Murder on Tiki Island: A Noir Paranormal Mystery In The Florida Keys (Detective Bill Riggins Mysteries)

by Christopher Pinto

  There was only one catch.

  Jackson.

  The Sheriff would never let me skip town while he still had a murder tab on my head. If I was gonna fly, I’d have to take care of this pesky Bachman murder first. It was time to get back to my old self. It was time to shed the comic clothes and get back to work. No more fantasy time.

  I took the Panama off my head and sailed it over the palm plants and into the Ocean.

  A few minutes later I was walking along the beach on the Gulf side of the Island, trying to sort my thoughts, put the few facts I had into the little filing cabinets of my mind. The breeze coming off the water was stiff and a little cold, unexpected on this hot October day. The sun was shining over Tiki Island, but out to the west I could see the remains of the tropical storm that hit us the night before. Thick, dark clouds clung together in a tight nest just above the horizon; white swirls grew from the center and even from this far away I could see shocks of lightning arc across the clouds and down to the sea. It was as eerie a sight as I had ever seen. But to the east the sky was clear; the sun shined brightly and ricocheted off the whitecaps with a blinding silver light. People swam in the surf and lounged on the beach, kids built sandcastles and cabana boys shuttled drinks between the beach bars and the guests.

  As if nothing happened, I thought. As if a man hadn’t been brutally murdered a couple of days ago, and the murderer is still running around free, very probably an employee of the Hotel, maybe someone they’ve worked with for years, maybe their best friend.

  Very probably an employee of the Hotel.

  Why did my mind go there? What had I missed in this convoluted mystery? What important fact was sliding away from me while I soaked my brain in rum and lime juice?

  I ran down what I knew again, as best as I could without taking notes. Bachman ran Tiki Island. He also ran hookers and drugs to Tiki Island for VIP guests. Hawthorn knew this. Melinda suspected but stayed out of it. She didn’t like the idea but didn’t do anything about it. Jessica worked for Bachman. And Roberts. Roberts ran the whorehouse that supplied the hookers, along with Bachman. Roberts got nabbed and the house got shut down. Roberts puts out a hit on me that fails.

  Melinda was with me when they tried to ice me.

  Next day Bachman shows up dead.

  What if they weren’t after me? What if it was Melinda they really wanted? What if Roberts had sent word to clean house? Anyone involved with the cathouse in Key West that could implicate him…Bachman, Melinda, maybe even Hawthorn? And what about Jessica? She got her goods from one of Roberts’ boys. Maybe he gave her a hot dose to put her out of the picture too?

  Was Roberts really that powerful, and that brutal? I didn’t know the answer to that. But I knew it fit, mostly. If Roberts gave the order from jail to kill Bachman, why not give the order to finish the job with me, Jessica, Melinda and Hawthorn? Plus it didn’t hand me the strong man. That could be anyone on the whole damned Island.

  I rounded the Island and found myself on the South Side, under my suite’s window. I could see clear down to Key West now. Yet to my right the sky was dark as night. As I walked I thought about Roberts. The only way he would order anyone killed was if he knew they could put him away longer than he expected to get for corruption and running hookers. Did Bachman know something more?

  Was that what was in the elusive safe?

  “Dammit!” I yelled and kicked a bunch of sand up in the air. The breeze carried it away from me and luckily there was no one close to get blasted. But as I watched the grains fly away on the wind a thought hit me. A crazy, far out thought.

  Maybe it was the other way around.

  Maybe whoever killed Bachman was going to kill Roberts too.

  Maybe they both knew some things that could do some damage. If that were true, it meant whoever killed Bachman would go after Roberts next. And there were only a handful of people who had the chance to murder Bachman and would have a reason to off Roberts, and I didn’t like any of the answers to that one.

