Octopus Alibi (28 page)

Annie said, “Do you think Liska can do any good in there?”

I had no idea what he could do or what he intended. Something steered me in another direction. Hadn’t Sam described the Cavalier’s color as “puke green,” with a license number that began with XSW? I could swear the plate that had just passed us matched up.

Marlow was on the case.

“Can I borrow your phone?” I picked my memory for Liska’s cell number.

Before I could bring it up, he walked outside, clenching his teeth. He got into Annie Minnette’s face. “Young lady, you’d better be the best goddamned lawyer in this county. You’ve got a supreme shithead for a client. He’ll waste your time bad as he wasted mine.”

“In my experience,” Annie said calmly, “the time wasters are law officers with narrow minds.”

“If I didn’t have an open mind,” he said, “I’d be a hundred and forty miles from here. I’d be eating ropa vieja at El Siboney, reminding myself to stop at the dry cleaner’s on my way back to work. I’ll eat lunch there tomorrow, and I’ll remind myself that no way does the douchebag captain appreciate my making this trip. He thought I could drop a dime and spring his ass loose, a move simple and stupid like that. Rutledge, here, needs to check his buddy’s medicine chest, see if the boy’s dropping diet pills or mood-repair tablets.”

“This is helpful, Sheriff,” said Annie. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Do whatever you people do. But imagine a fifty-foot fence across the top of the Keys. I’ll be on one side, in my simple, small county down there. All this bullshit will still be up in Florida. We’ll be fine neighbors.” He began to walk. “Rutledge, you and me, we got one more thing to do.”

“Run along,” said Annie Minnette, contempt cold on her face. “I’ll mop up the mess.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

She shook her head.

I looked back from a hundred yards away. She was in the same spot, speaking into her phone.

24

P
EOPLE WITH BADGES IN
their wallets fear traffic tickets like they fear ants. Liska left the hospital complex the same way he had arrived. He dropped his Lexus to squad car status—all gas pedal, minimal brakes, no concern for tire wear. I scoped people around us, on sidewalks, in other cars. His hot corners and wheel chirps didn’t turn a head.

Sad, I thought. In Miami, the word “reckless” had lost its charm.

We were off surface streets, westbound on 836 in four minutes. My mood matched the dirty gray sky. We had wasted a trip, squandered time, blown money, knew nothing, and hadn’t helped Sam. I was wedged into the leather, trying to invent a new plan of attack. If I asked our destination, I’d incite a new volley of cynical crap. I was over it.

I figured it out soon enough, anyway. My clue was the LeJeune Road exit. When we turned into Miami International, I knew. After days of wanting that magic flight off the island, my first leg to Grand Cayman, I was about to be dispatched in the opposite direction. Straight back to the rock. Which made no sense. If Liska was going to pack me off, why had he brought me in the first place? He must have known that our mission might not succeed. He had gone into the hospital with a grim outlook, and walked out with worse and me to blame. Something inside had yanked his chain.

I thought fast, trying to evaluate my bind. A short-notice air ticket would cost me a fortune. My best choice was a cab to the Greyhound station, then joyriding the Overseas Highway with a pint of rum, a lime, a bag of Doritos, and a paperback. Hell, I could buy a book with blank pages, kill time writing my diary. Or I could reenact my post-Navy days and thumb down the Keys, catch a tan and count pelicans as I walked the bridges.

We stopped in front of the American check-in booth. Liska double-parked next to a hotel shuttle van, blocking another van that was trying to leave.

I wasn’t going to mess with my cameras and duffel. They’d be safe in the trunk. I said, “What time’s my flight?”

“That’s funny.” He popped the locks. “Let me tell you, if I find one stone chip, one hickey in the windshield, a door ding, God forbid…”

“You remind me of Detective Lewis two days ago,” I said. “Forty-eight hours ago, to the minute.”

“Go ahead.”

“You dip your toe in the water, then pull your leg back in the boat.”

“Your point?” he said.

“I wonder why you did this. Your wild, goddamned hurry, all fact-finding, worried about impressing big-city cops, worried about Sam. Then you rush even worse to get away. Justice goes to the back of the line. You got a hot date in Key West?”

Liska tilted his rearview mirror, checked his teeth for foreign objects. Not that we had seen food since Key Largo. He said, “Did it occur to you that I’ve got other things on my desk besides a self-important fishing captain and his fucked-up ideas about crooked cops?”

