by Stuart Woods
“Tommy, remember what the lady on TV said? Tourists have been getting offed all up and down the state-some of them at rest stops. Don’t you ever watch TV?”
“And you buy Carman’s death as one of those?” Tommy demanded, not without scorn.
“Seems like the obvious answer. Anyway, it’s a better answer than somebody from Key West following him to a rest stop a couple hundred miles north and offing him just because he found Clare Carras. Tommy, if he was killed around six this morning, he would have had to drive all night to get there. No, he had to be staying in the Miami area, and Clare couldn’t have known where. It’s just too much of a stretch, too much of a coincidence.”
“Yeah? Let’s go back to the station and do some phone work.”
“What kind of phone work?”
“I want to know where Carman stayed and when he checked out and what phone calls he got while he was there.”
“Tommy, you can be such a pain in the ass sometimes,” Daryl moaned.
Two hours later, Daryl put down the phone and motioned to Tommy, who was at the next desk.
Tommy hung up. “What?”
“He stayed at the Pier House; he was out until about eleven-thirty. He paid his bill before he went to bed-said he was leaving early the next morning, had to catch a plane in Miami. They don’t know if he got any calls, but someone could have called in on a direct line if they had his room number. He made two calls while he was there, both to the same L.A. number.” He shoved his pad toward Tommy.
Tommy glanced at the number. “Okay, good, let’s backtrack. If Carman got dead around six, what’s the latest he would have had to leave?”
“Well, it’s a good four hours to Miami, and he was a bit farther north, say four and a half hours?”
“But he was driving in the middle of the night, so there’s no traffic.”
“Okay, four hours from the Pier House to the rest stop.”
“So he left the Pier House sometime between eleven-thirty and two A.M.”
“More or less.”
“And Clare Carras’s car was parked in her driveway all night, or at least until four A.M.”
“Right.”
“So somebody had to follow him from Key West. Four hours is a long time without a piss, and the first time he stopped, somebody followed him into the men’s room and cut his throat.”
“Unless they knew where he was going and were waiting for him.”
“Nah, they couldn’t predict where he’d stop.” Tommy was quiet for a moment. “Or could they?”
“Look, Tommy, I can buy that somebody followed him from Key West and offed him-it’s a stretch, but I can buy it. What I can’t buy is that Clare Carras knew when Carman would need to piss and have somebody waiting for him. Is it okay that I can’t buy that?”
“It’s okay, Daryl. But I still connect Clare Carras to this.”
“I believe you, Tommy; Clare Carras is a master criminal who can pull the strings on any murder from the reef to the Everglades. I’m with you all the way.”
“Don’t be a smartass, Daryl.”
A secretary approached. “Tommy, Daryl, the chief wants to see both of you.”
28
The chief looked serious as the two detectives sat down. “I read your report,” he said. “Why haven’t you arrested Chandler?”
Tommy blinked. “I don’t think we’ve got enough, Chief, not yet.”
“Is your report accurate?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then Chandler looks good for it, doesn’t he?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? You got anybody else in mind?”
“It’s complicated, Chief. I’ve got four or five scenarios; I just need more time to run them down.”
“You’ve questioned Chandler twice, right?”
“Right.”
“Did you read him his rights?”
“The second time, not the first; I wanted the first to be informal.”
“Did he respond to being read his rights?”
“It made him nervous, if that’s what you mean.”
“Good. Arrest him, bring him in here, and sweat him. Let’s see how he holds up under pressure.”
“He’ll just call a lawyer.”
“Come on, Tommy, you’re more experienced than that. You can talk to him, scare him, make him stumble. Hell, you might even get a confession.”
“Chief, my gut tells me he didn’t do it.”
“Your report tells me he did. Even if he didn’t, he’s bound to know more about this than he’s telling. Get him in here, sweat him, get everything you can. We’ve got enough for an indictment, the D.A. agrees with me on that.”
