Killers, Bikers & Freaks: A Walt Asher Florida Thriller (The Walt Asher Thriller Series Book 1)

by Andrew Allan

  “Already there.” I held my glass up in toast, took a sip, and smacked my lips.

  “Good boy. Now, do what you do best – write and relax. Drink to your fallen friend. Remember your best times.”

  She had me feeling better already.

  “Okay. I don’t know why finding that vial struck me. It was like all my sensors went off,” I said.

  “Forget your suspicions. If something foul is up, you don’t want to get involved. I don’t want you involved.” Her voice was sharper now.

  “I’m not...”

  “Besides, what would my big, strong infomercial writer do if there were some bad guys? Sell ‘em to death?”

  Point taken.

  “Sounds like I need to get up there and smack your sassy ass back into place,” I said.

  “Mmmm. Don’t tease. Just get me the details for the funeral and be ready to love me when I drive down,” she said. Quite a woman.

  “Will do,” I said.

  Click.

  Chill, sweet women don’t excite me. I need one with kick. She had plenty. And, I found her irresistible.

  Between Ilsa and the boulevardier I felt loose enough to sit down and write. Work would be a fine distraction. And, progress on an assignment always made me feel better. But, after just a few pecks on the keyboard, it was no go. I was distracted. Something nagged at me. Those sensors again.

  Questions arose: How could Ken not have seen those Alligators? He was fit and strong. How could he not have gotten away in time? The logical answer: Only if something or someone prevented him from escaping. And, what did the glass vial have to do with anything?

  Ilsa wouldn’t like it. But, I grabbed my phone and called Tom Brown, an inventor friend. He’d invented a revolutionary new type of can opener for one of the big infomercial marketing companies. I was hired to write the script. We hit it off on set while shooting the commercial. Fast friends. My theory: His ridiculously boring name is a counterpoint to his radically brilliant mind.

  “Tom, it’s Walt,” I said.

  “Hey man. It’s been so long I figured you stopped talking and vowed only to type.”

  “Not a bad idea. Computers don’t talk back.”

  “What’s doin? New show?”

  “No. Personal business. Something weird.”

  “Okay...”

  I had to get the words straight in my mind before speaking. I didn’t want to sound crazy to Tom, too.

  “All I can say right now is I found a glass vial with some amber liquid in it. The vial had an open tip end. There was no packaging other than a small label with handwritten letter combinations on it. The letters are: LN, BTX, VX.”

  “Doesn’t tell me much.”

  “I know. But, see what you can dig up on those letter combos.”

  “How fast you need it?”

  “As soon as you can get it. But, not end of the world stuff. Just trying to satisfy my curiosity,” I said. I was relieved he didn’t say I sounded insane.

  “Okay, I’ll let you know soon,” he said.

  “I appreciate it.”

  I felt good after talking to Tom. It may have been something...or nothing at all. Either way, I had to check. Ken would have done the same for me. Following up was the least I could do for him. I’d love for my suspicions to have been wrong about it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  KEN WAS BURIED four days later. It was a fine service. But, knowing Ken was dead felt rotten. And, wrong. Karen Kerenz pulled me and Ilsa aside as the mourners started to depart the gravesite.

  “Thank you for all your help, Walt,” she said.

  “Let me know whatever else I can do,” I said.

  “And, if you need to just get away, please come up to Gainesville. We can make it a girl’s weekend.

  A small smile from Karen. “We’re overdue.”

  Ilsa noticed Karen’s attention drifting. She stepped in and gave her a hug.

  Then, I screwed it up.

  “Karen...did Ken ever work with chemicals or homemade compounds?” I said.

  Ilsa shot back from her embrace with Karen. “Walt...”

  “What do you mean?” Karen gave me permission to proceed despite Ilsa’s glare. I gave her a ‘don’t worry’ look. She responded with a ‘would you please shut the fuck up’ look.

  “Well, I don’t know. Just something he talked to me about once.” Weak, Asher. Weak.

