by Stuart Woods
“He’s not too late to make trouble for us, baby.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“He found out who Harry really was.”
“Wasn’t Harry Harry?”
“Not until a few years ago. He spent the earlier part of his life as somebody else, somebody who disappeared with a lot of somebody else’s money.”
“Uh-oh,” he said.
“I’m glad you’re getting the point, baby. We do not want these particular people coming around asking for their money back.”
“Who are these people?”
“Believe me, it’s better if you don’t know any more about that.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Trouble is, they might take Carman seriously about the connection to Harry, and we can’t have that.”
“We certainly can’t,” he said.
“Do you think you could handle the problem?”
“For you? Of course.”
“For both of us, baby.”
“Do you know where he’s staying?”
“He’s at the Pier House. I followed him home after the inquest. He’d been talking to that cop, Tommy Sculley.”
“Not good.”
“No, but not necessarily bad, either. I don’t think he’s likely to tell Sculley who he’s working for.”
“No?”
“Believe me, no. But we’re going to have to take care of Mr. Carman, and we can’t do it in Key West. I don’t want the people he works for to even know he was here.”
“Did he fly in?”
“No, he flew into Miami, rented a car, and drove down. He told me he’d never been to the Keys, and he wanted to know what it was like. In fact, Mr. Carman told me a lot more than he should have. He told me, for instance, during our conversation, that he liked to travel under an assumed name, and that he always paid his travel expenses in cash whenever possible. Mr. Carman is a private detective, and I think he’s seen too many movies about his profession.”
“So?”
“So what we have to do is to get him back to Miami and deal with him there.”
“I’ll bet you already have it worked out how to do that.”
She smiled. “I have. Mr. Carman was in a bar on Duval Street a couple of hours ago. He could be back in his room by now. Shall we see?”
“Let’s.”
She picked up the poolside phone and dialed the hotel room directly, bypassing the switchboard.
“Hello?” His voice was sleepy and slurred.
“Mr. Carman?”
“Yes.”
“This is the person you talked to yesterday afternoon; do you remember?”
“Yes, of course.” He was awake now.
“I’m in Miami, and I have some information about the man whose photograph you showed me yesterday.”
“That’s very good. When can I have it?”
“You’ll have to move fast, I’m afraid; I’ve left Key West, and I’m not coming back.”
“I can move as fast as you like,” Carman replied. “Where can we meet?”
“First, you have to promise me that you won’t ever tell your clients you spoke with me.”
“All right; I won’t tell them.”
“Do you have a Florida road map?”
“Got one right here; let me turn on the light. Okay, got it.”
“Do you see where Highway 1 leaves Key Largo and goes north?”
“Yes.”
“That goes to Homestead. From there take Route 997 north until it joins 27, then turn north.”
“Got it.”
“Highway 27 crosses I-75, and there’s a tollbooth. There’s a rest stop just before the tollbooth; stop there. I’ll leave all the information in an envelope behind the toilet in the men’s room.”
“What sort of information is it?”
“Everything you need to make the connection. But leave me out of it, remember?”
“Don’t worry, you won’t even exist.”
“That’s the way I prefer it. Now, you must leave at once to get there before dawn; after that the rest stop will get busy, and somebody might find the envelope before you do.”
“I can be out of the hotel in ten minutes; I’ve already paid my bill.”
“Good. We won’t be talking again. You’ll make good time on the road this time of night, but don’t get any speeding tickets.”
“I won’t. Thank you and good-bye.”
“Good-bye.” She hung up. “He’s all yours,” she said, “but you’d better hurry.”
He stood up and started to get dressed.
“Search him and his car for any sign of Key West-hotel bill, matchbooks-anything. And there’s a photograph; bring it to me.”
“Gotcha.”
She stood up and kissed him. “Thank you, baby,” she said. “Next time we meet I’ll do something special for you.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” he said.
When he had left, Clare got back into the pool and resumed her laps-slowly and easily. Harry had taught her how.
Carman pulled into the rest stop and switched off his lights. There was a glow in the sky to the east, but the place wasn’t crowded; only one other car there.
He got out of his car and walked toward the little building housing the restrooms, wondering if they’d be unlocked this time of day. When he reached the door, he saw that the hasp had been jimmied off the door and hung, useless, with the padlock still on it. He opened the door and felt for the light switch. He found it, but the lights didn’t come on. “Shit,” he said, feeling his way toward the toilet. It was the last word he ever spoke.
He went through the man’s pockets and found no evidence of a stay in Key West. He took a thick wad of small bills and the man’s wallet and wristwatch, then stepped out of the building. The sky was brightening now, and he could see the parking lot clearly. He went to Carman’s car and, using a handkerchief to avoid leaving fingerprints, rifled the briefcase on the front seat and took the Key West hotel bill… and the photograph. He looked at the beefy man with the curly hair; sure didn’t look like Harry. Then he took the credit cards from the wallet and threw it toward the pond next to the rest stop.
