“Okay.”
She continued, “The two identical names, Richard Engram, without inside access, there’s almost no way anyone could’ve rigged the FCIC database with false identification. By inside access, they mean someone who works with the FDLE’s computers in Tallahassee. Anyway, four different agencies are looking into it”
“I hope Liska doesn’t believe that shit’s true. It could’ve been one of those agencies, trying to fight crime their own special way. The FDLE has tricks up its sleeve, giving fake names to informants. They lie to serve justice. Some prosecutor caught the FBI and the Highway Patrol in Tampa a couple years back, not telling die whole truth. To protect undercover cops, they set up drug runners for probable cause. They’d install a kill switch in some bastard’s ignition, shut him down on the Interstate. A trooper would stop, supposedly to help. He’d decide that the vehicle driver was being ‘evasive,’ or ‘furtive,’ or some other specious trait that’d prompt him to call for ‘assistance.’ They’d bring in drug-sniffing dogs, the bust would go down. Those guys
didn’t care how they did it. I’m all for busting drug traffickers. But I’m a great fan of the Constitution, too. Cops like that are just like criminals. They’ve probably been pushing the truth for years. Or holding it back and not calling it lying. Seeing things that haven’t happened, putting words in people’s mouths, forgetting details that might save a guy’s butt. The main reason they’re like the bad guys is they never think they’ll get caught.”
Teresa said, “A little blabber energy from that beer?”
“I tend to ramble. Only when I’m tired.”
She backed off. “No, you’re right. A couple of college courses, they drilled it into us: Play it straight, because sooner or later . . . So, the state’s forensic people used a portable argon laser, a light that exposes hairs and fibers in fabrics. The duct tape, the panty liner, and the fancy nightie Engram wore all held industrial fibers. They’re trying to find a match in their library of samples. It could be the man was killed on a unique carpet. Or on foot-cushioning floor mats, in a shop where a concrete floor is padded to conform to OSHA standards.”
“I’m impressed,” I said. “Sure didn’t seem like Hayes was headed toward a real investigation.”
“Surprised some people at the station, too.”
I said, “Do his colleagues see him as a flake?”
“Not that bad. I get the feeling he hasn’t proved himself. He hasn’t solved a big one or been involved in a tense situation, to show his courage.”
“Which means he better watch his back.”
“Finally, the Nissan Maxima that chased us? Did you get your messages? Marnie said she told your machine it was stolen from Dexter’s ex-partner in Boynton Beach. Dexter got the county to release it to him. He was trying to get it transported to Key West this afternoon or in the morning.”
“Is that all?”
“I saved this for last. You just missed our former sheriff, Tommy Tucker. He came here looking for you.”
“I don’t like that he came here.”
“Me too. He came to ask you to accept Butler Dunwoody’s offer of work. Claims Mercer Holloway’s willing to share your services.”
“Was that all?” I said.
“That was it. He left right away.”
“Two things you should know, to put that in perspective. Heidi showed up at my house yesterday, to proclaim her innocence in the real Engram’s death. Don’t ask me why. I told her, ‘Sure, whatever,’ and sent her on her way. This morning, I went into the Pier House to buy a paper. I ran into Dunwoody. He asked me to shoot construction-progress pictures. I told him I was booked. His phone rang, and he listened while somebody talked. Then he asked me if Heidi had visited me. I said yes. He got pissed. Now, suddenly, I’m forgiven?”
She lowered her voice. “Is that all Heidi wanted?”
“Yep.”
Relief in her eyes. “Next time we should live in a small town.”
I said, “Next time they should go to a bigger one.”
“So, where are we now?”
“In a vicious circle. Logic says that someone’s trying to screw with Butler, to drive away his project. But he and Holloway are hand-in-hand. Maybe the crap’s aimed at Holloway, too. Maybe I should just sell the cameras and take up carpentry.”
Teresa’s phone rang, postponed her response. She picked up, said “Okay” five or six times, then put it down. She was pissed. “I’ve got to go.”
“Who was that?”
“Dexter. They need me at the station. Something’s going down. The news people are already there.”
“What is it?”
“He was too hurried to say. He’s so weird.”
“If Liska called off his dogs, why did a cabbie tell me the city was looking for me?”
“I suppose Hayes agreed to help the county find you.
