The Last Breath

by Danny Lopez

  I looked down at the dark water. “So it was here?”

  She pointed to my side. “He was lying facedown in the water right there between the pilings. Got caught in there, I suppose.”

  “It’s not very deep,” I said.

  “It’s low tide,” she said.

  I looked back at her house. “And you saw him from your patio over there?”

  She looked back at the house. “No. I was upstairs in my room.” She pointed to a window on the second floor. “I was looking out at the birds. In the morning, the mangroves get crowded with egrets and herons. Then I saw something red at my dock. I didn’t know what it was. I went downstairs and had a coffee and then walked out on the dock. I thought it was trash.”

  “Must have been quite a shock.”

  Her face tightened. “You’re telling me.”

  “And then you called the cops.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You went back into the house?”

  “No, I called from my cell phone. I stayed right here.”

  “Did you see anything else?”

  “Anything else like what?”

  “I don’t know, his kayak, or other people.”

  “It was seven thirty in the morning. There was nothing out here.”

  “No fishermen going out?”

  “Well, maybe a boat or two went past. But the channel is over there.” She pointed to the middle of the Intracoastal. “Not too far, maybe twenty, thirty yards. You can run aground if you don’t stay at the center of it.”

  The tide was moving south. It was just as the police report said: Liam Fleming must have fallen from his kayak farther north, drowned and floated down to this place.

  “And you’re sure it was seven thirty?” I asked.

  She nodded. “I wake up at five forty-five every morning. I took some time, maybe half an hour to enjoy my view, look at the birds. Then it took me about half an hour to get my coffee and come out here.”

  “That would make it six forty-five.”

  She frowned and her eyes narrowed. “I had a bowel movement,” she snapped. “You done yet, mister?”

  * * *

  It was clear Liam had drowned somewhere between his house and Tina Parker’s dock in Osprey. I couldn’t imagine that anything new would resurface. And cops, even if they realized they missed something in their investigation, would never admit it. Especially Fenton Kendel. He was old school. A Florida cracker with roots that went deeper than a banyan tree. He’d been with the Sarasota Sheriff’s office for thirtysomething years. Fenton Kendel didn’t make mistakes.

  Still, I had to at least go through the motions. I drove north to the Sarasota County Sheriff’s office downtown.

  I hated the place. The Sarasota Police Station was in a new modern building. It was clean, plush, kind of like a Holiday Inn Express. The Sheriff’s office, on the other hand, was an institutional shithole, puke yellow walls with depressing fluorescent lighting. Even the lobby felt like a prison. Those who had been picked up for petty crime and misdemeanors, their families, children, loitered or moved along the halls like zombies, heading to the courthouse or to pay a fine they couldn’t afford. They were mostly black or Hispanic and a handful of white folks—all in the unemployed or minimum wage category. And everywhere, the deputies in their dark green uniforms walked around like superheroes. This was their home. Everyone else was an unwelcomed guest.

  The place reeked of attitude.

  The desk sergeant, a big burly redneck with a bald head who looked over the small room from his perch a few feet above the rest of us, was his usual unhelpful self. He stared at me with suspicious eyes. To the deputies, we were all criminals.

  “Kendel’s out,” the desk sergeant said without even calling upstairs to check. I guess he knew everything. And I didn’t know shit.

  I pulled out the police report and found the responding deputy’s name. “What about Deputy Lester Norton?”

  It took about half an hour for Deputy Norton to come down and see me. He was young, looked like a teenager—squeaky clean with a military-style buzz cut and a forceful frown and a couple of red pimples marking his cheeks. His bright gray eyes bounced back and forth to the sides, taking in everything that was happening around us.

  There was no place to sit in the lobby, and he didn’t invite me up to his office. I nodded to the front. “Can we talk outside?”

  He led the way out to Ringling Boulevard where the noon sun was blazing down on the concrete. We moved to the side where there was a sliver of shade, our backs against the wall of the building.

