Air Dance Iguana (18 page)

“She doesn’t know what we’re talking about.”

“I learned a good lesson back then, in the Nixon years, Rutledge. For my money it still applies. Believe half of what you know and none of what you think.”

“Good one,” I said. “Especially for a seasoned detective. None of that Jack Webb ‘just the facts’ bullshit. You want crime solutions, you visit a palm reader, if you can find a parking spot. Fortune-tellers are big in the Keys.”

He belched. “You’re getting off track. We about through with this chat?”

“I think you pressured Liska to give you a job. I think he compromised by assigning you Marathon. He didn’t want you running into anyone in Key West who knew shit from thirty years ago.”

“Could be,” said Millican. “But I just ran out of time for yakking. You best hustle down the road before I kick your shit again and claim you broke in here without an invitation. You can leave that one with me, if you want to. She’s got a butt like a big flower waiting to be plucked, but I guess I don’t need to tell you that.”

Teresa steeled her face and shook her head.

“When this gets sorted out,” I said, “I hope you wind up plucking twangers.”

Millican raised his thick index finger. “Hold on a sec.” He snatched a pair of delicate-looking reading glasses from the counter—drugstore specials—put them to his eyes, then reached to the wall phone. He pressed an audio monitor and a speed-dial button. His belly muscles tightened. The flab ratio was lower than I’d suspected.

After the dial beep melody, a man’s growling voice came from the phone’s speaker: “Yo, hot man. Speak.”

“Skinny, you still doing big watercolors?” said Millican.

“Every now and then. I got problems with cheap competition this year.”

“What kind of prices you get these days?”

“Gold Coast, I quote eight,” the man said. “Where you live, I make a delivery, I get a tan, eat shrimp off the boat…I’d come down to three. You got a wall you need covered?”

“About to have one,” said Millican. “I’ll get back.”

The connection went silent.

“I’ll let you read between the lines,” said Millican. “He’s never held a paintbrush in his life.” He hit the monitor again and another speed number. “Lemme make one more call.”

I glanced at Teresa. She was still frowning, staring, shaking her head.

A woman’s voice answered: “Department of Homeland Security. How can I help you…Mr. Millican?”

“Is Leslie Dobbs in the office?”

“One moment, please.”

Almost immediately a man with a high-pitched voice said, “Chester.”

“Les, I heard you took a transfer,” said Millican. “I wanted to update my phone list.”

“False alarm,” said the man. “The wife likes Broward, don’t ask me why. You holding back the refugees?”

“We’re doing our damn best.”

“On Duval Street?”

Millican faked a laugh, “Too crowded. Too many of your people down there hitting on the Czech and Russian shopgirls.”

“Gotta go,” said Agent Dobbs.

Millican punched an off button and turned to me. “For thirty years I worked where a man isn’t a man until he’s shoved a pistol barrel into somebody’s mouth. I made and kept friends on both sides of the fence.” He shook his bottle at me. Beer blew out of the spout and splattered my shirt. “There’s not much I fear, take my word for it. And take it the fuck out of my house.”

Teresa couldn’t get to the door fast enough.

Millican checked her legs and lowered his voice. “Your brother’s been in custody less than five hours. Didn’t take you long, Rutledge.”

“You could’ve told me that old hanging case was closed and forgotten,” I said. “You made a mistake calling up your heavy artillery.”

Millican’s jaw tightened, his eyes turned cold. “Don’t think for an instant I wouldn’t commence firing.”

In our rush
to confront Chet Millican, Teresa and I hadn’t cracked her car windows. The Grand Am had become an oven bursting with a fresh hatch of allergens. I opened the passenger-side door, rolled down the window, waited for the heat shimmers to dissipate, and kept an eye out for bottles flung from above.

If Teresa’s face was a message, I also needed to watch for flung daggers.

