The Last Breath

by Danny Lopez

  I pulled my hand away and stood. She looked up at me with red, wanting eyes. “What is it?”

  I glanced at the clock on my phone. It was just after midnight. “I should get going.”

  “Stay.” She stood, took my hand in both of hers. “Please.”

  I studied her face, so pretty, so sad. Then my eyes drifted down to the couch. “I really need to get a good night’s sleep.”

  “You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” she said and pulled me toward her.

  “No.” As much as a part of me wanted to stay, in that room, in that bed, with her—I couldn’t. I had to stay objective, keep my mind clear. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”

  “What?”

  Tessa probably didn’t get rejected very often, but I couldn’t stay. I had way too much in my head. I had been burned once pretty damn bad after being blinded by lust. I didn’t want to make the same mistake twice. I don’t think I could deal with that kind of betrayal again. As much as I didn’t want to accept it, Tessa was still one of my suspects.

  “It’s been a crazy couple of days. I’ll call you in the morning. Promise.”

  She let go of my hand like it was diseased, glared at me. “You’re serious.”

  I backed away toward the door. “You’re hurting right now.”

  “Yeah, I am,” she said angrily. “And I really don’t want to be alone.”

  “I’m sorry.” I opened the door. “You’ll probably thank me in the morning.”

  She hung her hands on the sides of her hips. “Don’t count on it, buster.”

  I walked out of the apartment and down the stairs in a hurry. I was feeling queasy about the whole thing. I was afraid I’d turn back and dive into the kind of mess that would send me back on a bender, reeling and lamenting my pathetic life. I had a job to do. I had to keep my head above water.

  In the dark night, the flashy lights of the back streets of the Village seemed to turn into an artificial movie set. A light rain fell. It wouldn’t last. There were no light rains in Florida summers. It either poured or it didn’t.

  The soft rhythmic thud of a bass from the music in one of the bars on Ocean Boulevard accompanied me all the way to my car. I got in and closed the door just as the rain turned into a torrent, coming down in heavy gray sheets. Across the street, behind the Old Salty Dog where the back door was slightly ajar, I could see Felipe sitting on the cinderblock by the door, smoking a cigarette—or a joint. The man looked sad, alone.

  And Tessa. She also seemed morose, lonely. Here, in the heart of Siesta, behind the veil of sun, it was a different world. The creatures that frolicked in the sand now found themselves in dark holes of their own making. Even Tessa’s want for me seemed to be more than just an invitation for sex, or company. It was fear. I suffered from the same malady, of the dark places that inhabit us when we’re alone. Except I didn’t hide it. I flaunted it. Being alone at night was like cutting Xs and Os into my own heart with a razor.

  I started home and drove slowly along the narrow road out of the key, the rain crashing against my windshield, pounding hard on the roof.

  I kept thinking of Jaybird being fished out of the water. According to Keith and Tessa, everyone in Siesta Key knew Jaybird. He had a lot of friends. Maybe someone saw something. If Detective Kendel did his job right, someone might come forward, offer him a clue.

  I turned left on Higel Avenue. A truck appeared behind me, raced up to the rear of my Subaru and stuck there, tailgating me.

  I checked my speedometer. Thirty. I brought it up to thirty-five. The truck rode my ass, high beams turned on, lighting up my car like a parade. I adjusted my rearview mirror. Squinted at the road. The rain and the brights of the truck made it difficult to see. The bridge to the mainland was coming up. From there I would be back in civilization. I gave the Subaru a little throttle, forty-five—ten over the speed limit.

  The truck stayed on me.

  Fuck it. I let off the accelerator and inched into the bike lane on my right. Let the bastard pass.

  He didn’t.

  As we approached the bridge, the truck merged to the opposite lane, sped up, and came level on my left—red late-nineties pickup, jacked up, large tires, tinted windows.

  It closed in on my lane.

  I merged farther into the bike lane, right wheels spinning gravel on the shoulder. No place to pull over. I stepped on the gas. Climbed up to forty. A car was coming toward us in the opposite lane, just off the bridge.