  “I have a couple of questions about Liam Fleming,” I said. “I guess you were first on the scene.”

  He nodded, his eyes catching mine then bouncing past me to the street and then to the sidewalk and back at me.

  “I’m a friend of the family’s,” I explained. “I was just curious about how you found him.”

  “It’s all in the report,” he said.

  “Yeah, I read it. But I was wondering about how you found the body.”

  “It was facedown underwater,” he said.

  “So you walked up to the dock?”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  I sucked in a little air. This guy was like a robot. I said, “What about the woman, Tina Parker?”

  “Mrs. Parker stayed behind.”

  “By the pool cage?”

  “That is correct. She remained inside the pool cage.”

  “And then you walked out to the end of the dock.”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  “Okay. And you saw nothing suspicious as to how the body was snagged on the dock or how it was floating.”

  Deputy Norton bit his lower lip. His eyes danced all over me like he was watching a fly buzzing around my face. “It’s all in the report, sir. The body was floating facedown on a slight diagonal. His left side was caught against two pilings. There was no sign of trauma of any kind.”

  “Yeah, I read that in the report,” I said. “But you couldn’t know about the trauma right then, right?”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  “The medical examiner said he drowned Thursday night or early Friday morning.”

  “That is correct, sir.” Deputy Norton waved to another deputy who was crossing the road and called, “Softball on Saturday. Don’t forget!”

  “Okay,” I said. “One question. What happened to the kayak?”

  “The kayak was not recovered.”

  “But it should have floated somewhere, right?”

  His eyes narrowed slightly, and for the first time they stopped moving. “That is likely. But it was not at or near the scene where the body was recovered.”

  “Where was it?”

  “It was never found.”

  “Did you look for it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  He took a long breath and sighed. “We don’t have the time to search the length of the Intracoastal for a kayak. It could have floated all the way to Venice for all we know. Or someone could have picked it up.”

  “So how did you know he was out kayaking when he drowned?”

  “From the evidence,” he said quickly and hooked his thumbs on the sides of his belt.

  “But you can’t be sure that’s exactly what happened, right?”

  “Yes, I am. He must have fallen off the kayak. All the evidence points to that.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” I said. “Not if there’s no kayak.”

  “The witness told Detective Kendel he saw him out on the kayak that morning.”

  “You have a witness?”

  “Yessir, I believe so.”

  “It’s not in the report.”

  “Detective Kendel wrote the report.”

  “Yes. But it’s not in there. I have a copy of it. I’ve read it like five times. There is no mention of a witness.”

  He clenched his jaw. “I am pretty sure it is in the report. If it’s not, it must’ve been an ove
rsight.”

  “Really?” I said.

  He gave me a quizzical look as if daring me to cross him.

  I said, “So who’s the witness?”

  “You’ll have to ask Detective Kendel about that, sir.”

  “But you must have his name and address somewhere.”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  “Can I have it?”

  “You would have to speak with Detective Kendel.”

  “And when can I find Kendel?”

  He glanced at his wristwatch. “Comes in after three p.m.”

  “A witness, and it’s not in the report,” I said. “That’s quite the oversight, don’t you think?”

  “It happens sometimes,” Norton said and glanced up the sidewalk. “Is there anything else, sir?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Is there anything else you omitted from the report?”

  He frowned, looked pissed. Then he did an about-face and marched away, his arms swinging wide at his sides.

  A witness, I thought. A fucking witness. And it was not in the report. That was way too much for me.

  CHAPTER 8

  I WAS SUSPICIOUS. Very. And I was also a little rattled by how this simple open-and-shut case by the Sarasota Sheriff’s Office had quickly turned into something so damn complicated. Detective Fenton Kendel was a stand-up guy. I trusted him. He was thorough and ethical and had more experience than the whole law enforcement community in Sarasota put together. I couldn’t imagine him leaving out something as important as a witness’ statement and information—by mistake or on purpose.