I shared her distaste for the man, but I hadn’t been the one making suggestive remarks for twenty minutes. If she’d wanted me to punch Millican’s nose to defend her honor, tough rats. We hadn’t been there to boost our self-images. We wanted information, or at least I did, the cost be damned. By my opinion, she had done enough of her own tarnishing in the past few months to nullify any defense I might have attempted.

We braved the hot upholstery. She started the engine, flipped the AC to high, put it in reverse, and pressed the gas pedal before the transmission engaged. The gear engaged a half-second later. We snapped backward, scattering green gravel, and just missed colliding with a pickup passing in the street. She almost struck the trash barrels as she repeated her error in drive. A fat raindrop splatted the windshield, followed by several more—preludes to the squall that hit a moment later but did little to drop the car’s inside temperature. Teresa’s also remained near boiling.

“Did he piss you off so badly that I have to suffer?”

No response.

I rolled up my window. “I flunked my adult mind-reading class, Teresa. How did I upset you?”

“The way you phrase things.”

“Things?”

“You said, ‘She doesn’t know what we’re talking about,’ and Millican took your word for it. Am I wallpaper?”

“I’ll tell you what it was, right now, down to the last detail. That wasn’t the time to do it, and it wasn’t about Tim.”

“It’s all about Tim. You think your brother killed two men.”

“I want to think that he didn’t—”

“That’s a bullshit way to put it, Alex. ‘I want to think’ means you’ve already devised a scenario and made up your mind to believe in it.”

“Look, Millican coughed up a theory on Saturday before he crossed the double-yellow. He connected the credit card to the first two hangings. That’s how cops think, and his timeline wasn’t outlandish. I didn’t know how to disprove it, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I was eliminated as a suspect. Then Tim would drop into the soup.”

After a fat pause she said, “Did you think to ask the accused?”

“I was recovering from injuries. I wasn’t in touch with him.”

“You couldn’t reach him through me?”

“I was working through it, trying to be less pissed off.”

She kept her gaze ahead. “You want revenge for the way I left you, and he gets to pay the price.”

“I don’t think like that. I’ve never seen a future in running backwards.”

“Bullshit again,” she said. “Your anger with me was stronger than your desire to learn your brother’s alibi.”

I wondered for a moment if she hadn’t called it right.

Teresa took a few seconds to absorb my lack of response. She hit the brakes, turned left sharply, and skidded to a halt in someone’s driveway. The rain poured down harder.

“Good driving in the wet,” I said. “You’ve got every right to be angry, but there’s no sense in dying when it’s me you want to kill.”

“You’re right, Alex. Why should I waste energy? I can hire Tim to kill you. That’s what you think, isn’t it? Someone put him up to all this.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth without giving me—”

“Get your ass out of my car.”

I pulled the handle, cracked the door. Rain blew onto my lap. I pulled the door closer. “I could’ve been in Georgia,” I said.

“What does that have to do with getting your ass—”

“I’m here because you asked for help,” I said. “If you hadn’t shown up at my house two hours ago, I could have called Connie in Naples and taken a photo job nine hundred miles from here. By two o’clock I’d be leaving baggage claim in Atlanta instead of walking the highway in a downpour. Give me back my damned shirt.”

My phone rang. I knew the number. Carmen Sosa, my Dredgers Lane neighbor.

“Can I take this?” I said.

Teresa gave me a sarcastic “Be my guest” wave.

“Your tenant is the neighbor from hell,” said Carmen. “Is this a bad time?”

“It’s a bad week. I’m fighting to have a life. What’s up?”

“He’s thrown loud parties the last two nights, almost until dawn. I think he’s meeting drunk girls in bars and dragging them back to your place. He had a screamer this morning, or else she was having trouble in the bathroom. She sounded like a jungle cat in high heat. One of those new homeowners on Fleming told my daddy that he was going to turn you in for an illegal rental.”

“They’ll have to prove he’s given me money.”

Carmen didn’t respond, which meant she hadn’t heard what she’d hoped to hear.

