by Tom Corcoran
I dropped two more coins, punched up Duffy Lee’s number. He read an address. He was still talking when I dropped the receiver.
34
I TOLD LEWIS TO snug her seat belt, then tighten it more. I hauled ass over Big Coppitt, saw daylight, passed three cars in the double yellow, and hoped no one pulled out of the Mobil station. A life-sized Marilyn Monroe waved from Fred’s Beds and gave us a flash of blown-up skirt.
Let it hang out, Marilyn. It’s all the rage.
Finally, something in my favor. No Boca Chica speed traps. As I ran eighty-five on the four-lane around the Naval Air Station, I checked my dials. Water temp too high, oil pressure low. Bad time to grenade my engine. Pavement dips tried to launch the Shelby. I had a license to fly, I could chase F-18s in the touch-and-go pattern, climb to ten thousand and scope out Cuba.
I cranked up my window to cut wind noise. I still had to shout, condense my story. I spun the list of calls, spiraled the blame down to Cootie Ortega.
Bobbi Lewis went two thumbs up. “No holes,” she said. “I’ll buy it.”
I said, “How do we do this?”
“We don’t,” she shouted back. “Miss Mary Butler’s already called Dexter Hayes. He needs to salvage his rep. He’s on his way to Cootie’s right now. We hope he doesn’t go in alone. He’ll get his butt shot to Big Pine.”
“Mary didn’t like Dexter the cop. I say she won’t call, it’s just us.”
“Us? Fuck that. You don’t have a gun.”
I reached behind her seat, pulled out Sam’s .45, handed it over. I slowed for the bridge to Key Haven. Sun glare turned my windshield into a white wall. I checked the rearview. Still cool.
Lewis released the Para-Companion’s magazine. “Seven plus one,” she said. “You ever fire this?”
“I saw it the first time an hour ago. I think I hold tight and squeeze that skinny piece of metal.”
“You want to bet your life on it?”
Only if I have to.
Traffic forced me to slow on Stock Island. It’s hard to boogie on Saturday evening. My Shelby doesn’t do curbs and off-road excursions.
“You came up with a shitload,” said Lewis.
“Marnie did it, not me. If a story comes out, she gets it.”
“She can do my paperwork, too. First things first.”
I crossed Cow Key Channel Bridge, hit the left lane, found a hole. I blew the red light to a horn chorus and went south. The curb lane approach to Flagler is the worst pavement in America. I ran the fast lane until the instant I cut off a taxi and hung a right.
“We’re there in twenty seconds,” I said. “Plan?”
“We go in, shoot it out,” she said. “You got a hero hat in the car? Two Kevlars and a riot gun in the trunk?”
Sarcasm for a reason. I shut my mouth.
“I’d lose my badge if I took you in. I’d lose it if I went in without calling for backup.”
“What badge?”
“The one I might get back, if I do this right. Pull over.”
I slowed, skidded in next to a hydrant. Antifreeze steam filled the car.
“If I call before I’m on scene, they’ll order me off,” she said. “They’ll bust me before I can log the collar.”
“Who’s looking to salvage rep, now?”
She looked me in the eye. “Why do you want this?”
“For Naomi. So I don’t feel useless.”
“So die, then ask about useless.”
“Call it,” I said.
“We could be pissing into a thimble. Let’s drive by, look for his car, see if he’s home.”
I pictured the old Benz gleaming under a palm tree. I pictured Cootie force-feeding pills to Naomi, beating the life out of Steve Gomez.
“Maybe Dexter’ll show,” said Lewis. “I can go in with him. We can earn back our stripes together.”
My hot-dog driving had blitzed my brain. I’d forgotten Cootie’s house number, but I didn’t admit it to Lewis. Duffy Lee had said 1593 or 1953.
I turned onto Twentieth, went left on Eagle Avenue. A residential strip, well-kept homes, a few behind tall fences. The block was a long stretch. No number 1953. Next choice.
I slid the stop sign, dodged three kids on Razor scooters, then saw the dune buggy wedged between two tall trash containers.
I pointed. “Marnie told me that buggy was stolen from Oceanside.”
“Two against two changes our nonplan,” said Lewis. “I hate even odds.”
“Shit,” I said.
