Octopus Alibi

by Tom Corcoran

  The phone rang again.

  I began to get up. “You going to advise me not to answer it?”

  Marnie went for the door. “Kiss my ass. I’m not saying another word.”

  I let it ring.

  Marnie spun her tires in gravel as she hurried out of the lane. A guest at the Eden House pool played Dire Straits’ “Sultans of Swing” for the dozen homes within earshot. I couldn’t hear the guitar solo because a twin-engine airplane flew low overhead.

  * * *

  Liska said, “We’re chasing our tails, here. The media’s watching. You know what happens when you chase your tail a thousand miles an hour? You look like a blurry circle, a hairy doughnut. You look like a tropical storm on the Weather Channel. You look like a poorly focused asshole.”

  I put the glazed doughnut back in its bag. “Good similes,” I said. “Bad for the appetite. I watch the Weather Channel more than I look up assholes.”

  “Obviously you and I don’t work in the same building.”

  I warned myself to watch out. Aghajanian and Liska were more than just an out-of-town FBI guy and a rookie sheriff. They’d worked as a team at the city and were known for grabbing hardcore thugs. They had gone beyond good-cop–bad-cop routines, had taken their Q-and-As to free-form, abstract levels. Their act was more pester-and-comfort than maim-and-reprieve. They had puzzled criminals, confused them, coaxed accomplices’ names, street tips, and confessions. What they’d saved on rubber hoses they could have spent on Kleenex.

  “Everyone’s looking for Odin Marlow,” I said to break the ice. “I saw him drive by the hospital in Miami when you were inside.”

  Liska owed me an apology for his hospital tirade about Sam. He had called him a douchebag, a time waster. He’d insinuated that diet pills or mood drugs were behind Sam’s craziness.

  He was going to save the apology. He inspected a spider’s web on my screening. “Marlow was my supervisor twenty-five years ago. He was taking payoffs to avoid certain docks at three A.M., so bales could be moved from speedboats to vans. He was a rare one, never let the money show. They had to shitcan him for snagging free pussy off teenage whores. They got long-lens black-and-whites of a young girl squeezing his dick at four A.M. in the alley next to the Swizzle Stick on Duval. I say, ‘they,’ I mean, ‘me.’ I had to hide on the roof of the bank building and take his picture myself.”

  “Bottom line, Marlow’s a Broward problem,” I said. “Has anyone made progress with the alleged murders of Naomi Douglas and Steve Gomez?”

  “Have you talked to Bobbi Lewis?” said Liska.

  I shook my head.

  “You know about her relationship with Steve Gomez?”

  “She mentioned they’d been friends.”

  Liska faced me. “Or more than that?”

  “I got that impression.”

  “You know who ended it?”

  “Don’t those things stop by mutual agreement?”

  “Never,” said Liska. “Or should I say ‘always’ and ask how your personal life is doing?”

  I turned my head to Monty. He looked impassive, patient. The FBI gives out its own annual Oscar awards.

  “Lewis ended it,” I said. “He wouldn’t leave his wife for her.”

  “Now we’re getting closer. A year ago his wife turned the table. She left him. We might assume that he didn’t resume his affair with Lewis.”

  “We don’t know that,” I said.

  “If he had, there would have been nothing wrong with making it public.”

  “I’d have to be a dunce not to see where this is going.”

  Liska went back to the spider. His eyes traced the web strands to where they connected with the screen framing. “Did you get the idea that Lewis had counted on that split with Yvonne?”

  “When she talked the other day, the first I heard about it, she sounded like she had come to grips. It was over and done.”

  Monty said, “You told me her investigation was ‘on again, off again,’ or something to that effect.”

  “But that was her approach to Naomi, not to Gomez.”

  “Right,” said Monty. “But you told us Thursday that Naomi had raised Steve Gomez. I sensed that Lewis learned that fact as you spoke it.”

  “I did, too.”

  “How do you think that affected her?”

  “She might have felt a certain relief,” I said. “I was with her when Naomi’s neighbor told her that Gomez was a regular midday visitor. Both our minds, right then, went straight to nooners. That was one of the times when she went flaky.”