A few miles down the road, he tossed the credit cards and the wristwatch into a drainage ditch, then headed for Key West, his mission complete. He’d managed very nicely, he thought, and made some money in the process. That would buy a few good dinners.
26
Clare Carras opened the Key West Citizen and looked through the realty ads. There was a display advertisement with photographs of a number of agents. She was stopped by the picture of a very beautiful Asian woman from whom Harry had bought the house. She didn’t want to be in the same room with any woman as lovely as that; she chose the man in the next photograph, phoned him, and made an appointment.
Then she picked up a copy of a yachting magazine she had bought, turned to the rear pages, and found a full-page ad for a broker in Fort Lauderdale. She picked up the phone and dialed.
“This is Mike Domenico,” a young man’s voice said.
“My name is Clare Carras,” she said.
“What can I do for you, Miss Carras?”
“It’s Mrs. Carras. My husband recently passed away, and I want to sell our boat.”
“What sort of boat is it, Mrs. Carras?” He sounded bored.
“It’s a Hatteras Sixty. It’s less than a year old.”
“Well, now,” Domenico said. He didn’t sound bored anymore. “Where is the boat lying?”
“In Key West, at the Galleon marina.”
“Does she have a paid crew?”
“No, my husband operated her himself.”
“I see. There’s certainly a market for that boat right now, but I think we could do much better with it in Fort Lauderdale.”
The doorbell rang downstairs. “Could you hold on a minute, please?” She went to the intercom. “Who is it?”
“It’s Tommy Sculley, Mrs. Carras. Could I spea
k to you for a moment?”
“Yes, come on upstairs; the door is unlocked.” She went back to the phone. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”
“I was saying that I think we could do a lot better with the boat in Fort Lauderdale.”
“I suppose so,” she replied. “What is your usual commission?”
“Five percent,” Domenico replied.
She looked around, saw Sculley and his young partner enter the room, and motioned them to a sofa. “That’s too much,” she said to Domenico. “I’m willing to pay three percent, no more.”
“Well, I’d have to talk to my manager about that, but I think we could work something out.”
“And you’ll have to bear the expense of moving the boat to Fort Lauderdale,” she said.
“I’ll speak to my manager, Mrs. Carras; I’m sure we can agree on terms. Tell you what, I’ll put a contract in the mail to you today, and I’ll talk with a ferry skipper about moving the boat. What’s she called?”
“Fugitive, and I’d like the name removed from the hull as soon as possible.”
“Fine. May I have your address and phone number?”
She gave it to him, then hung up. Tommy Sculley regarded her from the sofa.
“Selling Fugitive, Mrs. Carras?” he asked.
“I don’t have much use for the boat,” she replied. “I wouldn’t even know how to start the engines, let alone handle the thing.”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll see if I can have the boat removed from evidence.”
“Evidence? What do you mean?”
“It was the scene of an apparent homicide,” he said. “I’ll have to talk to the chief and see if he thinks it’s of any further importance to our case.”
“Please do so as soon as you possibly can,” she said. “Now, I have a rather busy day ahead of me. What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to see if you had remembered anything about the events of that day that you haven’t told me already.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I answered all your questions the other day.”
“I know you did, Mrs. Carras, but often people who are involved… are witnesses in a death remember things a few days later that they might have forgotten at the time of the occurrence.”
“I don’t think I remember anything new.”
“I was concerned, you see, about some discrepancies between Chuck Chandler’s story and what you told us on that day.”
That didn’t surprise her in the least. “Do you mean that what Mr. Chandler told you doesn’t jibe with what I told you?” She tried to sound surprised.
“That’s exactly what I mean. For instance, how long did you say that Mr. Chandler was below repairing the exhaust pipe?”
“Perhaps forty-five minutes.”
“Well, that kind of struck me as odd, Mrs. Carras. You see, when my wife and I were aboard and the same problem occurred, it didn’t take Chuck more than five minutes to fix it.”
“Well, this time it took forty-five minutes.”
“I would have thought that would have worried Mr. Carras-I mean, Chuck down in the engine room for three-quarters of an hour, working on something that took only five minutes to fix the last time it happened. Did Mr. Carras question how long Chuck was below?”
“Not that I recall.”
“What did Mr. Carras do while Chuck was in the engine room?”
“To the best of my recollection, he sat in his skipper’s chair on the flying bridge and looked out over the water.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“No.”
“Did you say anything to him?”
“No.”
“Had you and Mr. Carras had some sort of spat that day?”
“No, we hadn’t; we never had ‘spats,’ as you put it.”
“Your relationship was a cordial one on that day?”
“Yes, perfectly cordial.”
“And yet you and your husband sat for forty-five minutes on a drifting boat and didn’t so much as speak to each other?”
“Detective, you’re married; surely you know that married people can sometimes go for hours without speaking to each other. Harry and I were very comfortable together; we didn’t have to constantly converse.”
“I see your point, Mrs. Carras; sometimes my wife and I have gone for days without speaking to each other.”
