Ron Base - Sanibel Sunset Detective 01 - The Sanibel Sunset Detective

by Ron Base

  “Have I come at a bad time?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  She pointed an accusatory finger. “You’ve got some foam there.”

  “Where?”

  “At the corner of your mouth.”

  He brushed at his mouth.

  “That’s better.”

  He drank more coffee. It was lukewarm. She watched him carefully, as though anticipating another misstep.

  “So Tree, what were you doing up at Coleman yesterday?”

  “News travels fast.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I was seeing a potential client.”

  “You’re kidding me. Brand Traven is a client?”

  “Potential. If you already know this stuff, why are you bothering to ask me?”

  “Because I no sooner tell you confidentially that Mr. Traven is a subject of interest to us than you scoot up to Coleman to meet with him.”

  “I didn’t scoot up there,” Tree said.

  “Nonetheless, it looks damned suspicious.”

  Just wait until someone shows up with a bag full of money, Tree thought. The tightening in his stomach increased.

  “Traven called me, I didn’t call him.”

  “Why would he do that? How does he even know you?”

  “I’ve done some work for his wife.”

  “You’re working for Elizabeth Traven?” She was trying to keep surprise hidden behind a veneer of professionalism and not doing a good job. “What kind of work?”

  “Protection,” he said.

  She scrutinized him, perhaps getting used to the idea that Tree might be able to protect anyone.

  “From what? What does Elizabeth Traven need protection from?”

  “She is concerned about a female acquaintance. She asked me to look into the woman’s background.”

  “Don’t tell me the female is Mickey Crowley.”

  “It is.”

  “What? Brand Traven wants you to protect him, too?”

  “You know, it could turn out I’m working with you, not against you.”

  “Could it turn out that way, Tree? Be nice if it did.” Her voice softened. “I hate the idea of putting old boyfriends in jail. Some old boyfriends. Rex would never forgive me.”

  Savannah put her empty cup on the desk. “You know how I think of you, Tree?”

  “I don’t have a clue,” Tree said. As honest a statement as he had made this morning.

  “I think of you as a sweet, naïve guy out of my youthful past.”

  “Sweet and naïve? Is that what you thought?”

  “Yes.”

  “Savannah, you were twenty-two. How practiced in the world do you think you were?”

  She smiled. “Precisely why I thought you were naïve.”

  “The word is trusting.”

  She shrugged. “Whatever. I think of you in a certain way, a guy playing at something with no idea what he’s got himself into. On the other hand—”

  “On the other hand?”

  “Maybe I’m wrong about you. Maybe you’re not so naïve.”

  “Why would the Travens be interested in Marcello?” Tree said

  “Are they?”

  “Let’s suppose they are.”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  He finished his coffee. “That was very good,” he said. “Hit the spot first thing in the morning.”

  “What’s that? Your way of saying you’re not going to tell me anything?”

  “No, it’s my way of saying that we need a little tit for tat here. You give me something, and I give you something back.”

  “Tree, this isn’t some boy-girl game we’re playing, trying to recapture lost youth. If you’ve got Marcello and you’re not telling us, or the Travens have the boy and you’re not telling us, then that’s lying to a federal officer, and that’s not a good thing.”

  “Sounds like we’re right back to threatening boyfriends,” he said.

  “And you know I wouldn’t want to do that—with most old boyfriends.”

  “How many are there, anyway?”

  He got one of her enigmatic smiles. “Let’s stick to the subject—the pitfalls of lying to federal officers.”

  “What about local police officers?”

  “You can’t lie to them, either.”

  “What I mean is, how do you feel about them?”

  She curled an eyebrow. “What are you getting at?”

  “Do you trust them?”

  A couple of telling beats before she said, “Why shouldn’t I trust them?”

  “One of the reasons Marcello keeps running away, he’s afraid of the police.”

  “Why would he be afraid of them?”

  “Maybe because they’re mixed up in this in ways they shouldn’t be.”

  “If you know something Tree, you should tell me.”

  “Because you don’t know anything?”

  She rose to her feet. “Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to give you until the end of the week to come up with the boy.”

  “Or you send your pal Shawn around to kick the shit out of me? Is that it?”

  “What?”

  “The other night when I left your place, he jumped me in the parking lot.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “He told me to stay away from you.”

  “I don’t believe it.” But for the first time she appeared uncertain.

  “Yes, you do, Savannah. You’re involved with him. Or he thinks he’s involved with you, and he’s jealous of me.”

  She actually looked rattled for a moment. Then she regained the poise of a professional law enforcement officer facing a hostile witness. “One week.”

  “I think Shawn would like that, kicking the shit out of me.”

  She went out slamming the door behind her.

  32

  Tree looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. An accident of timing? Or a sign of his increasing ability to manage deceit? There was something deeply satisfying about lying. Perhaps that’s why everyone did it so enthusiastically. Telling the truth didn’t require much art. Lying, covering up, saying one thing, intending something else entirely—all that demanded real talent.

