by Elaine Viets
“I’m Jan Kurtz. The captain saved us. He tried to head off that speedboat. It was running straight for our dinghy. The driver had to be drunk. That boat was going so fast. There’s no way the captain could have caught up with it. But he was there when we overturned. We would have drowned without him.”
Helen came up for air and sneaked another peek. Jan was about forty and would have been pretty if she hadn’t been dunked in a dirty canal. Her brown hair was plastered to her head and her eyeliner left muddy streaks.
“I think Capt. Klobnak saved the man over there, too, Jan said. “That woman is giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”
“That will explain the lipstick all over your face,” Helen whispered in Phil’s ear. It felt like a fuzzy peach. She longed to nibble it.
“Ow. Don’t make me laugh. I’ve been kicked in the ribs, Phil said. “You better stop resuscitating me, before they see you’ve revived another body part.”
Helen pulled herself away while Phil bunched the blankets strategically around his middle.
“Are you OK, sir?” The Coast Guard officer was twenty-something with a shaved head and a lobster-pink sunburn.
“Do you need medical assistance?”
“I’m fine.”
He’s better than fine, Helen thought. The man kisses like a dream. She’d finally met her dream lover and she was going to jail for kidnaping a water taxi captain—if she didn’t die of pneumonia first. Her wet clothes weighed four thousand pounds. Her teeth were chattering.
“You’re cold.” Phil pulled off a blanket and wrapped it around her shivering shoulders. “Ouch. My ribs. Take this.”
Helen, bundled in coarse wool and wet khaki, felt a zing when she looked at Phil. Even soaking wet, that man was something. Especially wet. His shirt clung to his chest in interesting ways.
Helen jumped at a faint scraping sound. She saw the captain scooting her toolbox under a bench with his heroic foot, as if he didn’t want anyone to know he’d been hijacked by a woman wielding oven cleaner.
Maybe I won’t go to jail for water-taxi piracy after all, Helen thought.
The rescued Jan was still praising Capt. Klobnak and giving party introductions. “He saved my nephew, Christian Muys, and my friends Megan Kellner and Elaine Naiman.
And me, too. He’s a hero.”
The captain blushed deep red, even in the flashing blue lights. But Jan was right. The man was a hero. And if Helen was going to save herself, he’d better stay one. She slathered on praise while covering her waterlogged rear end.
“That’s right, officers,” she said. “The captain was supposed to take me to Las Olas, way in the other direction. But he saw that speedboat go flying by, and he knew something was wrong. He went after it. I’m glad he did. When I saw that boat heading for those poor people, I thought they were goners.”
“Capt. Klobnak saved us all,” Jan said. “Well, not all. I saw the Cigarette boat driver go into the water, but I don’t know what happened to him. I was too busy jumping out of the way.”
There was a flap-flap of helicopter rotors and bright white lights blazed on the water.
“What’s that?” Helen said.
“The Coast Guard chopper is looking for bodies,” Phil said.
Helen shivered, and this time it wasn’t from the cold. The helicopter searchlights over the flashing blue lights were disorienting. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. Helen couldn’t take in any more. She stared at the wrecked Cigarette boat and abandoned dinghy.
Debris fanned out from the swamped boats: suntan-lotion bottles, beer cans, beach toys. She saw a beer cooler bob by, a canvas seat cushion and a bloody head.
A head?
Helen shook off her lethargy. The head belonged to the half-drowned Hank Asporth. He was doing a pathetic one-armed dog paddle while he clung desperately to a boat bumper. Hank paddled mostly in circles, although an occasional wild sweep of his arm would move him forward. Another sweep would splash water in his face and set off convulsive gasping and choking.
Helen saw a round red wound in his scalp. I must have pulled out one of his precious hair plugs, she thought.
“That’s the maniac who was driving the Cigarette boat!”
Jan said.
The dripping, snuffling Hank was pulled into the closest Coast Guard boat. Phil threw off his blankets and produced his ID. “I’m a private investigator. This man is Henry Asporth. He was running from the scene of a homicide. He shot and killed Mindy Mowbry.”
