The Black Palmetto

by Paul Carr

  “Hey, you're bleeding,” Simone said, concern in her eyes.

  Blood oozed from a superficial cut on his upper leg.

  “Yeah, something scraped me. It's nothing.” He put on his dry clothes and shoes.

  Back behind the wheel, he said, “Whoever ditched that car might be close by, unless he had a helper to drive him back.”

  “Are you thinking about that boat we saw back there?”

  “Yeah, it could be our guy.”

  They went back to the marina, but the cruiser had disappeared.

  Sam got out and hurried to the dock, but couldn't see the boat in either direction. Getting back in, he sighed. “I should have paid more attention. At least got the hull number.”

  “You didn't know. Besides, it could have been somebody just stopping for a break.”

  “I think I knew something wasn't right about it.”

  “Forget it. It's no big deal.”

  Sam started the car, drove out onto the highway headed back, and took out his phone.

  “Who're you calling?” Simone asked.

  “Lora Diamond.”

  She turned and peered out her window.

  “She's our only link to what the police have,” Sam said. “We need to keep her in the loop.”

  “I didn't say anything.”

  Lora answered. He told her about the sunken car and described its location.

  “You think it belongs to the guy you were looking for? Spanner?”

  “Probably. I can't imagine any other reason someone would have ditched a car like that. Probably did it on high tide and thought it wouldn't be found.”

  “Could you see the license plate?”

  She didn’t need to know he’d already examined the vehicle. That could cause him some trouble with the police.

  “No. The bumper was underwater.”

  He left out the part about the cruiser. It could have been a coincidence that the boat had left the marina in the short span of time between their two visits, but Sam didn't think so

  “Get whatever you can out of the story. Just keep me out of it.”

  “Okay. I'll go out there before it gets dark and scope it out.”

  When he hung up, Simone said, “Too bad we didn't find anything connecting Spanner.”

  “That's okay. I'm pretty sure it's his vehicle. The way it looked down there, someone had done a search, probably for the information about the Black Palmetto. If that person had found it, Spanner's body would've also been down there. So the fact that it isn't tells me he's still alive.”

  “Maybe. But that's one conjecture on top of another. It could be that some thief just wanted to get rid of a hot car.”

  Sam supposed he had wanted it to be Spanner's vehicle. That alone surely didn't make it true, and he really hadn't found any concrete evidence. “Yeah, you're right. We need to keep an open mind.”

  Still, he knew it had to be Spanner's car, and they were onto something.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sam took a quick shower and put on fresh clothes. When he entered the living room, J.T. sat in one of the leather chairs, his computer and a beer on the coffee table in front of him.

  “I got the pics on the two guys,” J.T. said.

  “Let's take a look.”

  Simone entered the room. “Where'd you get the beer?”

  “The lawyer has about a case of it in the fridge,” J.T. said as he oriented the computer so Sam could see it from the sofa.

  Simone got two beers and handed one to Sam. They took a seat and studied the images of Marlon Knox and Leonard Ousley. Knox looked about eighteen-years-old, with longish blond hair and glasses. The image had come from a Miami Police Department drug arrest about seven years before. The charges were later dropped.

  “What about the mental institution Whitehall had on his list for this guy?” Sam asked. “You find anything on that?”

  “Windhaven? No, that place is a ghost. They don't have a website, or even a phone listing, which probably means it's very exclusive and expensive.”

  “So this kid came from a wealthy family. That might explain the charges getting dropped on his drug arrest. Did you search for a birth certificate?”

  “Yeah, didn’t find one. Somebody got it expunged. Same for the other guy. Ousley.”

  “Huh.”

  Ousley looked older, but not by much, and meaner. He had short brown hair, dark eyes, and a smirk on his clean-shaven face. J.T. had gotten the photo from the state prison in Starke, Florida where the convict lived on death row until the government program picked him up.

  Both photos were several years old, but maybe somebody in town would still recognize one of them.

  “Did you notice the name of the officer who arrested the Knox kid?” Simone asked Sam.

  Turning back to the computer, Sam said, “No, who?”

  She pointed at the screen. “Richard Boozler, Miami PD.”

  “Huh, that's weird. What do you think it means?”

  Simone shrugged. “It isn't a coincidence, that's for sure. Miami has millions of people, and these two names popping up together…what are the odds?”

  J.T. chuckled. “Too high.”

  “Yeah,” Simone said, “This kid has an influential father or mother who talked Boozler into dropping the charges.”

  “When was he at Windhaven?” Sam asked.

  J.T. brought up the e-mail from the doctor. “According to what Whitehall sent us, Knox entered Windhaven about two years later, and the Palmetto picked him up a few months after that. He would've been about twenty at the time.”

  “Well,” Sam said, “he must've killed somebody, or the government wouldn't have been interested in him. Boozler probably got him out of that, too. That would explain how our local cop could go from an officer position in Miami to chief of police in Iguana Key, in seven years. I wish we knew what the kid did.”

  Simone spoke up. “Miami probably had tons of serious crimes committed during the month he entered that mental facility. There wouldn't be any easy way to narrow them down.”