  He looked out the window as Savannah crossed the parking lot and Elizabeth Traven got out of her car wearing a tailored suit; the sleek corporate executive on her way to a morning meeting. She reached into the back seat for a valise that she then carried toward the entrance.

  Savannah reached her car before turning abruptly to watch Elizabeth enter the building. Then she looked up at Tree. Instinctively, he ducked back—and immediately felt embarrassed.

  He listened to the click of Elizabeth’s high heels coming up the stairs. She entered wearing the expression of an unhappy rich man’s wife about to part with money. She dropped the valise to the floor as if she could not be bothered with it any more.

  “That was an FBI agent,” she said in an accusatory voice.

  “Yes, it was,” he said. “Her name is Savannah Trask.”

  “What was she doing here?”

  “Wondering what I was doing up at Coleman talking to your husband.”

  “This was supposed to remain confidential.”

  “Confidentiality went out the window as soon as I walked into the prison.”

  She heaved a sigh before dropping into the now familiar office chair.

  “What did you tell the FBI?”

  “I tried not to tell them too much of anything, but they know something is up.”

  “What exactly?”

  “They know Reno O’Hara worked for your husband.”

  Elizabeth’s flawlessly constructed features showed nothing.

  Tree went on. “They are trying to link him to Reno’s murder, and you, too, I suppose.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she countered. “My husband’s in jail. He’s hardly in a position to murder people. I haven’t knocked anyone off in years.”

  “Like just about everyone on
the island, they want to know where Marcello is.”

  “Do you know?”

  “Do I know what?”

  “Quit playing games,” she said impatiently. “Do you know the whereabouts of Marcello O’Hara?”

  “The FBI thinks I know more than I’m telling them.”

  “Do you?”

  “I’m not sure I do,” he said truthfully. “For instance, I don’t know why you and your husband are so interested in the boy.”

  Elizabeth opened the valise and extracted a package wrapped in brown paper. She might have been delivering his laundry. The thought made him smile. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “I wonder what you are up to, Mr. Callister.” She laid the package on his desk.

  “The FBI said the same thing. Everyone wants to know what I’m up to. Everyone thinks I know something.”

  “Mind if I give you some advice?”

  “Go ahead, Mrs. Traven. Everyone seems to be handing it out this morning.”

  “So far you’ve been fortunate. Don’t overplay your hand. No one’s going to get hurt here if everyone does what they are supposed to do.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” Tree said.

  “Take your money,” she said brusquely. “The rest is up to you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

  Elizabeth Traven on her way out did not slam the door quite so hard as Savannah.

  The package was sealed with Scotch tape. There was no bow. He tore at the paper. Bundles of twenty dollar bills tumbled across his desk. Tree stared at the money.

  Not even noon yet and he had been threatened by two beautiful women and collected twenty thousand dollars. Not bad, he thought. Not bad at all.

  ____

  Freddie, in a one-piece orange bathing suit that did wonderful things to the shape of her, was in the pool with Marcello when Tree got back to the house. She had objected only mildly when he asked if she could stay with the boy for a couple of hours. She knew full well why he was going into the office, but to his surprise and relief, chose not to argue about it.

  Tree found a chair in the shade. He sat with the package on his lap. Freddie lifted herself out of the pool, grabbed a towel and settled into an adjacent chair so she could keep an eye on Marcello. He flopped onto an inflatable cushion wearing a pair of oversize sunglasses.

  “You two look like you’re having a good time,” Tree observed.

  “He’s a terrific kid, he really is.” Her eyes danced. “You know, he plays it so close to the chest, you forget sometimes he’s a little boy.”

  “He is that,” Tree agreed.

  “Ray called me.”

  “The Ray Man. Did he fire you?”

  “He apologized.”

  “Interesting. I would have thought he owes me the apology.”

  “He says he doesn’t remember anything.”

  “Convenient.”

  “He’s worried that I didn’t go in. He thinks I’m pissed.”

  “Did he even mention me?”

  “I told him I wasn’t coming in for a while. Not until I figure out a few things.”

  “He didn’t. Bastard.”

  She eyed the package on his lap. “Okay, I give up. What happened?”

  “I got the money.”

  “I can see that. Delivered right to your door.”

  “I suddenly realize I’m not quite sure what to do with twenty thousand possibly ill-gotten dollars.”

  “How about not accepting them in the first place?”

  “If I stick it in the bank, the FBI will know about it. So what do you do? Hide it under the mattress?”

  “Tree, did you hear me?”

  “Now I know how Mexican drug lords must feel. You’ve got all this money, but what do you do with it?”

  “Tree.”

  “I’m not compromising anything, Freddie.”

  “You are if you’re being paid to turn that boy over to them.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “I’m not going to let you do it,” Freddie said.

  “You’re the one who wanted to take him to the police—remember?”

