The Black Palmetto

by Paul Carr

  Laying his gun on the dresser and emptying his pockets, he said, “Another murder happened a couple of months ago, and this reporter covered the stories on it.”

  When he turned around, she’d gotten into bed and sat propped up on pillows with the cover pulled up under her arms.

  “You think it could be the same guy?”

  He sat on the other bed and told her about the similarities of the killings. “A place this size probably doesn't have many homicidal maniacs.”

  She stared for a couple of beats. “Well, I'm glad they didn't arrest you. I'd hate to have to put down some policemen getting you out of there.”

  The words might have been intended as humor, but he knew her pretty well. She just might do what she'd said.

  Sam grinned. “Yeah, me too.”

  Simone yawned, turned on her side, facing him, and moved the pillow underneath her head.

  “Turn off the light when you go to bed,” she said, her eyes closed, her words already dreamy.

  After brushing his teeth and undressing, he sat on the bed and watched her sleep, her body rising ever so slightly with shallow breaths, her lips smiling as if in a nice dream, like an innocent child. Smiling himself, he turned off the light, pitying the poor soul who might think that and try to take advantage of her.

  ****

  The hearse wandered across the center line. Alton Cox dozed at the wheel, head back, mouth open. Harpo Crum peered out the windshield and saw the grill of a semi in their path. His pulse fired in his ears as he grabbed the wheel.

  “Watch out, man!”

  The semi’s horn blasted as it squeezed by, the driver throwing them the finger.

  Alton awoke and coughed, his eyes darting. They’d stopped at a bar along the highway for a few drinks since the body didn’t have to be in Lauderdale until morning. As always, Alton had way too many. He’d spilled whiskey on the guy next to him, and the man got in his face about it. One thing led to another and Alton ended up on the floor, the man kicking him in the face with the pointed toes of his cowboy boots. Harpo finally persuaded the cowboy to stop, and dragged Alton out of the bar.

  Harpo drove the first couple of hours after that, Alton sleeping it off in the passenger seat. He awoke when Harpo pulled off the highway to get some malt liquor, and went to the restroom to rinse the blood off his face. When he returned, he insisted on driving. Harpo had been glad to oblige, but now he thought that might have been a mistake. He didn’t want to become road kill pasted onto the grill of a semi. Taking a long pull on the bottle of malt liquor, he felt his nerves begin to smooth out.

  “What about my bottle?” Alton asked. He still looked drunk.

  “Want me to drive?”

  “No, man, just give me my bottle.”

  “Sure, buddy, hold on.” Harpo pulled a quart of Colt 45 from the bag at his feet, twisted off the cap, and handed it to him. “You see that car following us? He’s been back there since we left the bar. Even stopped at the store when we got the malt.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You just got the heebie jeebies cause of that stiff we got back there. I know a bar up ahead that stays open all night. We'll stop for a couple of shots and maybe you can chill out.”

  Harpo shook his head and sighed. Alton should have learned his lesson when the tips of the cowboy’s boots were stuck up his nose.

  The hearse felt hot and laden with moisture, windows wide open, the odor of the sea and the moldy casket floating in the air. Within a couple of minutes they rolled onto a bridge that seemed a mile long.

  Harpo sighed and fiddled with the little crystal radio he’d bought for a dollar at a flea market. The guy said it was over fifty years old, and Harpo had brought it along because the hearse’s radio had gotten stolen a few months before. Inserting the tiny speaker plug into his ear, he adjusted the antenna and found only one station. A man with a Southern accent preached about sins of the flesh. Another program would probably come on eventually, so he settled back to listen to the preacher for a while. He dropped the radio into his shirt pocket and took a long drink of the malt. The expanding image of the trailing car caught his attention in the mirror outside his window.

  Harpo twisted around in his seat until he could eyeball the car. It sped up and cut into the passing lane. “Watch out, man, the car is coming around us.”

  “He's the one better watch out,” Alton said.