  “He didn't pop up on any other arrests,” J.T. said.

  “It would have to be something that would cause the guy to track Boozler here after the Black Palmetto collapsed and risk getting caught.”

  J.T. leaned back in his chair, his eyes aglow. Sam watched the gears click inside the mercenary's head.

  “That would be cash,” J.T. said. “A lot of it.”

  “Yes, or maybe a big drug score, which could be turned into cash. Maybe Boozler got paid off for keeping the Knox kid out of jail, but he might also have ended up with whatever it was the kid killed somebody for. We need to find a big drug bust. One where the money or the drugs went missing.”

  “You might have put your finger on what happened,” J.T. said, “but how does any of that help you find Spanner and what he stole from the research lab?”

  Simone spoke up. “If we find the assassin, we'll find Spanner.”

  Sam pointed at her with his index finger, his thumb up, like an imaginary gun. “That's right. All this is connected. I'm convinced of it.” Remembering his first conversation with Lora that morning, Sam said, “The reporter mentioned something about a parole officer coming to town. He wanted to examine the body of a man who was murdered here a couple of months ago. I don't think he got a chance, because it got blown to bits on the bridge over Blackwater Sound. I'll bet his missing parolee served time for whatever happened back then, and he got out of prison and came here to settle up with our guy.”

  “Why don't you ring up Lora,” Simone said, “and see if you can get something useful out of her.”

  “Can you send these photos on e-mail?” Sam asked J.T.

  “Sure. I just need to know where.”

  Sam called the reporter and asked for her e-mail address.

  “What've you come up with?”

  “I'm going to send you photos of two guys. See if you recognize either of them.”

  “Okay. You think one of them
is the killer?”

  “Could be.”

  “How would you have a picture of the guy?”

  “It's just an idea. I'll tell you more if you recognize one of them.”

  Silence.

  He asked if she knew the name of the ex-con the parole officer had been after.

  “No, but I can ask Lonnie.”

  “Yeah, let me know.” He didn't want to place too much emphasis on it because she would launch into a lot of questions he didn't want to answer. “You find the sunken car yet?”

  “Yep, I'm here now, waiting for the police to show up. Send the photos, and I'll check them out.”

  ****

  Sam called Jackson Craft, a confidence man he'd known for years. Jack had a long history of fleecing crooks, and had never been fingered as the bad guy, at least not by anyone who remained alive to tell about it.

  “Samuel, how's it going?”

  “Not bad, Jack. I wondered if I could ask a favor.”

  “Anytime, my friend. Just name it.”

  Jack sounded chummy, but he could bare his fangs when things turned sour, and Sam had seen that side more times than he could count. Though never sure whether or not he considered Jack a friend, they had helped each other from time to time in tough situations. Unlike J.T., though, he had all the money he would ever need. He ran his elaborate schemes only because he liked the life, and because he could.

  Sam described the situation in Iguana Key. Simone had cautioned him about saying anything about the Palmetto, given its black ops classification. So he left that part out, but wouldn't have been surprised if Jack already knew about it.

  “There's this psychiatrist who got blackballed by the AMA, and I wondered if you might know anybody who could help get his medical license reinstated.”

  “He's important to your case?”

  “Could be. Plus, I think he got a raw deal.”

  “You have any ideas who this killer might be?” Jack asked.

  “We have a couple of names, Marlon Knox and Leonard Ousley, and we have photos, but they're several years old. They might not look the same, now.”

  “You got them from the psychiatrist?”

  “He gave us the names. J.T. came up with the pics.”

  “How's J.T. doing?”

  Sam glanced at J.T. clicking keys on the computer. “Ah, you know.”

  “I take it he's there now.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “If there's any money involved, don't tell him about it.”

  Too late. Jack had never trusted the man, maybe for good reason.

  “Gotcha.”

  “What other information do you think this psychiatrist could give you?”

  “I don't know. Maybe some current photos, and some personal information that'll help us track them.”

  “These guys wouldn't have been associated with a black ops program in Homestead, would they?”

  So, Jack did know about it. Sam supposed a successful confidence man had to have a good network.

  “Could be.”

  Ice cubes tinkled in a glass, Jack probably having a gin and tonic. He remained silent for a couple of moments then said, “Okay, give me his name and I'll make some calls.”

  ****

  Sam and Simone got fresh drinks and carried them through French doors to the deck outside the living room.

  “Pretty nice layout,” he said, leaning against the rail.

  “Yeah, let's go down to the dock and check out the waterfront.”

  They descended the deck steps and strolled in the soft shade of the palms, along a wooden walkway, the late-afternoon air now balmy. Beads of condensation glistened on the glass surfaces of their cold beers.

  The walkway led onto the dock and Sam saw a boathouse that had been concealed from the cabin's view by surrounding mangroves.

  “The water is beautiful here,” Simone said.

  “Yes, it is.” It looked cool and clear, a blue green even brighter than that off the Miami coast. On the dock, they went into the boathouse and found a late model Boston Whaler in its single slip. A white runabout with a wide blue stripe on each side, it sported a 170 horsepower outboard motor.

