Late Friday afternoon and most of the residents were somewhere enjoying happy hour and I was sure that was where Mike and Karen were headed. Mike never met a happy hour he didn’t like and neither had I.
I called Bob as I walked the two blocks to the police station and told him what had happened. He was cleaning up after work and getting ready to head downtown. I promised to meet him when this was over.
Richard met me downstairs and we walked to his second-floor office. Susan and the office staff had left for the day. Uniformed cops and detectives walked the halls.
“Think before you speak, okay?” Richard pointed to the conference table.
“I want to let him know I know,” I said and sat.
“You don’t know and that’s my point. Let me lead and see where it goes,” he frowned and sat at the head of the table. “I’m his alibi and everything else is speculation.”
“With reason.”
“Maybe.” He frowned.
Richard’s desk phone rang and he got up to answer it.
“Yes,” he said. “Tell him to come to my office.”
“Dudley’s here. Speak when spoken to, okay?”
“It’s gonna be hard,” I said. “I know…”
“You don’t know,” he said. “Don’t make me sorry you’re here.”
“Okay,” I said. “But I know.”
Richard looked hard at me and then U.S. Marshal Dudley Crabtree walked in.
Chapter 28
Crabtree looked at me, his smile never faltered, and shook hands with Richard.
“You look none the worse for wear.” He nodded his head toward me and sat down.
Richard’s squinted eyes sent me a quiet warning and then he forced a condescending smile toward Crabtree. I bit my tongue.
“I had an interesting debriefing this afternoon,” Richard said before Crabtree could speak. “I learned a lot of background on Dick Walsh or Doyle Mulligan, whatever name you have him going by.”
As a journalist, I’ve learned to read a person’s body language during a press conference or interview and it often reveals interesting facts. I watched Crabtree, and when Richard mentioned Walsh after saying debriefing, there was a tightening around his eyes, his smile twitched and his body tightened, all in a fraction of a second before returning to normal. His interest was piqued, but he was also apprehensive. He put his hands together and cracked his knuckles, taking a moment to think before he spoke.
“One of my guys?” Crabtree stretched his legs under the table, trying to look comfortable.
“Nope,” Richard said. “A confidential source.”
Crabtree looked at me, his smile gone, and then toward Richard. “This is my case, Chief, why are you investigating it?”
Crabtree used righteous indignation to cover his concern, but it didn’t fool me.
“The source came to me, I didn’t go to him.” Richard wasn’t fooled either.
“Don’t you think you should have sent him to me?”
“He doesn’t trust you,” Richard said in a neutral tone with no expression. “After what I’ve learned, I kind of have my doubts too.”
“You’re losing me, Chief.” Crabtree frowned and sat up. “What are you saying?”
“Let me begin by telling you I know who Walsh is and what he did in Boston,” Richard said. “Everything.”
“You’re not in witness protection because you’re a Boy Scout,” Crabtree said just as callously. “You know that.”
“Yeah, I know that.” Richard said and pushed away from the conference table. “And I know you don’t put a psychopath, a cold-blooded killer, on the streets in a town like Key West.”
“Chief, three years ago…”
“Cut the bullshit, Dudley,” Richard barked. “Yeah, he walked away and you’ve been looking for him. Great cover story, but you and I know it’s not the whole truth.”
Crabtree stared at Richard but said nothing.
“You chase down criminals on the run. You find them. You arrest them.” Richard counted on his fingers. “My guess is you were onto this guy within minutes of his walking away.” He lowered his voice but the tone of his words carried indifference. “You knew when he showed up in Boston, picked up his new identity and cash. You knew he was in Key West and you did nothing. Why you did nothing is the question.”
“Chief, this is a law enforcement situation and he isn’t privileged to what I’ve got to say.” He pointed at me.
“No?” Richard said. “You’ve underestimated Mick. He’s more on top of this than you or I. He brought the source to me. He’s been kidnapped and tortured because someone thinks he knows where Walsh is. Mick, for his part, thinks your team’s responsible.”
