“Where do you know the boat from?” Harley asked.
The man just stared back at him for a moment, his dark eyes blank, then he rubbed his thumb and fingers together. Harley took his money clip from his pocket and peeled off another twenty. He folded it lengthways and extended it to the man with his fingers. “Where?”
“Runs out of Marathon,” the long-haired guy said. “No idea who the guy is, but I seen him around Boot Key Harbor a few times, picking up clients.”
Detective Ben Morgan’s phone rang only moments before the alarm was set to go off. It had been Ben’s first good night’s sleep in several days. He was fully awake when he sat up on the edge of the bed, picked up his phone and answered it. “Lieutenant Morgan.”
Ben listened for a moment and said, “Okay, we’ll both be there at eight.” He listened another moment. “Okay, we’ll all be there then. You call the other two, and I’ll call her.”
He said goodbye and ended the call, then scrolled through his contact list until he found Evans’s number. She answered on the third ring.
“Have fun out on the boat yesterday?” Ben asked. Before she could answer, he said, “Doc Fredric just called. Meet me at the coroner’s office in an hour. Jefferson and Clark are meeting us there.”
“All four of us?” Evans asked.
“I don’t ask why,” Ben said. “Just get your butt in gear. See you at eight.”
Ben ended the call and went straight to the small shower in the equally small bathroom of his little floating house. He showered quickly and dressed in one of his usual suits. Clipping his shield and holster in place, he was out the door less than half an hour after waking up.
When Ben arrived at the coroner’s office, Evans’s car was already in the parking lot, as was Jefferson’s. He parked and was just getting out when Joe Clark pulled in and parked next to him.
“What’s going on. Lieutenant?” Clark said, as he got out of his car.
“You know as much as I do, Joe,” Ben replied, looking over the other detective’s shoulder. “Is that the captain’s car?”
Clark turned to look. “Yeah, I think it is.”
They went inside, signed in, and Doc’s assistant led them back to the door to the morgue. The assistant pushed a button on the keypad, waved at Doc Fredric, and went back to his desk.
Doc pulled the door open. “Please come in, Detectives. We’re ready to get started.”
Ben and Clark followed Doc over to where Evans was standing beside a covered body on a gurney. Jefferson was in the opposite corner, talking to Captain Simpson. The sheriff himself stood next to them, arms crossed, as the Captain explained something to Jefferson.
“Gentlemen, if you please,” Doc said, loud enough to get the sheriff’s attention.
“How’d you get here so fast?” Ben asked Evans in a low voice.
“I run every morning at five,” she replied. “I was just getting dressed when you called. I’ve been talking to Doc until everyone else got here.”
“What’s going on?”
“He wouldn’t say,” Evans whispered, as Sheriff Roth turned and approached the group by the gurney.
“Tell us what you’ve found out, Doctor,” the sheriff said, brusque and to the point, as always.
Doctor Fredric pulled the sheet down, exposing a young woman’s face and shoulders. Even in death, Ben could see that she had been very beautiful. Her skin was flawless, except for the very visible bruising around her throat. Looking down, he saw that her feet weren’t anywhere near the end of the table. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall.
“This is Miss Janet Sawyer,” Doc said. “Her stage name is Jenae Saequa. She was a resident of San Fernando, California, where she worked in the adult entertainment industry. She is originally from Green Bay—”
“Can we cut to the chase, Doctor Fredric?” the sheriff asked.
“Certainly,” Doc replied, without appearing ruffled. Ben knew the old ME was eccentric and tended to be wordy and dramatic, but he also knew Doc did this for the benefit of the junior investigators. It put them more at ease in the unfriendly environment of the morgue. He told stories, but with the heart of a teacher.
Doc looked across the gurney at Ben. “The cause of Miss Sawyer’s demise was manual strangulation. Like Miss Marshall, she was murdered while having sexual intercourse.”
“Rape kit?” Ben asked.
“Yes, well, she wasn’t raped, Ben. At least not at first.”
“How can you tell that?” Jefferson asked.
