by Rick Copp
“Like what?”
“Like anything related to me. I’m telling you right now, I had nothing to do with either of those deaths. But I am embroiled in certain activities that need to be kept under wraps. If you unwrap them, then we have a problem.”
“I get the message. Loud and clear.”
“I suspected you would.”
“Am I free to go now?”
“No,” Martinez said, standing up and coming around the desk. “My wife and children should be arriving at any moment. I believe you know them all. I’d like you stay for dinner.”
“Oh, I don’t know if they really want to see me . . .” I said.
“If they’ve heard about Juan Carlos, I’m sure they all must be in mourning. I’ll need your help in cheering them up,” he said as he gripped my arm, signaling to me that I didn’t have a choice.
I would’ve preferred being fed to the sharks.
Chapter 31
Martinez was kind enough to allow me to freshen up in one of the guest staterooms. I used the opportunity to pick up a shore-to-land phone and immediately call the QE3. I was afraid Wendell Butterworth might have doubled back and finished off Bowie, whom we’d left tied up and gagged on his houseboat. The phone rang and rang and I finally got his machine. I hung up and dialed the Ritz Plaza. When the operator put me through to my room, Charlie picked up the phone on the first ring.
“Hello?” he said. I could tell he was worried.
“Charlie, it’s me,” I said. “Look, I don’t have time to explain, but I need you to go over to Bowie’s houseboat and make sure he’s all right.”
“Why?”
I quickly explained everything, and when I’d finished, he said, “Where are you now?”
“On Javier Martinez’s boat. Somewhere out in the marina.”
“What?” Charlie said, more than a bit concerned.
One of the crew rapped on the stateroom door. “Mr. Martinez is requesting your presence in the dining room, Mr. Jarvis.”
“In a minute,” I called out.
“Mr. Martinez isn’t used to being kept waiting,” the crew member said.
“Okay, be right there,” I said, then spoke fast into the phone. “Charlie, I have to go. I really don’t want to piss this guy off. Please, just go make sure Bowie is all right.”
The crew member outside the door inserted the key and turned the knob. I didn’t want him catching me on the phone, so I hung up, and smiled at him as he stepped inside. He was short and squat, a balding Latino in a crisp white uniform, his pressed shorts showing off some hairy, knobby knees. He stared at me sternly.
“I love the little duck soaps in the bathroom. Can I take some home with me?” I said, hoping I would be able to actually go home at some point.
He wasn’t amused. He just held the door open for me, and I passed him with a shrug. He escorted me to the dining room, and made sure I went inside before quietly retreating. I had entered the lion’s den.
Javier sat at the head of the table, Viveca to his immediate right, Dominique and David on his left. Javier watched with glee as his wife and children finally noticed me. Viveca nearly spit out her peach schnapps. Dominique stared daggers. And David strained trying to place me, probably having a vague recollection of seeing me at the Sand Drift Motel.
It was obvious Javier hadn’t mentioned I would be tonight’s special guest. He had a sick sense of humor, and enjoyed catching them off guard like this.
Dominique spoke first. “What’s he doing here?”
“He’s my friend and I’ve asked him to join us for dinner,” Javier said, barely able to contain himself he was having such a good time.
“I didn’t know you and Dad were friends,” Dominique said, barely even looking at me. “Is that how you got cast in the movie?”
“No,” I said. “We’ve only recently met.”
“We’ve discovered we have something in common,” Javier said as the same crew member that brought me to the dining room rushed in to refill his boss’s glass of bourbon.
“And what’s that?” Viveca asked.
“A mutual loathing of your dearly departed Juan Carlos,” Javier said. There was a deafening silence, finally broken by Javier’s almost merry voice. “Jarrod, can I offer you a drink?”
“Just some water, thank you, Mr. Martinez.”
“We’re friends, Jarrod, call me Javier,” he said with a wink.
So this is how Miami crime bosses got their kicks. Stirring the pot at home. I never saw someone have such a good time.
David finally spoke up. “Have we met?” He looked me up and down.