  “What were the others?”

  “Can I suggest you ask Lewis instead of me?”

  “Since our last meeting here,” said Liska, “no one has seen or heard from her.”

  I added up forty hours. “Has she missed work assignments?”

  “She doesn’t punch a time clock,” said Liska. “She’s expected to call in so we can find her when we need her. She hasn’t called, she’s not answering.”

  “Anyone knock on her door? Where does she live?”

  Liska nodded. “She owns a canal house on Aquamarine, on Big Coppitt. We checked. Her Celica wasn’t there. One of our female dispatchers picked a lock on a sliding glass door early this morning. We were afraid she was in there, maybe done something to herself. Nobody home.”

  “I’ve never heard her talk about friends,” I said.

  Monty butted in. “We think she left town.”

  In other words, they thought she was a valid suspect in the murder of her ex-lover.

  “I was standing right where I’m standing now,” I said. “I showed Dexter a scene photo. The bloodstain on Steve Gomez’s shirt. He reacted by saying, ‘Oh.’”

  “You betcha,” said Liska. “Right then I took the case away from the city.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Bullshit. I assigned the case to Lewis.”

  “Wrong. She said, ‘It’s my case now,’ and you said, ‘Agreed.’ She took the initiative. Did she take the case file, too?”

  Liska looked at Aghajanian. They both knew I was right.

  “Fuck,” said Liska.

  “I take it the FDLE didn’t swoop in and lift the case from your hands.”

  Liska shook his head.

  “Back to square one?” I said. “You’re not sold on Whit Randolph?”

  “You ever see Randolph and Lewis together?” said Monty.

  “No,” I said. “But let’s start from the beginning. Why don’t we go over to Steve Gomez’s yard and get a feel for his last moments? Do some down-and-dirty detective work? Maybe a bright lightbulb will appear in one of our heads.”

  “Monty and I can go alone,” said Liska. “You stick around, do laundry, maybe take a few pictures in the yard.”

  “You two will look at the yard like cops,” I said. “I’ll see it my way. Did anyone else notice the Akron, Iowa, connection? Wasn’t it me who showed Dexter how the blood on Gomez’s shirt didn’t match the shotgun wound?”

  Liska looked at Aghajanian.

  Monty said, “Change your pants first.”

  The phone rang as I locked the house to leave. Its ring sounded ominous. I took Marnie’s warning and let it go.

  Monty drove his red convertible. The top was already down. Liska sat in back and I could swear he scrunched down so no one would recognize him.

  Once again, I was riding shotgun. People on White looked at us like the last three stragglers from spring break. If they had looked closer, they’d have guessed three guys on the rock for a funeral in the only rental car they could get.

  30

  MONTY STOPPED THE RED Mustang across from Gomez’s house on Riviera. The wind had gone still and smells of salt rot from the canal wafted out to the road. A spindly egret stood on the roof of a Dodge Ram pickup three houses down. Four houses away in the other direction, a maniac blew dust off his driveway with a screaming machine.

  Gomez’s next-door neighbor probably went 260, but didn’t have the heig
ht to carry it. He was trimming fronds from a six-foot pygmy date palm near his front door. His broad Panama hat, if real, had cost hundreds. The Bermuda shorts wouldn’t bring fifty cents at a Goodwill.

  “That’s who found the body Monday morning,” I said.

  “Shit,” said Liska. “His name’s Darling, and he’s good for a letter a week to the Citizen. He started that push for a Law Enforcement Review Board.”

  “If he shuts you out, go away,” I said. “Let me talk to him.”

  “Okay, Mister Pro. What will he confess?”

  “Forget it. I’ll stay in the car.”

  “Come on,” said Monty. “You can be our civilian oversight committee.”

  Liska didn’t like it. “Don’t say one fucking word until I walk away.”

  Liska had the sense to introduce the three of us by name, not by title. The man knew, of course, that he was speaking to the county sheriff, and he may have recognized Monty’s name. But he didn’t know me and probably could see by looking that I wasn’t a municipal employee.

  Liska asked if he could ask questions.

  “I mind my own business.”

  “You found the body, sir. That’s very much my business.”