  Sam thought about the cruiser they had seen down the coast and felt a tingle at the nape of his neck.

  The sensation must have been noticeable, because Simone said, “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” he said, walking back out onto the dock with her following behind him. He scanned the water as far as he could see. “I just thought about that boat down at the marina.”

  She shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand and gazed across the Gulf.

  “I don't see anything out here.”

  “Yeah, me, either. I wonder if Ford left keys to the Whaler in the cabin. Maybe we could take a ride.”

  They strode to the cabin and found boat keys hanging from a hook next to the door. Back in the boathouse they got into the Whaler. Sam checked the gas tank and found it almost full, so he started the motor, unwound the ties, and backed the craft out of the slip. About an hour of daylight remained. That would be plenty of time to go beyond the marina and return.

  The Whaler rose easily to a plane on the smooth water, and they cruised along the coast about a hundred yards from shore. Boats dotted the neighboring docks, but none resembled the cruiser. About a mile past the abandoned marina, Sam thought he heard the ring tone of his phone. He took it out of his pocket, saw Lora's number on the display, and backed the throttle down to a quiet idle.

  “Hey, it's Lora. You sitting down?”

  “Why, what's happened?”

  “When the police showed up at the sunken car site, Lonnie pulled me to the side and said they'd found prints on the knife from Ted Carter's storm cellar.”

  “Did they get a match?”

  “Yeah, and you're not going to believe this. They belong to Chief Boozler.”

  Boozler? How could that be? Had they been wrong about the Black Palmetto? Had it sounded so good that they'd followed blindly down its path?

  “Did they confront him about it?”

  “Yes, and he said he had a break-in a few weeks ago, and that the burglar must have stolen the knife from his garage.”

  “That sounds pretty flimsy.”

  “I'll say. Lonnie said the chief hadn't been too thrilled to go out to Carter’s place. Lonnie pushed the issue, so he relented, and he looked sick after they found the knife.”

  “Did they arrest the chief?”

  “No, Lonnie didn't know what to do, Boozler being the top-ranking police official, so he went to his desk to call the Monroe County Sheriff for direction. By the time he got off the phone, Boozler had slipped away without anyone noticing. They went to his home, and his wife said he had come home early, went up to the attic and got a bag she didn't recognize. He left again without saying where he was going. Lonnie said he wouldn't answer his phone, either.”

  “Do they think he's the killer?”

  “Lonnie wouldn't say any more. He was really upset, I could tell. I don't think he wants to believe the chief would do something like that, but it doesn't look good with him running away.”

  “Don't they have GPS trackers on the police cars?”

  “Yes, but the chief left the cruiser at his house and took his personal vehicle, a Range Rover.”

  Range Rover? Pretty rich for a police chief in a place like Iguana Key. He probably didn't clear enough in a year or two to pay for one of those.

  “Huh. Did you find out about the parolee?”

  She paused then said, “No, I completely forgot, with all the talk about the fingerprints and the chief.”

  “Try to find out. I think it might be important.”

  Another pause. “Okay, but this has been a one-way conversation, so when I call back, I expect you to have something for me, and it better be good, or this source is going to dry up real quick. Comprende?”

  “You got it. I'll tell you everything.”

  They ended the call and he rel
ayed to Simone what had happened.

  Simone shook her head. “I had the feeling the guy was dirty when we saw his name on that arrest report.”

  “Yeah, well, looks like you were right.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “What was that about you telling her everything? You're not going to do that, are you?”

  Sam chuckled. “Are you kidding? She's the last person I'd tell. I’ll give her just enough to keep her out of our hair.”

  He cut the wheel, arcing the boat back toward Ford's dock, and opened the throttle.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The phone woke Sam the next morning around 8:00 a.m. Lora Diamond.

  “I found out about the parolee. And by the way, his parole officer never made it to Iguana Key. Lonnie called his office and they said they haven't heard from him since he left there.”

  “Yeah?” Sam rubbed sleep from his eyes.

  “You sound like you just woke up.”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  He glanced at Simone. Still sleeping like a baby. They'd gone to bed about midnight, and she had cautioned him about staying on his side of the bed. That worked fine until an hour later when he awoke with her arm across his chest and her lips next to his cheek, her breath warm on his face. After that, he tried his best to blank out thoughts of this exquisite woman clad only in a t-shirt and snuggling to him. It didn't work, and the red display of the clock bore down on him like a tyrant, until sometime after 6:00 a.m. when he finally drifted off to sleep again.

  “You have the parolee’s name?”

  “I do, but it's put-up-or-shut-up time. You get my drift?”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay, tell me what you know, and I'll tell you his name.”

  “Hold on a minute.”

  He got out of bed, put on his pants, and padded down the hall to the kitchen. With the phone pressed between his ear and shoulder, he made coffee while he told her a story.

  “We found a news item from about seven years ago where Richard Boozler arrested the blond-haired kid in the photo I sent you. It was a drug charge and they released him shortly thereafter. We think the kid killed somebody two years later, and Boozler got him another free pass. The parolee I asked you about might have taken the fall for the killing.”