  The sedan sped by, pulled into their path, and braked until its rear bumper banged the front end of the hearse. The driver stuck his arm out the window and motioned for them to pull to the side.

  “What’s wrong with that guy?” Alton said, pumping the brakes.

  “He wants us to pull over.”

  Alton rolled his eyes. “I know that, Sherlock.”

  Jamming the brakes again, he slowed to a stop behind the car.

  “See what he wants, and make it quick. Give me the high sign if he tries anything.”

  Harpo grinned. “Yeah, I’ll do that. Maybe you can take care of him like you did that cowboy.”

  The stranger got out of the car and stood there, waiting. He appeared to be holding something behind his back.

  Harpo turned up the bottle of malt liquor, draining it, and got out. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he walked on shaky legs in front of the hearse. “What's the problem, dude?”

  The man approached, humming a song that sounded like an old television show. Alton hit the high beams, lighting up the guy’s face, and Harpo recognized him.

  “Hey, you're that―”

  It happened in the blink of an eye. Something exploded, knocking him back. Harpo stumbled against the hood of the hearse, and the guy turned and walked around toward the driver's door. Harpo felt funny, his chest burning, and he realized he’d been shot. He coughed. Fluid came up from his throat.

  The man jerked the driver's door open. Alton cursed, but the gun exploded again, and he fell over in the seat. The shooter grabbed his shirt front and pulled him back up behind the wheel. He peered out at Harpo, his eyes shining in the dash lights, begging for help, his mouth stretched wide in a silent scream. Harpo wanted to do something, but then his head went into a spin and he passed out.

  When Harpo awoke he was back in his seat next to Alton, the motor idling. They just sat there on the vast concrete expanse of the bridge, life leaking away, as if waiting for the Pearly Gates to open. He wondered if he would be on the list to get in. The radio preacher, still channeling through the earpiece, talked about redemption and how sinners should pray for forgiveness. Harpo wondered if he could be forgiven for the things he'd done.

  The car in front of them had disappeared. Lights glared in the mirrors, and he tried to turn and see out of the back window. His chest felt as if it had a flare burning inside it. After a few moments of struggling, he managed to see the sedan behind them. The man reached inside it and came out with an object of some kind. In the dim light it resembled a can of beans. He stepped to the front of his car and held the object in the illumination of the headlight, as if reading the list of ingredients. Then he strode to the hearse, twisted something on the top of the can, and tossed it behind Alton next to the casket. In the next instant, he reached in the window, cut the wheel to the left, and punched the old Caddy into drive.

  The vehicle lurched forward, headed to the other side of the bridge toward the rail. Although Alton seemed to be breathing, his eyes were closed, his face a jaundiced death mask. Harpo didn't know what might happen now, but he knew it’d be bad, and he willed his hand to move to the door handle. He also took the radio preacher's advice and prayed. As he felt the snap of the latch, everything turned a blinding white, and he wondered if this might be the crossing-over light he'd heard about. But then he felt the heat and a sense of flying, and the light went out.

  Chapter Five

  Chief Boozler arrived for work at 9:30 a.m. He hadn’t gotten to bed until after five. Lonnie Cates met him at the door.

  “The mayor came by to see you, Chief. He want
s you to stop in. And there's something I need to tell you when you have a chance.”

  Chief Boozler knew the mayor would come around as soon as he heard about the murder. “Lonnie, will you get me a cup of coffee and bring it to me in his office? I might as well get this over with.”

  The chief winked at him as he walked by and Lonnie broke into a big grin. Boozler sauntered into the mayor's outer office and told the secretary he needed to see her boss.

  “Go on in. He's expecting you.”

  Sighing, Boozler entered and sat down, rubbing his sleepy eyes, acknowledging the mayor only after he got completely situated.

  “Morning, Rich. I understand you were busy last night. Have time to tell me about it?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I guess you know it was Jake Bell who got murdered. His father was beside himself when I called him, but he seemed more angry than hurt. Course, people express their grief in different ways. Morton ranted and raved over the phone about how we'd better fry the animal that did it or he’ll do it himself.”

