The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective (9 page)

“That’s when Vic finally had his chance at the big time,” Devereaux said. “While Johnny Bravo languished in jail, Vic became boss. He was very good at being bad. At the height of his power, he controlled the construction industry, bribed local and provincial politicians, and killed anyone who got in his way.”

“It’s hard to believe that little guy in a fisherman’s cap ran a Mafia family,” Tree said.

“Yes, well, appearances can be deceiving, particularly in the mob world. Vic’s reign ended a couple of years ago when Johnny got out of jail and wanted his old job back.”

Devereaux explained that Vic fought without success against Johnny’s attempts to regain power. By now age was catching up to him. He was facing various health problems, including heart disease and a bout with colon cancer. When his wife and daughter were killed in a car explosion, Vic retreated to Miami, ostensibly so heart specialists could treat him.

“Now he’s gone the way most of these guys go—slumped in a car pumped full of bullets. Of course, Vic always maintained he was an honest Montreal businessman who owned funeral homes. He knew nothing about organized crime and protested that he had never been convicted of anything, not even a parking ticket—and that was true enough.”

“Did you ever hear anything about a dog?” Tree said.

“A dog?”

“Did Vic have a dog?”

“If he did,” Devereaux said. “I never heard about it. What’s a dog got to do with anything?”

________

When Freddie appeared in the kitchen, Clinton marched right over to her and demanded a good ear-rub, which she was glad to provide. Tree poured kibble into Clinton’s bowl and told Freddie about his early-morning encounter with Rex. “What did he say?”

“He said he was going to marry my wife.”

“Not me, I hope.”

“No, I was worried about the same thing. But it’s an earlier wife.”

“Kelly.”

“That’s the one.” Tree put Clinton’s bowl on the floor. The dog abandoned his ear-rub and went over for an exploratory snort of his kibble.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I don’t know,” Tree said, truthfully. “I have no idea anymore what’s a good idea and what isn’t. Rex says he’s lonely, and he doesn’t want to be lonely any longer. Having been lonely in my life, I know how he feels. It’s no fun. If Kelly gives him what he needs, I’m happy for him.”

“And supposing Kelly doesn’t feel the same way about Rex.”

“There’s not a whole lot I can do about it one way or the other—except support my old friend, and that’s what I intend to do.”

His cellphone rang. The LCD screen showed it was Edith Goldman.

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you,” Tree said into the phone.

“Where’s the dog?” Edith demanded.

Tree tried not to look at Clinton or Freddie when he said, “I told you before, Edith. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look, Tree, I’m under a lot of pressure here. I have to find that dog. Vic was supposed to hand over a dog. That was the whole point of your meeting.”

“The whole point you never bothered to tell me about.”

“I’m offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for the recovery of that dog.”

“You’re kidding. What’s so important about him?”

“Just do this for me, will you, Tree? You’re a private detective, find the dog. I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars, no questions asked. Just find that dog.”

The line went dead.

Freddie gave him
the
look
, never a good thing. “Why do I suspect we’re in more trouble,” she said.

“You’re not in trouble,” Tree said. “If anyone’s in trouble, it’s me.”

“No,” Freddie said vehemently. “That’s what you don’t seem to understand. You don’t get into trouble.
We
get into trouble.”

“All I can say right now is that Edith is acting very strange, and I’m not certain why.”

“Because her client is dead, and the private detective she hired is lying to her about a certain dog.”

“For now, I’m hanging onto Clinton.” Tree said.

“He’s not your dog.”

“His owner is dead, and so for the time being the two of us are all Clinton has. If someone killed Vic Trinchera maybe they want to kill his dog, too. And I’m not going to allow that to happen.”

“There is always the traditional way of dealing with this sort of situation,” Freddie said.

“That would be the police,” Tree said.

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone has gone to them,” Freddie said. “It has been done before.”

“And what do you suppose I would tell them?”

“You would tell them that a Canadian gangster gave you a dog just before he was murdered. Now there are a number of people after said dog.”

“Don’t forget I’ve already talked to the police.”

“Talking to the Canadian police doesn’t count,” Freddie said.

“She says it does.”

“Not only did you lie to this Canadian so-called policewoman, but I highly doubt she has any jurisdiction here, and therefore is very limited when it comes to providing help.”

Tree thought for a moment and then bent down to look at Clinton, now chomping away at his bowl of kibble. He called, “Clinton, come here. That’s a boy, come here.”

Clinton lifted his head up as though offended anyone should bother him while he was eating.

“What are you doing?” Freddie asked.

“What’s the one thing we haven’t considered in connection with Clinton?” Tree said.

“I don’t think we’ve actually considered much of anything. So far, all we’ve had is Tree Callister and his blind determination to hang onto this dog, no matter what.”

“I’ll tell you what we haven’t done. We haven’t spent enough time considering why he is so important.”

As though on cue, Clinton left his kibble unfinished to stand in front of Freddie and Tree, presenting himself for inspection.

“I mean, Clinton,” Tree said to him, “you’re a great dog and everything, but what is it about you that makes Canadian Mounties and Montreal gangsters come looking for you?”

“Maybe Clinton knows the secret code to something,” Freddie said. “You scratch his ears just the right way, and he barks out the code.”

“I wish you could talk to us, Clinton,” Tree said, studying the dog closely. “It would be so much simpler if you could just tell us what everyone is looking for.”

Clinton turned his head, as if baffled by what these humans were going on about. Tree reached forward and undid the yellow collar Clinton wore around his neck.

“It contains a map to buried treasure,” Freddie said.