“My hero has second thoughts?”
“Look.”
“It’s a cluster fuck,” said Lewis. “Take a right and park.”
I turned, rolled a half block, and found a slot behind a boat trailer.
“Go find out,” she said. “Don’t take that weapon!”
* * *
The same gear, the cast of characters from the Whit Randolph ambush on Whitehead. Yellow streamers bordered by the FDLE van, Riley’s ME wagon, and county patrol cars up the ying-yang.
Liska stood next to his Lexus with a uniformed deputy and “No Jokes” Bohner in civvies. He watched me approach, regarded me like a town punk come to take abuse so I could hang with the cool guys. Cootie’s place was the ugliest house on the street. Two spindly palms, a scrabble of dry grass and gravel, cracked Cuban tile front steps. An antique AC box cut into the lowest eight panes of a jalousie front window.
Airtight, like Cootie’s alibi.
Liska had sweated through his striped polo shirt. He had been enjoying his day off. I smelled liquor behind the chewing gum.
“What brings you by?” he said. “It ain’t hit the news yet.”
How did he know that? The man had never been news sensitive before.
“I figured out that Cootie killed Gomez and probably Naomi, too.”
“Oh,” said Liska. “So you were coming by to talk it over with him?”
No answer would work.
“We got two down in there,” he said. “Lead poisoning, one shot apiece. One in a La-Z-Boy and one on a couch. You’ve been working with a freak all these years, Rutledge. Cootie had a Princess Di museum in a locked room. Boxes, books, and fifty pictures of her on the wall. Six are muff shots, obviously not legit.”
“Marlow the other victim?” I said.
“Oh, you’re well-informed. He was still wearing his red Broward County Sheriff Department shirt, and now it’s perforated. I would ask how you knew, but I don’t want to be disingenuous.”
“Marnie Dunwoody…”
“Right, and this time your buddy’s not going to skate. We found him on his porch, tying flies, chilled out like he had no problems in his world. We’re searching his house for a pistol with a silencer. He’s my guest at the county as we speak.”
They’d pegged Sam for revenge. What were the odds? “Does that make sense? Sam in there, and those men were sitting down?”
Liska studied the pavement, sniffed, exercised his Doublemint.
“How, in your mind, does a fishing guide turn into a murderer?”
“It’s not so big a leap, Rutledge,” said Liska. “The guide’s an old macho warrior, combat vet, slayer of sea life. He falls in love with his vigilante self-image. The vigilante on crusade doesn’t see his terminal actions as murder, but society does. I’m not high society, sir, but I represent its high interests.”
“You tell a good story,” I said. “Almost as if you were writing the news.”
“The public wants justice, and that’s my job description.”
“Does this mean you stop looking for anyone else?” I said. “Did you test Sam’s skin for gunpowder?”
He looked up, tapped his forehead. “I do it the old-fashioned way. Cranial forensics. Don’t hurry off to post bond. I’ll make sure he rides the metal bed straight to indictment. That tan jumpsuit looks just like his old fishing outfit.”
“Where’s Dexter Hayes?”
“Drinking beer. Or back at work, trying to diminish his father’s crimes by
logging successes. He found them and called it in. At least he didn’t try to cowboy. He brought his SWAT boys for backup, but he got here too late. None of the neighbors heard shit. Dexter took his city people home when FDLE grabbed command.”
“No one saw your perp?”
“Good use of lingo, Rutledge. It doesn’t matter that no one saw the perp.”
“Cootie killed Gomez and Douglas,” I said.
“Elvis had lunch at Blue Heaven,” said Liska. “Stay in town awhile. We definitely need to chat.”
“Chatting’s good,” I said. “Almost like getting mugged by state agents.”
“Push me,” he said. “Go ahead.”
“I can’t, Liska. You’re towing too much baggage. Maybe you should quit the sauce and start smoking again. You used to be a good detective. Now you’re a politician. Why fuck with the truth when headlines are waiting?”
Billy Bohner started for me, but Liska held him back.
I headed for my car.
Liska said, “Your chum’s gonna ride the upstate chemical sled in about four years. Maybe they’ll let you take pictures.”