  “Walt, let Karen get back to her car. The kids are waiting,” said Ilsa, stepping over, winding her arm through mine, and pulling me away.

  “I’m taking them to my parents in West Palm. I need to get away from the river. It won’t be the same without Ken,” said Karen.

  She looked over to a stretch limousine parked a few yards away. It was one of the last cars remaining at the cemetery. Her kids, two boys – Kelvin, nine, and Kory, six - they were a ‘K’ family – were taking turns running the interior length of the vehicle. The driver looked like he wanted to snap at them, but he stood by patiently.

  “Ken had enemies. Think anyone...you know...” It came out sudden enough to even surprise myself.

  “Walt!” Ilsa squeeze my arm and gave me a death stare.

  Karen turned to me, poised. “My late husband angered many people. But, they all respected his positions, whether they agreed with him or not.”

  “Let’s go, Walt,” said Ilsa. She didn’t give me a choice. “Karen, call me when you want to come up.”

  “I will,” said Karen.

  “Take care, Karen,” I said.

  As I walked, and Ilsa stomped, to the car, I looked over at Ken’s grave. It was a fresh reminder of how short our time is. How little control we have.

  Ilsa hit fast and hit hard. A punch right to my shoulder. I almost lost control of the car.

  “You are a cold son of a bitch!” she said. Unsatisfied with just one punch, she hit again to emphasize the point. I anticipated that one and grabbed her fist as it flew through the air.

  “Calm down,” I said. “I might have been a little quick with the questions, but she handled ‘em fine.”

  “You just don’t do that, Walter. She’s grieving.”

  “I’m trying to help her.”

  A silent moment followed.

  “Whatever is happening, if you get involved, then I do, too,” she said. “I don’t want any part of it.”

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  “So, will you stop? Please.”

  I didn’t want to commit. But, I was starting to feel bad about how I’d put Karen on the spot at her husband’s funeral. “Yes,” I said.

  “Please, you’re a good man. But, I don’t want anything to ever happen to you. Sometimes it is just better to look away, no?’

  “Yes. Sometimes,” I said.

  “We’ve had too many days apart. I don’t want to start our vacation by fighting.” She leaned her head on my shoulder.

  I turned up the music and reached over and ran my fingers through her soft, golden hair. No more words required. Les Baxter’s ‘Jewels of the Sea’ swirled to life and filled the sonic space with its romantic exotica schmaltz. But, this was one of ‘our’ records. A Walt/Ilsa classic. Sure to soothe the mood.

  A short while later we were driving southeast on the Florida turnpike. Ilsa had fallen asleep on my shoulder and I was alone with my thoughts.

  Ilsa is the one. Hilarious, smart, and sincere. Brassy, yet kind. A personality to charm your pants off and a stranger to no one. And, she is stunning. Slim, fit, and busty. Sexy without trying.

  We met fifteen years ago, working together on a project, me as writer her as a stylist. Friendly from the start. But, both married at the time. Then, she moved to Gainesville from Tampa and we went our separate ways. Through a chance meeting at a mutual friend’s birthday party we re-connected and learned we had something new in common: We had both gotten divorced. Things clicked, hot and fast.

  Perhaps like you, I’ve heard each person has three great loves in their life: Their first love when you sta
rt to get a hint of the magic and the pain it offers. Then, the first serious relationship, often a marriage that lasts for quite some time but is rife with inexperience that leads to heartache. And finally, true love. The love that doesn’t have to try to hard but somehow works so well, a synergy is formed. You feel it when it happens. I felt it with Ilsa. That’s how I knew she was the one. Despite that, we felt no compulsion to marry. Neither of us needed a piece of paper to say that what we share was legit.

  Besides the sappy stuff...who could pass on a woman who digs Charles Bronson movies? I couldn’t. She loved Bronson movies for the justice served. The bad guys were really bad, and Bronson made them pay. Hard. You don’t see enough of that in the world.