“You’ve already been to the D.A.?”
“He’s read your report.”
“Chief…”
“Don’t make me tell you again, Tommy.”
They parked near the Overseas Market. A lurid sunset lit Key West Bight; music blared from an open waterfront bar along the way. It was a perfect Key West evening.
“I don’t want to do this,” Tommy said.
“I know you don’t, but believe me, when the old man says ‘Don’t make me tell you again,’ you better do what he says. He’s a nice guy, but he’s got a hell of a temper.”
They got out of the car and walked toward where Choke was moored.
“His car’s not in its usual spot,” Daryl said.
“I’ve begun to get the awful feeling that Chandler isn’t in his usual spot, either.” He looked at his watch. “It’s too late for tennis.”
They arrived at the boat and went aboard. It was locked up tight.
“They’ve got lights over at the tennis club,” Daryl said. “Maybe he’s got a night lesson.”
“Let’s find out,” Tommy replied.
They drove past the Olde Island Racquet Club, and the lights were out on the courts. They pulled into the parking lot.
“The yellow Porsche isn’t here,” Daryl said.
“I’m afraid I might know where it is,” Tommy said.
They cruised slowly through the airport parking lot; nothing there.
“There’s another lot down at the end of the terminal, next to Island City Air Service.”
“Let’s try it.”
The yellow Porsche was parked in the smaller lot, its top up, all buttoned down.
“I was afraid of this,” Tommy said.
“What now? An APB?”
“An APB where?” Tommy replied. “You fly from here to Miami or Orlando, and you’re connected to anywhere in the world. He could be halfway across the Atlantic by now.”
“I didn’t think he’d run,” Daryl said.
“Neither did I,” Tommy replied.
“Maybe the chief was right?”
“Even chiefs are right sometimes.”
“Somehow I don’t want to be the one to tell him that Chandler skipped.”
Tommy said nothing. He stared disconsolately out the window at the Porsche.
“There’s something I’d like to know,” Daryl said.
“What’s that?”
“I’d like to know where Clare Carras is right now.”
“You know something? So would I.”
They turned the corner into Dey Street. The Mercedes was parked in front, but the lights in the house were off. They found a parking spot a few doors down and walked back toward the house. When they reached the high fence around the Carras property, Tommy held out a hand and stopped Daryl, then put a finger to his lips and cupped a hand behind his ear. There was noise coming from behind the fence.
Tommy strained to hear. Then there was a splash and a girlish giggle, then a man’s voice, he was sure of it. “She’s got a guy in there,” he whispered to Daryl.
Daryl moved down the fence until he found a tiny crack. He motioned Tommy over.
Tommy put an eye to the crack. It was dark inside; the pool lights were off, but he was sure he could see more than one head bobbing in the pool, and the two heads were very close tog
ether.
“I want to know who that is,” he said to Daryl. “Come on.”
On the front steps Tommy paused. “You go around back, in case he skips.”
Daryl disappeared, and Tommy rang the bell. He could hear splashing from the pool, and after a moment he rang the bell again. Shortly a light came on in the downstairs hallway, and Clare Carras appeared at the door, dressed in a terry cloth robe. There was a trail of wet footprints on the polished floor behind her.
“Yes, Detective, what is it?”
“Ah, Mrs. Carras, I wonder if you’ve seen Chuck Chandler today.”
“No, I haven’t; I haven’t seen him since my husband was killed.”
“We’re unable to locate him.”
“You mean he’s left Key West? Why am I not surprised?”
“Mrs. Carras, would you mind telling me who was in the pool with you just now?”
“I was alone,” she said.
“Mrs. Carras, I was walking along the street next to your fence, and I heard two voices, one of them a man’s.”
“You’re mistaken, Detective,” she said evenly. “You may have heard the skimmer intake murmuring. It does that.”
“I see,” Tommy said. “Would you mind if I had a look at the pool area?”
“What is this about, Detective?”