“No, it didn’t,” I said, “but I know you don’t waste time with subtlety. And anything I think about you, I should twist it a hundred and eighty. I can warn myself ahead of time about your bullshit.”

“My bullshit’s all in Key West, thanks to the
Herald
. The murdered mayor is national news, and Simonton Street’s a mess with TV trucks and satellite bowls and fucknuts with video gear. So, there you are, Rutledge. This is your best day to commit a publicity-free crime in Miami. Every local station sent their news crew to the end of U.S. 1.”

I quit arguing and commanded myself to look at the good side. I wasn’t buying an air ticket.

“My pistol’s in the glove box. Don’t use it, even on yourself. Fill the tank with high test and watch that speed trap in Marathon. Even in my car, I can’t get you out of traffic tickets. You ought to hit Stock Island about five-thirty, so come straight to my office. Don’t make me wait.” He flung open his door without checking for traffic and disappeared into the terminal.

I exited the airport, hurrying to read signs, changing lanes like braiding a camp lanyard. I went right on LeJeune, tried to keep my distance from road hacks and crazies. Three blocks later I pulled into an El Cheapo gas station. I went inside, hurdled the language barrier, and swapped the clerk singles for two pounds of change. Throwing sanitation worries to the winds, I dialed the greasy pay phone on the outside wall between the rest rooms. Five messages waited on my service in Key West.

Monty Aghajanian left his number at the borrowed condo. “Don’t wait to call me. I might be at the pool, but I’ll have a handset with me.”

Jack Spottswood said, “Problems at this end, Alex. Keep it to yourself, but Naomi may have died of a painkiller overdose. One of her life insurance policies is too new to cover suicide. That could screw us up paying estate taxes and expenses. Any luck on finding Ernest Bramblett? Call me as soon as you get back from Grand Cayman. By the way, today’s
Herald
says that Steve Gomez might have been murdered.”

Marnie Dunwoody, with no surprise: “The county people grabbed Whit Randolph this morning. They found him at Garrison Bight, trying to charter a boat to Ft. Myers. When he saw two marked cars arrive, he chugged his bottle of vodka and dialed out on his phone. They grabbed his phone when they arrested him, and cross directoried the call to a shitbird lawyer in New Orleans who specializes in scam artists. The slime also rises. I’m working three stories at once. I know you would have called me if you had any good news. Call me anyway.”

I now understood why Chicken Neck Liska was in a hurry to get back to his office. The dead mayor was a major media splash while a prize prisoner, another headline-maker, was chilling in his Stock Island high-security motel. His circus needed a ringmaster.

Teresa, in tears: “Whitney is under arrest, and I hope you had nothing to do with that. I have to move back into my condo so no one will break in and rip him off while he’s in jail. I told Carmen to keep an eye on your house. Did you cancel Grand Cayman? Dexter thought you went up the Keys with the sheriff. If you want to, you can call me at my old number. I want you to.”

Duffy Lee Hall: “Our man Dexter Hayes came to the house five minutes ago. He knocked like a storm trooper, almost pushed the door in. He wanted your Gomez negatives. I told him, if I even had them, I couldn’t give them away. He threatened a search warrant, told me he’d have my water shut off and my business license revoked. He threatened to bust me for obstruction of justice. I told him he was obstructing my porch, and he could fucking well get a warrant. My whole neg file just went to my neighbor’s cigar humidor.”

Monty answered the first ring. Even on vacation, his FBI habits never rested. He asked what kind of phone I was on. I told him the pay unit didn’t have a logo. He explained that he didn’t want me on a cordless or cell unit. He didn’t want to chat on an electronic party line.

“So we’re cleared to talk, now?” I said.

“Yep. I came inside to take a break. I’m on the wall phone up here,” he said. “Where are you right now?”

I told him where I was and that I hadn’t seen Sam.

“I called a man in Kendall. He’s agreed to help your buddy on the QT. But he said he wouldn’t do anything unless you backed off, so stay away.”

“Okay,” I said, without much hesitation. If the FBI could pull a trick for Sam, I wasn’t going to spoil it. I couldn’t get into the hospital, anyway.

“What else?” said Monty.

“Marnie Dunwoody left me a message. The county grabbed Randolph, whatever his name really is.”