  Ilsa came to the States from the Netherlands as a teenager. The youngest of four sisters. She has that Dutch where-with-all to simply figure things out. And, she did that in spades, figuring out how to make a serious buck in the Gainesville bar business. Not a bad business to be in when college students invade your city nine months out of the year and you own four of the most happening bars in town. She was doing just fine.

  She woke up as we arrived in Melbourne.

  “Guten Tag, love,” she said.

  “Lady, I’ve worked up a killer thirst. And, it ain’t for beer,” I said with a sly glance her direction.

  “Let’s get to that hotel.”

  A couple of hours later we were flush faced and relaxing in the hotel lounge. A boulevardier for me, Bee’s Knees for her.

  “We could do that every day if you move to Clearwater,” I said.

  “Or, if you move to Gainesville, Herr Asher.”

  She knew I couldn’t due to the terms of my divorce agreement, which prevented me from moving more than fifty miles away from my children. Fine by me. I wanted to be close to them in case of an emergency. And, I visited them every chance I got.

  “Until that happens, you’re worth the trip.”

  We clinked glasses.

  “I’m sorry for getting on your case earlier,” she said. “I know your intentions are noble, but your timing stinks.”

  I conceded the point with a nod. “But, you still don’t want me looking into it.”

  “I don’t think there is anything to look into. He was eaten by alligators.”

  “Hmm. I suppose so.”

  She set her drink down in dramatic fashion. “Oh, you! I see you are never going to drop this until your curiosity is satisfied, yes?”

  “Probably.”

  “Fine.” She grabbed her drink and sipped. She studied me a moment before swallowing. “I must admit you are an admirable man. Maybe a little stupid, too.” She was a master of compliments that don’t quite flatter.

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  She continued, “There is only one way to solve this.”

  “How’s that?” I sipped my drink and studied her over the glass. Finally...

  “W.W.B.D?”

  “Huh?”

  She leaned forward, her face pushing into a beam of light, making her expressions very clear.

  “What would Bronson do?”

  She looked at me matter of fact. I knew the answer.

  “He’d kick ass and get justice.”

  She nodded.

  “Do you think you can do that?”

  I had to think about it.

  She spoke before I could answer. “Let me put it another way...do you think you can kick ass and get justice without getting hurt. And, without your loved ones getting hurt? Because that’s what happens in Bronson movies. Many casualties.”

  She had a point.

  “I really don’t think it will come to that. I’m just poking around, asking a few questions. And, like you, I really don’t think it’s going to lead anywhere.”

  “Just be careful.”

  I nodded. And, that was when Ken’s death began to scare me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WE SPENT THE next morning relaxing at the beach and that afternoon roaming around Melbourne. It was a fine small town filled with rocket scientists and surfers. A great place to have no plans. And, we didn’t. We just enjoyed each other’s company in all the ways a loving couple can. Thoughts of Ken’s murder cropped up every couple of hours, but I was able to keep them on simmer and not get too worked up. The crashing waves, blowing breeze, and warmth of the sun can make you forget plenty.

  Infomercial writers don’t get many requests for solving crimes. Not to mention, I’m not a cop or detective or a military veteran and don’t have their crime fighting resources either. But, one thing my commercial work has taught me is how people think. What motivates them – greed, fear, social acceptance. I need to know what drives people in order to persuade them to buy a product they don’t need or didn’t know they needed. And, figuring out what happened to Ken was all about looking at motivations. Flat on my back in bed, with Ilsa deep asleep at my side, I started to do what I always do when I sit down to write...I asked questions to put myself in someone else’s head.

  Like, if Ken was murdered, why would anyone want him dead? Had he finally piss off the wrong person? What was he working on? What did the killer hope to accomplish? What could be so big and so important that the only option was to kill Ken? Or, was it the only option? Maybe these guys were just ruthless and that’s how they handle problems big or small. That was a chilling thought. Was the killing timed to an event? Upcoming or past? Who did the killing and who was the killing for? Too many questions and too late at night. I rolled over and wrapped around Ilsa’s warm, naked body. A perfect distraction. As I started to relax, I admitted to myself that I wouldn’t be able to answer any questions without more information.