  Lonnie Cates came through the open door and handed the cup of coffee to the chief. Boozler thanked him and took a sip.

  Donald Meyer’s eyes narrowed. Probably jealous. Word was his secretary would never bring him coffee.

  “It sounds like you have a good suspect. I heard about the guy from Miami.”

  Boozler tried not to smile. “You must have been talking to Lonnie.”

  Meyer nodded.

  “You know,” the chief said, “there's no shortage of people around here who might kill Jake Bell.”

  “Yes, well, that might be true, but we need to make sure Morton knows we're doing our jobs. Maybe you should arrest the man from Miami until you find more evidence.”

  Bell had bought the mayor’s office with campaign funds, and satisfying him was Meyer’s number one priority. “Sorry, but it doesn't work that way.” Boozler took a sip of coffee and glanced at his watch. The mayor’s time was up.

  Back in his office, Boozler turned on the computer and brought up his e-mail. He hated electronic systems and didn't use them often. There were a couple of messages from fraternal police organizations, probably wanting money from him, one from the Iguana Key Chamber of Commerce, one from the mayor, and one from a parole officer with the Florida Department of Corrections. The last message probably deserved his attention most because Boozler had already ignored it for a few days. The parole officer was searching for a man named Fletcher Spikes, who had been paroled a couple of months before and had disappeared. A report in the Tallahassee office mentioned a dead John Doe in Iguana Key. Doe had a tattoo on his arm, and the parole officer asked in the e-mail if any photos of it had been made.

  Fletcher Spikes.

  Lonnie entered his office. “I did some searches on Mackenzie, the dude from Miami. He looks pretty suspicious.”

  Boozler leaned back and scratched his head, still thinking about the e-mail. “Yeah? How so?”

  “I didn't find anything. No arrests, no credit rating, nothing. Not even a driver's license. It's like he doesn't exist.”

  “Maybe you made a mistake. We saw his Florida license.”

  Lonnie shook his head. “Could've been fake. I think we should bring him in.”

  ****

  Sam sat at the table in the interrogation room and stared at Police Chief Boozler. A cruiser had shown up at the diner at 9:45 a.m. while he and Simone ate breakfast. They probably didn't have anything to link him to the murder of Jake Bell, but there was no telling what else they might dig up if they talked to the right people.

  “What are you doing in Iguana Key, son?”

  “I told you last night why I'm here. I'm searching for Sean Spanner. Surely you don't think I had anything to do with that murder.”

  “Have you ever been here before this trip?”

  “No, never, except driving through to Key West.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Sam wondered where this was going. He thought he could see something sinister crawling in the chief’s eyes, but wasn't sure what it might be. He shifted in the chair. “Yes, I'm sure. I think I'd remember.”

  The chief nodded, took a sip from his coffee cup. “Sure you weren't here a couple of months ago?”

  Sam recalled the murder Lora had mentioned.

  Without waiting for an answer, the chief got up, stepped out of the office for a few seconds and returned. “We had another dead body turn up a couple of months ago. Stabbed, like Jake Bell.”

  An officer entered the door and handed Boozler a file folder. He opened it on the table and studied its contents for a few moments.

  “Can you verify your whereabouts on April 6th?”

  Sam tried to remember. “I think I was refinishing my boat deck during that time. The dock master helped me. Give him a call and he'll tell you.”

  He wrote down the man's name and telephone number for the chief, who didn't seem very convinced.

  “Will he know where you were twenty-four hours a day?”

  “Probably not, but he saw me during the day that whole week.”

  The chief shrugged. “Okay, I'll call him.”

  Sam hoped he was right about the dates, and if wrong, maybe his friend would catch the drift and give the right answer anyway.

  Boozler made a copy of his driver's license and let him go after a few more minutes.

  “We're not finished with you, so stay in town. I'm going to check out this license. My Lieutenant said it didn't show up when he researched it. You better hope that was some kind of mistake.”

