Ron Base - Tree Callister 02 - The Sanibel Sunset Detective Returns

by Ron Base

  A small boat came into view, a running light at its stern. Tree could make out the outline of a man in a baseball cap. He called out to him. The man cut the engine. “What’s that?” he said.

  “Hey,” Tree said.

  “Hey, yourself,” returned the man in the boat.

  “I’m in trouble,” Tree said.

  The man turned the boat toward shore and shouted, “No doubt you are, being out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Where am I?” Tree said.

  “Myakka State Park. The question I have is this: if you don’t know where you are, how the blazes did you get here?”

  “Car ran off the road,” Tree said. “I banged myself up, sort of got disoriented in the dark and ended up here.”

  The boat’s prow scraped along the shallow bottom and held. A flashlight beam cut the darkness, illuminating Tree. “You do look the worse for wear, fella,” the man said.

  “Can you help me out?” Tree said.

  “Well, if I don’t help you, you truly are up the creek without a paddle,” the man said amiably. “Push off the boat, and then jump in. I’ll get you down to the marina.”

  “There’s a marina?”

  “Sure. Not far from here.”

  Tree leaned forward, grabbing the bow and shoving at it until the boat came unstuck from the bottom. He hopped in, letting out a yelp of pain.

  “You okay, fella?”

  “I’m hurting a bit,” Tree admitted.

  “I’ve got my truck at the marina. I can drive you to a hospital.”

  “I really appreciate this.”

  “Earl Tompkins,” the man said, leaning forward to shake Tree’s hand. Under the baseball cap a weathered face had eluded a razor for a week.

  “Tree Callister. What are you doing out here, Earl?”

  “What folks usually do out here. Either they fish or they run away from the world. I guess I do a little of both.”

  “Well, I’m sure glad you’re here, Earl.”

  “What I can’t figure, Tree, is how you got so far into the park. The highway is miles away.”

  “I sort of blacked out,” Tree said.

  “Whatever happened, you are one lucky man.”

  “Didn’t seem like it for a while there, Earl, but I guess I am at that.”

  Earl Tompkins put the throttle into reverse, backing the boat away from the shore.

  “Say,” he said, “what’s that hanging from your wrist?”

  41

  You might say I’m indulging in a little criminal behavior myself tonight,” Earl said. His way, Tree supposed, of reconciling the fact that his passenger had handcuffs attached to both wrists.

  “I thought you were fishing,” Tree said.

  “I said I was fishing, didn’t I? I said that because I didn’t want you to know what I was really doing.”

  “What were you really doing?”

  Earl grinned and said, “Fishing.”

  Tree managed a grin right back. “Okay, Earl. Fishing it is.” Wondering what Earl might be up to that was illegal.

  “You wanted by law enforcement, Tree?”

  “No, I’m not that serious a bad guy,” Tree said.

  “They put two pairs of handcuffs on you, I dunno, seems to me that’s pretty serious.”

  “The handcuffs were a misunderstanding,” Tree said.

  Earl burst out laughing. “That’s some misunderstanding, Tree.”

  “A couple of fellows got the wrong idea about me, that’s all.”

  Earl laughed some more but did not pursue the matter. A darkened marina came into view. Earl slipped the throttle into neutral and maneuvered the boat against the dock. He hopped out and tied off, then leaned down and offered a hand to help Tree up and out. Tree tumbled onto the dock, reawakening the pain in his side. He groaned and tried to catch his breath.

  “You all right, Tree?” Earl asked.

  “I just need a minute,” Tree said.

  Earl lowered himself to his haunches close to where Tree lay. “The thing is, you need help, and I aim to provide it. But then if you really are a wanted fella, I suspect there might be some sort of reward out for you.”

  “No, Earl,” Tree said. “I’m afraid there’s no reward for me.”

  “Even so, you wouldn’t want me turning you over to the law enforcement now would you?”

  Tree looked up at him. The fisherman’s grizzled face contained a certain craft Tree had failed to spot. “What is it, Earl?”