Capt. Klobnak whistled. “He killed the rich lady in that waterfront mansion?”
“I did not!” It was the first time Hank said anything. He looked like a walking dead man, the red hole in his scalp echoing the bullet wound in Mindy’s head. “There was a terrible fire. Mindy’s clothes were melting into her skin. She was screaming in pain. You’ve never heard a sound like that.
She wasn’t going to survive those burns. I loved her. I couldn’t stand to see her suffer.”
Hank started to weep. His sobs sounded like someone opening a rusty grate. Helen almost felt sorry for him, until she remembered how he’d stepped over Mindy’s dead body to get the disk. Was he in shock or a stone-cold killer? She didn’t know. But she patted her pocket. Laredo’s disk was still there.
“And this woman here...” Phil smiled at Helen.
Oh, no, she thought. I can’t be mixed up in this. She elbowed Phil hard in his injured ribs.
“Urf!” he said.
“Are you OK, sir?” the sunburned Coast Guard officer said.
“My ribs.” Phil clutched his side.
“You were saying about this woman?”
Helen shook her head slightly and hoped Phil got the signal.
“She was in the water taxi when Capt. Klobnak saved me,” Phil said. “Hank Asporth tried to kill me.”
“I didn’t see any of that,” Helen said. “I closed my eyes when it looked like the boats were going to collide. I didn’t want to see those people die.”
“We’ll get a statement from you later, Billy,” the Coast Guardsman said.
Billy? Who’s Billy? Helen almost blurted, then realized she was still wearing Margery’s work shirt with BILLY on the pocket.
The Coast Guard boat took Hank Asporth away, blue lights flashing ominously.
“What’s going to happen to Hank?” Helen asked. “Will they arrest him?”
“No, the Coast Guard are federal law enforcement,” Phil said. “They’ll turn Hank over to the local police department.
He was speeding in state waters, so I suspect the Florida Marine Patrol will also get involved. Hank will have a long list of charges, starting with gross negligence and ending with Mindy’s murder.”
“And what about Laredo? Mindy killed her, but Hank didn’t stop her. He helped hide the body. He knows where Savannah’s sister is buried.”
Phil sighed. “I don’t know if we have anything to connect him to Laredo.”
Helen gave Phil the disk. “Will this help?”
“You saved it?” he said. “Helen, this is important. I can get you a reward. That list you gave me was a good start. But this could wrap up the case.”
“No!” Helen was desperate to make him understand. “I can’t be in any computers.”
“Are you in trouble with the law? I’ve got connections. I can help you.”
“I’m on the run from my ex-husband. He’ll do anything to find me. If I’m in a computer, he can track me down.” That was true—mostly. “I don’t want the money. If you nail Hank Asporth and find Laredo, that’s reward enough.”
“I’ll do my damnedest.” Phil’s eyes were such a sincere blue, she had to believe him.
“Are you going to give that disk to the Feds?” Helen said.
“Yes. But I don’t want to tip off Hank that I have it. I need a few hours. Once he calls his lawyer, the shredders will start working in the boiler room. We’ll try to get a search warrant and raid the place first thing in the morning. You might as well stay
home and read the want ads.”
“Oh, no,” Helen said. “I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it.
What’s going to happen to us now?”
“The Coast Guard will escort the water taxi to the closest marina. You can see it—that patch of lights over there. Then they’ll take statements from everyone.”
“They think I’m Billy,” Helen said.
“Good. Let them keep thinking that,” Phil said. “I need to get away now. I’ll say I have to go to the hospital, and they’ll airlift me out. Then I’ll set the computer experts to work on your disk.”
“I guess those broken ribs will come in handy.”
“They’re not broken,” he said. “I know what broken ribs feel like. Besides, that’s not the excuse I’m using.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I have a slipped disk.”
Phil grinned. Then he kissed her once more and was gone.
Chapter 30
Helen came home in a sheriff’s car at five in the morning.
She sat in the screened-off back seat like a felon. She’d had no sleep. Her chest and neck throbbed from Mindy’s whip slash. Her scorched back pulsed like a superheated sunburn.