“No,” Javier answered for me. “At least I don’t think so. But Jesus and Abe first saw him up in that little town north of Vero Beach. Sebastian. Where you were last week. With Juan Carlos.”
Another long, painful silence. David looked down at his clean, shiny, empty plate guiltily. I knew Viveca and Dominique both knew that the other was sleeping with Juan Carlos, so I tried reading their faces to ascertain if they knew about David’s involvement with him as well. Both remained still, and stone-faced, and silent. They definitely knew. Talk about a family affair.
The wait staff arrived with a sumptuous feast of pan-fried scallops as an appetizer, shrimp salad, a delectable pecan-crusted catfish, and a very expensive French white wine with a name I couldn’t pronounce. Javier was clearly a lover of seafood given the rather one-sided menu, and mother, son, and daughter dove in with relish, obviously relieved that the food could serve as a distraction from the excruciatingly uncomfortable circumstances.
None of them had any idea how much I knew about their individual escapades, though Viveca flaunted it on the set every chance she got. Of course, how could she ever imagine that I would at some point be joining the family for dinner on their yacht? Javier stuffed huge bites of catfish in his mouth, and chewed with his mouth open. Smack. Smack. Smack. I could easily understand why Javier had such deplorable table manners. Who in their right mind would want to mention it to him? Viveca and Dominique exchanged furtive glances. David sat sullenly, poking at the shrimp on his salad plate with a tiny stainless steel fork.
He then took a small bite of scallop, and hurled it back onto his plate. “It’s overcooked . . . again,” he huffed. “I wish we could get Austin back.”
“Well, we can’t because Austin’s dead,” Javier said, shooting an annoyed glance at his son. “And dead people are useless in the kitchen.”
“Maybe if you had let him come back, he wouldn’t be dead,” said Viveca.
Javier’s face reddened. “Austin left us high and dry for greener pastures. Loyalty means everything to me, Viveca. You know that,” he said, and then glared at the entire family. “You should all know that.”
“I miss him,” Dominique said quietly. “He was a good man.”
“Good man. Good man. Austin Teboe was a traitor.” Javier spit out his catfish. I jerked my head to the right to avoid a bull’s-eye. “None of you ever took the time to really know him. You just liked the way he prepared your food. The three of you have proven time and time again that you’re not particularly good judges of character.”
Nobody dared to respond. They all looked down at their food and continued eating. Nothing made much sense anymore. Austin Teboe had quit working for the Martinez family. But did that necessarily provide the motive for a family member to poison him? And Dominique had been the only Martinez present at the time Austin Teboe was murdered. So everybody not there was pretty much cleared. So who did kill him? And why? And what about Juan Carlos? Javier said he didn’t do it, and I was predisposed to believe him. If he had done it, he probably would have bragged about it after all the humiliation Juan Carlos put the poor guy through, sleeping with his entire immediate family. No. I was pretty sure Martinez was innocent, at least of the Austin Teboe and Juan Carlos Barranco murders. But what about the rest of the family? Juan Carlos had broken Dominique’s heart, toyed with Viveca’s affections, and slept with David while al
so banging his mother and sister at the same time. Probably recycled his sweet nothings too. No, there were plenty of motives to choose from. But as I looked around the table, I didn’t see a smidgeon of guilt or remorse, just pure unadulterated grief. These people were in mourning. They should have been rejoicing. Juan Carlos wouldn’t be around anymore to lie, steal, cheat, and play a sad little ditty on their heartstrings. But none of them were willing to look at that side of him. They chose to focus on his positive attributes, whatever they might be. Just as Laurette had. All I could imagine was just how good he must have been in bed.
I decided that although this family was wildly dysfunctional, there wasn’t a murderer among them outside of their mobster father. So if no one in the Martinez family killed Juan Carlos, then who did? I was no closer to solving this puzzle than I was when my plane touched down in Miami a few weeks ago.
The knobby-kneed crewmember burst into the dining room, his face tense. “Excuse me, sir,” he said to Javier.