  We returned to Gainesville the next day feeling rested and recharged. I dropped Ilsa off and headed back to the river. Work was waiting for me. While in Melbourne, a job came in for a two-minute spot about a super duper ever-ready, always sharp stainless steel kitchen knife. Familiar territory, which shouldn’t take too long to write. As long as I didn’t get distracted with other things.

  But, a big distraction was waiting for me when I got to the house: Someone had been here while I was gone. It took me a few minutes to pick up on it. But, I noticed things were out of place – The door to the laundry room was open, I always kept it closed. The files on my desk were too neat. I’m never that tidy. Nothing appeared to be missing. But, someone had been digging around. Ilsa had the only other key, and she’d been with me.

  Being in the house gave me the willies. The doors and windows showed no signs of being broken into. I had no alarm because life on the river doesn’t require it. But, I knew someone had been here. That was troubling. Who snuck in and what did they want? More to the point...what could I do about it? The answer: nothing. I couldn’t tell anyone. Ilsa would get spooked, and I had no smoking gun evidence to show the cops. I just had to live with it.

  I re-checked all the locks, secured all the doors and windows. I even used my mom’s old trick of balancing a metal cook pan on a chair behind the front doors. The idea was the pan would clang and bang if anyone snuck in and the noise would alert me. After that, I set a scaling knife under my pillow and slid my buck knife in my pocket. I tried to write, but the words didn’t come. I too nervous to concentrate.

  The next day, work became the distraction I needed to forget about the break in. I finished up the long-form script I had been working on prior to Melbourne. It was a good pitch and I felt the product would sell, which was all that mattered in this business.

  But, just after sending the script off to my client, my mind drifted back to Ken. There was no way to avoid it. I was shocked by his premature death and it was going to take some time to recover. He seemed more alive, more actively functioning than anyone I had ever met. He just couldn’t be dead.

  Hunger pangs took my mind off the darker thoughts drifting into my mind. The ones that come knocking whenever we were faced with a blow close to mortality. I closed the laptop, locked up the A-frame, and headed for town.

 
I’m not an overly religious person. But, if there is one temple worthy of praise in Dunnellon, it’s Reymo’s. When I lived full time in Clearwater, I would get a craving for one of their down and dirty barbecue biscuits and make the two-hour trip without hesitation, reservation, or regret. Some things you just don’t deprive yourself of. Dr. Pepper helped slide them down the throat. A healthy belch and the rest of your day is properly calibrated.

  But before I could eat, I ran into Nadine Evers. She was one of Ken’s regular activist colleagues. He introduced us when I was single. Hung out with her at a party, but the way she went on about saving the river, it sounded like she wanted to have sex with it more than with me. I took that as a barometer of things to come and pursued no further.

  After sharing a few mutual “what a shames” she surprised me. “There’s no way his death was natural, you know that, right?” she said.

  “What do you mean?” I studied her face. Was she serious or just messing with me? She looked worried, bitter.

  “He had really been up a number of people’s asses. I mean really just dropping his dick right in their caviar.” Forgot how classy she could be.

  “I know he could be confrontational, but I wasn’t familiar with his particular methods.”

  “He said he found some information that was really going to hurt someone or something. A company, I mean.”

  That felt right.

  “Know who?” I said.

  “No. He didn’t say.”

  “If you had to guess?”

  “He probably had fifty companies he wanted to turn the screws to.”

  “How’d he get the info?”

  “I don’t know. But, I could tell it was really big. Like devastating.”

  “Well, I’m not discounting your concerns. But, I’m the one who found him with the alligators,” I said.

  “For all his sustainability efforts, he hated alligators. Wouldn’t get close to them. They couldn’t have snuck up on him.”