  “You know how it is, a life of crime out here just ain’t all that rewarding. So I guess I’d like you to help me out a bit. I scratch your back, you scratch mine type of thing.”

  “You want me to scratch your back, Earl?”

  “Why don’t you just give me some money?”

  Tree thought about this for a time and then said, “Sure, Earl. I don’t mind helping out a fellow crook. Let me see what I’ve got.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out Slippery’s razor. He flicked the blade out and grabbed the front of Earl’s jacket with one hand, and with the other pressed the edge of the blade against Earl’s throat.

  “Hey, take it easy,” Earl said in a strangled voice.

  “Listen to me carefully, Earl. I’ve done some things tonight I’ve never done before, okay? So if I have to slit your throat on top of everything else, well, I’m pretty sure I would do it. Do you understand?”

  Earl nodded slowly. “Hey, no use anyone getting hurt, Tree.”

  Tree eased himself up, holding the blade firmly against Earl’s unshaven throat. “What I want you to do, I want you to reach into your pocket and pull out your keys.”

  “You’re not going to take my truck, are you Tree?”

  “Yes, I am, Earl. But in return I’m not going to cut your throat. That’s a pretty good tradeoff if you ask me.”

  “You have a point there, Tree. You have a point.”

  Earl eased his hand into his jeans pockets and fished out a transponder key attached to a key ring shaped like a teddy bear. He handed it to Tree. “What they call a PATS key. Stands for Passive Anti-Theft System. So’s no one can steal your truck.”

  “That’s great, Earl. Glad you’ve got the latest anti-theft devices. I’ll feel much safer driving the truck now.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t take my truck,” Earl said in a plaintive voice. “It’s brand new. That’s theft, you know.”

  “I’m not stealing it, Earl. I’m borrowing it. You give me your phone number and when I get to where I’m going, I’ll call you and you can come and get it.”

  “There’s a bit of trouble with that truck,” Earl said hesitantly.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Well, sir, it’s stolen.”

  “Stolen? Who stole it?”

  “I did.”

  Tree broke into a grin. “There you go, Earl. Couple of bad guys like us, helping one another. Honor among thieves, that’s what it is.”

  “From what I know of thieves, there ain’t much honor,” Earl said sullenly.

  “Then it’s like you pointed out. Me being such a dangerous criminal, theft isn’t much of anything. Wouldn’t even give it a second thought. You don’t want to know what I was doing out there in the swamp. So you certainly don’t want to get in my way when I take your truck.”

  “No,” Earl said, the fear burning bright in his eyes.

  Good, Tree thought. Someone in the world was actually afraid of him.

  Practice for what was to come.

  42

  The host of the phone-in show on the impressive radio in Earl’s bright red Ford Ranger said there was indisputable evidence that the U.S. Government faked the Apollo moon landings.

  The filmmaker Stanley Kubrick had conspired with NASA and used outtakes from his 1968 masterpiece, 2001: A Space Odyssey, to make it look as though America landed on the moon when, in fact, no such landing took place.

  Few callers disagreed with the proposition. That would certainly make Fudd happy.
All sorts of people out there in radio land shared his conspiracy-minded view of things.

  Tree fiddled with the dial. Late night Florida radio was full of talk show nut cases and cheating country music women. The evangelists waited in the wings. He chose country music over the nuts—achy-breaky, making him think of Freddie. He thought of how much he loved her and how far away she seemed. He thought of his son, even further away—on the moon where the Apollo astronauts never landed.

  He thought about what he was planning to do. Not much of a plan, he admitted to himself. A patchwork of irrational notions, maybe, but hardly a plan. Freddie would think he was out of his mind, and she would be right. The women in his life always were right; invariably, therefore, he was wrong. He wondered why that hard fact never stopped him.

  It should have. But it didn’t.

  He came along Bay Shore Road, past the arched entranceway to the John and Mable Ringling Museum. Searchlights crisscrossed the sky—Aksel Baldur letting the world know he was having a party. Put on your tight dress, baby, get out that phony ID, and prepare to meet dirty old rich men.

  The traffic around the museum slowed him until he turned the corner, and the world became abruptly silent. Tree pulled over onto the shoulder and got out of the truck, stiff and sore, everything aching anew.