“I was with you,” Crabtree answered. “He’s way off base with that accusation.”
“I’m your alibi, but where were your agents?”
Richard’s words came as a cold challenge.
Crabtree slapped his hands on the table and looked at me. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he yelped and turned to Richard. “You think we grabbed him?”
Richard pulled his chair back to the table. “Who else is on my island with an interest in your psycho? Anyone?”
Crabtree frowned. “No.”
“Tell me, Dudley, what was the purpose of letting this guy set up a business here? Snakes crawl out of their skin, but they’re still snakes and this guy’s still a psycho and you let him walk my streets.” Richard waited a couple of beats for a reply. None came. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
Crabtree looked between us, scratched his chin like a
Cuban talking about Fidel, and then rubbed his hands together. “You’re gonna leave him in the room?”
He was talking about me again. Richard nodded and looked ready to explode.
“I hold you responsible for him,” Crabtree said and leaned forward. “This is off the record,” he said with a hard stare toward me. “Understood?”
“I wanted nothing to do with this shit,” I said. “You’ve dragged me into it, beginning at the dock.”
“Well, you’re putting yourself in now.”
Richard and I said nothing. Crabtree took a few deep breaths.
“You’re right, Chief, we were onto Doyle from the get-go,” he said. “We waited for him in Boston, at the storage shed where he had his stash hidden. Obviously, he didn’t think we knew about it.”
“Why didn’t you take him into custody?” Richard asked.
“Our plan is bigger than arresting Doyle,” he said. “We, the Marshal Service, weren’t supposed to be looking for Bulger. Doyle is the last witness against him that’s alive and willing to testify. You following this?”
“It’s not brain surgery,” Richard snapped.
“Some of us think that Doyle is Bulger’s last link to Boston.” He smirked. “Doyle knew how to reach Bulger. All that is a moot point now that Bulger’s captured.”
“So, why all this now?” I said.
“Because now he has to testify,” Crabtree said. “We think he knows where Bulger’s money is and he’s out to get it.”
The room went quiet. We could hear muffled talk as officers walked in the hallway. Richard got up and closed the office door.
“The FBI looked for Bulger,” Richard said. “Are you working with them looking for the money?”
A snide grin formed on Crabtree’s mouth. “No,” he said. “There’s some concern—among a few of us, anyway—that the FBI didn’t do a very good job of finding Bulger.”
“I wonder why?” I said.
Crabtree turned to me and his smile was gone. “You think you know everything? You haven’t got a clue. We didn’t grab you.” He shook his head. “What were we going to get from you, even with torture? When you walked out of the interrogation room, we were done with you. You’re a small fish in this.”
“Bulger’s cash the big fish? The whale in the lake?” I met his stare and neither of us blinked.
“I’m uncomfortable here, Chie
f,” Crabtree said. “This could be a career ender for a lot of us.”
“Let me straighten this out,” I said a little more angrily than I meant to. “I want nothing to do with Doyle or Bulger or you. I am here because I think your guys grabbed me and you haven’t convinced me otherwise. Find Bulger’s loot and I’ll read about it in the Globe. Come near me again and I’ll kill you. Simple as that.”
I thought Richard was going to fall out of his chair. If he could kill with a disappointed look, I’d be dead.
“Mick’s upset, considering everything, I’d be too,”
Richard said. “You’re the only logical connection to his torture because of Doyle.”
“I can see that,” Dudley said. “I wish I had another answer for you, but I don’t. I assure you no one from the marshals was involved. The only thing I can think of is someone involved with Bulger did it, but that doesn’t make much sense.” He frowned. “Remember what Sherlock Holmes said, when you’ve eliminated the probable, all that’s left, even the most improbable, is the answer.”
“I think you’re misquoting,” Richard said with a smile that didn’t make me happy.