  I sped up.

  The truck did the same—stayed parallel to me.

  I stepped on the brakes, inched to the right, shaved the hedge with my passenger-side rearview mirror.

  The oncoming car flashed its lights, merged to the right, honked its horn. The three of us passed on the two-lane road, inches from each other.

  I stepped on the gas. The truck stayed on my side, its big diesel engine roaring like a pissed-off redneck. The entrance to the little park before the bridge was to my right—then the bridge. I was hitting forty. Fifty. Rain splashed on the windshield. The truck swerved, hit the side of my car. The rearview mirror flew off in pieces—metal on metal.

  The Subaru hydroplaned. The all-wheel drive stabilized. Then the truck hit my side again, pushed me hard. I flew off the road, slammed on the breaks and turned the wheel. The car skidded over the wet crushed shell, smashed head-on against the trunk of a Palmetto palm. I flew forward. The seat belt stopped me. The air bags failed to deploy.

  It took me a minute to get my bearings. I glanced up at the bridge. The red pickup was speeding away. Couldn’t get a license.

  I stepped out into the rain. The left side of the car, from the front bumper to the rear quarter panel, was dented like wrinkled paper. Pieces of the rearview hung by wires. The right headlight was gone. All the plastic trim at the front busted—dent on the bumper.

  The tree had saved me. Ten more yards and I would’ve gone into the Intracoastal.

  CHAPTER 21

  WHEN I WOKE up the next morning, I felt as if it had all been a bad dream: Jaybird, Tessa, my car. I sat up in bed and looked across my bedroom at a painting of a blue pig, a big expressionist piece I’d bought from an artist I’d met a few years back when I had money. I must’ve had a deep sleep, because as I stared at the brushstrokes on the painting for a long time, it felt like it was a decade earlier, before the mortgage crisis, before we all hit rock bottom, before my divorce.

  Then my eye caught Mimi strutting her stuff across the dresser. She hopped down on the chair where I’d tossed my wet clothes last night. It all came back: starting up my car, backing away from the Palmetto palm, driving home slowly, my hands trembling, my eyes squinting at the rain, pulling up to my house, going inside, pouring a shot of tequila, taking a shower, drinking another shot.

  Now it was almost noon and the summer sun was sneaking into the house in slivers between the horizontal blinds. As the fog in my head cleared, my anger rose. That damn truck—rednecks trying to run me off the road like in some fucking B movie. Not a coincidence. I was sure of that.

  I shuffled into the kitchen and poured myself a tall glass of ice water. Mimi hopped on the counter and stretched. She stared at me for a moment then jumped down to the floor and rubbed against my ankles.

  I peeled off a couple of slices of ham, folded them into a slice of Havarti, and made my way to my desk and turned on my laptop. I found the story on Jaybird in the Sarasota Herald. It wasn’t an article, just Rachel’s photograph: first responders at the boat ramp standing around a body covered in a white sheet. The information was just the basic police report: unidentified male, pulled out of the Intracoastal. Dead.

  I knew that.

  What I didn’t know was who the hell put him there.

  I pushed my chair out and stretched my legs. I picked up my phone. I had one message. Tessa. From this morning. She apologized for her behavior. Said she’d been very emotional.

  Well, maybe. But I’d been a bit of an ass myself. I owed her a
n apology as well—a big one. In person.

  At the moment, instead of checking in with her and having a nice chat about how everything was okay, I called Detective Kendel.

  Big surprise. He wasn’t in. But the sergeant said he was down in Siesta. I grinned to myself. Old Fenton Kendel was following my lead. Glad I could be of help.

  Next up I called Officer John Blake, my inside man. He was Sarasota PD and had access to the computers. Helped me out whenever I was in a bind.

  “I’m kind of busy right now,” he said when I got him on his cell.

  “I’ll be quick,” I said. “Promise.”

  “Go on.”

  “I need whatever you can dig up on a couple of people,” I said. “Keith Peterson—”

  “Address?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  Blake sighed. “Sarasota?”

  “I think so. Yeah.”

