The Black Palmetto

by Paul Carr

  A few moments of silence, then, “How do you know that? You don't even know the parolee's name yet.”

  “Yeah, we're guessing about that part. But Boozler being in the wind fits pretty well with that scenario, don't you think?”

  “Wait a minute. You asked me to get the parolee's name before you knew about the chief running off, so the only thing you told me is about the arrest seven years ago. I can check that out, but I want to know how you got the Knox kid's name in the first place.”

  He could just say, Sorry, that's classified, but that would only make her dig deeper. A reporter loves a government conspiracy better than anything. She'd never leave them alone.

  “He's a friend of the man we're trying to find. Sean Spanner.”

  “Oh, yeah, who told you that?” Hostility in her voice.

  The coffeemaker hissed and burbled, and he poured a cup and stirred in cream and sugar.

  “Our client.”

  Silence.

  “So you've had this Knox kid's name for several days, and you didn't tell me?”

  “No, we just got it last night, right before I talked to you.”

  “You talked to your client last night?”

  “Yes.”

  That seemed to take the wind out of her sails just a little. “Huh. I don't know if I believe you or not.”

  After a few moments of silence, Sam said, “Well, that's what I've got. You going to give me the name?”

  She sighed. “I guess so. I just hope you're not leading me on.”

  Her tone had a slightly romantic quality that made him wish he hadn't had to lie. But then, that's probably how she got most of her information. He took a sip of the coffee and remained silent.

  Sighing again at his reticence, she said, “His name is Fletcher Spikes. Lonnie pulled his case and found that he was sentenced to life for killing a drug distributor in Miami, but was released recently because of a DNA mismatch.”

  Sam found a pen and wrote down the name. “By the way, did you recognize either of the photos I sent?”

  “No. The younger guy seemed vaguely familiar, but not enough for me to put a name on him. I’ll show them around and see if I get a hit.”

  ****

  Sam took his coffee cup into the living room and sat on the sofa, mulling over the phone call and the revelation from the night before about Richard Boozler's prints on the bloody knife. Could he be the killer? The ex-con that the parole officer had lost probably was the man killed a couple of months before. If Richard Boozler had done the deed, that meant he accidentally left the knife in the storm cellar when he stole the bombs. Fletcher Spikes probably came to see him, right out of prison and told him he knew the score. But why tell him? Maybe the chief had something the man had wanted, like a pile of cash from a drug deal gone south. The same thing Marlon Knox came back to Iguana Key to collect. If Boozler got Knox off on a murder charge, he probably set Spikes up for it. Then, to keep his mouth shut, the policeman had killed him.

  The parole officer had inquired about Fletcher's body, and the dominoes began to fall. First the explosion on the bridge, then the funeral home employees who might have recognized the chief's voice. In the meantime, Jake Bell must have seen something, and got killed for it. Then Jake's father, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  So Boozler could be the killer. Nothing in their assumptions so far would preclude that. Although, if the bloody knife hadn't been found, they would never have thought about him, and it actually could have been stolen as the chief had said. That had been the only incriminating evidence against him, and it could have been planted. Or the killer just got sloppy and left it by accident. The last part didn’t seem likely.

  J.T. came into the room and mumbled something unintelligible, then went into the kitchen and came back with a cup of coffee. Sam told him about Lora's call. His eyes widened, and he sat down and got busy on the computer, searching for information on Fletcher Spikes' arrest.

  “By the way,” J.T. said, “I got into the DMV’s system last night after you went to bed and found Boozler’s Range Rover. It was pretty easy after that to trace it back to the dealer and then to the GPS tracking system.”

  “Why didn't you wake me?”

  J.T. grinned. “Didn't want to disturb you and Simone.”

  Sam let the comment drop. “So where did the Rover go?”

  “He drove it to a place a mile or two down the coast.” J.T. brought up a computer screen and studied it for a moment. “It's still there now.”

  “On Iguana Key?”

  “Yeah, see for yourself.”

  J.T. turned the computer to the side and Sam got up and stepped over to it. A close-up of a map displayed on the screen, and J.T. pointed at a flashing spot. After orienting himself on the scale of the map, Sam estimated the location of the vehicle to be somewhere around the abandoned marina where he and Simone had seen the old cruiser.