The doorbell rang again, and Clare went to the intercom. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Carras, it’s Clay McDaniel, from Knight-Prudential Realty.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. McDaniel, please come upstairs; the door is unlocked.” She turned back to the detectives. “I’m afraid I have an appointment,” she said. “Was there anything else?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Carras,” Tommy replied. “Can you think of anything else?”
“No, I can’t.”
“We’ll be on our way, then.” The two detectives rose, made their good-byes, and left. On the way down the stairs they passed the real estate agent. “Hi, Clay,” Tommy said.
“Hello, Tommy; you in the new house yet?”
“Not yet; Rosie wants to get the curtains and other things done before we move in. Also, we have another two weeks on our short-term lease, and she’s not one to waste money.” The two said good-bye, and the detectives left.
Clare received Clay McDaniel in her living room. After an exchange of pleasantries, McDaniel spoke up.
“There’s something we should clear up before we talk, Mrs. Carras,” he said. “I believe you dealt with Lynne Kaufelt when you bought this house. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to deal with her now?”
“I’d prefer to deal with you, Clay,” she said, sitting beside him on the sofa and giving him a large smile. “I’ve heard so many good things about you.”
“Well, that’s very kind. Now, how can I help you?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard that my husband died.”
“Yes, and may I express my condolences?”
“Thank you,” she replied. “How much can you get me for this house?”
27
Tommy slammed the car door. “She’s gonna be gone soon,” he said. “She’s selling the boat and the house, and there’s nothing else to keep her here.”
“You ready for lunch?” Daryl asked.
“Yeah, okay. How about the Raw Bar?”
“That’s good for me.” Daryl put the car in gear; it was a one-minute drive. “It would keep her in Key West if we busted her,” he said.
“Don’t be crazy; we don’t have enough to bust her.”
“How about if we bust Chandler, and she’s a material witness. Wouldn’t that keep her here?”
“For about three minutes. We’d be ass-deep in lawyers before we knew what hit us. We could never make a case that she wouldn’t show for the trial of her husband’s murderer.”
“I see your point.” Daryl pulled into the parking lot of the Raw Bar, and the two detectives went in and asked for a table by the water.
“We’re pretty jammed, Daryl,” the young head waitress said. “You mind sitting at the bar?”
“Not at all, Suzie,” Daryl replied. “Come on, Tommy, the tourists have got all the tables; let’s eat with the other locals. The noon news is on the TV.”
They found barstools and ordered lunch. Tommy ate quietly, and Daryl followed his lead.
Then Tommy’s head snapped up at the TV set. “What did she say that name was?”
“What name?” Daryl asked, looking at the TV.
“Somebody got offed north of Miami.” He watched as the camera roamed around a rest stop and looked inside a car.
“So? We haven’t got enough to worry about?”
“Shut up and listen, Daryl.”
The TV cut back to the anchorwoman on the noon news. “This is the latest in a series of murders of tourists up and down Florida,” she was saying. “Mr. Carman had rented the car at Miami International four days ago and had apparently been touring the area.
The Florida legislature has acted to have the state’s license plate system altered so that rental cars will not be recognizable by their license numbers, but unfortunately, the car Mr. Carman had rented had not had its plate changed yet. There are no suspects yet in the murder.”
“Holy shit,” Tommy said softly.
“That’s our Carman from yesterday?” Daryl asked.
“I’m gonna find out,” Tommy said. “Finish my lunch for me.” He headed for the pay phones.
When he came back, he was nodding. “It was our Carman, the PI from California. Come on, let’s do some police work.”
Back in the car they drove to Dey Street and parked half a block from the Carras house.
“We’ll each take a side of the street,” Tommy said. “Talk to somebody at every house, especially little old ladies. They never miss anything.”
Half an hour later they met back at the car.
“What have you got?” Tommy asked.
“Little old lady across the street says Mrs. Carras’s car hasn’t left the driveway since midnight. She got up at 4:00 A.M. to pee, and the car was there at that time. Tommy, you weren’t seriously thinking that Clare Carras could drive a hundred and seventy-five miles north in the middle of the night, murder Carman-how?”
“With a large knife.”
“Yeah, a knife-and get back here in time to talk to us this morning without batting an eyelash?”
“No, I don’t think that, not really, but think about it: Carras runs off with some bad people’s money four years ago, and they’ve been looking for him ever since. Suddenly a private eye gets a tip, then he shows up in Key West, questions Clare. He tells us about it after the inquest, then next morning, bright and early, he’s dead. Now, do you think there might be a connection between his murder and Clare Carras?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? Maybe? I can’t see it any other way. Look, if she knocked off her husband, then she had to have some help, right?”
“Probably.”
“Then who?”
“Chandler?”
“No, not Chandler. She’s trying to hand him to us for the murder; he wouldn’t help her. She’s got another boyfriend.”
“And the boyfriend offed Carman?”
“Gotta be; who else?”