“Yes, what is it?”
“We’re under attack.”
Javier stood up, and threw his napkin down. “What?”
“Two men are on board. Our security cameras caught them climbing over the deck railing. And they’re armed.”
“Stay here,” Javier said to all of us, and hastily followed the crew member out. We all sat frozen for a moment, and then jumped up at the same time and dashed out of the room and up the narrow steel stairs to get a good view of the action. By the time we’d reached topside, a swarm of Martinez’s men were searching the boat. The intruders had yet to be found. Javier barked orders and nervously paced the deck. He caught sight of us peeking out from the door leading to below deck.
“I told you all to stay put! I want you to go to your staterooms now!” The family knew better than to defy orders from the master of the house twice, so they all solemnly retreated. Since I didn’t have a stateroom, I figured he didn’t mean me. So I took the opportunity to poke around. Who were these men? A rival mob family? The feds on a raid? And how on earth did I get caught in the middle? As I passed a midsize rubber dingy, a pair of hands grabbed me from behind and hauled me over behind it. The attacker wrenched my arms behind my back, and before I could call out to my good friend Javier, someone else in front of me cupped a hand over my mouth.
“Quiet, Jarrod, it’s me,” Charlie said, looking very sexy in a black skintight wet suit unzipped far enough to show off his broad, furry chest.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered urgently.
The man holding me from behind let me go, and said, “We came to rescue you.” It was Bowie.
“Rescue me? I don’t need to be rescued,” I said in a hushed voice.
“When you called me to tell me you were on Martinez’s boat, you sounded nervous,” Charlie said.
“I was late for dinner,” I said. I turned to Bowie. “Are you okay?” I could feel Charlie tense up the minute the words came rolling out of my mouth.
“Yeah, Wendell never came back. I was hogtied in my living room until Charlie thankfully showed up,” Bowie said, also looking sexy in the same black wetsuit.
“You guys better get out of here before Martinez finds you. They saw you on the security cameras, and it’s only a matter of time before—”
A flood of lights blinded all three of us as Martinez and his men, armed with flashlights and pistols, swooped down on us. We all threw our hands up in the air to surrender. We were too outnumbered to try anything.
“Who are you?” Javier asked Charlie and Bowie brusquely. “What are you doing on my boat?”
“They’re friends of mine,” I said, with an upbeat smile. “I was hoping there might be room for them at dinner.”
Chapter 32
Unfortunately Javier wasn’t in the mood to resume dinner after the dramatic invasion. And it was lucky for us he decided not to kill any of us for ruining his meal and nearly causing him a heart attack. He knew three bodies washing ashore was a headache he didn’t need at the moment. Instead, he had his crew escort Charlie and Bowie topside and to the small speedboat they had tied to a post just a few hundred yards from the yacht.
As I was heading back up to the deck of the boat to join them, a stateroom door creaked open, and a voice said softly, “Jarrod, come in here. I need to tell you something.” It was David Martinez. We hadn’t exchanged two words ever, and now he had a burning need to confide in me. I looked around to make sure Daddy wasn’t spying on us, and then slipped inside his stateroom.
“What is it?” I said.
David shut the door and locked it. “I know Juan Carlos was a shit. Deep down I’ve always known it. But I couldn’t help myself. He had a power over me.”
“And a lot of other people,” I added.
David nodded. “I know. But I want to know who killed him. It’s tearing me up inside now that he’s gone, and I have to know.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Do you really think there might be a connection between Juan Carlos’s death and Austin Teboe’s?”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe this will help you somehow. After my dad refused to rehire him, Austin fell into serious debt and really needed some cash. He showed up at the house one day when he knew Dad was away to ask me if I could help him somehow, maybe talk to Dad for him, and he walked in on me and Juan Carlos fooling around in the sack.”
“Did he already know about Dominique and your mother?”
“Everybody knew about Juan Carlos dumping Dominique. It was very messy and very public. It’s what drove Juan Carlos out of town. I’m not sure if Austin knew about Juan Carlos and my mother though. But the fact that Juan Carlos was bisexual and sleeping with me and my sister, well, he figured he had enough.”