  “Maybe the cruiser belongs to him,” Sam said, “and he went down there to board it and left the Rover at the marina. He knows the police would catch him if he goes up US-1, because there's only one road to the mainland, but if he had a boat, he could go anywhere.”

  “You said it's about a forty-footer? Probably wouldn't be very fast.”

  “No, but if he left before dark yesterday, he could be well on his way to the Caribbean by now.”

  J.T. cocked his head to one side. “Yeah, you're right.”

  “I'm going down to see if I can find the vehicle.”

  Back in the bedroom, he heard the water running in the shower. He put on his shirt and shoes and went outside to the car.

  It took about ten minutes to reach the marina. From the road, he didn't see any vehicles in the lot, including the Rover, which didn't make sense, so he drove in and continued to the far end where a dirt road led off the corner of the lot into the trees. The edge of a structure rose in his view, partially obscured behind a palmetto-and-mangrove thicket. The place hadn't been visible from their vantage point the day before. A vehicle he assumed to be the Range Rover sat behind a large tree with a dark green cover over it. Also parked close by were two other vehicles, one a plain dark sedan and the other an Iguana Key PD cruiser. Two men in suits stood there with Lieutenant Cates, who was also dressed in civilian clothes, along with a policeman in uniform. They all seemed to be looking Sam’s way.

  Too late to turn around and run. Sam pulled in next to the cruiser. They all wore sunglasses. Sam took his own black shades from the console and put them on. No need to let them see his eyes if he couldn't see theirs.

  Lieutenant Cates and the uniformed officer stepped over as Sam got out of the car.

  “What are you doing here?” Lonnie asked.

  Sam peered beyond him. “I saw the cars and wondered if you'd found something.”

  The other officer, whose nametag read Dudley Crew, turned toward the driveway and then fixed Sam with a stare. “You can't see down here from the road.”

  Crew stood an inch or so taller than Lonnie, but otherwise had a similar build. Another gym junkie.

  Ignoring the remark, Sam said, “Lora Diamond told me what happened with the chief of police. I thought maybe you'd found him.”

  “And your interest in the chief would be what?” Crew asked.

  Nodding toward Lonnie, Sam said, “The lieutenant knows. I'm trying to find a man named Sean Spanner. He was probably abducted by the person who murdered all those people in town. If that was the chief, he could lead me to Spanner.”

  One of the suits, the older of the two with graying hair and FBI written all over his ivy-league presence, said, “Chief Cates, can we get back to the job here?”

  “Acting Chief,” Lonnie corrected, glancing at Crew and Sam with a smile on his face, as if pleasantly embarrassed by the miscue.

  “Whatever, let's get this over with. He's probably been gone all night.”

  Lonnie’s smiled leaked away. “Certainly, Agent Crease.”

  Officer Crew turned to
Sam. “Stay close. We want to talk to you before you leave.”

  The agents and policemen eased toward the wood structure, which turned out to be a boathouse, and Sam followed. The door stood ajar, an open padlock on the ground next to it, as if whoever had entered had been in a hurry. Inside, Sam saw a long, empty boat slip, the water level at least six feet below the dock boards. It looked like a grave. Though fairly large, it wouldn't accommodate the cruiser Sam had seen the day before.

  “He purchased a Cigarette boat a few weeks ago,” Officer Crew said, “and we suspect he had it moored here.”

  “Did he tell you about the boat?” Crease asked.

  “No, no,” Lonnie said. “Dudley here is something of a computer genius.”

  Eyes turned to Crew, and he smirked behind his shades. “I wouldn't go as far as to say that.” His tone sounded more about making fun of Lonnie, than about his own modesty. “I just checked with the Florida Department of Transportation and found the boat registered in the chief's name.”

  Agent Crease nodded. “Boozler didn't tell anyone about buying it?”

  The two policemen exchanged glances. Crew shook his head and Lonnie said, “Not that we know of.”

  “Then how did you learn about this place? You find that on the computer, too?”

