Choke (20 page)

Chuck was on his second beer when Victor appeared at the gangplank.

“Yo, pro!” Victor called. “Permission to come aboard?”

“Permission granted,” Chuck replied. “I’ll get you a cold one.”

Victor settled in a deck chair and accepted a beer.

“Looked like you were doing pretty well at the Raw Bar,” Chuck said. “What brings you down here?”

“You know,” Victor replied,
“I
thought I was doing pretty well, too, but I guess she didn’t share my view of our relationship. Gave me some excuse about having to rejoin her tour party. No luck tonight.”

“Let’s have a few, then,” Chuck said.

Victor looked at him pityingly. “No luck for you, either, huh? Is Clare Carras playing the widow?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m well out of that.”

“Listen, Chuck,” Victor said, “there’s something I want to ask you straight out, and I’ll be as subtle as I can about this. Did you knock off Harry?”

“No, sir,” Chuck replied. “I did not. I most definitely had not the slightest fucking thing to do with knocking him off. Not that the police, in the person of Tommy Sculley, seem to believe that.”

“They giving you a hard time?”

“I think Tommy’s cutting me all the slack he can, but he told me I’d better see a lawyer.”

“Have you?”

“Half an hour ago.”

“Was he encouraging?”

“He encouraged me to take steps to raise bail, just in case.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“You look depressed, kid.”

“Me? Depressed? Nah, I’m just your happy-go-lucky tennis pro, waltzing through life with a wink and a chuckle.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Yes, weirdly enough.”

“Shoot.”

“How the hell did I get into this, Victor?”

Victor shrugged. “You got into Clare Carras.”

“Yeah, but getting laid isn’t supposed to get you in trouble, is it?”

“Is this the father in the hysterical pregnancy case that I hear talking?” Victor asked.

“Okay, okay, maybe it gets you in trouble with the odd husband, but it isn’t supposed to get you a shot at the death penalty, is it?”

Victor held up a hand. “Hang on, let’s analyze:
Why
do the cops even
dream
you might have done it?”

“I think their reasoning goes like this: I was screwing Harry’s wife, so maybe I wanted Harry out of the way so I could cash in his chips for him.”

“Sounds good to me,” Victor said cheerfully. “What else?”

“Somebody put carbon monoxide into the diving tanks; I’m a diver, and I have some mechanical ability, so they reason that while I was down below fiddling with the exhaust, I pumped some of it into the tanks. Either that, or I swam over to the marina in the dark of night and screwed with the tanks.”

“Impeccable logic,” Victor said, beaming. “Anything else?”

“Not that I know of, and I wish you’d stop looking at this
their
way.”

“Anybody see you put exhaust fumes in the tanks?”

“No. I mean, I didn’t do it, so nobody could have seen me do it, right?”

“Right. Sounds to me like the cops are coming up short in the evidence department. If I’ve seen enough cop shows in my time—and I most certainly have—to know anything about criminal law, they ain’t got enough to nail you.”

“That’s what the lawyer said, although he made the point that they would be doing their dead-level best to get more.”

“I suppose. Still, if you’re innocent, what can they get?”

Chuck brightened a little. “Now you’re talking,” he said. “And you’re right. How could they possibly get more?”

“Well, they could invent it, I suppose.”

“Victor, don’t say things like that.”

“Let’s look at this as simply as we can,” Victor said. “You didn’t do it; that’s a given, as my math teacher used to say.”

“Right.”

“So, if you didn’t do it—ergo, somebody else must have.”

“Right again.”

“Got any ideas?”

“Not a one. Well, Clare, of course. She gave them some answers that didn’t jibe with mine, and that’s what got them on my back, I think.”

“Aha, the lovely Clare!” Victor crowed. “A veritable black widow! We have another suspect!”

“She’s my favorite, actually.”

“Do you think the possibility might have crossed the minds of the cops?”

“I suppose. They seem to be buying her version of events, though.”

“Tell me, Chuck,” Victor said, suddenly serious. “During your little rolls in the hay with Clare, did she, I wonder, ever propose that perhaps the two of you might do Harry in?”

Chuck shook his head. “No. Wait a minute, she did say something about how at my age I should be looking to the future.”