Chapter 29
Crabtree’s comments about not being involved in my kidnapping and torture sounded sincere, but I didn’t believe him. I didn’t want to, so he could’ve broken out in a song-and-dance routine and it wouldn’t have changed my mind. I believed the marshals had a reason for what they did, but it didn’t matter. It could’ve been their being thorough in their search. To me it was humiliating.
The kidnappers had been careful not make me go into cardiac arrest with too much power in the Taser—they knew what they were doing—and they’d kept their identities hidden behind masks, even though a hood covered my head, and they used some kind of synthesizer to disguise their voices. Bad guys wouldn’t bother, but good guys trying bad guy tactics would. Or so I believed and nothing Crabtree had said changed my mind.
“It wasn’t us,” Crabtree said again. “This means whoever did this is still out there and that concerns me because they are interested in Doyle.”
I glanced at Richard and his expression was noncommittal.
“I’ve said what I wanted to say,” I turned to Crabtree. “Don’t bring this to me.”
“Yeah, I got your point,” Crabtree said with a sour tone and then a smirk appeared. “You’re a tough guy but I’ve known a lot of tough guys.”
“I’m not a tough guy,” I snapped back. “You scared me with the Taser hits, I was scared again when I woke up not knowing who I was, and I was even more frightened when my memory came back. Before I allow that to happen again, I’ll fight like my back’s to the wall.”
“You shouldn’t be scared of me.” He grinned. “But whoever is out there should scare you. When I find out who they are, you’ll know and,” his grin grew, “you can apologize.”
I tried not to react. I looked at my wristwatch. “I’m late for dinner.” I stood up. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I said to Richard and walked out without another word to Crabtree.
Apologize my ass, I thought as I dialed Bob. I needed a drink to rid my mouth of the toxic taste.
Chapter 30
On my way to the marina, I called Bob who was with Burt and Texas Rich at the Green Parrot and ready to eat. I wanted a drink so I asked them to wait. It was a short ride to the Mango Tree Inn. I left the Jeep on the street in front of the inn and walked to the Parrot.
The Green Parrot is on Whitehead and Southard streets and a local’s hangout at that end of town. Its two claims to fame are that it’s the oldest bar in Key West and that it won a mention in Playboy magazine’s short list of its favorite bars.
The sun had almost set, so my rule of beer with the sun and Jameson at all other times kicked in. I ordered a Jameson on the rocks. Bill Blue ended his early sound-check gig. The Friday afternoon event featured the night band playing from five to seven. Other bars call it happy hour, but John, the owner, likes sound-check better.
The crowd dispersed, some choosing the restaurant next door, while others looked for places along Duval Street to eat.
“Where to?” Bob asked as I finished my second Jameson.
“Jack Flat’s?” I said as we walked along Southard toward Duval.
“I’ll see you guys later at the Hog or Tuna,” Texas Rich said and went his own way.
“Bob says I missed a lot while I was gone.” Burt lit a cigarette.
“Wish I had.” I tried to laugh. “I’ll bring you up to date while we eat.”
Jack Flat’s is on Duval, near Fleming and across from Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville. We found a table in the back of the crowded sports bar, thanks to the help of Gretchen who separated us from the waiting tourists.
While we ate, I began the saga of Dick Walsh and, with comments in-between from Bob, ended the story with Doyle Mulligan by the time Gretchen cleared our table.
“Jesus,” Burt said as we got up to leave. “I’ve got to stop leaving town.” He lit another cigarette and we walked toward the Hog’s Breath. “You really think the marshals grabbed you?”
“Yeah,” I said and lit my cigar. “Otherwise there’s another player in the mix.”
Chris Cook and Country Dave were into their last few songs of his mid-shift gig, when we walked into the crowded outdoor bar. Stephanie, Niki and Penn State Brian were behind the bar and we pushed our way to the far end but couldn’t find a seat. Texas Rich beat us there and was nursing a Miller Lite. He raised the can of beer at us and we headed toward where he stood at the back railing.
By the time Bob edged his way to the bar and got our drinks from Stephanie, Chris and Country Dave finished their last song and the duo were breaking down their equipment so the Carter Brothers Band could begin setting up. Some of the tourists finished their drinks, or took it with them in a plastic cup, and left.