“No vaginal tears, bruising, or abrasions, Doctor?” Evans asked.
“No,” the medical examiner replied. “And the swab showed traces of a personal lubricant.”
“So, more than likely, she was strangled while having consensual sex?” Evans asked.
Doc’s eyes locked on hers for a moment. “Yes, Devon. It’s a fetish wherein the woman is choked to near unconsciousness during sex.”
“Sick,” the captain mumbled.
“Different, yes,” Doc said and then continued. “Assuming she was put in the water soon after the murder, I estimate the time of death was between two and four, yesterday morning.”
“If the old fisherman had arrived at his favorite fishing spot just a little earlier,” Clark said, “he might have seen the guy.”
“Or he might have been another victim,” Ben said.
“The biological samples have been sent for DNA analysis,” Doc continued. “After speaking to Sheriff Roth very early this morning, he called the lab and our samples are now being fast-tracked. Although Mister Isaksson’s murder was different from the two women, it was connected to the murder of Miss Marshall. I also believe, and Sheriff Roth agrees, that all three murders were done by the same man.”
Doc looked slowly from one detective to another. “We’re now dealing with a serial killer, and I believe he will strike again.”
Outside, Ben and Devon watched as the captain’s SUV left. The sheriff had stayed back to talk to Doctor Fredric.
“A serial killer?” Devon said. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“They never do,” Jefferson quipped.
The door opened, and Sheriff Roth came out and walked toward the group of detectives.
“Bring me up to speed, Ben,” the sheriff said, joining the circle of investigators.
Ben glanced at Devon and saw the sparkle she always got in her eye when she’d discovered something in an investigation.
“Yes, sir,” Ben said, waving a hand slightly toward Devon. “Detective Evans spent most of yesterday with a private salvage investigator, trying to locate the original murder scene.”
“There’s more to this than a guy who likes to screw dead girls,” Devon said, bluntly. “Yesterday, we found the place where the first two murders occurred. It’s about four miles north of Sawyer Key, out in the back country.”
“Four miles?” Roth asked. “That’s beyond the limit.”
“The private contractor that Devon was with is a special agent with the federal government.” Ben said. “They offered the resource as a pro bono private contractor, and I accepted.”
The sheriff nodded at Devon, and she continued. “Evidence found at the murder scene included a Colt .38 Cobra that is a ballistic match to the bullet removed from what we believe is the first victim’s head.”
“Jimmy Isaksson,” Roth said. “I went to school with his dad.”
“My condolences, sir,” Devon said. “The weapon is registered to Mister Lawrence Lovett, a cab driver in Key West. The first two victims had been employed by Mister Lovett in a treasure hunt. A cash box containing money and drugs was discovered on Isaksson’s stranded boat, with room enough for the gun. It’s been determined that the cash box belonged to Mister Lovett.”
“I sense a but coming,” Clark said.
“But,” Ben said, “we know the cash box was planted. Everyone I spoke to yesterday described Lovett as not just law-abiding, but willing to go out of his way to help others. Secu
rity videos from half a dozen bars put him in Key West at the time of our double homicide out in the Gulf.”
Roth crossed his arms. “How certain are we on the time of death? Both bodies were in the water.”
“Doc Fredric gave us a possible window from immediate immersion of the body to minutes before they were found, and a witness reports hearing a gunshot in that area at three o’clock that afternoon. Based on that, Lovett couldn’t have been involved.”
“Can’t be in two places at once,” Roth said. “How’d his gun and cash box get on the boat?”
“He says the cash box was stolen,” Ben said. “Didn’t cop to the gun until later.”
“What’s he hiding?” Clark asked.
“We might get a chance to find out this afternoon,” Devon said.
All four men looked at her, waiting for her to continue.
“Captain McDermitt brought me and the evidence back here, yesterday,” Devon said.
“McDermitt?” Roth asked. “Jesse McDermitt?”
“Yes, sir,” Devon said. “He’s the DHS agent that helped find the murder scene and recover the evidence.”
“Good man,” Roth said. “But be careful. He doesn’t play nice with bad people, and the Feds he’s with have been known to take some shortcuts.”