“That seems to be a leading question, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, but it didn’t lead any further. I mean, she never got around to saying that I should doctor Harry’s tank.”

“Pity,” Victor said.

“Why?”

“Well, if she had, then you could mention that to Tommy Sculley and see if that causes him to tack for the other side of the bay.”

“Victor, are you suggesting that I should make up something like that to divert Tommy’s interest toward Clare?”

Victor shrugged. “Never, old sport; I’d never suggest that you lie to the cops. On the other hand, in your place, I’d lie like a bandit if it would get me out from under.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Chuck said.

“Probably not,” Victor replied. “I rarely am. Look here, I’ve got a few grand tucked away. You’re welcome to as much of it as I can spare and still pay my bar bill.”

“Thanks, Victor, you’re a friend, but I hope it won’t come to that. I’m okay for money unless I have to go to trial.”

“Just let me know.” Victor looked at his watch. “Well, the big hand’s on the six, and that means the lovelies have begun gathering in the various watering holes. Care to join me? Might do you some good.”

Chuck shook his head. “Thanks, but I think I’m done in for today.”

Victor stood up. “I’m off, then. Remember, I’ll help in any way I can. Just say the word.”

“Thanks again, Victor. See you.”

With a wave, Victor jumped ashore and ambled off toward the music down the quay.

Chuck watched him go, and he felt a little better. It was good to know he had at least one friend in all this. He drank the rest of his beer and went below to find something to heat up for dinner.

T
ommy and Daryl were back in the chief’s office, and Tommy wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. He watched glumly as the chief entered and arranged himself at his desk.

“Sorry I wasn’t here to see you when you got back from L.A.,” the chief said. “How’d it go?”

“It was interesting,” Tommy said.

“Interesting?”
the chief asked, and his face began to redden. “You’ve just been off on a department-paid junket to
Hollywood,
and it was only
interesting?
You’d better do better than that, boy.”

“Oh, I learned quite a lot, Chief.”

“Good. Tell me.”

Tommy gave his boss a blow-by-blow on his trip to L.A., omitting his breaking and entering of Carman’s office.

The chief blinked. “So? What does all this have to do with the murder of Harry Carras?”

“There’s a pretty good chance that Carras
was
Marinello—or Marin, as he liked to be called.”

“Great. How does that solve his murder?”

“It doesn’t exactly solve it, but it certainly widens the pool of suspects to include the L.A. branch of the mob, whose money he stole.”

“If
Carras was Marinwhatshisname.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How does that help us?”

“Well, if we can establish that Carras was Marinello, then it’s the mob, not Chuck Chandler or Clare Carras, who becomes the chief suspect, and that means we just might not solve this one. Those boys don’t leave a lot of tracks.”

The chief began blinking rapidly. “Are you trying to confuse me, Sculley?”

“No, sir; I’m just laying it out for you.”

“Laying
what
out for me? Try as I might, I can’t digest all this into a coherent theory of who the perpetrator is.”

“I understand, Chief, and it’s my first priority to bring some coherence to this case. Believe me, I’m working on it full time.”

“Do I understand that you are
relieved
that there might be a Mafia connection to this murder?”

“Only to the extent that, if true, it would absolve two local citizens, Mr. Chandler and Mrs. Carras.”

“Absolve?
” the chief blurted. “We’re not out to absolve anybody. We’re supposed to
arrest
somebody.”

“I understand, Chief.”

“I wish
I
did, Tommy. Now come on, I want you to give me—right now—your best theory for who committed this murder.”

“My best theory?”

“Don’t you even have one?”

“Yes, sir, but I can’t back it up yet.”

“Forget backing it up, for the moment. Just tell me what you
think!”

“All right, sir.” Tommy rearranged himself in his seat. “I think that Harry Carras was murdered by Clare Carras and an unknown man.”

“Tell me why you believe that.”

“It involves believing the story Chuck Chandler told me. If you accept his version of the events on the boat that day, then it has to be Clare.”

“Explain.”