  Lonnie grinned. “No, that might've taken a crystal ball.” Neither Crease, nor anyone else, smiled at his joke, and his face turned serious. “Chief Boozler's wife told us about it. She said she suspected him of cheating on her with another woman and followed him here a couple of nights ago.”

  “He was probably getting ready to flee,” Crew said, “and wanted to check out the Cigarette.”

  One-half of Crease's face smiled, an expression that said, No kidding? Then he stared down at the empty space in the water, as if awaiting a clue to bubble to the surface. “Okay, here's what we'll do. I'll alert the Coast Guard to check any Cigarette boats they see, and in the meantime, we'll dispatch a couple of choppers from Key West with some spotters aboard. Unless he's holed up somewhere with a covered berth, we'll find him.” He headed toward the door. “We'll be in touch.” The younger agent followed.

  As Sam and the two policemen walked toward the cars, a large Mercedes with dark glass all around, pulled into the lot and eased their way. The two agents slowed their gait and waited for it to get closer. When it stopped, Agent Crease stepped over and the back passenger window lowered. Crease stooped to see the person inside, then squatted to talk at eye level. Someone important.

  “Forget about them,” Officer Crew said. “We told you to stay in town and you skipped.”

  Sam stopped and turned to face him. “I don't know what you're talking about. I'm still here.”

  “We went to your motel and you were gone. The chief wanted to bring you in for questioning.”

  “Nobody said I had to wait at the motel until the police wanted to see me. Besides, your chief is the one on the run.”

  Crew cocked his head. “You're hiding something, Mackenzie. Let's go, we'll talk downtown.”

  Sam couldn't believe his dumb luck, walking right into their hands.

  “Are you arresting me?”

  “Not yet,” Crew said.

  “Then I'm outta here.”

  “You're not going anywhere.” He grabbed Sam's wrist.

  Glancing down, Sam said, “Better take you hand back if you want to keep it.”

  Lonnie bowed up, his elbows rising, as if readying to draw two six-shooters.

  “You can't talk to an officer of the law like that, Mackenzie,” Lonnie said. “Cuff him, Dudley.”

  Dudley tightened his grip and pulled the cuffs from his belt with his free hand. Sam's face felt hot, and his wrist ached from Crew's fingers digging into his skin. Without thinking about all the grief the situation could bring down on him, Sam spun his wrist inside Dudley's fingers, grasped the policeman's wrist underneath with the same hand, and twisted downward, leveraging the man's elbow with his other hand. The officer screamed in pain and dropped to one knee.

  “Stop where you are!” Lonnie said, pulling his Glock. “Hands in the air! Now!”

  Uh oh. Sam released the man and stepped back, his pulse pounding in his ears. Why hadn't the guy moved his hand when he told him to?

  “I said hands in the air. You're under arrest for assaulting a police officer.”

  You've done it now.

  From behind them, Agent Crease said, “Hey! Coats! Put down your gun and let him go.”

  “What?” Lonnie said, glancing from Crease to Sam and back.

  “You heard me. Let him go. He's with us.”

  The acting chief appeared dumbfounded, but so was Sam. Why would they do that for him?

  “We'll take it from here,” Crease said. “You two can go back to whatever it is you normally do around here. Obviously, it isn't catching killers.”

  Dropping the gun to his side, Lonnie cast his eyes down at Officer Crew, still on one knee, rubbing his wrist. “Are you okay?”

  “He nearly broke my arm.”

  Lonnie turned his stare to the FBI man, his lips tight, and said, “It's Cates, Agent Crease, not Coats.”

  The FBI agent snorted a laugh. “Whatever.”

  The Mercedes backed out and drove away.

  “Better watch yourself,” Dudley said, massaging his upper arm. “This can be a dangerous place.” He kept his eyes on Sam as he and Lonnie got into the cruiser. They sped away, the tires throwing gravel and sand against the side of Sam's car.

  Before the agents could pull out, Sam went to the driver's window and motioned for Crease to lower it.

  “Who was in the Mercedes?” Sam asked.

  Crease smirked. “Don't press your luck. Friendly piece of advice? Stay out of our way.”

  The agent raised the window as he eased the car past Sam and left the marina.