She’d never felt better.
All the lights were out at the Coronado. She crunched her way across the parking lot. Something hissed at her in the dark.
A cat? A snake?
It was Margery. She was on her doorstep, her purple chenille robe tied crookedly, her red curlers askew. Her toenail polish looked like ten drops of blood.
“Where the hell have you been? Your cat was howling all night. I finally fed it to shut it up. Now the cops bring you home. What’s going on?”
“I’m in love.” Helen knew she had a big, sappy grin on her face. She didn’t care.
“Love? You look like you’ve been mauled by bears. Who is this goon?”
“Phil the invisible pothead.”
“Oh, my God. Let me put on some coffee. Go change out of those wet clothes. I’ll wake up Peggy.”
Helen floated back to her apartment, feet barely touching the concrete sidewalk. When she unlocked the front door, she was met by a ticked-off Thumbs. His big paws were planted firmly on the floor. His yellow eyes were angry. He punished her with the cat cold shoulder for about thirty seconds. Then he demanded an ear scratch. Helen scratched him contritely until he flopped on the floor and allowed her to rub his belly, the sign of feline forgiveness.
Helen showered, dried her hair and dressed for work.
Thirty minutes later, she was back at Margery’s.
Her landlady’s kitchen smelled of hot coffee and warm chocolate. Margery was heating chocolate croissants in her microwave. A sleepy Peggy, wearing jeans and an inside out T-shirt, was huddled over a fat mug of coffee.
“Where’s Pete?” Peggy always looked incomplete without her parrot.
“At home asleep,” Peggy said with a yawn.
“Where we all would be, if you weren’t blundering around, falling in canals and falling in love. Spill. Now, Margery commanded.
Helen did. She told them about the disk in the coffin, the fire in the mansion and Mindy’s death. She told them about the boat chase and how she saved Phil.
“Then he saved me. With a kiss,” Helen said. “Just like in the fairy tales.”
“He’s a real prince.” Margery’s sarcasm was like honeyed acid. Helen sat in silence, sipping coffee and waiting for their verdict.
“What do you think?” Margery asked Peggy, as if they were two doctors on a consultation.
They’re heart specialists, Helen thought, and nearly giggled. She was punch-drunk after the long night.
“This romance shows promise,” Peggy said. “But I should talk, considering my track record with men.”
“If Phil hurts her, I swear I’ll evict him.” Margery’s mouth went into a hard line and little cracks appeared around her lips.
“He won’t,” Helen said.
“How would you know?” Margery said.
“I don’t know. But I feel it,” Helen said.
Margery snorted like a Clydesdale. “What you ought to feel is tired. It’s time for you to go to bed.”
“It’s seven thirty,” Helen said. “It’s time for me to go to work.”
“You’re not going back to that boiler room,” Margery said.
“Try and stop me.” Helen took a final gulp of caffeine.
“Look, I really appreciate this. But I have to be there.”
She put her coffee mug in Margery’s sink, then stepped outside into the new morning. It was clear and clean. Helen’s fatigue disappeared. She felt hopeful for the first time in ages.
The boiler-room shift started like every other. The two bikers, Bob and Panhead Pete, clocked in, looking hungover.
Zelda was already at her desk, wrapped in her big sweater.
Taniqua was spray-cleaning the nicotine stink off her phone.
She looked like a modern version of those fifties commercials where housewives wore fancy dresses to clean floors.
Taniqua wore purple satin heels, purple pants cut way south of the border and a purple top that barely covered the subject.
The night shift had left a gutted sub sandwich on Helen’s desk. Cheese and chopped lettuce were piled on her phone.
“Haven’t those slobs ever heard of a trash can?” Helen said.
“No room.” Taniqua handed Helen the spray cleaner and waved at the overflowing cans.
At seven fifty-eight, Marina teetered in on black high heels, carrying a drowsy Ramon. He was drooling on her black spandex top, and clutching one of her black bra straps.
She spread a quilt underneath her desk. The little boy curled up at her feet and slept. His brown curls were heartbreaking.
