“He stepped in dog shit on the sidewalk and tracked it down Holloway’s hallway. He took a few pictures. Cootie has left the building.”
“How about Suzanne Oil and Julie Water?”
“Separated by distance and their husbands.”
“What do I do, photograph the trajectory?”
“I don’t know. The wounded man’s already gone to the hospital. Mercer’s off the deep end. Dexter’s got nothing nice to say to anyone. Mamie’s pissed because Holloway wants no mention in the paper. Told her she’d lose the advertising of anyone who rents store space from his company.”
“And I should walk into this circus?”
“It’s income,” she said. “And you’re tough. Gotta go.”
I’d left the Infiniti on Margaret between Fleming and Eaton, in a “residential permit” space. I wanted to show Dexter the feather before I returned the car to Holloway. I extracted my photo satchel from its stash, relocked the house. I had no bicycle, no motorcycle. I began the four-block hike. Cracked sidewalks, a decent breeze. Birds lively in song—doves and parrots loudest—swooping about. Civil war among the jays. None of the morning rain clouds.
I made a detour. I wanted one more look at Holloway’s Infiniti.
I played with the chance that Mercer was behind the murders. With three copies of previous murders, someone involved in one slaying was linked to all three. Holloway was supposed to be guiding Butler Dunwoody, to ensure the Caroline Street project’s success. But Richard Engram’s demise guaranteed bad publicity and the loss of a key employee.
Five questions: Had Julie Kaiser known who was driving the Infiniti down Caroline on Sunday? Had Engram’s corpse been in the trunk, dressed and ready for delivery? Had Holloway—or the driver, if it wasn’t Holloway—sent Bug Thorsby to scare me away, so a body placement could be done without a witness, or without the Infiniti’s inclusion in a random photo? Had Julie known about the body—in the trunk or already inside the construction site? Had Heidi Norquist known that a body was en route when she rudely invited me to hit the trail?
If Holloway was involved, he’d had at least one helper. Someone who’d fired a shot at his empty house.
Had Dexter located Robbie Carpona?
Poor Heidi would be distressed to learn that I’d reconsidered her role.
I opened the Infiniti’s trunk lid. I could learn nothing from the feather. I pulled out a camera, spooled a twenty-four-exposure roll, attached the mini-flash, snapped a dozen with three different lenses. I slammed the trunk, opened the front passenger door, then the glove box. The registration and insurance card were in a white envelope. The car belonged to Donovan Cosgrove, 1800 Atlantic Boulevard.
Donovan’s ocean view could cloud up soon.
This time I remembered to remove the film from my camera.
A police roadblock diverted Southard’s traffic but allowed pedestrians to pass. They’d also wrapped Holloway’s yard with
CRIME SCENE—DO NOT CROSS
yellow tape, shuffled a crowd of onlookers to the north sidewalk. The first officer I met was Tisdell, the co-arresting squad car driver who’d taught me negative lessons about road hazard avoidance and the virtues of seat-belt use. Tisdell waved me off like batting a moth. I stood my ground, waited for someone to appear with the power to overrule.
I didn’t have to wait long. Dexter Hayes stepped to Holloway’s broad front porch. He bellowed, “Your sergeant was ordered to let that man pass, Officer.”
Tisdell stood aside, lifted the yellow tape for me. “Como mierda,” he said softly. I wasn’t expert at Spanish. I thought he’d said, “I eat shit.” He’d meant it the other way around. He wasn’t Cuban. He wasn’t a Conch. He’d learned the phrase from a local for just this occasion. A local with a sense of humor.
“Sounds like a nutrition issue,” I said.
“Your mother.”
I let it slide. The wheel goes around.
Hayes descended the steps as I approached. “You owe me this one.”
“You want a picture of broken glass?”
“You’re the expert. You always act like a miracle
worker. So perform a miracle. Help me solve this crime.”
I said, “It’s a bullet through a door. It’s not somebody’s head.”
“It’s firing into a residence, shitbird. The shooter couldn’t know if anyone was home or not. It’s attempted murder.”
Point won, though his sudden dedication baffled me. I had no choice but to walk the trajectory, attempt to determine the shooter’s location. A passing vehicle. I knew that much. No one’s stupid enough to commit a walk-by.
I said, “I think I found some evidence, the Caroline Street thing.”
Hayes clenched his teeth. I thought his eyes might burst into flames. “Do me one favor,” he hissed. “Do this first. Think of nothing but this problem. Anything you’ve got, we’ll discuss the minute we’re done.”