  At two-thirty I phoned Sheriff Jackson and told him what I planned to do. He agreed and told me to come any time before seven. Next I phoned the front desk and asked them to get a message to Melinda to meet me in her office at three. They said they’d track her down and let her know. I hung up and made one last call…to my apartment. I gave the pre-agreed ring pattern and waited. No answer. I tried it again and still nothing. LaRue was gone, Princeton was gone. I hung up and dialed the precinct. I got LaRue on the line and asked him if everything was kosher. He said it was, Princeton was all wrapped up, the DA dropped any charges he was conjuring for me and I was actually missed around the office. Turns out what I did made a difference after all. He asked how the vacation was going and I lied that it was great and hung up. Next I dialed Jerry’s bar. Jerry answered.

  “Hey bud,” I said. “How’s the hammer hangin’?”

  “Low and to the left. What’s the word on my brother?”

  “Nothing yet,” I said, “Still working it. Got some ideas but nothing concrete.”

  “Then why’dya call me?”

  “No reason. Just checking in,” I said as I lit a Camel. “Oh, there is one thing, Jerry.”

  “Lay it on me Riggins, I ain’t got all day.”

  “Rutger ever mention a safe to you? Something with a combination?”

  “No, not that I remember.”

  “How about any dirt he might have had on anyone?”

  There was a pause, then Jerry said, “Once or twice he mentioned something about having “a little insurance policy for a rainy day”. He never elaborated but I figured he meant he had something to pin on someone. Why?”

  “Just a hunch. If it plays out I’ll give you the whole thing.”

  “Ok Riggins, whatever you say. When ya coming home?”

  “Soon buddy, very soon. Later.”

  He mumbled something and hung up. I looked at the star clock on the wall: Two forty-five. I had to get ready.

  I brought my dark suit out of the closet and laid it out on the bed. I got a crisp white dress shirt from my suitcase and put that on first, then tugged the dark blue pants on and buckled the belt. I slipped into my black Endicott-Johnsons and laced them up tight. A dark red and blue tie finished off the look. Then I slipped on my old shoulder holster, the speed rig I had specially made for my frame. I snapped it up and picked up my .45 from the suitcase. It felt strangely heavy. I ejected the magazine and spit the chambered bullet out. I checked the mag…six bullets. I reloaded the last one and slid the mag back into the butt of the .45, then pulled the slide back to chamber the first round. I let the hammer down easy and shoved the gun into the holster. It felt odd there, bulky and heavy, but familiar. I threw my jacket on, stood up straight and tall. Now everything felt right, felt real. I slid the .38 into my belt holster and buttoned the jacket. All I needed was one last thing to bring me all the way back…from the top shelf of the closet I lifted my dark gray fedora and hung it on my head, cocking it to the right like I’d done for so many years.

  Now I was back. Back in my element. No longer wearing the costume of a man on vacation. Now I was me again, top to bottom.

  And I was going to work.

  +++

  Melinda was waiting at the front desk when I hit the lobby at five of three. She took one look at me and her eyes went wide.

  “What are you all dressed up for?” she asked with a smirk. “Halloween’s not ’til tomorrow.”

  “The flowery shirt was the costume, baby. This is the real me. And I’m on a case.”

  “Case? You mean Rutger?”

  “That’s right. I’ve got a theory and I need to run it down. I’ll need a boat to Sugarloaf. And if you don’t mind too much, I’d like to borrow your car.”

  She hesitated, then said, “I suppose it’s ok. No one but Eliot and myself have ever driven it though. Have you ever driven a Cadillac?”

  “No, my chauffeur always drove for me. Gimme the keys.”

  She motioned for me t
o follow her into her office. Once inside she shut the door behind us. “You know, detective, you look quite manly in that get up.”

  “That’s what they all say.” She moved closer and put her arms around me, pulling me in. I stood like a rock. She reached up and kissed me and the rock turned to butter.

  “We haven’t been together in over a day,” she said seductively, then jumped up and sat on the edge of her desk, her long, shapely legs dangling playfully, an evil smile on her lips.

  “I can’t kitten, I gotta bolt.”