No child should have to sleep on that filthy floor, Helen thought sadly. The overfilled trash cans were only a foot away.
The computers flipped on at eight oh-two and started dialing. With the calls came the rustle and crunch of sixty telemarketers staving off the nation’s abuse with junk food.
Helen checked her computer. It was dialing Maine. A staid state, she thought. Folks in Livermore Falls wouldn’t waste their breath cussing her out. They’d just hang up.
“Hi, Burt. This is Helen with Tank Titan Septic System Cleaner. We make a septic tank cleaner for your home system that is guaranteed to help reduce large chunks, odors and wet spots—”
“Get stuffed, bitch,” Burt said. So much for her theory about Maine.
At eight oh-six, federal agents burst into the boiler room.
Someone barked out an agency name, but Helen didn’t catch it. She was being cussed out by an irate homeowner in Skowhegan.
When the agents roared through the door, both bikers dove under their desks. The telemarketers were ordered to stay where they were.
Two agents had Vito on the floor with a gun to his head.
Vito seemed smaller, his egocentric energy gone, his round pink body deflated. Two more agents came out of the office with the elegant lizard, Mr. Cavarelli. His face twisted into a grimace when he was ordered to the floor.
“He don’t like putting that fancy suit on that raggedy-ass floor,” Taniqua said.
“Floor’s good enough for my little boy, it’s good enough for him,” Marina said. Ramon slept near the trash pile, oblivious.
“Shh,” Zelda said. “I’m trying to hear. The Feds are talking about money laundering. But I can’t tell if they said there were drugs or rugs here.”
“I see more police running up the stairs to Girdner Surveys,” Taniqua said. “They got the elevator and the exits covered. Penelope gonna shit when they break into her office.”
“I think Tank Titan is in the toilet,” Marina giggled. Helen had never seen her smile before. She realized the tired single mother was just a girl.
The computers were frantically dialing Connecticut and the Carolinas, but nobody was selling septic-tank cleaner.
“Hel
lo? Hello!”
Helen jumped. The voice was coming from her abandoned phone receiver. Her response was automatic: “Hi, this is Helen with Tank Titan Septic System Cleaner.”
“You’re the septic-tank-cleaner people?” The woman was so old and frail, her voice sounded like tearing tissue paper.
It had the sweet, trusting quality that made her a prime boiler-room victim.
“Yes, ma’am,” Helen said.
“I’m Mrs. Gertrude Carter. A nice young man from your company called here last week. My son hung up on him.
Roger can be rude, I’m afraid. He doesn’t mean it—he’s just protecting me. Roger said your product was overpriced junk.
But I’ve been thinking about what that young man said. Two hundred ninety-nine dollars seems a good price for a seven-year supply. I’d like to buy it.”
“Your son is right, Mrs. Carter,” Helen said. “Tank Titan is outrageously overpriced. Save your money.”
“Well! You’re an honest young woman.”
“I just started this week,” Helen said.
Loud cheers drowned out Mrs. Carter’s reply.
“Helen, you be missing it,” Taniqua said. “The police got that tight-ass Penelope in handcuffs. I’d give all my money to see that bitch in jail. Vito and the New York guy be with them.”
As the boiler-room bosses were led away, Taniqua stood up and applauded. She was joined by the other inmates. Even the bikers, Bob and Panhead Pete, crawled out from under their desks. All sixty telemarketers gave the Feds a standing ovation. They didn’t seem to care that their jobs were gone.
Then a half-full drink cup went flying through the air and splattered on Penelope’s beige-suited back. Suddenly, all the trash in the room was pelting the three bosses. Helen found herself throwing a handful of left-behind lettuce. It made a greasy splash on Mr. Cavarelli’s elegant suit.
If they’d cleaned the boiler room, this wouldn’t be happening, she thought, and hurled a stale cheese slice like a Frisbee. It stuck to Penelope’s back like a starfish.
The telemarketers threw with furious precision. No trash touched the agents. The agents were stone-faced, but Helen thought she caught an occasional lip flick that might have been a suppressed smile as they hustled the three forward.