* * *
I got back in the Shelby. Bobbi Lewis was soaked in sweat. I started the engine, began driving toward North Roosevelt. “Cootie and Marlow,” I said. “They grabbed Sam Wheeler for it.”
“How do you see it?”
“Cootie got mad and shot Marlow. Before he died, Odin got Cootie.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I thought it through, to convince myself. Sam was my best friend, flaws and all, but bumping off criminals is over the edge. I finally hit the snag in Liska’s logic.
“He didn’t do it,” I said. “Sam’s no splash artist. He had no reason to kill Cootie. His beef was with Marlow. Even with his head warped, it’d be some other way, like out at sea. But Cootie, too? No damn way.”
“Okay,” said Lewis. “I’ll buy that. Common sense wins the war.”
“Where to?”
“Your house,” she said. “The balloon’s deflated, and nothing’s solved. I need to use the toilet and the shower.”
“Where’s your Celica?”
“Back at Frank Polan’s. He owns a rental house four doors down from his place. It’s in the carport. Did Liska connect Cootie to the mayor?”
“I suggested it,” I said. “He wised back.”
“I could be Sam’s detention facility roommate by morning. I trust you have beer.”
I cut north on White. Our mission had deflated, but my mind was still doing eighty-five in a fifty-five. A double murder was a small mind’s revenge, and the puzzle still had pieces that didn’t fit. With the tension drop, the pieces, one by one, fell into place. Cootie had been watching a stock car race in the police station, so he couldn’t have shot Whit Randolph. His alibi was golden. To a rational person, it was too golden, too solid.
For five days Dexter had fumbled. He had picked his battles poorly, been hot and cold like Bobbi Lewis had been. But Dexter was not a stupid man, as evidenced by his bringing the city SWAT group to Cootie’s.
Why hadn’t he thought beyond the obvious?
Lewis said, “Your face looks like a boat propeller.”
“Sam didn’t shoot them,” I said. “Cootie and Marlow didn’t take turns shooting each other in the head. Someone else was there.”
“Expand.”
“Follow the money,” I said. “Who benefits with Cootie gone?”
“Other shareholders, Cootie’s relatives … Oh, shit. Do you know where she lives?”
“Love Lane. Marnie came through with that, too.”
* * *
I hurried down Southard, in the poor visibility of dusk. Just past William Street, Lewis pointed. Dexter’s Caprice, illegally parked. Dexter had thought a step further, had figured it out, too.
“We go in guns drawn,” said Lewis. “Assume Dexter’s not in there. We explain about Cootie and say we’re there to protect her. Make no big deal, but keep your piece in your hand. Keep looking around, as if at any moment a bad man could jump out of a closet. Because a bad man might.”
I pulled into Love Lane. A heavy man blocked us. “No parking.”
Lewis showed her badge. “It’s Saturday,” she said. “I don’t have a radio. Do us a favor, call 911.”
The man looked thrilled, as if deputized, put on a mission.
We hurried around Yvonne’s Acura, hit the porch. The door was half-open. Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” played softly next door.
“One last thing,” said Lewis. “This is nut cutting. Caution’s a bad bet.”
She pushed the door. We could see straight through the house, out the French doors, into a tiny backyard. Yvonne was raking leaves with frantic motions and crying.
I scanned the yard, a tropical paradise in spite of itself. Deep burgundy crotons, overgrown yellow hibiscus, unkempt magenta bougainvillea. A garden by mistake, awash in dead sea grape leaves. A four-foot chain-link fence drooped around it all, pulled down by vines. A broad tarpaulin was spread open, with raked leaves piled on it. I saw sudden movement to my left. A blue-green lizard prowled the top grate of an AC fan unit. Careful, buddy.
No Dexter.
Yvonne looked up, quit scratching at the bricked patio. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her upper lip gleamed with snot and sweat. She had pulled back her hair with an elastic terry-cloth band, but ran her hand across her head to push back imagined loose strands. She didn’t react to our being huffed up, guns in hand. She began to converse as if she’d expected us all along.
“My girlfriend lives on Eagle,” she said. “She called me. Cootie’s dead.”
Yvonne dropped her rake, bent down, clutched a wad of dead leaves, and dropped them on the open tarp. She took the rake again in hand, and picked at clutter behind two rocks.