  “What’s the other one?”

  “Liam Fleming,” I said and gave him the address on Midnight Pass Road.

  “Got it.”

  “—and Blake,” I said, hesitating.

  “What?”

  “Another one,” I said quickly. “Tessa Davidson. Calle Menorca, Siesta Key.”

  Blake said he’d get back to me later in the day. I took a quick shower and walked out of the house. Then I saw the damage to my car. It was worse than I’d thought.

  Last night in the dark, I couldn’t see the metal crushed like an accordion, the obliterated right headlight and signal light, fog lamp. The plastic bumper cover was hanging by a clip.

  I had no collision insurance. Repairing this mess was going to be on my dime. Jesus Fucking Christ.

  I kicked the bumper a few times just to make sure it was going to hold. Then I drove to Siesta Key. I had intended to stop by Tessa’s place and take care of that piece of business, but I kept going. I passed the Village and the public beach and went straight down Midnight Pass Road to Liam’s place.

  The cops were all over it. There was a crime scene van, three police cruisers, and an unmarked car. I had to park on the shoulder, the back half of my car sticking onto the street.

  “Hey.” The deputy by one of the cruisers pointed a thick finger at me. “You can’t park there.”

  I looked back at my car but kept walking.

  “I said you can’t leave your car there.” The officer stepped away from the cruiser and started toward me.

  “Who’s in charge here, Kendel?”

  The cop looked me up and down. “Yeah.” Then he cracked a tiny smile and crossed his arms over his chest. He was standing just to the side in front of the cordon of yellow tape that marked off the driveway—Liam’s property.

  I reached for the yellow tape. “Hey,” he barked. “You can’t cross the line.”

  “I have information for Detective Kendel.”

  “What about?”

  “About the murder he’s investigating.” I pointed to the house. “This murder.”

  He stared at me. His eyebrows slightly furrowed, sweat beads building over his brow and upper lip. It was shit duty to stand in the sun and guard. But it wasn’t my fault he drew the short straw.

  I turned around and started back to my car. “No problem,” I said. “Just have him call me whenever he’s ready for my confession.”

  “Hey!” he yelled in that nasty cop voice, like a little league coach whose team is down in the ninth. “Hold on.”

  I came back. He raised the yellow tapeline for me. “He’s out back. Go around the side of the house. And don’t touch anything.”

  Inside they were dusting for prints, going through everything. I was pretty sure they’d find my prints all over the place. But I wasn’t worried about that. Not yet.

  Detective Kendel stood in the patio looking in the direction of the neighbor’s house, his pork pie hat pushed back on his head, both blue-gloved hands over his brow, shielding his eyes from the harsh noon sun, mustache like the tusks of a walrus. He wore a pink and cream Tommy Bahama shirt and gray pants. When I came around the side, his eyes shifted toward me. He didn’t lower his hands.

  “Dexter Vega,” he said. “Nice of you to swing by and lend a hand.”

  “How you doing, Kendel?”

  “Busy.”

  “Yeah,” I said looking around at the deputies searching the patio. “I guess there’s no excusing this one as an accident, is there?”

  “If you got somethin’, spill it.”

  “Tell me what you got,” I said.

  “It ain’t much. We’re waitin’ on the autopsy report. Victim was tied by the left ankle to a cinderblock. Cause of death was most likely drowning, but we’re waiting on toxicology and the coroner to make it official. We still don’t have an ID. No suspects, no motive—yet.”

  At least they were digging into it. Good. I said, “What about Liam Fleming?”

  “What about him?”

  “He drowned in the Intracoastal a couple weeks ago. Same MO.”

  “Not the same at all,” Kendel said with a grin.

  “If you know everything, you solve the damn case,” I said and turned to go.

  “Vega!”

  I stopped.

  “What are you not tellin’ me?” he said.

  “I’m telling you to look into Liam Fleming’s death,” I said. “Treat it like a murder investigation.”

  “You’re a broken record, my friend.”

  I nodded and took a couple of steps back. “Don’t you think it’s weird that the two men who lived in this house were both drowned in the same place?”