Before Liska called it off. It’s easier to put out the word than it is to retract it.”
“Why do cabbies know about BOLOs?”
“Favors for favors. The old Key West tradition. Cabs are all over town. The cops need extra eyes, the taxis need fewer tickets. The police help with drunk passengers, people who bolt their fares, all that.”
Our conversation ended. She was gone in two minutes.
I found the keys to Teresa’s motor scooter, considered another beer, and chose the beer. There was the problem of returning the scooter. Sooner or later I would have to walk eight blocks between her place and Dredgers Lane. I could enjoy my new freedom right away. I called Sam and Mamie’s house. No answer. I finished the beer, thought for a minute about how I could collect an insurance settlement for my crispy cycle. I found a large plastic cup, poured in another beer, grabbed my dirty laundry, began the hike home. I blanked all dilemmas from my mind. I hoped that some wondrous revelation would fight its way to freedom. Some tidbit would pop into my brain, give me the insight, the connections to make sense of two murders, three attacks, and Key West politics.
Then I thought, Screw politics. I’d never make sense of that.
I came up with zip. Twelve minutes of blank.
Julie Kaiser exited the library on Fleming, walked under a streetlight. She wore Levi’s and a rare sight in Key West a plain white T-shirt No slogan, no advertising. Class act.
“You’re seeing me at my worst” she said. “The part of my job I least like.”
She held three books. The top one bore the title
How Things Work in Your Home.
She set them on the rear fender of her white Honda Accord.
“I thought you only did sales,” I said.
She shook her head but smiled. “Property-management fees are like free money. Going into the weekend with broken water heaters and appliances is the bitch.”
“You’re a do-it-yourselfer?”
“The prima-donna repair people on this island, you need reservations. It’s worse than getting a table at Antonia’s. My father always told me, ‘Study hard, get perfect grades, or you’ll wind up a plumber.’ I’ve got two postgraduate degrees. I have to pay plumbers seventy-five bucks an hour. I get attitudes about it.”
“Philip doesn’t do dishwashers?”
“Not so much in the past few weeks. When Philip got into real estate, he liked the one-on-one with people. I know I said he was a good partner. But lately he’s into building PowerPoint presentations. And traveling around the state to promote our business. He’s not so much hands-on as he once was. Anyway, I got a stove with two burners whatever . . . burned out. I can handle it. I hear you’re dodging my father’s phone calls.”
“Thanks for recommending me.”
“Thanks for considering. I don’t know how my sister stands to be around him all day. I love him dearly, but he thinks being a bad-ass is the way to do things.”
“I figured Donovan was around all day.”
“Well, Donovan. He talked his way into working for my father about four years ago. He’s done a great job. Sometimes, though, I think Suzanne sticks around to keep an eye on him.”
“Your father’s been pleasant to me, and I still haven’t said no. He claims his property plans will be good for Key West.”
Julie inhaled deeply, got a distant look in her eye. She looked up Fleming at a bicyclist riding against traffic. “What I know of it, it’ll be positive. At least for Key West.” She gathered up the books, walked to the driver’s side of the Honda. “Gotta go.”
An hour and a half after sundown, and Cecilia Ayusa was in the lane with a broom and a dustpan. Carmen arguing with her, pointing out the futility of perfection when every tree on the island sheds blooms, branches, fronds, buds,
leaves, or pods. Reason meant little to Cecilia. Carmen’s father, Hector, had long ago given up. In every other aspect of her life, Cecilia was normal. She had a thing about litter in the lane.
Carmen walked me to the porch, then came inside. “I’ve got new excitement in my life,” she said. “But nothing like yours.”
“Did those deputies hang in the lane?”
“The city cars came and went, too. Until about one-thirty.”
“Why weren’t you at work? Did you already tell me that?”
“Yes,” said Carmen. “I called in sick.”
“Lovesick, right?”
Carmen grinned like the Cheshire cat in
Alice in Wonderland.
“And your mother, with her project?”
“She keeps talking about church. It’s the old Catholic guilt. I’m starting to believe her biggest problem is worrying about my love life.”
“The frequency, the timing, or the participant count?”
“Up yours, my sweetness.”