  “Not even time,” she said with that breathy, sensual voice as she let her dress fall off her shoulders, “for a quick one?” She slid off the table and the dress slid to the floor. She was wearing nothing but the flower in her hair.

  “Well, maybe just a quick one,” I said and wrapped my arms around her. Her lips and body pressed against mine and the fire blazed up again, but it was different this time. This time she felt the cold steel of the .45 against her breast, and it burned into her soul and made her feel things she never felt before. Her primitive spirit took her hard, and she was an animal, forcing her lips against mine, clawing at my clothes. Before I knew what was happening my zipper came undone and she climbed on me, a jungle cat taking her mate with an intensity that was rare in the human species. She buried her face in my chest to muffle her hungry cries as we both exploded with untamed pleasure.

  Breathless and hot, we collapsed onto her couch. Five minutes later I was on a launch to Sugarloaf Key with the keys to her garage and the big red Cadillac.

  Jessica, 4pm, Tuesday

  She began to stir and moan, and the doctor came to her side.

  “Miss Rutledge?” he said softly, gently rocking her, “Miss Rutledge, can you hear me?”

  She slowly opened her eyes, squinting at the afternoon light. “Where am I?” she asked quietly.

  “Tiki Island Resort, in the infirmary. I’m Doctor Finch. You nearly drowned.”

  She adjusted herself so she was on her elbows and opened her eyes a little wider. “What day is it?”

  “Tuesday. It’s about four in the afternoon. We found you early this morning.”

  “The storm,” she said to no one in particular. “They were calling me.”

  “Who was calling you?”

  “The...” she stopped and looked at the doctor in a very suspicious way. “No one. I was dreaming. Sleepwalking. I do it a lot. I usually wake up on the beach.”

  “The tide came in early this morning. You must have gotten caught up in it. You have some bruises. Were you accosted by anyone?”

  “No,” she said flatly, remembering the night. “Just sleepwalking.” The images raged through her mind now, images of those hideous creatures reaching out to her in her room, in Hawthorn’s room, seaweed hanging from their faces, crabs eating through their bodies. Then of the one, the single apparition who came to her so often, the one she imagined to be her mother calling from beyond her watery grave. She wondered if they would ever get what they wanted, or if she would just die in the process. “Can I go to my room now? I want to see my friends.”

  “I think it best if you just stay here, Ms. Rutledge. I’ll call Mr. Riggins and ask him to come down here.”

  “Ok, I guess.” She slipped back down to the bunk, too weak to argue, and closed her eyes.

  “By the way, Ms. Rutledge, were you using any narcotics or drinking alcohol last night?”

  She opened eyes and looked at him squarely. “Plenty of alcohol. No junk.”

  “All right. Rest now. I’ll tell you when Mr. Riggins comes down.”

  But the doctor’s call to the suite would end with no answer. I was already on my way to Islamorada.

  +++

  The launch landed on Sugarloaf Key at three thirty. The bay was rough and made me a little queasy, but I shook it off. Once on dry land I watched the small boat head back toward Tiki Island, perched a few hundred yards off in the distance. The resort seemed to gleam like steel in the mid-day sun, nearly blinding me against the slate-gray backdrop of the western sky. Tendrils of lightning slithered down to the sea along the horizon and split the slate gray with a piercing white strobe for just an instant. For certain, last evening’s tropical storm hadn’t lost an ounce of vigor on it’s way across the gulf. If anything, it picked up strength.

  I was glad it was heading away from me.

  I made my way up the dock to the warehouse-garage where Melinda kept her Cadillac. Using her key I opened the electric door, exposing that bloated, red beast. She was shiny, but the slightest film of dust could be seen on her fenders. No time for the mechanic to wipe her down today, I guess.

  As I was about to climb into the driver’s seat something caught my eye. Just a quick movement at the back of the stall, but enough to get my haunches up. I pulled the .45 from my side, clicked the hammer back and snapped the safety on, then peered around the back of the car for whatever it was that made that move.