“Would you mind, Mrs. Carras? I’ll only take a moment.”
“All right,” she said. “Come this way.”
She turned and walked down the hallway to the door leading to the pool, then outside. Tommy stayed right behind her. There was no one visible in the darkened pool area.
“Would you mind turning on some lights?” Tommy asked.
“All right,” she said, then disappeared into the house. A moment later, lights came on, including the pool lights.
Tommy walked to the other side of the pool. There was a large wet area where at least one person had climbed out of the pool, but there were no discernible footprints. He walked from the pool across the grass to the fence, but the grass was closely cut, and he couldn’t tell if anyone had walked across it.
Clare Carras was standing next to the pool when he turned around. “Are you quite happy now, Detective?”
“Thank you, ma’am; I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” He began walking toward the house.
“Tell me, what did you hope to find out here?”
“I’m not sure, ma’am.”
“Suppose I had had a man here swimming with me; what would that have told you?”
Tommy looked at her, always easy to do, he thought. “I suppose I would have found it odd that a woman whose husband died last week was entertaining a man in her pool in the dark, dressed in…”
Her eyes never left his. She undid the belt of the robe and opened it wide.
“… a bikini,” he said.
She closed the robe. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Detective, but I’ve been quite alone all evening.”
Tommy apologized again and left.
“See anything?” he asked Daryl when they were back in the car.
“I got a glimpse of something that might have been a man. I ran down to the end of the alley, but it was a dead end. If he was there, then he had to vault a six-foot fence or two to get away.”
“Did you hear a man’s voice from the pool? Did you see a man through the crack?”
Daryl shook his head. “I’m not sure, Tommy, I’m really not.”
29
Bright and early the next morning, Tommy walked to the chief’s office and tapped on the door.
“Come.”
Tommy walked in. “Good morning, Chief. Got a minute?”
“Morning, Tommy; have a seat.”
Tommy sat down. “Thank you, sir.”
“So what did Chandler have to say for himself after he was arrested? Did he demand a lawyer?”
“We didn’t arrest him, sir; he seems to be out of town.”
The chief stared at him for a moment, then leaned forward on his elbows and spoke in a very quiet voice. “You mean Chandler has skipped?”
“No, sir, I don’t think he has. His car’s at the airport, and I don’t think he would have driven there if he was skipping. I think he would have left the car in his usual parking space at Key West Bight.”
“Have you checked at the tennis club where he works?” His voice was still low; the chief seemed to be trying hard to control himself.
“They don’t open until ten,” Tommy lied. “I wanted to report to you at the earliest moment-without waking you up, of course.”
“Listen to me very carefully, Tommy, because I don’t want to repeat myself. I want one of two things: I want Chandler in my lockup by noon, or I want your badge on my desk. Do you understand me?”
“I understand you very well, sir,” Tommy said, trying very hard to hold on to his temper, “and now I want you to understand me.”
The chief’s eyebrows shot up, his face reddened, and he sat back in his chair. “Go on.”
“I’m not going to arrest Chuck Chandler for the murder of Harry Carras-at least not until I get a lot more evidence-because every instinct that I’ve acquired in twenty years of police work tells me he didn’t commit the murder, and I’m not going to subject a man I believe to be innocent to the ordeal of arrest and all the publicity that follows. I’m going to clear this homicide, one way or another, and if I have to, I’ll do it without my badge, so if that’s what you want, you can have it right now.” Tommy reached into a pocket, retrieved his badge and ID, and set them on the blotter before the chief. “No point in waiting until noon.”
The chief looked at him for a moment longer, then opened his desk drawer, raked Tommy’s badge into it, and slammed it shut. “Big mistake to try and bluff me, Tommy,” he said. “Now take a hike.”
Tommy got up. “I’m sorry you thought I was bluffing, Chief.” He walked out.