“Chandler said he was in the engine room for less than ten minutes that day. That’s not enough time for him to sufficiently contaminate the tanks, even if the engine had been running, which it wasn’t. He also told us that Harry chose the red tank—the one that was the most contaminated—and that Clare said that Harry always used the red tank, and she used the yellow tank, which left the blue, least contaminated tank for Chuck to use. Chuck, if you believe his story, didn’t know any of this until Clare explained it to him. So Harry gets hooked up to the red tank and swims away before Chuck is ready to follow him. When Chuck does follow, Clare hangs back; even Clare doesn’t dispute this point. So Harry chokes on the fumes and expires. Chuck, whose tank is less contaminated, makes it back to the boat, where he finds Clare hanging on to the diving platform and puking.” He stopped talking and sat back in his chair.

“So? Go on.”

“Clare has all the necessary knowledge to set this up. She knows which tank Harry uses and which one Chuck is going to use. She hangs on to the boat, breathes from her tank until she gets nauseous, so she’s puking when Chuck gets back. And Chuck, the putz, doesn’t have a clue.”

“Why do you think there’s another man involved?”

“Because I don’t think Clare is grease monkey enough to pull this off alone. But she does know everything necessary to help somebody else pull it off.”

“Who’s the other man? And why is it a man?”

“The answer to your first question is, I don’t know—yet. The answer to your second question is that Clare Carras doesn’t strike me as the type to want to share Harry’s money with a
woman.
The lady is a human black widow spider. It’s what she does best.” Tommy suddenly sat up in his seat, and his eyes widened. “Holy shit,” he said softly.

“What?” demanded the chief.

“What, Tommy?” Daryl asked.

“She’s going to kill him.”

“Kill who?” Daryl asked.

“The other guy.”

“The one we don’t know about?” the chief asked.

“Right. She’s going to kill him as sure as we’re sitting here.”

“But why?” Daryl asked. “She thinks she’s gotten away with it, so she and the boyfriend can sail off into the sunset.”

“She doesn’t need him anymore,” Tommy said. “She’s suckered in some poor schmuck to do the dirty work for her, to kill Harry and almost certainly Carman, and now she’s going to blow him off—and when this lady blows you off you end up dead.”

“Maybe she’s in love with him,” Daryl said.

Tommy shook his head. “This lady doesn’t love anybody but herself, and anyway, who on this island could possibly fill her bill for a partner to share Harry’s dough with? I mean, if Clark Gable was still alive,
he
might last a year or two before she sucked him dry and left him dangling in the web, but there’s no guy between here and Miami she’d even be
seen
with. She’s young, she’s gorgeous, she’s
very
rich, and she can have her pick of men. Nope, our Key West schmuck is practically dead, he just doesn’t know it yet.”

“So why hasn’t she already killed him, then?” the chief demanded.

“Because we haven’t nailed her patsy, Chuck Chandler. The minute she thinks we’ve got enough evidence to convict Chuck, the other schmuck’s dead. What further use is he to her?
And
he’s the only one who can involve her in Harry’s murder.”

“Okay,” the chief said, “that’s a good theory
if
you buy Chandler’s version of what happened. What’s your theory if he’s lying and Mrs. Carras is telling the truth?”

Tommy shrugged. “That would cast a different light on things, I guess. In that case, Chandler would look real good for the murder.”

“Have you searched Chandler’s residence for evidence?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because, like I said, I believe the guy, and I don’t think we’d find anything. We haven’t searched the Carras place, either.”

“Tommy,” the chief said, “I want you to type out a request for a warrant, take it over to the courthouse, and find Judge Potter. The chief shook his head. “I’ve given you all the room to swing that I’m going to. Now, I want you to get that warrant and conduct that search without delay. Do you understand me?”

“Chief, I don’t even need a warrant. Chandler would let me search if I asked him.”

“Don’t ask him. If he says no, then while you’re getting the warrant he could dispose of any evidence. Go get the warrant and conduct the search. Is that clear? Then, if you don’t find anything, we’ll think about searching the Carras house.”

“Yes, Chief,” Tommy said wearily. He got up and walked out of the office with Daryl tagging along behind.

T
hey were on the way to the courthouse with the warrant request before Daryl said a word.

“Tommy, why didn’t you tell the chief about your conversation with Clare Carras?”