“This might not wait.”
“Wanna bet?”
I stared at him. Stubborn shit. He stared back.
“Want to walk me through,” I said, “so they know I belong in there?”
We passed through the foyer. I looked through Holloway’s open office door. Mercer peered out a front window. Philip Kaiser and Suzanne Cosgrove sat in the twin chairs that faced Mercer’s broad desk. Tommy Tucker sat in the chair behind Holloway’s desk, praying to a can of Diet Pepsi. Glum faces. No life in the party. No one said hello.
Hayes led me to the open patio. Donovan Cosgrove and Julie Kaiser sat on cushioned teak slat chairs, sipping tall drinks. Making up for lost alcohol at Blue Heaven. Julie offered a grim, ironic smile, like folks affect at funerals. Donovan looked distraught, rubbed his face with an open hand. Distraught, I thought. Too distraught. Was Mercer’s emissary to Dunwoody’s project propping up the job with one hand and squashing it with the other? Then whacking his hired thugs to eliminate witnesses?
I turned to look out the front door. A clear view of the front walkway. A half dozen people on the north sidewalk.
I recognized one fellow. The
Citizen
photographer had been banished from the premises.
“You want to hurry, every little chance you get?” said Hayes.
The city investigative team had placed a ten-foot double stepladder over the rear lattice fence and croton hedge. After Hayes steadied his feet on the far side, I handed him the camera bag and followed. The police had blown the yellow-tape budget in the neighbor’s yard. The landscaped yard and rear of the home-in-renovation were great examples of hidden Key West luxury. I heard children playing, a Dan Fogelberg song in the house next door.
“He was in there.” Dexter pointed to a glass-enclosed sunroom that overlooked a small ice-blue pool. Two sets of French doors had been swung open. A working platform lay on two substantial sawhorses. Off to the side, a large table saw, an industrial band saw, and an upright belt sander. I walked inside, immediately noticed a stain on the fresh parquet floor.
I said, “The poor guy bled on his own work.”
The instant I spoke, I knew Hayes would zap me with a wise retort.
No answer. I looked. Hayes had gone back over the ladder.
A dark red oval, a foot-long blood smear. What did I know about bullet velocities, the effects of wind and weight on trajectories? If I stood behind the bloodstain, looked at Holloway’s house, the croton hedge blocked direct sight down the central hallway. I positioned the wounded carpenter’s three-rung aluminum stepladder. I saw over the hedge, across the patio, down the hall. I barely made out light coming from the busted-out front door. I pushed the stepladder about eight inches to the left. This time perfect line of sight. The view no different from what I’d seen from the patio end of the hallway.
I was pissed. I couldn’t think of a reason for Hayes to want me there. My presence, my photos were unnecessary. Dexter Hayes was scamming me. I’d arrived with a Big
Clue. He’d blown me off, sent me to the neighbor’s house.
Play it out his way. For now.
I shot a sequence of photos with a 28mm wide lens, a standard 50mm, a “mild” 100mm telephoto, and a 300mm long lens. It occurred to me that the shooter might not have had a clean shot directly down the hall. I shifted the step-ladder as far to the right as I could and still see daylight through the front door. I took that angle with the two longer lenses, then repeated it with the ladder pushed to the left extreme. The limiting factor was not the front door. It was the opening at the rear of the hall, at the patio.
I hadn’t even shot a whole roll of color print film. I played the game, took out my tape recorder, verbally documented time of day, camera, and lenses.
I hung my camera bag over my shoulder, climbed the double ladder. No sign of Donovan on Mercer’s patio. But off to the yard’s east side, next to a sputtering circular fountain, Dexter Hayes and Julie Kaiser had their heads together. She looked down, was shaking her head; Hayes wrote in a small notepad. He heard me descend the ladder, quickly ended their chat. Julie added the traditional Conch code words, “How’s your mother, Dexter?”
“My mother is . . .” He looked at me. “She’s doing okay.”
I said, “Talk to you out front, Detective?”
We walked the hallway. Mercer Holloway stood in the foyer, expounding to officials and family members. Teresa and Marnie stood in the front row. “The town’s downhill,” he said. ‘It’s become an open-air asylum for alcoholics and weirdos who failed at being less weird up north. Let the weekly papers explain this crap. They spend so damn much ink trying to replace political professionals with amateurs. They should start ignoring old-fashioned graft and lambaste violence.”