“Okay,” I said. “Is that all?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“Go ahead, Carmen. I’m a big boy.”

“There’s blood all over the kitchen and bathroom floors,” she said. “A couple of stains on the walls.”

“No body parts or dead people?”

“No, and no tenant either.”

“I’ll evict him as soon as I can.”

When I clicked off, Teresa said, “Don’t get out of the car. I was being an asshole.”

A couple of minutes later, driving toward Key West on U.S. 1, Teresa said, “What was the Navy-base hanging?”

“Marnie found
Citizen
articles about a dead sailor from over thirty years ago. It was a suspected suicide that evolved into suspected murder, but never solved.”

“Was Liska a city cop by then?” she said.

“He and Millican were the investigating officers. Millican was Liska’s boss.”

“Is this getting complicated?”

Flashing red and blue lights came on behind us. I looked around. Deputy Billy Bohner was waving the Grand Am to the curb.

I said, “More with each passing hour.”

Bohner held his cell phone to one ear while he stared at his computer monitor. Teresa had pulled alongside a wooden barrier in front of a condo construction site. He was making us wait, pretending to check out Teresa’s car with the DMV.

“Have you got your phone with you?” I said.

Teresa reached toward a canvas cosmetics bag.

“Call your boss,” I said. “Tell him where you are and give him Deputy Bohner’s name.”

Her hand froze. “I can’t,” she said. “I called in sick. I’ll get fired.”

I dug my phone from my pocket and punched in Liska’s office number. Liska’s secretary told me he’d gone to lunch. She wouldn’t give me his cell number. I rang Bobbi Lewis and got shuffled to the voice mailbox. I said, “No Jokes rousting me,” and hung up.

When he finally approached the Grand Am, Bohner remained aft of the driver’s-side door as if dealing with two armed lunatics. He tapped on the roof. “License and—”

“Don’t even start, Bohner,” I said.

“I want four hands on the dashboard,” he bellowed.

The dashboard surface temp was probably 150 degrees. I held my splayed hands just above the surface and said, “You’ve got a couple of kids to put through college.”

“What kind of threat is that?” he said.

“You haven’t known Millican for nine weeks.”

“He’s a better man than you’ll ever be,” said Bohner.

“In the world of dirty cops, but that’s not your world, Billy. I’m not on administrative leave for fucking up, and Millican is. Do you have some great desire to send your eighteen-year career down the toilet?”

No answer. I’d made my cast and the fish was circling.

“You want to risk your retirement for a bad apple, it’s your choice, Billy.”

“I’m a long way from—”

“Two college educations need cash flow.”

Another silent pause. I’d set the hook and brought him to the boat.

“Has Millican asked you to account for your whereabouts last Thursday before dawn?”

“Short memory, Rutledge. I was on patrol.”

“Between Ramrod and Marathon?” I asked. “Was anyone with you, anyone who can vouch for your minute-by-minute activities?”

No answer.

“Has anyone thought to ask Millican to account for himself during those hours?”

“Now you’re in the outfield,” said Bohner. “Your license, registration, and proof of insurance, ma’am?”

“No damn way,” said Teresa. “I’m not part of your game. I’m going to start my car and drive home.”

My opinion of Teresa edged slightly upward.

“Deputy, I’ve got no choice,” I said. “I’m just the passenger. I suggest you go home and think about the stretch between your job and your loyalty to Millican.”

The Seven Mile Bridge was like a game of leapfrog. Idiots passing one or two cars, ducking back in line to avoid oncoming traffic, which, up ahead, also looked like another game of leapfrog. I imagined all the postcards that would be mailed back to hometowns: “We cheated death on U.S. 1. We lived it up on Duval.”

“Tim’s bust this morning in Tavernier,” I said. “Who was the arresting officer? Anyone we know?”

“Chris Ericson.”

“He should’ve recognized my name.”

“How would that have helped?” said Teresa.

“I guess not at all. He was just doing his job.”