“We will, sir,” Devon said. “Over dinner, McDermitt told me that Mister Lovett has a silent partner in his treasure hunt. He’s arranged for the Lieutenant and I to meet with Lovett and his partner, who will divulge more information. We’re meeting them in two hours.”
“Very good,” Roth said. “Update Captain Simpson with any new developments. I want this psycho in custody as soon as humanly possible, Ben. You’re authorized any overtime you need.”
The sheriff left the group without another word.
“Over dinner?” Ben asked.
“Neither of us had eaten since breakfast,” Devon replied. “Look, I knew Lovett was hiding something and had a hunch that McDermitt might be useful. Turns out, he’s pretty sharp for a PI and apparently has unlimited resources and funding. He found the exact spot the murders took place, recovered all the evidence, and even took a sand sample. Bailey said the sand and the plant-life in it are microscopically consistent with what was found in Marshall’s lungs. DNA results of the plant life, along with the gun, which was found just eight feet away, will put both murders in the same place.”
“Seems you had a very productive day,” Ben said. “Anything else?”
Devon opened her purse, took out an eight-by-ten photo, and handed it to Ben. “Marshall was doing a photographic survey of a possible Spanish treasure site. McDermitt found her camera. This was the last picture on the memory card.”
Ben turned the photo in several directions. “What is it?”
Devon took the photo from him, oriented it correctly, and held it up to the sky. “You’re looking up at the underside of James Isaksson’s boat at the time that Marshall was attacked. Right next to it is the underside of the murderer’s boat.”
My phone woke me not very long after I’d gone to bed. Judging from the shaft of moonlight on the foot of my bunk just below the hatch, I figured it was still several hours before dawn.
The caller ID showed it was Billy calling, and I answered it.
“Someone’s is looking for you,” Billy said.
“Who?”
“A guy that owns a strip club called Rafferty’s, across the bridge from the rock. It’s just off the highway on the Gulf side.”
Rafferty’s, I thought, recalling what Vince had said about the guy who stole the casino plane.
“An old guy?” I asked. “Maybe seventy or older? What’d he want?”
“No, not old,” Billy said. “About our age.”
Not a real common name, I thought. But common enough, and decades separating the guy from Jersey who stole a fortune in mob cash.
“Billy, it’s the middle of the night,” I said. “What? He was looking for a charter?”
There was a moment of silence. “I wouldn’t wake you and the lady cop for that.”
“The lady cop isn’t here,” I said. “We had dinner and then I walked her home.”
“Then you’re a dumbass, Kemosabe,” Billy said, and I could see his grin in my mind. “Anyway, this guy didn’t strike me as the fishing type. More like a middle-aged biker.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“Lawrence told him that he’d never heard of your boat,” Billy replied. “Knowing you’d prefer to meet trouble—and he looked like trouble—on your own turf, I told him I’d seen the boat around Boot Key, and knew you chartered out of there.”
I only knew a handful of people down here at the end of US-1, and none of them owned or even worked at a topless joint. I probably hadn’t been in one since I was a corporal.
“He’ll have to wait in line,” I said, dismissing it as someone just looking for a charter, or at worst, to run pot or something. “While I got you, I need both you and Lawrence at the Anchor tomorrow, er, today at noon.”
I heard him and Lawrence talking, then Billy said, “We’ll be there.”
“And tell Lawrence that he needs to call Vince and have him there, too. Tell him that both he and Vince need to let the cops know what it was they were really looking for out there off Snipe and Sawyer Keys.”
I ended the call and went up to the salon. I poured two fingers of Pusser’s rum and sat down on the settee with my laptop. Sipping from the glass, I looked over at Finn, lying by the hatch. He lifted his head, cocking it sideways.
“It’s not morning yet,” I told him. “I just need to think a bit.”
Finn lay his head on his outstretched paws, as I powered up the laptop. He didn’t go back to sleep, but just watched me, with those intelligent-looking amber eyes, as if saying he was ready for any adventure I could come up with.