  I drove home. Mimi, my tired old gray tabby, met me at the door. Her bowl was empty. I fed her and gave her fresh water, but she just stood there on the polished hardwood, staring up at me as if I’d missed something important.

  “What,” I said, “would you like some hot sauce?”

  She blinked a couple of times, stared.

  “Whatever,” I said and opened the fridge. “You’re getting too moody for me, girl. I don’t know what you want anymore.”

  I served myself a hefty portion of leftover rice and beans and zapped it in the microwave for a couple of minutes. I added a few pickled jalapeños from a can, grabbed a Big Top Trapeze Monk wit ale, and sat at my desk in the living room where my MacBook had been sitting idle for too long.

  I opened a document, named it Fleming, and typed a few notes—what I knew and what I wanted to know. It all came down to two things. Number one: Talk to Detective Kendel, find out who the witness is and interview the witness.

  Number two: Keith had said Liam had his own business. I had to find out about that, see what kind of money he made, who he might’ve crossed.

  I also had to take Jaybird out of his environment, take him somewhere where he could focus so he could answer my questions. And Keith. Maybe he knew what kind of kayak Liam had gone out on that night. I could compare notes and look for any discrepancies. Eventually, something would point to a motive: drugs, money, or love. Or perhaps all three, although I was pretty sure I could scratch out love. Those two men I’d met at Liam’s place yesterday didn’t seem like the romantic type.

  I pushed my chair back and ate my slop of rice and beans. I was getting so tired of this food. Right there and then I made a promise to myself that once I cracked this case, I’d allow myself to splurge—drive out to Oneco Meats off old Highway 301 and get myself a giant rib eye steak and grill it over charcoal to a perfect pink and juicy center.

  I finished my lunch and called the Sheriff’s office and asked for Detective Kendel.

  No dice.

  I set my dirty plate in the sink and filled it with water, grabbed another can of Big Top from the fridge, and turned on the old Scott amp. I placed side two of Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown’s Bogalusa Boogie Man on the Thorens turntable and sat back on the couch and let time do its thing.

  At three thirty p.m., I called the Sheriff’s office again, but I was told Detective Kendel hadn’t come in yet. I asked for Deputy Norton. He was out on patrol.

  I didn’t like it.

  I wanted to go back to Siesta Key, find Jaybird, drill him with questions. But I also wanted the dope on the kayak witness. I couldn’t be in two places at once. I paced across the small living room. Mimi hopped off the couch, stretched, and made a dainty walk to her food bowl and finally began to chow.

  I kept moving, trying to figure out my next move. From the side window, I could see weeds in my yard almost two feet tall. We’d had so much rain in the last month everything was overgrown. On the corner on the other side of the street, the big sign was as loud as ever: “The Majestic” by Dieter & Waxler. Luxury downtown living with exquisite views of Sarasota Bay. Sold exclusively by Alex J. Trainor, Real Estate.

  Still 90 percent sold.

  I could already imagine the wealthy condo owners looking down at my little old house and complaining that I wasn’t taking care of my yard. That the place looked abandoned—driving down property values.

  When the record ended, I tried Detective Kendel again. Nada.

  An hour later, I still couldn’t get ahold of Kendel or Norton. I felt cooped up, going stir crazy. Like Tom Petty says, the waiting is the hardest part.

  Yeah, I’ll never win an award for patience. I drove back to Siesta Key, took the north bridge. It was a nice drive with the manicured gardens and the big houses and the overgrown sea grapes and scrub oak. Just after the bridge there was a large sign on the front yard of a house: Keep Beach Road Public.

  As I came up to the Village, I slowed down. The business district had changed quite a bit in the last few years. The road had been resurfaced with brick-paved crosswalks, and a few new condos—four and five stories tall—rose up in the distance toward the beach. The vibe in Siesta had changed—the place felt closed in, like an outdoor mall. Siesta was losing its funkiness. Back in the day, when I first came to Siesta Key for spring break, it was just a quaint old Florida beach town. Now it was too nice, too clean—too corporate.

