t never had nothing like that here before. No sir, those Indians are out to get those who are disturbing their homes and final resting places.”

  I began to wonder about that curse that the Calusa Indians were supposed to have put on anyone who removed shells from their mound homes. I still had a pocketful of those shells I had picked up the day that Sun Li and I had toured the settlement. I began to wonder if I had made a mistake in miscalculating the effects of the paranormal or supernatural. Then I dismissed those thoughts. That whole thing was just pure nonsense. Curses from Indians who were long dead? It just did not make any logical sense. Those behind the murder of Sullivan and the shooting today were very real humans not ghosts. I should know, I shot and killed one of them.

  “How about you, Zeke, you going to leave the island?” I finally asked Zeke.

  “Where can I go?” Zeke responded. “I got no place to go but here. I live in Fort Myers with my family and I work here on the island at the Inn to support my family. But you can go back to Miami anytime you want. If I was you, that’s what I would do. Yessir. Get right off this island before those Indians get their revenge.”

  I was very curious as to why Zeke was telling me all this now. I had just left Shipley a little while ago in his office and he basically directed me to leave the island and go back to Miami. Could Shipley and Zeke somehow be working together to get me off of Palm Island? They certainly seemed like an unlikely pair. And if they were working together, why?

  As the King in the musical, “The King and I”, wondered, “It’s a puzzlement.”

  Chapter 16

  After this little encounter with Zeke, I went up to my room and I packed my bag. If Shipley wanted me to go to Miami, I would go right away. Why wait? And, hell, maybe Zeke was right. Maybe Palm Island was no longer a safe place to be.

  When I came downstairs again, Zeke had gone for the day. I climbed into the Mustang for the long, lonely drive back to Miami. This drive would be nothing like the drive to Palm Island with Sun Li. That drive was filled with anticipation and excitement. This drive, I knew, would be filled with boredom and easy listening music on the car radio. I didn’t even bother to put the Mustang’s convertible top down. That turned out to be a good thing because almost as soon as I left the island, it began to pour and it rained most of the way back to Miami. It was a series of those enormous South Florida thunderstorms that made it very difficult even to see out the windshield. The rain forced me to drive almost at a crawl back to Miami.

  It took me close to six hours, twice the usual amount of time, before I got back to my small apartment in Little Havana, where I stayed when the Mardi Gras was in dock. I had to admit that it was good to be back there. It had been one helluva day. By now, it was almost midnight, so I decided to just go to bed without even eating anything. I slept to the next afternoon when I woke up to a start when I heard my cell phone ringing.

  “Hello, Mario, it’s Ed Shipley.”

  I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised that Shipley was calling. I just didn’t expect him to call so soon. I was still recovering from and processing all that had happened the day before.

  “Hi Ed, if I sound a little groggy, it’s because I’m just getting up.”

  “Sorry, Mario, I did want to get back to you about your contact in Miami. His name is Bill Simpson. He’s with the CIA and operates out of the new embassy the United States is opening in Havana. This is all hush hush, of course. No one knows he’s even there. He has some very close ties to the Cuban community in Little Havana also. He will be in touch with you in the next day or so with information on who to contact.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll wait to hear from him.”

  “Good, he’ll be in touch.” With that he hung up the phone. I thought it was kind of odd that he called me with Simpson’s name because he had already identified Simpson as my contact just the day before. Was he trying to make sure that I really was in Miami?

  Chapter 17

  It was two days later that the body of Amanda Blakely washed ashore onto the rocks on Palm Island’s north shore, just beyond a small resort that catered to visitors to the island who wanted to avoid the crowds that often flooded the other parts of the island during the Season from January to April. An autopsy on her body which was performed by the medical examiner the same day she was found showed that just like Mark Sullivan, she had been shot with a .32 caliber Smith and Wesson.

  I read about the discovery of her body in the Miami Herald. I couldn’t believe that Shipley had not called me as soon as her body was found. Two bodies in Palm Island Sound in a matter of days? I was beginning to wonder if Ed Shipley really wanted or needed my help with the ongoing investigation. It sure didn’t seem like he did. He first sends me over here to Miami on what will probably turn out to be a wild goose chase for gold that may or may not still exist or maybe never existed. To top it off, a second body is found near the same place as the body of Mark Sullivan and shot with the same type of weapon. Despite all that, Shipley never even calls me to tell me about it. I have to find out about it through the newspaper. Something is definitely wrong with this picture.