Waiting for the computer to boot up, I sipped my rum and thought about the girl. After dinner, we’d wandered around old town, even stopped in a small jazz club I knew for a nightcap. We’d talked about our time in the Corps, but the only people we came up with in common were those the other only knew by name.
When we finally strolled down Carsten Lane, near the old Key West Cemetery, it was after midnight. She stopped at a cracked sidewalk that led to a small covered porch. The little porch and the house beyond were almost hidden by lush tropical vegetation.
“I’m not going to ask you inside,” she said.
Though she’d been flirting throughout the day, that statement had at first made me think that flirty was just the way she was, and she wasn’t really interested. Then she grabbed my short beard in both hands and asked if I was always so shaggy.
“I wore a high-and-tight for a good five years after I retired,” I told her. “Guess I’ve just gotten lazy in my old age.”
Then Devon laughed and told me she liked the scruffy look. She pulled my face to hers and kissed me. I’m not surprised easily. And the only people who seem to be able to make me feel like a blithering idiot are women.
She’d left me standing there in astonishment and had only glanced back just before closing the door. I’d wandered aimlessly back down Southard to Duval Street, taking the long way back to the Bight, and stopped at Sloppy Joe’s for one more beer.
When the screen came up, I clicked on the Google icon and searched for Rafferty’s. That got about a billion results, so I added more keywords to the search, until I found Rafferty’s Pub, over on Stock Island. The top results were links to Google Maps, Yellow Pages, Yelp, and Manta, which I knew meant only one thing. Sure enough, when I scrolled further, I didn’t find a website for the place. All of the first two pages of results were websites that mentioned it.
Clicking on the “News” tab, I wasn’t surprised to find a lot of news stories detailing arrests and disturbances at or involving Rafferty’s, but nothing more recent than a year ago. Glancing at each story’s summary, I quickly noticed a common theme: drugs, drunks, derelicts, and hookers. I click
ed on the most recent news story in the Key West Citizen about a shooting that had occurred there. There was only a picture of the bar, probably from the newspaper’s archives, but no details about the owner, though it did give his name. The shooting had happened in the parking lot, between two drunk bikers. Both were locals, both were shot in the leg, and both had been taken to jail.
“Exciting place,” I said aloud. Finn lifted his head slightly—one side of it, anyway. Sort of a chilled head-tilt. “Not our kind of exciting, boy.”
He put his head back down as I searched through several more news stories. I did find the same archive photo a couple of times. But I didn’t find any picture of the owner, Bill Rafferty. I wrote the name down on a pad and turned off the laptop. I’d been in a lot of places like Rafferty’s Pub. But not in a long time. Some places I’d visited would make this one look like a knitting circle. Even to my untrained eye, I knew there was prostitution and illegal drug activity going on there.
So, what did the owner of a nest of rattlesnakes want with me? Or more accurately, with the Revenge? Sure, she turns heads in any port. But a biker bar? Maybe the guy saw her in the Bight?
Or maybe he saw her out on the Gulf, I thought.
Lifting my glass, I drained the last swallow. It was late, and tomorrow looked to be a busy day. I used the head before going back to bed. Washing my hands and face, I looked in the mirror. The guy looking back was the same guy I’d seen there every day since I graduated boot camp and became a Marine. The kid I’d been before that summer had ceased to exist on that day.
I looked closer at my own face, separating the familiarity in my mind. The lines at the corners of my eyes were white, from a lifetime spent squinting in the bright sun. They hadn’t always been there, nor had they been so deep. I’d first noticed them when I was in my early twenties. Back then, they were tan lines and the creases smoothed out under normal lights.
Damn, I thought. That was almost a quarter of a century ago.
The same green eyes stared back at me, though they now seemed to be a little less vigorous than I remembered. The biggest change was my hair and beard. There were a few grays at my temples now and if I’d had a shirt on, my hair would have been over my collar. There were quite a few more grays sprinkled down my jaw. I ran both hands through my hair, pulling it behind my ears.
Fallen Hero: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 10) Page 20