None of my friends spoke about my experience and the absence of Tita’s name meant they were keeping their distance when it came to my personal life.
“Have you seen Padre Thomas?” Texas Rich sipped on his beer.
“Not in a few days.” I accepted my Jameson from Bob. “Why?”
“I was at Schooner a couple an hour ago and he was looking for you,” Texas Rich said. “Asked me to tell you he was there waiting.”
Usually Padre Thomas found me wherever I was. I sipped the Jameson as the Carter Brothers Band set up on the small stage and wondered why Padre Thomas was waiting for me.
What was wrong?
Chapter 31
I finished my cigar and enjoyed the Carter Brothers Band’s first set while I sipped Jameson and talked about everything but what was on my mind. I didn’t hurry to Schooner Wharf because I was tired of Walsh, or Mulligan, or whatever name he went by, and didn’t want to deal with Padre Thomas’ concerns for him. No doubt, he was working on a way to save Walsh. After all, that’s what Padre Thomas did. Forgive and save. He had already forgiven him, now he had to save him. I wasn’t interested in doing either.
It was getting close to midnight and the band took a break. My cup was empty and, with any luck, Padre Thomas had gone home. It was time to find out.
“You going to Schooner?” Bob put his beer on the bar.
“I’ll stop on my way to the Jeep,” I said.
Bob frowned. “Lunch at El Siboney tomorrow?”
It was Bob’s way of saying I was on my own and good luck with Padre Thomas. It was late for both of us early risers.
“I’ll call you.” I said and waved good-bye to the bartenders. I walked through the crowded streets toward the waterfront. The heat of the day had dissipated into the cloudless sky, toward the twinkling stars and planets of other galaxies, and a comfortable breeze wafted through the streets bringing with it the salty sea aromas of the surrounding water. I always found these night scents intoxicating after a hot day.
Sloppy Joe’s had its seats filled with Hemingway wannabes and locals who enjoyed the club’s live entertainment. After midnight, an
d Duval Street was alive with a mass of people bar hopping, gawking, and enjoying themselves. People gathered outside the Tree Bar and some wandered into Rick’s or the Red Garter.
Schooner Wharf was quiet as I walked past the closed boutique shops on Lazy Way Lane the small one-way street behind the bar.
Only a handful of people sat in the patio staring at an empty stage because entertainment stopped at midnight; some were couples who took advantage of the privacy. Locals filled the bar and a few tourists whose wives and girlfriends had left them bragged about it to anyone that would listen—a good way to ruin a trip to Key West.
Vickie looked at me and pointed to her wristwatch. I smiled and nodded my head and she poured me a double shot of Jameson over ice.
“Just getting up?” She joked and handed me my drink.
“Going home,” I said and we both laughed as I left money on the bar. “Have you seen Padre Thomas?”
“Last time I saw him he was by the magic bar.” Vickie picked up the money and turned to wait on another customer.
Half a dozen stools fronted the magic bar and Padre Thomas sat alone in the shadows. He looked up as I approached and I realized I hadn’t brought him a beer because I hoped he wasn’t here.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he mumbled, his voice tired. As he lit a cigarette, the match’s flickering glow briefly shined on his weary eyes.
“Texas Rich told me,” I said. “Do you want a beer?”
“I’m tired, I want to go home.”
“What’s so important?” I regretted asking before I finished speaking. Padre Thomas’ uncanny ability—be it from talking to angels or suppositions—of knowing things he shouldn’t sometimes scare me. The scariest parts were the times I found myself believing in his angels.
His eyes stared at me and he sighed. “I couldn’t do anything,” he said and inhaled deeply on the cigarette.
“About what?” I sipped my drink.
He turned to me, still in the shadows. “What happened to you… I didn’t see it… I couldn’t call anyone…” He looked down and his sighs were annoying.
Stairway to the Bottom - a Mick Murphy Key West Mystery Page 10