Daryl was sitting at his desk watching when Tommy walked out of the chief’s office and out of the squad room. Then the chief appeared in the doorway of his office and bellowed, “Daryl! Get in here!”
Daryl scurried into the chief’s office and started to take a chair.
“Don’t bother to sit down,” the chief said. “I’ll be brief. I want you to go down to the tennis club where Chandler works and if he’s there, arrest him for homicide and haul his ass back down here. If he’s not there, then I hereby authorize a statewide APB. Got that?”
“No, sir,” Daryl said.
“Which part didn’t you get?” the chief demanded, his face red.
“Oh, I got it; I’m just not going to do it. I agree with Tommy; Chandler didn’t do it.”
“All right, then,” the chief said, his voice rising, “get your ass into a uniform and report for foot patrol on the graveyard shift!”
“Uncle Art,” Daryl began.
“Don’t you call me that in this station!” the chief bellowed. “You have your orders, so get out of here.”
Daryl dug into a pocket, then tossed his badge onto the desk between them. “Stick this up your ass, Uncle Arthur!” he yelled, then turned and stalked out.
Tommy was hoofing it down Simonton Street when Daryl pulled up next to him in a sixtiesera Mustang. Tommy stopped and looked at him. “That’s not a police car, is it?”
“I’m not a policeman anymore,” Daryl replied. “Get in.”
Tommy got into the car and closed the door. “You weren’t supposed to do that, Daryl,” he said. “I’ve got a pension to lean on; you’re just starting your career.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Daryl said, flooring the Mustang. “When my mother hears about it she’ll be all over Uncle Art like a hive of bees, and so will his wife. I’ll be back at work tomorrow morning.”
“No shit?” Tommy said.
“No shit. Now, where you want to go?”
“The Olde Island Racquet Club.”
“In thirty seconds,” Daryl said.
When they pulled into the parking lot the first thi
ng they saw was the yellow Porsche, and the second was Chuck Chandler, on the court, giving a tennis lesson to a young couple. They sat at a table next to the court and waited for him to finish.
“Morning, guys,” Chuck said, flopping down next to them and wiping his face with a towel. “How you doing?”
“Where you been, Chuck?” Tommy asked.
“Up in Naples at a tournament; Billy played.”
“How long?”
“All weekend.”
“How’d Billy do?”
“He won the damn thing; there’s going to be no living with him.”
Tommy looked around and saw a black-and-white pull into the parking lot. He turned back to the tennis pro. “Chuck,” he said, “it’s time to get a lawyer, the best one you can find.”
“Jack Spottswood is awful good,” Daryl said. “You want me to call him for you? He’s a friend of my folks.”
Before Chuck could speak, two uniformed policemen were standing next to the table.
“Morning, fellas,” Tommy said. “How’s it going?”
“Tommy,” one of the cops said, “the chief wants to see you and Daryl.”
“Yeah?” Tommy asked. “Tell him I said to go fuck himself.”
Chuck’s mouth fell open.
“He said to bring you both back in cuffs, if necessary,” the cop said. “Tell you the truth, I’d enjoy that.” He grinned.
“Oh, all right,” Tommy said. “We’re right behind you.” He stood up and turned to Chuck. “Maybe you could wait a while longer to take my advice,” he said.
“Okay, thanks,” Chuck replied.
“I’ll let you know if it gets necessary. Come on, Daryl.”
The two former detectives sat before the chief’s desk and waited.
“Okay, we all got a little hot under the collar,” the chief said. “Tommy, I respect your judgment; if you don’t think Chandler’s our man, go on investigating.”
“All right, Chief,” Tommy replied pleasantly.
The chief tossed both men their badges. “What’s your next move?” he asked.
“I want to go to Los Angeles,” Tommy said.
“Los Angeles!” the chief bellowed. “What the hell for?”
“There was a guy named Carman wasted up north of Miami yesterday. He’d been down here talking to Clare Carras. I think there’s a connection, and I want to check it out. It could be very important.”