“We heard about Cootie,” said Lewis. “Please accept our sympathy. Did you know that your cousin had inherited Remigio Partners’ stock?”
“Cootie was such a groveler, messing with his trivia. He dreamed he could live like a prince. That stock was worthless.”
“It was,” said Lewis, “as long as your husband was there to vote down the Borroto Brinas project.”
I heard a sharp clicking noise behind me. I leveled my pistol. The lizard had tumbled into the fan, had been chopped to bits. Another hunter lost to the hunt.
Where was Dexter?
Yvonne raked a small stack of leaves toward a larger pile. Deliberate, dutiful in working off energy, sublimating her grief.
“When did you come out of shock?” said Lewis. “When did you realize that your cousin killed your husband?”
Yvonne glanced up. “I don’t think I heard you right. Cootie Ortega lived in a dream world. He sat in his ugly house and stared at pictures of the dead princess and jacked off, for all I know. He wanted the big time, being rich and important, but he could barely cook a microwave supper. What makes you think he killed Steven?”
“Cootie wanted to run the new art museum,” I said. “He was a very bad blackmailer, but he was good at murder.”
“Blackmail who?” said Yvonne.
“Here’s one possibility. He went to Naomi Douglas and your husband. He threatened to expose their affair if he didn’t get the museum job and a vote in favor of Borroto Brinas. It’s my guess they laughed in his face, which was worse than not getting rich and not getting that job. So he got even. However it happened, greed drove him to murder.”
The air-conditioning unit cycled off. The neighbor’s music had stopped, and quiet filled the yard except for a faint, pulsing, whistling noise that I couldn’t place.
“You figured it for Cootie the day it happened,” I said. “Maybe you didn’t want your husband dead, but there was no going back. You also knew how cousin Cootie would benefit, and those millions would come to you if he was dead, too. But Whit Randolph screwed it up, didn’t he?”
“Who?”
They’d been seen walking together, arguing.
“Ex
act wrong answer, lady. Randolph talked to Teresa Barga,” I said. “With enough facts, he guessed your deal, or came close enough to do his own blackmail, didn’t he? You had to remove his complications by removing him. You had Cootie follow him for a few days to learn his schedule. Today was your big day, and Randolph never made it to lunch at the Turtle Kraals.”
“Fuck off. I’m tired of your face.”
“Take a good look,” I said. “Maybe it’ll bore you to death. It’d be a less messy way to die than how you snuffed Randolph. And once you did that, there was no reason not to shoot your cousin and a Broward cop you didn’t even know.”
Yvonne scowled but almost smiled.
Shit, I thought. Everyone was drawn to the riches. Odin Marlow had worked for Borroto Brinas, had come to town to squeeze big cash out of Cootie, and Yvonne probably knew him from years ago. Finding Marlow at Cootie’s house was pure convenience. Killing him had fit perfectly into her plan.
The faint whistle pulsed again.
Lewis looked for it. “We’ve got a snake in here somewhere.”
Yvonne reached down to the pile of leaves. She raised a weapon, swung it toward the tarp.
Lewis and I shot Yvonne Gomez at the same time. The bullets knocked the woman into an Adirondack chair, killing her instantly. Her gun clanked to the bricks.
Lewis yanked the tarp off Dexter Hayes. His face was ashen, his eyes rolled back. The hole in his shirt explained the whistle. Bobbi rolled him to check his back. No exit wound. She jammed her thumb into his chest to keep air in his lung.
Sirens filled the island, all inbound.
“Don’t assume those are for us,” said Lewis. “Call 911. Say ‘Officer down,’ and ‘Trauma-Star Helo.’” She bent to begin CPR.
I had to dial Yvonne’s phone with my left hand. I wanted to like hell, but I couldn’t let go of the gun.
35
AT 5:45 A.M. THE next morning, I got a call to pick up Sam on Stock Island. The island was asleep. No hint of sunup, no other cars on the road, four on-duty cop cruisers gathered around a camper in Albertson’s parking lot.
I had left my Shelby Mustang outdoors all night, a bad slip, the first time ever. I had remembered it as I fell onto my bed, but had been drained from hours of interviews and let it slide. Car theft ranked low on my impact scale after having pulled that trigger.