“Enough to do what?”
“Austin was hiding out from loan sharks by the time word leaked out that Juan Carlos was marrying some TV agent out in California. He was penniless and desperate. So he went out there to blackmail him. If Juan Carlos helped him out financially, he’d keep quiet and my father would never have to know that his gay son was sleeping with the same man who destroyed his daughter’s heart. Dad would never have to know any of what was going on behind his back.”
“How do you know that was what Austin was planning?”
“Because Dominique saw him at the wedding. She figured out what he was going to do, and confronted him about it. He certainly didn’t deny it.”
“So did your sister poison him to protect Juan Carlos?”
“No. She says she didn’t and I believe her.”
“Then what about Juan Carlos? He could’ve retaliated and poisoned Teboe at the wedding. You were as close to him as anybody. Surely you might have some idea if it was him.”
“Juan Carlos was a lot of things, but he was not a murderer. I think if you find out who killed Austin, you’ll find out who killed Juan Carlos.”
“What about you, David? You certainly had a lot to lose if your father found out. Maybe you sent someone out there to do the job for you.”
“Would I be telling you all this if I had? I’m hoping this gives you the information you need to find out who murdered Juan Carlos.”
He had a point. Why implicate yourself to such a degree if you were guilty? My initial hunch was right. No one in the family was responsible. But this key piece of dirt opened up a host of new possibilities. A blackmail scheme. But Juan Carlos must have refused to play ball. Teboe threatened to put in a call to Martinez. And an hour later Austin Teboe was dead. It sure sounded like a textbook case of murder. Juan Carlos knocked him off before he could talk. But Juan Carlos was never away from Laurette’s side at the wedding. There was no way he could have poured the poison in Austin’s champagne. No, it was impossible for Juan Carlos to have pulled it off. Besides, no one else but Rudy Pearson had possession of the lethal monkshead poison. But why would Rudy Pearson have reason to murder Austin Teboe? It was clear on the bus ride up to the Hearst Castle that the two didn’t even know each
other. Unless Rudy meant to poison someone else. Yes! Austin could have swallowed the poison by mistake. Rudy despised Juan Carlos for some reason, and wanted him dead. When Austin keeled over instead, Rudy decided to follow Juan Carlos to Florida and finish the job once and for all. It made perfect sense. But since Rudy was already dead by the time Juan Carlos died in his Chinese chicken salad, someone else must be behind that murder.
I left David in his grief and went topside where the knobby-kneed crew member waited to show me the plank, or ladder rather, that led me down to the speedboat where Charlie and Bowie waited for me. As Bowie revved the engine, and we began the short trip back to shore, Charlie put a hand on my knee.
“By the way,” he said. “I had the guys back in LA call in a few favors with the Miami Police Department. They let me take a look at the toxicology reports that just came back from the lab.”
“And?” I said.
“It’s official. Juan Carlos died from a hit of monkshead poison.”
Bowie stole a glance at Charlie’s hand resting on my knee. He grimaced. It was clear he had developed some feelings for me. And I felt wholly responsible. But I couldn’t iron out those problems now. This new surprise just raised more unanswered questions. Who other than Rudy had access to the stash of monkshead? There was that mysterious roommate taking a shower in Rudy’s room while I was searching it, but I had no idea who that might be. Maybe he or she took over for Rudy after Wendell killed him?
When we reached the dock, I told Bowie what I had learned from Javier about his cousin Calvin. Bowie was taken by surprise by my news. It was the first solid lead he had heard in months. It was clear he was anxious to get on it. He mumbled his good-byes and quickly disappeared inside the QE3. Charlie and I got into the Taurus and headed back to the Ritz Plaza.
I turned to Charlie. “Thank you for rescuing me,” I said.
“No problem,” Charlie said.
“I love you,” I said, and meant it.
Long, long pause. He really wanted me to suffer a little bit before finally relenting. “I love you too.”