  I thought of Jaybird and the hippies at the drum circle. They still had the vibe. Maybe they were right—holding on to the past. I couldn’t believe I was getting nostalgic over Siesta. It was just five miles from my house and I rarely came here anymore. It was almost impossible to find parking or a table at one of the outdoor bars: the Daiquiri Deck or the Siesta Key Oyster Bar.

  I followed Ocean Boulevard to Beach Road and headed south. After a string of low-rise condos on my right, the parking lot of the public beach appeared flat and hot and crowded with cars. If I stretched my neck up, I could see a sliver of ocean.

  At the light, about a mile past the public beach, the road turned into Midnight Pass Road. I passed the small Crescent business district and continued on the narrow two-lane road, past the entrance to the Sanderling Club on my right, past the beachfront trailer park, and the entrance to Turtle Beach. At the short driveway to Liam’s cottage, I turned left.

  The blue VW Golf with the surfboard on the roof rack was still there gathering dust. The door to the cottage was unlocked, just as I’d left it. I walked in and called for Jaybird.

  No answer.

  “Hello?” I called a little louder. “Jaybird!”

  Not a sound.

  I walked across the living room and past the lanai to the patio. I was thinking of what Deputy Norton had said: a neighbor saw him on a kayak. There were mansions on both sides of the cottage, but the foliage, scrub oak, tall sea grape trees, and mangroves blocked the view.

  I went out to the dock and looked back at the neighbors’ houses. I could see part of the windows on the house to the south, to the right of Liam’s place. It didn’t have a very clear view because of the mangroves. But still, they could’ve seen him once he was out on the Intracoastal.

  The house to the north was locked up and shuttered for the summer. The mangrove islands on the Intracoastal blocked most of the view of the house from the mainland.

  After checking the bedroom and the bathroom, I drove north abou
t a hundred feet and took a left onto Turtle Beach Road, which curved to the left onto Blind Pass Road. To my right was parking and the beach, to my left the boat launch and the lagoon that led out to the Intracoastal.

  I parked and walked to the beach. I always found it curious that Turtle Beach had this brown coarse sand and that only a mile or two farther up was Siesta and its fine white sand. Siesta had the distinction of being the number one beach in the USA. Even had its own reality show on MTV. We were famous.

  I looked up and down the long stretch of sand and water from the ugly yellow condo in the south to the trailer park to the north and beyond to the beach at the Sanderling Club. The sun was still high in the sky. A few families and older couples sat under colorful umbrellas. A young man and a teenage girl played on a paddleboard by the water, and three little kids were busy building a large sandcastle that looked like a blob with two tilting towers. Down near the first condo, a heavyset man in overalls and no shirt was fishing from the shore.

  No Jaybird. And no Keith.

  I walked back and crossed Blind Pass Road to the parking lot where three trucks with trailers were parked. On the shore of the lagoon, under the Australian pines next to the boat ramp, was Keith’s Toyota Land Cruiser, a small trailer hitched to the back with two kayaks and a few paddleboards stacked on what looked like a homemade aluminum rack.

  In the lagoon, just past the boat ramp, Keith was up to his thighs in the water, keeping steady a large paddleboard for a woman who was struggling to get on.

  I walked across the parking lot and sat at the picnic table by the water. Keith was leaning forward holding the board for the woman. When she finally climbed on, he made his way around the side and placed his hand on her thigh and handed her the long paddle. Three other girls and two men were standing on their boards farther out in the lagoon, watching, waiting.

  Keith gave the board a gentle shove and it glided slowly forward toward the center of the lagoon. “Right on!” he yelled. “Stay on your knees until you get a feel for it. And keep your eyes on the horizon, yeah? Don’t look down.”