  Check all you want. That's one thing I have that is legitimate.

  Sam left the room and called Simone to pick him up. She said she was in the parking lot, so he went outside and spotted the car, the engine running, the windows closed to keep in the cool air. When he reached to open the door, Lora Diamond pulled in beside them and lowered her window.

  “I heard they rousted you again. You have a few minutes to talk about it?”

  “I think I'm all talked out.”

  The sun bore down on his neck, tingling his skin with ultraviolet wattage.

  “You sure? I'll spring for a beer at Chopin’s.”

  After a moment's hesitation, he said, “Hold on.”

  He got inside the car with Simone and said, “You up for talking with the reporter?”

  Her lips tightened into a smirk. “She's the reporter you mentioned last night?”

  “Yeah, she's the reporter.”

  “Sure, why not. Let's hear what Cleo has to say.”

  Sam lowered the window and told Lora they'd meet her there.

  Simone backed out and drove away. “So, you weren't going to tell me about her, huh?”

  He grinned. “I didn't see any reason to go into it.”

  “That's the only reason? 'Cause, you know, I'm cool.”

  Glancing at her, he wondered if she really was cool, or just talking.

  Chapter Six

  Sam spotted Lora at a table in the corner. She stood and introduced herself to Simone, extending her hand.

  “Let's get this over with,” Simone said, ignoring the outstretched hand.

  Smiling, seeming a little embarrassed, Lora glanced at Sam and sat back down. A waiter arrived at the table and they ordered. Sam and Lora made small talk until the drinks arrived, while Simone sat pushed back from the table, her legs crossed, one foot moving up and down to a slow cadence.

  “You seem to have gotten yourself into some trouble after you left my place,” Lora said. “I thought you might need my help.”

  “What kind of help?” He took a long drink of the cold beer.

  Chopin stood behind the bar a few feet behind Lora’s chair, wiping it with a towel, pretending not to listen to their conversation. The round man with the tattoos finally looked in their direction, and Sam gave him a nod. He cut his eyes away.

  “I thought you might need a lawyer,” Lora said.

  Sam gave her a quick smile. “What I need is informa
tion on Sean Spanner. You think you could help me with that?”

  “I told you last night, I don't know anything about this Spanner man.”

  “Jake must've said something about him,” Sam said. “Think hard.”

  Lora shook her head. “But he didn't. Wait….” She peered down at the table for a couple of moments.

  Simone's foot stopped moving, and she uncrossed her legs and eased up to the table. “What did he say?”

  “He said something like, ‘the questions about the Marathon job make sense, now.’”

  “What questions?”

  “He wouldn't tell me. He just clammed up after that, with a serious expression on his face, as if he might be obsessing about something. Then he told me to wait at the table when he went to talk to you. I was pretty miffed by then, so I left and followed you two to the motel.”

  Sam nodded. “What kind of job is it they're doing in Marathon?”

  The reporter shrugged. “A new shopping center.”

  “Does it involve any concrete?”

  Lora raised an eyebrow. “Concrete? I guess it might. The Bell Company pours a lot of concrete. Why?”

  Leaning back in his chair, Sam drank from his beer bottle and glanced at Simone. Her eyes widened.

  “Nothing,” Sam said. “Just wondering what a construction job would have to do with Sean Spanner.”

  He drained his beer. “We need to get going.”

  “So that's it? That's all you're going to tell me?”

  Simone stood and headed for the door.

  “Sorry, that's all there is to tell.” He got up from his chair. “I still want to see the story before you run it in the paper. I'll drop by your office this afternoon about five.”

  Lora stood and said, “Okay. In case you change your mind about the lawyer, Charles Ford is good, and I can talk to him for you. You might need him more than you think.”

  Why did she keep bringing up the lawyer? “It sounds like you might know something I don't.”

  “Well, I heard the police did some research and couldn't find any records on you, like you're off the grid. That's the kind of thing that gets their attention.”

  “Who told you that?”