“You read too many Hardy Boys mysteries,” Tree said.

“Not me,” Freddie said. “I was strictly Nancy Drew.”

The collar was decorated with red metal flowers, slightly raised. He turned the collar over. The printing on the back announced the “original all style, No Stink Collar.” It was manufactured by the Dublin Dog Company. Silver studs held the collar’s end flap in place and provided anchorage for the buckle and a metal D-ring to which a dog license was attached. It said Clinton was licensed in the city of Montreal. Tree wondered if that made him an outlaw dog here on Captiva.

Tree scraped his fingernail across the license and then tried to pry up one of the flowers. But the scraping revealed nothing and the flowers refused to budge. Clinton had grown bored and lay down.

“Here, let me take a look,” Freddie said.

“You’re not going to find anything,” Tree said, handing her the collar.

“I know, but let me look, anyway.”

She turned the collar over in her slim hands. Tree went to the refrigerator and got himself a Diet Coke. Freddie flattened the collar on the counter. She dug a fingernail into the collar’s soft undersurface. The edge of her nail caught something and part of the collar peeled away. Beneath the strip of yellow plastic was an address:

O. Crimson

220 NW 26th St.

Miami, Fl.

33127

“You said Vic Trinchera owned Clinton,” Freddie said.

“That’s what I thought,” Tree said.

“Then who is this guy?”

“I have no idea,” Tree said.

Freddie said, “Supposing we find out.”

“I’m not sure we’re going to find anything,” Tree said.

“Maybe not, but I haven’t been to Miami for a while. We can look up this O. Crimson and then have an early dinner.”

“That’s what it is,” Tree said. “You want to have dinner in Miami.”

“Your ability to see right through me is extraordinary,” she said with a grin. “Let’s get going. I want to Google a couple of restaurants.”

12

I
n the Wynwood district of Miami, the inmates had taken over the asylum. An invading army of artists forever in search of cheap lands to occupy had transformed what had been a maze of warehouses on a rundown industrial wasteland, filling exterior walls with dramatic murals bursting with color, wild pop art creations reminding Tree of the brightly colored Sunday comic pages of his youth.

Two-twenty Northwest Twenty-sixth Street was once a garage. Its entrance was wide open so that Tree and Freddie could walk inside. The interior had been converted into an artist’s studio filled with huge canvases.

“Hello,” Freddie called. “Anyone here?”

There was no answer. Freddie called again. Tree noted the sign hanging above him on the wall: TODAY IS THE DAY.

Was it? Perhaps it was. But the day for what? He began leafing through the racks of canvases. Crimson’s output was nothing if not prodigious, a stew of cityscapes and celebrities, intricate homages to an American culture that always seemed to feature Audrey and Marilyn, Elvis and James Dean. Nothing too daring, Tree decided. Lots of stuff you could safely hang on your living room wall—provided that your wall was the size of a football field.

Tree heard the sound of a motor gearing down. He turned to see a low-slung black and yellow motorcycle turning off the street, slow, and then bump across the threshold into the garage. The bike’s rider wore a Daft Punk-style black helmet. A short black skirt allowed the display of long, graceful legs ending in feet incased in ankle-high biker boots.

The rider shut down the bike and eased off, removing her helmet, shaking loose shoulder-length hair. She had the kind of perfectly proportioned features that inspired use of the word beautiful; the kind of face young men with acoustic guitars wrote songs about and remembered wistfully when they grew old.

Tree said, “That’s some bike.”

The beautiful young woman shook out her long hair again and said, “It’s the Ducati Streetfighter. The world’s best motorbike, in my estimation, and I have driven them all. Are you a biker?”

“Just an admirer,” Tree said.

“We’re art lovers,” Freddie interjected. “Art lovers with a lot of empty walls to fill.”

“Then you have come to the right place,” the young woman said. “Please, make yourself at home. The studio is open to everyone. Oliver should be back any time.”

“That’s Oliver Crimson?” Tree said.

“Crimson, just Crimson.” The long-haired young woman removed a velvet bag from the rear of her Ducati Streetfighter and pulled out a pair of high-heel shoes. She proceeded to remove the boots and slip on the heels.

“My name is Shay—Shay Ostler. If I can help you with anything, please let me know.”

She drifted off, carrying her biker boots, and disappeared through a door in the rear of the garage. Freddie went back to inspecting the stacks of canvases.

“Any pictures of a dog?” Tree asked.

“Not so far,” Freddie said.

Shay reappeared, this time trailing a big, barrel-bellied man springing into view with a flourish that suggested this was opening night for the stage production of his own life. Straw-colored hair was pushed dramatically back in thick waves from a high tanned forehead. “I am here, right now,” he called to Freddie and Tree in a deep, sonorous voice. “Where have you been?”

He glided over to take Freddie’s hand in two of his. “We share a moment together,” he announced looking deep into her eyes. “And that’s important. That’s all that counts.”

Shay announced, “This is
Crimson
.”

Tree half expected a guy in a top hat to appear and snap a whip at a tiger.

“Am I?” Crimson said. “Am I anything that’s real? Are any of us? Perhaps we are all just manifestations of our collected desires, hopes, fears, coming together in these semi-fictional characters we call ourselves.”

Crimson’s head snapped back, as if he needed extra space in which to inspect his visitors. “Tell me where you are from.”

“Just up the road on Captiva Island,” Tree said.

“Ah, from the real world, then.” Crimson sounded disappointed.

“I wouldn’t say Captiva is anything like the real world,” Freddie said.