  I gave Shipley a call to let him know I was available to help out any way I could with the investigation of this second murder. He supposedly wasn’t in when I called, but I did leave him a message. But he never called back that day or even the next. It would be several days before I heard from him. In the meanwhile, I would do as he asked and contact the Cubans here in Miami who might shed
some light on the missing gold and presumably the murder of Mark Sullivan.

  It was two days before I heard from Bill Simpson with my instructions.

  “Mario, this is Bill Simpson, how are you doing?”

  “Fine,” I said, “I’ve been waiting to hear from you for several days,” I responded, more than a little peeved but I hoped Simpson didn’t recognize it. I noticed one thing about Simpson’s voice---it sounded sort of muffled. It was almost as though he was talking through gauze or something. At the time, I dismissed it on the assumption that the call was probably being made on some sort of special CIA phone that disguised his real voice.

  “Well, you can’t be too careful in this business. I had to make sure everything was clear. I do want to meet with you today. How about I meet you in Domino Park on Calle Oche. Say around 2 ‘o’clock. Most of the people are napping then and the park is pretty empty then.”

  Before I could say anything in response, Simpson hung up the phone. I guess I had no choice. If I was going to be involved in this investigation I guess I had to be there. Then I realized that I had no idea what Simpson looked like. Of course, I had never seen him before and he gave me no description. How would I even recognize him? And how was he supposed to recognize me? This was going to be a very strange rendezvous in the park. Strange indeed.

  Chapter 18

  I was very familiar with Domino Park because it was located near my apartment in Little Havana. I often walked to the park and sometimes when the Mardi Gras was in port, I would play chess or dominoes with some of the locals. It was a favorite hangout for many of the Cubans who populated Little Havana.

  Later that same day, I was waiting in Domino Park looking at my watch. It was now ten minutes after two and I began to wonder what was going on. Simpson was right about one thing: the park was empty. I had it all to myself.

  As I was standing there, all I could think about was Sun Li. Although we had only spent a few short days together, I felt we had grown close. That was the hardest thing to accept about her abrupt departure from the island. I definitely had the impression that she was having a good time with me. I guess I was not only a poor judge of character, I was also had no understanding of what women really want. That was something my ex-wife had drilled into my head our whole marriage. Now I knew for sure that it was true and that she was right all along.

  I wonder what Sun Li is doing now?

  After about twenty minutes of waiting I got tired of standing and decided to sit down at one of the tables set for dominoes just inside the main entrance to the park. Simpson had been right, the park was unusually empty and quiet. Almost any time of day the park usually would be filled with men and the occasional woman playing dominoes and the sound of those clicking tiles being placed on the boards. As it turned out, my decision to sit down probably saved my life.

  I had just sat down when I looked up from the domino table and saw a black Cadillac SUV come around the corner with its tires screeching. I could see that the driver’s window was open and I saw the driver was wearing a black ski mask that covered everything except his eyes, which looked dark and menacing. This certainly wasn’t Halloween.

  “What in the hell is going on,” I yelled at the man inside the Escalade as it came within just a few yards of where I was sitting.

  It was then that I saw the gun. I recognized the gun immediately as an Uzi. I had seen them often enough in LA, where some gang bangers seemed to favor them. As the SUV passed directly in front of me I could see that the muzzle was flashing bright yellow. The sound from the Uzi was deafening. Somebody was trying to kill me.

  I dove to the ground as the bullets from the Uzi ricocheted off the sign at the park entrance that read “Maximo Gomez Park.” I felt one of the bullets or a fragment land on top of my head. It began burning my scalp so I quickly scrapped it from my hair. I had pulled my Walther from my holster as soon as I dove for cover underneath one of the domino tables. As the SUV raced down the street, I jumped up from underneath the table and I chased after it with the Walther in my hand, ready to fire. But I had to hold my fire since there were now several people walking across the street and other cars driving by. I did notice that the license plate on the Cadillac was a bright yellow plate from New York but it was moving too quickly for me to get the license number itself.

  This was the second time in just a matter of days that someone had tried to kill me. I had worked twenty years on the LAPD and was never fired at once by a gunman and had never fired my weapon at a human being myself. That obviously had now changed and changed very quickly.