  The man lifted his hat, used his index finger to swipe sweat from his forehead, then replaced the hat. The humidity on his face suggested he had been at work for some time. Only six or seven brown fronds lay at his feet. “What about these two?”

  Liska looked at Monty. “These men are plain citizens, like you.”

  Darling had teardrops at the corners of his eyes and a mucus drip. He probably sprayed saliva when he talked about popping popcorn. He held small pruning clippers, but stuck close to the ten-inch hedge shears on the ground. He said, “I ain’t plain. You are.”

  Liska scoped the green plaid shorts. “I agree, sir. I think you know what I meant.”

  “I don’t know what you meant. I flunked mind reading.”

  Liska said, “To your knowledge, sir, did anyone else in the neighborhood hear the gunshot?”

  “Never nobody home. Boy down here works at Manley-DeBoer. Lady two houses over runs a fabric store by Sears. Across the street, they sleep past noon. They’re party people with bad taste in music. Even worse taste in the lowlifes they invite to party.”

  “Did you call 911 from your home phone?”

  “What kind of stupid-ass question is that? You’re the sheriff. You got the ultimate caller ID, and you don’t know I used the dead man’s dock phone?”

  “Did you touch the body, or in any way move it?”

  “I took his pulse. The way he looked, I hoped the poor bastard was dead. I sure as hell didn’t want to do mouth-to-mouth. You would’ve thought the same way.”

  “I’m sure I would, sir. Did you see any vehicles come or go on Monday morning?” said Liska.

  “I thought about that after I found him, you know. Nothing registered, not to say it didn’t happen.”

  “No police cars or city vehicles?”

  “I would’ve noticed police cars,” said Darling.

  “How about boats in the canal?”

  “I saw two go by—folks live up the way about eight, ten houses. I thought they was crazy, the way the wind blew.”

  Liska shifted topics. “Are you familiar with Yvonne Gomez?”

  “I never laid a hand on that slut.”

  “Sorry about my phrasing. You see her coming and going lately?”

  “You think I hang around cheap motels? She ain’t been here.”

  Liska said, “Sorry to bother you.” He elbow-nudged Monty, looked at me, and walked away.

  I hung back, locked eyes with Mr. Darling.

  His right toe touched his hedge clippers. “You got a problem?”

  “A question.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “I’m a threat, too?” I said. “I’ve never carried a badge in my life.”

  “I don’t give a shit what you never did. You’re with them, and they got the badges. You’re part of their club, I want you gone.”

  “So I ask you a question, or I ask the sheriff a different one. You want to know what I’ll ask him?”

  “I said I don’t give a shit.”

  “I’m going to remind him of that item in the Herald about Gomez’s watch showing up in a pawn shop.”

  “What’s your question?”

  “Then I’ll ask him if anyone’s checked the store’s videotape.”

  Darling bit his lower lip, thought about it. “What’s your name?”

  “Rutledge.”

  “What were you going to ask me?”

  “Did you see any cars pull into that garage before you heard the loud boom?”

  Darling fixed his gaze on Monty’s convertible. “I saw the mayor’s city car. But not just before the shotgun. I saw him come home about the time he usually went to work, twenty of eight that morning. They never change the oil in that hooptie. It smells up the neighborhood something godawful.”

  “He was driving it?”

  “Who else?”

  “Did you see his face?” I said.

  “No, I didn’t see his face. Sunlight off the windshield glass that time of morning? You couldn’t see a fucking elephant in that car.”

  “And you never saw him leave again?”

  “Nope. But it’s not like I don’t get a haircut and go to the post office every Monday. Come to think of it,” he said, “I smelled that car again. Right when I was calling 911.”

  “How much did you get for the watch?”

  “Not nearly enough. If I ever find out you tipped the heat, you’ll never own a stereo more than ten days. You follow me?”

  “You talk like that, I wonder if you shot the man. Just to get his watch.”

  “Anything’s possible, except I didn’t. He was a good neighbor. Now I’ll get more party people or minorities, if you know what I mean. Meanwhile, what is it you got? A jukebox CD player with two hundred discs?”