  “Wasn’t the same place.”

  I raised my hands and took another step back. “Fine,” I said. Why did cops have to act like they’re the smartest people in the goddamn room? No one else can have a theory or be right about anything. It’s a wonder they ever solve a case.

  I said, “Keep in mind that Fleming was a strong swimmer, competitive in college. And take a look at how many drownings you have in the calm waters of the Intracoastal in the last few years. Then talk to me about coincidences.”

  Kendel seemed to finally register what I was saying. He wanted his retirement, but he was going to have to work for it, figure this last one out.

  “Tell me somethin’,” he said. “How well d’you know the deceased?”

  “That’s another thing,” I said. “Jaybird told me he’d been interviewed by the cops. Told them everything he knew about Liam. But you said you didn’t interview a witness.”

  “When did he tell you that?”

  “A couple days ago. Right before he disappeared.”

  “What gives, Vega?”

  I moved closer to him and whispered, “If you hadn’t swept Liam Fleming’s murder under the rug, maybe Jaybird would be alive.”

  “Ah, spare me the—”

  “No. Something’s going on here,” I said, my tone like a goddamn knife. “Two people are dead. And all you can think about is fishing and golf. Get off your ass and do your damn job.”

  That didn’t go so well. The last bit touched a nerve. Kendel grabbed my arm, squeezed tight like a vice, and frowned. “Don’t you ever talk to me like that again. You got that?”

  I stared right back at him. I wasn’t going to take shit from a tired old cop.

  “I’m gonna look into this real close,” he said between clenched teeth. “When the medical examiner’s report comes in, we’ll know a hell of a lot more. Then I’ll go down my list of suspects. And you, my friend, will be at the top of that goddamn list.”

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” I said and tore my arm away from his grip and walked away.

  CHAPTER 22

  I MARCHED AROUND the side of the house, ducked under the yellow tape, and glanced across the street at Turtle Beach. Keith Peterson. The mangroves of the lagoon blocked my view of the parking lot. For a brief moment, I considered walking across the street and around the park to the beach. But it was too damn hot.

  I found Keith’s cream Toyota Land Cr
uiser sitting in a patch of shade by the lagoon on the parking section reserved for trucks with trailers. It had the windows open, a long paddleboard tied to the roof. No trailer.

  I parked on the beach side on Blind Pass Road and crossed the street, over the wooden barrier that separated the parking lots, to the boat ramp. He wasn’t there. I went back to my car and took my shoes and socks off and walked to the beach.

  The sand at Turtle Beach was grayish-brown and so hot it burned the soles of my feet. I walked quickly to the water’s edge, let the ocean cool me down. It wasn’t crowded. Maybe two dozen people. And most everyone had set themselves up on the stretch directly across the parking lot. Toward the north, the beach looked deserted all the way up to where it ended at the Sanderling Club. To the south, a few people were gathered in small pockets. Then it was deserted except for the two last low-rise condo buildings and a few houses. Then Midnight Pass began. A few people fished from the shore in front of the last buildings. One of the groups had three men. Two of them stood together holding fishing rods, a blue cooler at their feet.

  The third man was Keith.

  I walked on the wet sand. As I came closer, the two men glanced at me, then at Keith, who had a can of Bud Lite in his hand. Then they looked back at the sea, paying attention to their rods. One of the men reeled in, checked his bait, and cast. He stole a quick glance at me before turning back to the water.

  Keith stepped away from the water, separating himself from the two fishermen. He took a long drink of beer.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  The two men nodded, looked at me over their shoulders and back at the water. They looked scruffy, unshaven, older—maybe late fifties. Both men wore slacks, short-sleeve shirts. They reminded me of the fishermen at the Old Salty Dog, except these two looked like they were better fed, paunchy. One of them had a nice gold chain around his thick neck.

  “Catch anything?” I said.

  “Nothin’ worth keeping,” one of the men said without turning to me.

  Keith tossed his golden hair to the side, pointed at me with his can. “What’s goin’ on, brah?”