  Apparently, attacks by Uzi firing masked men are no big thing on the streets of Miami as no one seemed the least bit interested in the fact that someone had just tried to murder me. No one stopped to see if I was all right. And when I called the Miami police department, they sent a patrol car out a half hour later. They took my name and other information as well as the description of the shooter and the SUV. They were done in about ten minutes with their investigation.

  One of the cops, a tall, burly African-American with a heavy Jamaican accent said, “If you think of anything more, man, just give us a call.” As he said this, he handed me his business card.

  I said to the cop, “Is that it?”

  “Look pal,” the cop said. “You’re still alive. We got serious crimes to attend to where guys ain’t so lucky.”

  Just then, I heard the police dispatcher over the car’s radio call this patrol car’s number. The Jamaican cop pulled open the car door and jumped in and the driver took off with the siren blaring and the lights flashing even before the other cop had closed the door. The traffic in front of them parted like the Red Sea for Moses.

  It was apparently business as usual. Just another shooting that may or may not make the 11:00 o’clock news. (I can tell you this, it never made the news at all, not even the early news).

  When I got back to my apartment just around the corner, I called Shipley. When I called his office phone, there was no answer, which I thought was a little unusual. A sheriff who didn’t answer his phone? Fortunately I had his cell number and was finally able to reach him after two more tries. He sounded as though he was on the road when I did reach him. I told him what had happened, that someone in a black Escalade with a black mask on was using me for target practice with an Uzi. After a few seconds of silence, he said that they must have been after someone else, maybe that CIA guy, Bill Simpson, and that it must have been a case of mistaken identity. When I pointed out that no one else was there but me, he said nothing in response. He was beginning to drive me crazy with his attitude.

  I told Shipley that I thought I could do more good on Palm Island to aid in the investigation than I could in Miami. When I asked him about the discovery of another body in Palm Island Sound, the Amanda Blakely woman, he said he was taking care of the investigation and he said that it was not related to the Mark Sullivan investigation.

  I said, “Ed, are you kidding me? Wasn’t she shot with the same kind of gun as Sullivan?”

  He responded by saying, “Yeah, it was the same caliber, but I’m pretty sure that it was a different gun. We’re checking into it.” He told me then that he wanted me to stay in Miami, saying he thought I might uncover some leads in the Cuban community on the gold and the Sullivan murder. Reluctantly, I agreed to stay in Miami for the time being. I would sniff around Little Havana to try to find out what was going on and I hoped stay alive while doing so.

  Chapter 19

  I was fortunate in that after sniffing around a little bit, talking to some people I knew, I was able to find a Cuban refugee club in Little Havana where sometimes veterans of the Bay of Pigs fiasco could be found hanging out. One of my dominoes partners from Domino Park had put me on to the club.

  He told me that the club was located on the second floor above a Cuban restaurant on Calle Ocho not very far from my apartment in Little Havana. I walked into the restaurant, sat down at a table in the corner and ordered a chicken empanada with bla
ck beans and rice. I also ordered a Dos Equis to drink with my dinner. The restaurant was decorated with several posters showing downtown Havana and other places in Cuba. Almost all of the posters included pictures of the nineteen fifties era American cars that still roamed the streets of Havana even today.

  From those posters it appeared to me that most Cubans favored Chevies. Several of the posters featured sleek 1957 Chevy Bel-Airs with enormous tailfins and painted in two-tone colors of turquoise and white. Vintage cars like those in the United States would certainly fetch a pretty penny from car collectors at automobile auctions in Palm Beach and elsewhere. In Cuba though, they were just everyday transportation.

  What was even more remarkable was that those cars were still running at all after all these years. I concluded that these Cubans must be great mechanics. In the United States, these cars would always seem to fall apart after just a few years of driving. That’s why almost everyone in the fifties and sixties always seemed to be buying a new car every three or four years since the cars would break down so often. But some of these cars on the streets of Havana were now over sixty years old and still running.

  After I finished my dinner, which was excellent, I asked the bartender, a slender man who was about sixty years old with a pencil-thin mustache, if I could go upstairs to the club. I spoke to him in Spanish, which I hoped would help pave the way for me to get in. The bartender disappeared into a back room for several minutes and when he emerged from the back room, there was a large, ominous-looking man with him. He easily was 6 foot five and had to weigh close to 330 pounds. I assumed he was the bouncer about to boot me out of the bar. Fortunately, it turned out that I was wrong about his intentions.

  “Senor,” the big man began. “I understand you want to go upstairs to the Club Santiago,” he continued in only slightly accented English.