“Where in Marathon was that second hanging?” she said.

“Right over there.” We were passing the trailer court on the Atlantic side. “Back toward the water. It’s a slum that the drive-through tourists never see.”

“Sounds like the county commission’s vision of affordable housing,” said Teresa.

“You just gave me an idea.”

Information listed eight CPAs in Marathon. The operator found Downer and Company, so I dialed in but reached a recording. I identified myself and started to ask Gail to call me regarding Milton Navarre.

She picked up before I completed my sentence. “Hey, Alex. How’s it going?”

“Sideways, I think. That makes me an optimist this week. When you cleaned out that trailer, did you find Navarre’s business records or personal files?”

“Hardly enough to matter,” she said. “One expandable file with warranty certificates and coupons. It’s in a garbage bag in the trunk of my car.”

“How about a property title or purchase agreement?”

“There was a brown envelope with a broker’s address on it, but I didn’t open it. I’m with a client right now. You want me to look when I get a chance and call you back?”

“I’d rather pay for the client’s time and have you look right away. It’s kind of important.”

No response.

“Sorry, Gail,” I said. “That was a lame way to ask a favor.”

“My father’s still in jail. Is this call good news for him?”

“It’s either no news or good news,” I said. “I’m just running a hunch.”

“If I had a nickel for every take-out meal I’ve taken to him the past five days…Give me sixty seconds.”

Thirty seconds later: “Alex?”

“I’m here, Gail.”

“I’ve got the papers in front of me. He put a thousand down on the trailer and signed a ten-year lot lease. The trailer was only sixty-two hundred, but the lease was forty grand. It was nine years ago, and there’s some kind of balloon payment coming up in about five months.”

“Did he deal directly with the previous owner?” I said.

“The address on the envelope is Deer Abbey Real Estate, Big Pine Key.”

“Does it show a street address?”

“No, but let me…Where are my Yellow Pages?” she said. “It’s got to be on the highway…” She came back on. “Mile Marker 30.4, ocean side.”

“Thank you, Gail,” I said. “I’ll keep you informed.”

After I clicked off, Teresa said, “Your mind works in complex patterns. Your brother’s the same way. I expect that’s no news to you.”

In a way it was. For all his tampering with his mind’s inner workings, the booze and chemicals and herbs he had ingested over the years, I didn’t know what was left. But he’d recalled details of a car chase during our high school days, facts that I had managed, for the most part, to erase.

Teresa spoke softly. “You’re quiet. Do you disagree with what I said?”

“Not at all,” I said. “For all his crap when we were kids, he redeemed himself most of the time. If something went missing out of our yard, he knew which kid down the street had swiped it and where it was hidden. He could find dogs and missing car keys and knew when books were due at the library. His prime talent—he always knew the perfect person to call each time he needed out of a jam.”

“He called me this time,” she said. “Maybe he’s losing his touch.”

“Don’t panic just yet.” I gave Teresa directions to Deer Abbey Real Estate.

The sign read
CLOSED FOR FAMILY EMERGENCY
. An attached Post-it note signed by Sharon Woods, Owner, directed inquiries to a sandwich shop fifty yards west. I hiked over to find a clocklike sign hung inside the shop’s glass door. An arrow pointed to four o’clock. Another Post-it note: “
GONE FISHIN
’.” You had to admire their work ethic. These people understood summer in the Keys.

Teresa drove me to Winn-Dixie. I grabbed three real estate tabloids from a freebie rack inside the door. Back in the car I searched for a Deer Abbey spread, hoping for Sharon Woods’s cell or home number. No spread, no luck. Back on the highway we stopped at a broker’s office a quarter-mile south. The death-by-tanning receptionist said, “We get so many people wondering where that lady is. Her health began to go away last year. I’ve seen her pick up her mail a few times, but I don’t know how she pays rent and taxes. I have four kids, two sets of twins. My whole life’s a family emergency.”