  He limped through a stand of trees and found himself on the museum grounds. He crossed a roadway separating the trees from the elegant gallery that housed the Ringlings’ massive art collection. He came around the building onto a vast swatch of lawn, past the terraced center courtyard filled with examples of the statuary John and Mable had picked up during their European sojourns.

  Beyond the courtyard, a penumbra of light marked the Circus of Life spectacularly unfolding along the walkway to Ca’ d’Zan, John and Mabel Ringling’s labor of domestic love. Tree didn’t go toward the lights, though. Instead, he veered away from the crowds he could see along the walkway, skirted the rose garden, crossing wooded grounds until he reached a parking area created for the vehicles that had transported Axel Baldur’s particularly important guests.

  The sound of Jay and the Americans singing “Cara Mia” carried out of the mansion as Tree moved along the limos, looking at license plates. The Lincoln bearing the vanity license plate FLAWILD was parked at the end. Now, Tree thought, now if only the door was unlocked. And it was. He reached under the driver’s seat, and his hand closed around the Glock pistol.

  Exactly where he had left it.

  He reclosed the driver’s door and stood in the night holding the Glock. Jay and the Americans warbled in the background. The warm breeze rose off the nearby water. He felt better holding the gun. He hated himself for thinking like that. But the gun provided the confidence he required.

  Shoving the gun into his belt, he made his way to the promenade adjacent to Ca’ d’Zan overlooking Sarasota Bay. Beautifully dressed guests wreathed in smoke huddled near the entrance beyond the promenade. Tree watched from the shadows. One of the smokers separated from the others and started away. Tony Dodge tossed what was left of his cigarette and walked straight for Tree.

  He waited until Dodge reached the trees before he came up behind him, jamming the Glock against the back of his ear. Dodge jerked in surprise. Tree put a hand on a powerful shoulder and brought him to a stop.

  “Hey, Tony,” Tree said in as calm a voice as he could muster. “How’s the party?”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Didn’t I mention it? I’m a huge Jay and the Americans fan.”

  Tree patted him down, keeping his Glock against Dodge’s ear. He reached inside his suit jacket to retrieve a gun from a shoulder holster. Tree backed off a couple of paces testing the weight of Dodge’s gun. It nestled nicely in the palm of his hand. “What is this?”

  Dodge turned to face Tree, taking note of his sorry state. He nodded at the gun. “Walther PPK,” he said carefully. “The James Bond gun. My pride and joy, so why don’t you give it back to me, and then get out of here?”

  Tree pointed the Walther at him. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  “You read too many detective novels, man,” Dodge said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Yes, you are.” Trying to sound as though he meant it. Dodge was wrong. He didn’t read enough detective novels. Otherwise, he might be a little more certain about how to pull off the tough guy act.

  Dodge’s smirk widened. “What do you think you’re gonna do, Tree? Shoot me in front of all these well-dressed folks?”

  The adrenalin pumped through him, a river of energy that, despite his exhausted state, allowed him to think he could get away with anything, even smashing a gun into the head of a well-muscled ex-con who could probably eat him for breakfast under normal circumstances.

  Dodge staggered back. The smirk disappeared.

  Tree hit him again. Dodge’s nose exploded in blood. He sank to the ground. Tree waved the gun at him and said, “Get up.”

  This time, Dodge did as he was told, wobbly, managing to get to his feet while holding his shattered nose. Inside Ca’ d’Zan, Jay and the Americans sang “Young Girl,” Baldur’s favorite song. Tree pushed Dodge toward the parking lot.

  When they reached the FLAWILD Lincoln, Dodge leaned against the side.

  “In the car, Tony,” Tree said.

  “Don’t have the key,” Dodge said.

  “Yes, you do. Now get it out.”

  Dodge looked at Tree and then fished the key out of his pocket.

  “Get inside,” Tree ordered.

  Dodge opened the door and squeezed behind the wheel. Tree stepped back to the rear, and got into the car, keeping the Glock trained on Dodge.