  She watched Marcello floating in the pool. “He brings out the mothering instinct in me.” She glanced at him. “Not an instinct I’ve experienced for a while.”

  “It looks good on you,” Tree said. “Makes you more adorable.”

  “Don’t try to butter me up. I said before I wasn’t sure I liked this new Tree, the Sanibel Sunset Detective Tree. I’m even less certain now.”

  “Because I’m earning some money?”

  “You bring lots of things to the marriage, Tree. You don’t have to bring money. I can get that.”

  “The FBI was waiting when I got to the office this morning.”

  She peered at him with narrowing eyes. “You mean your former live-in girlfriend Savannah Trask. What did she want?”

  “She gave me the rest of the week to come up with Marcello. Or else.”

  “How does she look?”

  “I tell you I’ve been threatened by a federal agent and your response is ‘How does she look?’”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Rex thinks she’s a ghost because she hasn’t changed since Chicago.”

  “I don’t believe it. Everybody changes.”

  “After Savannah left, Elizabeth Traven showed up.”

  “With the money? That must have been interesting.”

  “She obviously doesn’t like her husband’s interference—and she’s expecting me to turn over the boy. Or else.”

  “The point being?”

  “The point being whether I take money or not we don’t have much more time. We’ve got to decide what to do, and do it fast.”

  “So what’s the plan, Sherlock?”

  “Find his mother. That’s what I’ve been paid for. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  Marcello came over, dripping wet, still wearing the oversize sunglasses. Freddie wrapped a towel around him. It seemed like a protective gesture.

  “Let’s do something,” Marcello said.

  “What would you like to do?”

  He shrugged. “I’m kind of bored.”

  “Oh, dear,” Freddie said with a grin. “We can’t have that, can we?”

  “All I do is hang around. Even school’s better than this.”

  Freddie and Tree traded glances.

  School?

  Tree asked, “Where do you go to school, Marcello?”

  “Heights,” he promptly answered.

  “Heights what?”

  “Heights Elementary School,” he said.

  Tree started for the house. “Where are you going?” Freddie asked.

  “To get my camera.”

  “Camera? What do you need a camera for?”

  “So I can take a photo of Marcello,” he said.

  33

  The yellow umbrellas and the picnic-type tables in front of Heights Elementary did a nice job of diverting attention from the institutional look of the building. Tree parked the Beetle in the lot at the side, still kicking himself for being so stupid. Of course, the kid would go to school, and of course that might be the key to who he was, and where he lived, and who his parents were.

  Of course.

  Inside, Tree’s footsteps echoed along empty hallways, the children behind closed doors hard at work becoming tomorrow’s leaders. Tree found the front office. A sign on the wall read, “Reaching new heights; climbing the ladder of success.”

  “Our school motto.” The woman behind the counter removed fashionable eyeglasses for a better look at him. “What can I do for you, sir? Are you here about one of the students?”

  Tree took out his digital camera, adjusted the LCD screen until it displayed his photo of Marcello. “His name’s Marcello O’Hara. I’m wondering if he’s a student here.”

  The woman frowned at the photo. “I think you had b
etter talk to our principal, Mrs. Salter.”

  The woman disappeared through a door at the back of the office. A couple of minutes later, she re-emerged followed by an authoritative-looking black woman in a dark pantsuit.

  “Good morning,” she said in the no-nonsense tone he had not heard since high school. “I’m Mrs. Salter.”

  Tree introduced himself and showed her the photo of Marcello. Mrs. Salter studied it longer than the woman behind the counter, then she too frowned. “What did you say his name was?”

  “Marcello O’Hara,” Tree said.

  “That’s not the name we have him registered under. We know him as Gregory Scott. He hasn’t been at school for a couple of weeks now. We’ve been worried about him and have been trying to get in touch with his father.”

  “Who is his father?”

  “A Mr. Mel Scott.”

  Tree couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “The police detective? Mel Scott?”

  “I don’t know what Mr. Scott does for a living.”

  “And what about his mother?”

  “I don’t know that we have a mother for Gregory. A stepmother. Dara Rait. We haven’t been able to get hold of either Mr. Scott or his partner. I even drove over to Dara’s studio a few days ago.”

  “On Estero?”

  “Yes, but there was no one there.” Her eyes narrowed. “What is your interest in this, sir? Are you a member of the family?”

  “I’m a detective,” he said. “I’ve been hired to find the boy’s mother.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Can’t you talk to Mr. Scott about this?”

  “Yes, I certainly intend to,” Tree said.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Callister. Tree Callister.”

  “Mr. Callister, let’s go into my office.” In the same voice that used to give him detentions.

  He started backing away. “I’m late for another appointment, Mrs. Salter. I’ll be in touch.”

  The school principal transformed into a drill sergeant whose orders weren’t being obeyed. “Sir!”

  “Thanks for you help.”

  She called to him again as he exited the office. He hurried along the empty hall, half expecting Mrs. Salter to tackle him, delighted to defy school authority after so many years.

  ____