Katerina, nonplussed by the man’s demeanor and certainly not interested in being bullied away, plopped down into one of his guest chairs.
“Ximena!” he called past them. “Ximena didn’t you—”
His office door swung open and the receptionist, still blowing on her nails, shuffled in. “I’m so sorry, sir. They rushed right past me, I couldn’t stop them, because my nails were still wet and—”
“Cheezit crackers,” he blurted out, interrupting her. “I don’t pay you to sit out there and do nothing.”
“I am so sorry, Mister Puckett,” she pleaded. “Please don’t fire me. My kids will go hungry if I don’t bring home the raviolis and tapatias.”
Cinnamon almost laughed but thought that this woman probably meant what she said. The sheriff sighed heavily.
“I’m not going to fire you, Ximena,” he said, his tone softening. “But when I’m busy, I really need you to screen the crazies—not the two ladies here, of course—but all the other crazies who come to see me.”
The woman with the outlandish coral nails looked utterly confused, leading Cinnamon to believe that there hadn’t been any crazies visiting him for quite some time. She decided it was time to get down to business.
“Sheriff,” she started, picturing the finger wearing the mafia ring that she had found in Dani’s purse earlier, “I have information on a murderer rampaging his way through Islamorada.”
Paul Puckett bolted upright in his chair faster than she would have imagined he could. “You know about the killer?”
“I do,” Cinnamon said, looking over at Katerina, who nodded in support.
She relayed the story of Matty—her boyfriend or fiancé or whatever they had been—going missing, and then the part about finding his finger in Dani’s purse.
“Okay, wait, I’m lost,” the sheriff said, looking up from his yellow pad and his scrawling notes. “Who’s Dani?”
She explained that Dani was Gary’s boyfriend and that Gary had come to her telling her that Dani had been killed by an alligator. But she had found Matty’s finger in Dani’s purse and connected the dots.
“So,” Paul said, drawing a line between some of his notes, “you think Gary killed this um, Matty, fella, and then killed his boyfriend … um … Dani?”
“Exactly.”
The sheriff leaned back in his chair. “Does this Gary person wear a cowboy hat?”
Cinnamon was confused. “I uh, I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“And how did you know this was your boyfriend’s finger? Does he have a mole or scar or something?”
“No, it wasn’t just the finger,” Cinnamon explained. “I recognized Matty’s ring.”
“There was a ring? On the finger? Lots of people wear rings, you know,” he said, holding up his left hand, displaying his wedding band.
“Yes, but this one is a very particular kind of ring. It’s like a class ring for—” She hesitated to reveal the pedigree of the ring and the family behind the crest engraved into it.
Thankfully, the man wasn’t paying very close attention. He was back to studying the nearly illegible notes on his yellow pad. “Could you describe the ring for me?”
Cinnamon proceeded to describe the ring with its carefully engraved Celtic style vines climbing one side and the Caparelli family symbol on the other. The fine work was so detailed, even the lion’s head representing the family’s ancestors had a twinkle in its eye. The cap was a square with a maze of rose gold dotted with small diamonds at each corner. The center was a large ruby Matty had once told her represented the blood bond of all those who wore the ring. All in all, pretty impressive craftsmanship. She told the sheriff everything except for the fact that it was a mob family ring. She watched as he finished scrawling on his pad. He leaned back, folded his hands behind his head, and chewed an invisible toothpick as he stared at his notes. For a few seconds, she wondered if he had gone to sleep with his eyes open.
Sheriff Paul Puckett tried to keep his face impassive, but he’d never been well known for his poker face. Even the guys down at the lodge could tell when he was bluffing, so he’d stopped playing years ago. As soon as the girl—young, pretty, not green, but not jaded yet—had mentioned the lion with the sparkling eyes, he thought of Veronica Sanches Puckett, the woman he had once called his wife.