  “Who’s there?” I asked softly, almost as if I didn’t want an answer. I moved around the back of the Cadillac and surveyed the room. It wasn’t a very big area, only large enough to hold the car and a steel workbench that ran the length of the left and back walls. Neatly stacked on and under the table were boxes of parts, tools and assorted lubricants. A hydraulic jack sat in one corner, and in the other were stacked eight brand new white-wall tires wrapped in cellophane. The right side wall was covered with hanging fan belts, hoses and wires. A pneumatic grease gun hung from the ceiling. Otherwise the stall was empty.

  “Got the frickin’ heebee geebees, that’s all,” I said and stashed the rod. Then I climbed into the driver’s side of the car, turned the key to ‘ON’, pulled out the choke, pumped the gas twice like Melinda did and stepped on the starter. The engine roared to life like a pissed-off lion awakened from a long nap, and balancing the clutch carefully I pulled out of the garage. There must have been some type of electric trigger or sensor on door, because as soon as I was clear the electric door lowered itself down.

  Melinda wasn’t kidding when she told me the Caddy had it’s own ride. Man, that car floated down the Overseas Highway like a duck on a pond. That Chevy was a sweet ride, but this baby was one fine ’chine. I sat back and let the engine slowly wind up to seventy as I crossed the big bridge, and thought to myself, I could get used to this.

  I pulled up to the prison around four-thirty. A few clouds were rolling in from the east so I decided to put the top up. I had to struggle with it for a few minutes before I realized it wouldn’t budge. Then I remembered…Cadillac…hydraulic top. I found the button and the top came up by itself. Another button put up all the windows. Tight seal.

  The building surprised the hell out of me. It looked more like a hotel than a jail, sand-colored stucco with coral pink trim, a terra-cotta roof and a pair of curved palm trees at the entrance. The parking lot was crushed seashells and there wasn’t a weed in sight. Inside a skinny guy in a gray uniform and cowboy hat had me sign the guestbook and took me back to the cell where Roberts was held.

  The skinny guy said, “He gives ya’ll any trouble, jus’ come git me, I’ll put him in his place.”

  I thanked the officer and sat on a chair outside the bars of Roberts’ new home.

  “Hello, Roberts,” I said and lit a Camel. “Smoke?”

  Roberts was sitting on his bunk with his face down. He turned lazily when he heard my voice. “What ya’ll want, city boy?”

  “Just to talk.”

  “Ain’t got nothin’ to say to you, boy.”

  “There’s a pack of Camels in it for you.”

  He shifted, then sat up. “Well, maybe we can converse a little.” I handed him a smoke. He spoke softly, slowly, sadly. “What’s on your mind, Yankee? Had enough of your whore and looking for another?”

  My face was iron. “Now now, redneck, let’s keep this civil. I think you’ve got some information I need. Give it up and I can make things nice and soft for you, get you a sweet deal with the D.A. here.”
<
br />   “Horse shit, Yankee. The D.A.’s my brother-in-law.”

  Well, that backfired.

  “Look Roberts, the truth is in three days I’m leaving this one-horse gaggle of islands and the chances of me coming back are slim to none. New York is my home and that’s where I’m headed. So you and your D.A. brother-in-law and all your kissin’ cousins can do whatever the hell you want and not worry about me giving you trouble. But before I leave I’m going to find out who murdered my friend’s brother, with or without your help. I’m thinking if there’s any validity at all to that badge you carried around for twenty years, you’d want to help. Help me and I’ll find a way to make it sweet for you. Don’t help me…well, your loss pal. Take or leave it.”

  Roberts got up from the cot and walked over to the bars. He held his hand out for another butt and I gave him the one I lit. “What’chu mean, your friend’s brother?”

  “I mean Rutger Bachman. The reason I came down here is because his brother is my best pal up in the city. He arranged the whole vacation for me. Now I get to be a pallbearer at his funeral.”