A knock at the door. The phone rang. I didn’t want to deal with either one. I peered around the corner. Detective Dexter Hayes, Jr., a wary look on his face. The streetlight illuminated two stern-looking KWPD uniformed cops. They stood back, between the porch door and a blue-and-white squad car.
I let the phone ring. The machine would get it. Probably Teresa on the phone, calling to warn me.
“Rutledge, you look surprised to see me.” Hayes turned to the other men. “Rutledge looks surprised to see us.”
“I see you at my door, Dexter, it’s a phone call at three
A.M.
Can’t be anything good.”
“We’d like you to come down to the station. Shoot the breeze about what you might have seen on Caroline Street—”
“When you were scuttling the crime scene?”
“—and the car chase up the Keys.”
“We can sit here on the step and talk, if you want.”
“I’d like to include some other people,” he said, “so they can get up to speed on your take.”
“I’ll tell you right now, it won’t be hard to translate. Sunday morning, I was taking pictures along Caroline Street. You saw the pictures. I didn’t see anything strange or out of place. The car chase, if you talked to Sheriff Liska, you know as much as I do. I got chased, there were two men in the other car, a Maxima. One of them shot at me. I more or less outran ’em.”
Hayes stared at me. He was onstage, performing for the men in uniform.
I tried again to shift the subject: “Okay, I’ll give you that point, Dexter. In Key West nothing’s strange or out of place . . .”
He said, “You want to quit the horse crap?”
“You got a specific question?”
He smirked. “Exact wrong thing to say, Rutledge. Specific questions get only part of the truth. You sound like a lawyer defending a guilty client.”
How many minutes ago had I expounded on cops and lies of omission? The detective was right. I was guilty of horse crap.
Hayes jacked his thumb at the squad car, the motion no casual gesture, but a concise statement “We’d like you to come down to the city.”
The last thing I wanted to do was ride six blocks in a locked-cage backseat. “Meet you there in fifteen.”
He half-turned toward the uniforms. They shifted to full-huff, ready-for-action stances. Primed for action. Fullbacks made larger by Kevlar undershirts, waiting for the snap. Hayes looked me cold in the eyes. “We’d like it now.”
“I’ll ride my bicycle. You won’t have to bring me home.”
“Walk to the car, Rutledge.”
I glanced at Carmen, then peered over Hayes’s shoulder.
He said, “You lose something?”
“I’m looking for the film crew, Dexter. The lights and sound and honey wagons. I’m waiting for the ‘Bad Boys’ theme song, in full stereo.”
“Mr. Rutledge, you have the right to remain silent . . .”
They’re pissed because I haven’t told them anything. Now I have the right to shut my mouth?
The uniforms came in a hurry. Placating hand language at first, until one yanked cuffs from behind his back. The bastards spread me against the outside wall of my house, patted me down as Hayes read aloud his three-by-five Miranda card. I checked over my shoulder. Carmen Sosa stood in the porch shadows, tears in her eyes, hands to her face in silent disbelief. I asked her to lock the house and call Sam. Water the plants if I wasn’t back in a week. The suggestive power of words: I suddenly needed to urinate.
One officer—
C. TISDELL
on his name tag—claw-pinched my upper arm, quick-walked me to the squad car. He pushed the top of my head downward so I wouldn’t bump my skull, the move learned from a thousand newscasts and crime “reenactments.” Its best use was not in protecting a suspect from harm but in marking superiority. The molded-plastic enclosure they called a backseat stank of puke and dried shit. Urine was champ. Lysol was out of the running. In the street-lamp glow I viewed a mural of blood smears and tooth marks and stains. Cops build routine to counter intended suicide by door-edge head-banging. They never consider suffocation.
Tisdell powered a right onto Francis to make my slick-seat ride more comfortable. I skidded sideways, banged against the left-side door. They got a chuckle, I got a panic stop at Southard. I caromed forward.
He went right. I was going to Angela Street, the station locals called “the city,” instead of the Stock Island county-managed lockup. If a bad situation can show a good sign, that was it.
The cop in front of me: “Damn quiet back there.”
I said, “I’m memorizing.”
“Memorize this,” said Tisdell.
He clipped an elevated sewer-hole cover, bounced us all. I descended, ass bone to a hard seat. I wondered how many police officers, in this era of allegations and litigation, had redirected their pent-up angers to abusing equipment.