“I heard,” said Monty. “I think they screwed up royally. If they had taken time to find an open out-of-state warrant, they could’ve sat on him for days while he fought extradition. The county would’ve had time to solidify the murder details. They were in too big a hurry. On the penny-bet charge they put on his ass, a small-time, white-collar snooze, he can bond out tonight. What’s with this Bobbi Lewis, anyway?”

“You didn’t deal with her in the old days?” I said.

“Damn, you make it sound prehistoric. It was only a year ago. No, I never dealt with her.”

“She’s the best Liska’s got, for my money. But she dropped the ball this time. Liska pulled her from dealing with Gomez. Between you and me, she had a fling with the victim a couple years go.”

“Tell me how she dropped the ball.”

“Look, I don’t have your training,” I said. “I was on her elbow some of the time. To me, she was hot-cold, hot-cold. Does that make sense?”

“Can you tell me specifics?”

“She went to Naomi’s house, all torqued up, ready to be a prime snoop. Then she stood around absorbing vibrations, taking telepathic statements from the furniture, or ghosts, for all I knew. Then she beat feet, like the place was poison. She said she’d be in touch.”

“Keep going.”

“That was Wednesday afternoon. That night, nine o’clock, I was back at Naomi’s, into her computer, looking for a way to find her brother. He’s heir to her house and the money.”

“What’s it to you?” said Monty.

“Naomi named me her executor.”

“You forgot to tell me that detail. What happened that night?”

“She came to the door and wanted in. I figured, nothing to lose, so I vacated. That was the last I heard of it. She never told me what she found, if anything. She didn’t say a thing. I asked Liska if she’d filed a report, and he didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“Where are you going to be?” said Monty.

“Liska had me drop him at the airport. He ordered me to drive his wheels back to the rock, posthaste. There will be no scratches, bugs, or ancillary damage.”

“Best news all day,” said Monty. “You owe me many beers. Remember my message from that other guy. Capital letters: back off.”

“Gotcha.”

“Take it easy, Alex.”

No way.

I dreaded the drive down the Keys. It was Friday noon, and tourists were filling the funnel. U.S. 1 was a slender spout, an insistent rush complicated by pickups towing huge powerboats, sluggish motor homes, unpassable packs of motorcycles, idiotic stop-and-go.

What waited? My deal with Teresa was history. My old investment in the Borroto Brinas Development Corporation would make me the butthole of environmental correctness. Calculating ahead, I was already late to Liska’s office. That promised another barrage of crap.

Four days ago, to the minute, I was climbing out of a ratty taxi. I escaped a bad radio show, a rear seat that had witnessed sex, spilled drinks, and vomit. I had taken refuge in a storm culvert next to a bland morgue. Now I was in a squeaky-clean, climate-controlled luxury boat, free to exercise my choice of not listening to Chicken Neck’s pitiful CD collection. The primary change was that four days ago I knew more about the world around me.

I formed a picture of Annie Minnette’s face, her cold expression as Liska and I walked away. Not exactly a painless reunion. She was back in her office by now, playing intramural brain tag with the partners and paralegals. I had no idea what she could do, if anything. I also had no confidence in Monty’s friend, his agreement to help Sam “on the QT.” For some reason, right then, I ran a mental movie of Sam’s father, leaving his nine-year-old daughter on a backwater roadside. That did it.

I couldn’t leave Miami with Sam still a prisoner, falsified into limbo. Someone, likely Marlow, but perhaps others too, had wanted to stop Sam’s snooping. That meant that he was on to something, getting close to answers about dead women with bogus IDs. I needed to grab for threads, for facts that might take me to those answers and might tip me to the depth of Sam’s problems.

I went back into El Cheapo and learned that my Spanish sucked. I tried to buy a Ft. Lauderdale street map. The clerk thought I wanted directions to Cartagena, Colombia. We had a wide gap to cross. The guy yelled, “Maria!” as if he was cussing. A dark-skinned, black-haired girl, a six-, maybe seven-year-old, popped her head from behind the counter. She let go a burst of tremolo Spanish then ducked back down. All I caught from her verbal burst was “Broward.” Thirty seconds later I had my map.

Back in the car, I shuffled the dwindling ten grand and the notes in my pocket, found the addresses that Marnie had recited to me on the phone.

My list of options. So much for backing off.