Veronica—he called her Vero for short—insisted on opening a handmade jewelry store during their first year of marriage. She poured her life’s savings of nearly four thousand dollars into setting up shop in the Tavernier Towne Center strip mall between Bill’s Liquor and Dillon’s Pub & Grill. She claimed that the heavy tourist traffic would be willing to shell out big bucks for hand-crafted fine jewelry depicting the flora, fauna, and flavor of the Keys. While her four grand had been a nice start, the rest of the fifty needed to get her shop off the ground had come from Paul’s retirement fund.
Not that her work wasn’t good. He slid his desk drawer open slightly and saw his wedding band sitting between the staples and the paperclips. The detailed relief of a great white whale with a mermaid riding atop was the perfect image to capture their union. Pushing the drawer closed around his great white whale of a belly he made a mental note to put going to the gym back on his calendar.
In three months, she had burned through all of his cash and the shop was in danger of closing. He’d skimmed everything he reasonably could from various drug busts and small-town robberies, but it wasn’t enough to pay the bills. That was until Veronica’s aging uncle, Javier Romero Sanchez had come through town caravanning a shipment through to be loaded on a couple of cabin cruisers parked on the lesser-known Missouri Key. Vero had made her famous ghost chili pepper tamales complete with pork, onions, green peppers, ghost peppers, garlic, and the secret ingredient spicy arrabbiata sauce in place of tomato sauce. Javier excused himself to the bathroom, complaining of heartburn and had never come out. His heart couldn’t take the red hot meal and gave up while he sat sweating on the toilet.
Thankfully, Paul had a few friends on the wrong side of the virtual tracks in Marathon that were willing to take care of Uncle Javier’s body in exchange for half of the contents of the trailer he’d been delivering. The two large cases of untraceable cash were enough to float Oceanic Treasures By Vero for another six months. As the unpaid bills began to pile up, so did the tension between him and Veronica. Without another serendipitous haul of drug money, the sea inspired jewelry store would be sunk—along with their marriage.
And that’s when the order for a very special ring dinged into her inbox. At first, Paul had thought it was for a one-of-a-kind graduation ring for one of Miami’s patrician class, but upon closer study of the specs, he recognized it for what it really was—a mafia family ring.
He considered turning the information over to the FDLE, but when he saw the number of zeroes attached to the order, he decided to let it go. That and the fact that Uncle Javier’s trailer was still parked out back with a few assorted items still in the back. He’d have to get rid of that stuff before the next election scrutiny started for sure.
Two weeks later, Vero had delivered the ring—the ring Cinnamon was describing—for a large envelope of cash. She hadn’t taken anything with her when she left. It must have been enough money for a whole new start. He hadn’t heard anything from her until he got the divorce papers. With the whole marriage being an exercise in dirty dealings, he figured it would be best to sign without confrontation.
“Sheriff?” the girl—who admitted she worked as a dancer on Islamorada—said, bringing him back to the present.
“Right. Right,” he said, turning the subject away from the ring. “So, one thing I’m still unsure about … why would Gary want to kill Dani? Or Matty for that matter?”
The girl shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “I have no idea.”
He scratched a meaningless doodle on his pad. “Mmkay. Well, where is Gary now?”
The old woman sitting next to her—who had at some point brought out a
couple of knitting needles and begun work on a multi-colored shawl or scarf or something—looked up and said, “running down the Overseas Highway.”
Later, Paul would find out that she left off the second concluding half of that statement, “after I shot him.”
38
I Shot The Sheriff
Troy’s wrists ached something fierce. They were behind him, but he could feel Ian Bass’s shiny, never-before-used handcuffs biting into the tender skin left by Dante Caparelli’s plastic zip ties. At least these binders had smooth edges and weren’t cutting into his skin. After Troy had decided to make a phone call—a call that ended with his phone being flung out of the Explorer at highway speed—Ian had decided it was in both their best interests if Troy were bound. He wondered how many times he’d been told by a police officer that being handcuffed was for his own good. Too many.