  “I’ve got a Cuban neighbor,” I said, “a retired man who keeps an eye on our lane. He spends his time hiding Spanish brandy from his wife and cleaning his gun collection. The last guy who tried to break into my house needs to be in therapy, to regain the use of his arm. It’s a shame the prison system has trouble hiring therapists. It’s a goddamned scandal.”

  Darling bit the other side of his lower lip. He studied his pygmy palm. More liquid appeared on his face.

  I said, “With the Gomez place locked up, we need to get to his backyard through your property. I need you to invite the sheriff to walk down the side of your house, use your canal bulkhead.”

  “You take him back there. I ain’t talking to that shitbird no more.”

  I walked out to the street. Monty and Liska sat in the two front seats. I told them we had Darling’s permission to access the Gomez yard.

  “I can only hope his first name’s Dick,” said Monty.

  “We going back there?” I said.

  “This was your idea,” said the sheriff. “It was a bad one. I can’t figure out what we’d learn standing in the sun looking at a dead man’s dead flowers.”

  “He saw the mayor’s city car drive in at seven-forty that morning. He thought it might have left about the time he was dialing that dock phone.”

  “Was that the only bone he threw you?”

  “It raises a question or two, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Good, Rutledge. Maybe the car shot him, then escaped. But you know what’s shitty? It’ll rust to death before it gets convicted. You believe what you want. Me, I’ll go back to reality. You walking, or you want to get in?”

  Something or someone, like Bobbi Lewis, had Liska’s motor running at the red line. I climbed over the side. My turn to scrunch down in the backseat. My turn to wonder about Lewis. She had picked me up at the airport Wednesday at noon. Within thirty minutes she had told me that she and Gomez had been lovers. She had brought up the subject. Almost as if she had wanted to become a suspect, as if guilt was driving
her to confession.

  * * *

  Dredgers Lane was quiet and empty. The sun had lifted above the trees high enough to heat the pavement. Barely midmorning and shrubs already looked defeated. I knew how they felt. I was tempted to close up the house, turn on the air conditioner, and hibernate all day.

  Before Monty drove away, I said, “Any more on Ernest Bramblett?”

  “I don’t know. Just for a while, stop asking me for anything.”

  “I can’t ask you out for a beer?”

  “I’m out of here at two. My next vacation’s in Cabo San Lucas.”

  “We didn’t have a chance to bond.”

  “Right. Maybe I’ll see you in a couple years.”

  The FBI had taught him an attitude, too. His front wheel chirped as he turned left onto Fleming. Marnie, now Monty. The neighbors were going to complain about reckless cars leaving the lane.

  I dialed my access number. Five messages.

  Annie Minnette. “I would very much like to know what the hell is going on. You came within an orange hair of embarrassing me in court. Whatever happened, and I don’t really want to know, I got all charges dropped. When I went to secure Sam’s release, he’d been gone for hours. I feel used. By doing what you did, you effectively turned me into a law officer. You made me part of a sting, and I don’t even know whose it was. I don’t like being lied to. I don’t like being used. I don’t—”

  The message was cut off after thirty seconds.

  The next was Matt, the underpaid account executive from the Sarasota ad agency. “Sorry to call on the weekend, Alex, especially from the scene of a disaster. Casey Hample discovered over-the-counter downers, which he mixed with Appleton rum and hashish. Yesterday’s shoot was more like a rampage. One girl went to the airport in tears. My boss won’t come out of her hotel room. If you could be here by Monday, or Tuesday at the latest, I’ll reinstate your day rate and throw in a bonus disguised as per diem. Call my cell number. Save my life.”

  Then, from Teresa. “Sorry about those boxes. The person who loaned me her truck had a Cayo Hueso problem. She forgot that she loaned me her truck. New topic. I won’t get much sympathy, but Whit’s out on bond and he says he’s being followed and it’s not paranoia. This unmarked car is for real. He goes to lunch the same time each day. Who would follow him to the Turtle Kraals every single trip? Also, this didn’t come from Dexter, who’s depressed, but it came from him: Keep your distance from Bobbi Lewis. Something’s going down. I shouldn’t have said this to a tape recorder. I miss you. I really want to—”