No one said a word. Mercer was coming off weirdly. But I suspected that many of those assembled agreed with him.
“You don’t know where to look for these types?” he
bellowed. ‘Try all the basic colors. The Red Doors, the Green Parrot, the Blue Heaven. For all I know there’s an Orange Peekhole! A Yellow Submarine! They’re porking each other in the torpedo tubes! Go ask ’em why I got artillery flying through my home.”
Philip Kaiser took control, began to usher Mercer back into his office. Kaiser turned to Marnie. “That remark about the papers doesn’t mean he’s changed his mind about having his name bandied about.”
“The
Citizen
doesn’t bandy, Mr. Kaiser. We’re a
daily.
We report. Look at the crowd out there. There’s going to be talk.”
“There’s always talk on this island. There’s always talk to take the place of yesterday’s news. But talk isn’t the public record, or the archives, or whatever they do these days on the Internet.”
She said, “You’re fooling yourself if you think talk won’t come get you.”
In the confusion, I finally regained Hayes’s attention. He pointed to the driveway, began to slide in that direction. We wound up closer to the street than the house. I gave him a plastic canister, the film I’d just removed from my camera.
Dexter started it: “Do you sometimes wish you could be Bob?”
“I don’t recall that wish. Any particular Bob?”
Dexter pointed at a street barricade next to a sewer excavation. A faded stencil on the crossbar read:
BOB’S BARRICADES
. “Bob shows up on time one day, then goes home. He gets paid fees every day of the project. He doesn’t take daily crap, he doesn’t have to write bullshit reports, risk his life, work shitty hours. Old Bob’s got the deal. Who’s that other guy? Paul’s Portable Potties? He delivers temporary bathrooms. He sends his minimum-wage flunkies out to retrieve and empty them once a week, collects his money at the mailbox. It’s your hidden economy. It’s a simple life. Don’t you wish for it?”
“That’s what you want?” I said. “Maybe Bob and Paul
spend years eating potato chips, sitting in front of the television. Porking themselves up to high blood pressure and oversized hearts. Kings of the couchies. Or maybe one of them’s in a wheelchair, invented this leasing businesses because he can’t be out and about. In that case this enterprise is a triumph. Maybe it’s not such a cushy gig. Somebody’s got to keep track of all those barricades, all those expensive shitters. Did you ever find Robbie Carpona?”
“Not answering his phone. Tell me about your world-class clue.”
Dexter’s face was wet with perspiration. I realized mine was, too. Just then a cloud blocked the sun, gave us a moment’s respite. I explained the Blue Heaven luncheon. I listed those present. I shortened the food fight, and mentioned the cell call to Suzanne. I finished with driving Flo Franklin home in the Infiniti. I described the spilled purse. I told him that the feather in the trunk matched the one stuck in Richard Engram’s asshole.
Dexter nodded. He stared at the roadwork.
I’d expected more excitement. A loud hoot, or jumping jacks.
I was pissed. “You know your job,” I said. “You know what’s important and what’s not. I’ve got this image of you sifting every murder scene for the last possible clue. I’ve got this mental picture of you checking every one of Paul’s Portable Potties at Dunwoody’s site, picking through the piss and shit to see if a murderer dropped evidence down the bucket. I’m going to store that image of you in my memory. I’ll call it up, every time I hear your name.”
Hayes’s jaw tightened. He said nothing. He walked to a decrepit moped, pedaled it ten feet to jump-start the motor, and rode away.
Teresa and Marnie walked up to me. They’d been hanging back, not wanting to interrupt. Mamie handed me a file pocket. The photocopies of news files on the unsolved murders.
Teresa said, “Dexter acted today like he should’ve acted Sunday. He got his deal backward.”.
Donovan Cosgrove approached. “Helluva deal,” he said. I said, “One way to put it.”
“Where’d you leave the car, Alex?” he said.
“It’s over in the city garage.”
“How did it get there?”
“I stopped to see if the city needed my services. A cop drove me home for my camera.”
“Okay,” said Cosgrove.
“But I left the keys at the house.”
He pulled a key ring from his pocket. “No problem, Alex. I’ll get it in a few minutes. Drop the keys off anytime.”
I stared at Holloway’s north-facing house, tried to collect my thoughts. Classic island architecture, symbol of the revered past, a manicured prize of today’s opulence. The sun never had shone directly on its front porch.