He wasn’t goin’ anywhere and to the best of his knowledge, he wasn’t under arrest, but since they had barreled over the poor gator in the road, Ian Bass hadn’t been himself. The officer was leaned forward, peering over the dash, white knuckles clenching and unclenching on the steering wheel. Occasionally, the man would mumble to himself and Troy thought he heard something about the big one getting away and following in his father’s footsteps, but he couldn’t be sure. When they came up behind a slow tractor trailer, Troy decided to argue his case to be released.
“Officer Bass,” he said, keeping his tone passive and calm, “I know there are certain regulations and such about transporting crimin—er, I mean people in the rear seat of a police vehicle, but—”
Before he could finish his plea, the radio crackled to life. Ian shushed him and turned it up.
“Ian, where are you?” a voice called over the static.
Troy glanced up at Ian Bass, but he didn’t seem to react. “You gonna answer that?” Troy asked.
“Not until he uses proper protocol.”
As if the voice on the radio heard him, it sighed heavily and said, “Officer Bass, what is your 10-20?”
And after a few seconds, the man on the line added, “Over.”
Ian picked up the receiver, “This is Officer Bass, I am headed north on US1 just past eighty-one.”
“Whip it around would you? I’ve got information about a man who may be connected to two homicides. Latest has him hoofing it south.”
Ian twisted the wheel without any apparent release of the accelerator. With his hands cuffed behind him, Troy was thrown across the SUV so hard, he slammed into the door behind Ian, his hat tumbling to the floor. (Neither of them realized that the door had been damaged and was now unlocked.)
He managed to right himself as the siren and lights blared into the night over his head. As they flew into the night, headed back the direction they came, Troy listened as the man on the radio continued with a detailed description of the murderer, his clothes, and warning to be careful, he is armed.
“Did he have on a hat?” Ian blurted out.
“Huh? What’s that?”
“Was he wearing a hat?” Ian demanded.
Troy could hear the man on the radio asking someone else the same question. “Nope. No hat that we know of. Why do you ask?”
Ian reached down and turned the volume dial on his CB radio until it clicked off. Troy expected the man to explain what was happening to him, but he didn’t. Instead he just mumbled to himself more.
“Must have ditched the hat,” Ian said, speaking to his hands on the wheel. “S’gotta be him though. I’ve got him now.”
Troy wasn’t sure who the officer was talking about, but a tingling in his spine told him this wasn’t going to end well.
“Marty,” Frankie said with a huff, “leave the poor boy alone. He doesn’t want to hear about your exploits at Woodstock. Hell, nobody his age even knows what Woodstock is for crying out loud.”
“I’ll bet you a lap dance he does know,” Martin Russo called over his shoulder.
He and Frankie had switched driving duties a mile or so back and now Martin was trying desperately to engage Gary in conversation. Gary tried his best to look nonchalant as he peered through all the massive, rectangular windows watching for the cops. He figured he was about as safe as he could be with these two birds. No one would ever suspect him to be cruising south toward Key West in a couple of gay tourists’ Winnebago. He glanced past Martin and saw that the gas gauge was creeping ever lower and guessed they’d have to stop for gas soon. He’d say he had to pee and disappear.
Just as he had the thought, the RV—which was large enough to sleep seven—screeched to a halt. Martin, who had not fastened his seat belt, was thrown out of his captain’s chair into the floor. Gary, who had buckled up, was thrown against his belt so hard, it dug into his collarbone and chest. He felt the wound on his side tear open and begin to ooze with warmth. He was bleeding again and wondered if he’d torn the gash and made it bigger. He idly stroked the pocket hiding the finger and the ring—his ticket to some nice plastic surgeon’s office in Miami.
“Jesus Christ, Frankie,” Martin said, pulling himself up from the floor. “What the hell was that all about?”
“First, you don’t believe in Jesus, so please refrain from using his name in vain, it is offensive to me.”
“Yes, dear,” Martin said, sulkily.
“Second, would you look at that?”
“What am I looking at?” Martin said peering out through the windshield, his hand at attention over his eyebrows.