  When the Lincoln growled to life, Tree said, “Drive to Baldur’s place.”

  He could see Dodge glance at him in the rear view mirror. “You know, you’re smart enough to somehow be alive, don’t be so dumb as to stick around.”

  “Drive, Tony,” Tree said.

  “You’re a dead man, pal.”

  Tree did not respond, not sure Dodge wasn’t right.

  43

  Let me try this on you,” Tree said as Tony Dodge drove through the Sarasota night. “Brand Traven discovered his wife was involved with a group that specialized in high-end sex trafficking, bringing young women in from Mexico and Latin America, providing the right kind of available women for a certain kind of rich clientele.”

  As he talked, Tree kept the snout of the Glock pressed against Dodge’s neck.

  “The Red Rose sex trade solved Elizabeth Traven’s financial problems and then some. But Traven was appalled when she told him what she was doing—appalled and furious. So furious, in fact, that he got hold of a professional killer he had met in prison who was just about to be released. He hired him to take care of his wife. Only the wife got to the killer, offering a better deal. So the killer hooks up with Elizabeth Traven and the next thing, Brand Traven is dead.”

  The ex-con remained silent. Tree couldn’t see his face, and had no sense of how he was reacting.

  “Elizabeth probably hired me to help her with an alibi,” Tree went on. “To a certain extent, she was telling the truth—her husband had planned to kill her. It’s just that she got there first.

  “And maybe Elizabeth’s subsequent arrest was even anticipated, knowing that in the end she wouldn’t be convicted because she did not murder her husband. Meanwhile, the killer went to work for Elizabeth’s associate, Aksel Baldur. When Baldur decided that he didn’t like the way Kendra Callister deceived him, there you were, Tony, to take care of her, just like you took care of Brand Traven.”

  That drew a derisive snort from Dodge. “You should be writing fiction, man. You got yourself a vivid imagination. But that’s all it is. Nowhere close to the truth.”

  “I like the story, Tony. Why don’t we try it out on the police?”

  “Sure, man. You try anything you want. That don’t make it true.”

  “Even so, Tony, it will be enough of a mess fo
r an ex-con just out of jail, carrying his concealed James Bond gun, to put him right back inside again, don’t you think?”

  Dodge stayed silent. He slowed the car as they reached the gates at Baldur’s house.

  “Drive through,” Tree said.

  Dodge rolled down the driver’s side window, reached out to the digital pad built into the wall, hit some numbers, and when the gates started to open, moved the car forward.

  “Swing around to the back,” Tree said.

  Dodge did as he was told. When the car stopped, Tree told him to get out. Tree eased himself out the back as Dodge opened his door. He stepped back an instant before Dodge lunged at him. Without thinking, Tree blindly pulled the trigger of the Walther PPK. The gun went off with an oddly muted pop. Dodge winced and grabbed his leg, sinking against the car.

  “You shot me, man,” he said in disbelief.

  “You shouldn’t have come at me like that,” Tree said, trying to catch his breath.

  “Man, I’m shot here,” Dodge said. “You got to get me to a hospital.”

  “Sure thing, Tony. But first of all, you have to make a call.”

  “No way, man. You get me to a hospital.”

  “Listen, quit trying to negotiate your way out of this, or I swear I will shoot you again. Get on your phone. Make the call.”

  For the first time Tree saw something approximating fear cross Dodge’s face. He was in a bad spot, and he knew it. He took out his Blackberry, holding it up as though it was the evidence of his co-operation.

  “Call Fudd and Elmer,” Tree said.

  “Man, don’t do this,” Dodge whined.

  “Call them. Say you’re back at the house. There’s an emergency. Get over here. Then hang up.”

  “Then you get me to a hospital, right? My leg’s killing me.”

  “Call them.”

  He pressed something on the Blackberry, waited a moment, and then said: “Yeah, it’s me. Get back to the house ASAP. Emergency.”

  Tree grabbed the Blackberry out of Dodge’s hand, and dropped it into his pocket. Dodge winced and held his leg tighter. “Hurting bad, man.”

  “Let’s get you inside,” Tree said.