  Chapter Sixteen

  J.T. stared with disbelief. “You're telling me the FBI got you off the hook?”

  “Yeah,” Sam said. “But the guy wouldn't tell me who was in the Mercedes.”

  Simone raised an eyebrow. “Had to be somebody with some juice.”

  “I guess, but I don't know why they would want to help me. Anyway, we need to check out the Cigarette and see if there was any kind of GPS tracker on it. The acting chief said this Crew guy is a computer whiz, so they might have checked that angle already.”

  “Yeah, well, anybody can do a computer search,” J.T. said. “Doesn't take an Einstein to figure that out.”

  “You're right,” Simone said to Sam. “An item as expensive as a Cigarette should have a tracker on it.”

  Already clicking the keys on his computer, J.T. said, “If it does, I'll find it.”

  “Did you find anything on Fletcher Spikes?” Sam asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” J.T. said, glancing at Simone and back to his computer. “He killed a guy in a drug bust, just like we thought. Stabbed him with a knife that was never found.”

  “This is news to me,” Simone said.

  J.T. grinned. “I was about to tell you when Sam got back.”

  “Sure you were.”

  “That's right, I was.” J.T. frowned, held her stare for a few moments, then turned to Sam. “The police recovered the drugs, but no cash.”

  “What was the street value of the drugs?” Simone asked.

  “I don't think it mentioned anything about that.”

  Simone turned to Sam. “See what I'm saying about this guy? They always mention the drug value. That's big news, especially if it was high enough to get somebody killed.”

  Sam smiled. After seeing the story, J.T. probably had the idea he would take off on his own and try to find Boozler. Now, if he came up with GPS coordinates, he probably planned to keep those to himself, too. Classic J.T. thinking.

  “Come on, man, it's easy enough for us to check out. Besides, we're going to stick to you like glue until all this is over, so you might as well tell us right now.”

  J.T. went silent for s
everal beats then shrugged. “Okay. They estimated the street value to be around four million dollars. But you know the wholesale price wouldn't be that much.”

  “Yeah, maybe a couple of million,” Sam said. “All of a sudden, a Range Rover and a secondhand Cigarette boat don't seem all that extravagant.”

  ****

  Harpo felt tired to the bone, as if a load of lumber rested across his shoulders. He'd walked for two hours in the sun before the kindly truck driver had stopped to give him a ride.

  “This is the place up ahead,” Harpo said.

  “You sure?” the driver asked as he gazed at the funeral home sign and pressed the brakes.

  “Yep. Thanks for the ride.”

  When the vehicle came to a full stop, he opened the door and climbed down, singing along with the choir performing inside his head. Harpo slammed the door and stepped to the curb. The driver gave him a concerned look, then shrugged and drove away.

  He trudged up the driveway, past the hearses and limos to the back door. Yellow tape crisscrossed it, and he wondered what that was all about. Mr. Tim had given him a key after he'd been working there for two years, so he used it, ducked under the tape, and went inside.

  Nobody seemed to be there, the lights off in all the offices and the hallway. He called out for Mr. Tim, but got no answer. Feeling weak, worn out and hungry, he stepped into the bookkeeper's office and flipped on the light. She always had food in her desk, and shouldn't mind if he took some, as long as he replaced it later. Upon finding a bag of pork rinds in the bottom drawer, and a can of soda in her personal refrigerator, he took the items to the big broom closet, where he had a cot. Mr. Tim had let him sleep there for the past several months, since he'd gotten kicked out of the old construction trailer where he'd been squatting without the owner's permission. Wouldn't be doing that kind of thing in the future. Once he accomplished his mission—maybe tomorrow, or the next day, way too tired right now—everything would be completely legitimate, and he would even help others when possible, his path to heaven now clear.

  Sitting on his cot, he ate the pork rinds and drank the soda, then lay back and closed his eyes. He listened to Dr. Worth talk about the devil, and prayed for what he had to do that he knew would be awful, but necessary. It seemed like something Satan could be behind, but he knew in his heart that wasn't the case. Still, he also prayed that the sickness hadn't clouded his judgment about it. At some point the Sandman flowed like a thick fog under the door of the closet and swept him away.