“Do you ever wear your glasses?” Frankie huffed. “It’s an alligator. Across the road. Biggest one I’ve ever seen.”
“Jesu—I mean, Jiminy Cricket,” Martin said, his eyes widening. “Is it … ?”
“Dead? I don’t think so. It hasn’t moved since we stopped and it looks like it’s laying upside down.”
“Can you go around?”
“I could go on the shoulder over there, but it looks pretty soft. I’m afraid we might get stuck or take a tumble into the mangroves.”
“Gary.” Martin looked over his shoulder as he spoke. “How’s about you and me check this thing out. I bet we can slide it over enough to get around.”
“Oh, I uh, I’d rather not.”
Gary’s mind was filled with visions of the gator that had taken Matty and then Dani. He was definitely not interested in getting close to another one, even if it was dead. He felt tears welling in his eyes and couldn’t be sure if they were tears for the loss of his two friends, or tears of fear at the beast who had taken them.
“I … I … I can’t,” he stuttered. The terror must’ve been obvious on his face.
“I gotcha, son. It’s okay to be scared. Let me and Uncle Frankie take care of this.” Martin said, patting Gary’s shoulder.
“Oh, so now I’m the gay uncle in the relationship?” Frankie said with a smirk.
“Frankie, come on. Let’s see if we can roll it off the road.”
Gary watched as the two old men took the metal steps slowly down from the RV. He wondered if this was his moment. He could just start running and get away from them. But there was something new in his mind, curiosity. He was glued to the windshield watching Martin and Frankie approach the alligator like Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter. He could almost hear the dead adventurer’s voice saying, “Aww, ain’t she a beauty. Look at the size o’ those teeth.”
When they finally reached the massive roadkill, Martin reached out and tapped it with a sandaled foot and skipped backward away from the animal. Gary held his breath and waited. Nothing happened. Frankie moved closer to the gator’s head and bent down, hands on his hips. He cocked his head back and forth in an odd movement and then reached down to pull something out of the alligator’s mouth. In the amber glow of the street lights, Gary saw him hold up a jagged triangle of orange plastic. He leaned forward, his forehead pressing against the back window. His breath fogged the glass and he rubbed his forearm against it to clear a round spot he could see through.
Martin—apparently emboldened
by Frankie’s find—reached down between the jagged teeth silhouetted in the night and jerked on another piece of something wedged in between the daggers of death. He held it up and Gary’s blood went ice cold. It was a shred of cloth—pink camouflage cloth. Everything clicked into place.
Gary jumped backward off the bench seat in the rear of the RV. It was the same gator that killed Matty and Dani. He could still see the two men creeping around the beast's girth and decided that it was definitely time to make his exit. He was certain that the evidence they were holding would connect him somehow to the deaths of his friends. The Islamorada police would bungle the job, but they would send it on up to Miami and the Feds would get involved. They would most likely find a microbe or fiber or speck of DNA linking him to the crime and he would go to jail forever. And being the attractive man that he was, Gary knew exactly what would happen to him if they put him in an orange jumpsuit. For a split second, he pictured himself in prison regalia and thought he would look mischievously sexy—orange had always been a good color for him.
He was deep in his penitentiary dream when he heard the high-pitched scream. He leapt back to the window and the veins he thought had gone cold went colder still. He felt as if someone had injected him with ice water and froze as it raced through every capillary and artery in his body. Frankie and Martin were standing on opposite sides of the alligator and between them, the thing was snapping insanely large jaws, turning its head back and forth, deciding which target was the tastiest.
In a move so fast, Gary could barely see, the gnarly creature flipped itself over and began to lunge in circles at the two men like a puppy chasing its tail—only this puppy was armed with a jagged set of razor sharp teeth. Frankie was running just in front of the alligator’s tail, his arms flailing like a used car lot’s inflatable waving guy. Martin was stumbling backward, precariously close to the gator’s mouth. He had one hand out, Heisman trophy style, attempting to hold off the maw that was closing in on him at blinding speed.
Gator Wave Page 19
