Choke (14 page)

“I guess you’re right,” Daryl sighed.

“That much, I’m right about. And before this is over, I’m going to be right about who killed Harry Carras.”

“I believe you, Tommy.”

“You’re a smart kid, Daryl. You keep thinking that way, and someday you’ll make a great detective.”

“Tommy,” Daryl said, “you’re more full of shit than anybody I ever met in my whole life.”

T
ommy and Daryl stood on the steps of the Monroe County courthouse, where the county coroner had heard all the evidence at an inquest and declared Harry Carras dead of unknown causes. They watched Clare Carras walk toward her car.

“Tommy, are you absolutely sure I have no chance at all with a woman like that?” Daryl asked.

“Not unless you overpower her,” Tommy replied.

“It might be worth the effort.”

“Never work; she’s probably stronger than you.”

“So Carras is officially dead; what does that mean for Mrs. Carras?”

“It means she can get the will probated, and she’s a free woman, able to spend her husband’s wealth as she sees fit.”

“Excuse me, Detective Sculley?”

The two detectives turned to find a man standing behind them. He was solidly built and deeply tanned, with thick black hair. Tommy made him for Italian.

“Yeah?” Tommy said.

“My name is Barry Carman. I’m a private investigator; I wonder if I could have a word with you in private?”

“I’m pretty busy,” Tommy replied. “What’s this about?”

“About the Carras case,” Carman said.

Tommy pointed at his police car. “Step into my office,” he said. He opened the rear door and let Carman in, then he and Daryl got into the front seat.

“Okay, what?” Tommy said.

Carman opened a briefcase, extracted an eight-by-ten glossy black-and-white photograph, and handed it to Tommy. “Tell me if you’ve ever seen this man before.”

Tommy looked at the photograph. It was a head-and-shoulders shot of a smiling man who appeared to be in his early forties. He was overweight and had dark, very curly hair and thick sideburns. “No, who is he?”

“I think there’s just a chance he could be Harry Carras.”

Tommy looked at the photograph more closely. “How old is this picture?”

“It was taken in 1976; it’s extracted from a shot of a group of people at a dinner.”

“We’re talking plastic surgery here, right?”

“We would have to be talking plastic surgery, in addition to major weight loss, capped teeth and, of course, almost twenty years of aging.”

Tommy looked at the photograph again. “Who knows? It’s possible, I guess. What’s this guy’s name?”

“Rocco Marinello.”

Tommy and Daryl exchanged a glance. “And what’s the connection with Carras?”

“Marinello was a lawyer in L.A. Well, more than a lawyer, really, he was a kind of financial genius. He represented some clients of mine. Four years ago he decamped and left a note saying he’d gambled away his clients’ money and couldn’t face the music.”

“Was he married?”

“And had a son in college. He had put enough in the wife’s name to keep them both comfortable.”

“So why are you still looking for Marinello after so much time?”

“Let’s just say that my clients aren’t the sort of people to forget about him.”

“And who are your clients?”

“Business associates of Mr. Marinello’s; of course, I can’t reveal their identity.”

“Of course,” Tommy said. “Do your clients also have Italian names?”

“I can’t comment on that.”

“Pretty juicy assignment, huh?” Tommy said. “I mean, if you never find the guy you still get paid, right?”

“There’s a considerable bonus if I find him,” Carman replied.

“So what made you look in Key West, Mr. Carman?”

“I got a tip.”

Tommy’s eyebrows went up. “Oh? From who?”

“Anonymous. A woman’s voice, though. She said, ‘If you’re still looking for Rocco Marinello, try Harry Carras, in Key West.’”

“Not that Marinello
was
Carras?”

“That’s right, but I took her to mean they were one and the same.”

“What else did she say?”

“Nothing; she hung up.”

“What was the voice like?”

“Youngish, muffled; could have been anybody.”

Tommy nodded. “So what do you want from me, Mr. Carman?”

“I wondered if you knew anything about Carras that might make you think he was someone else?”

“I hardly knew the man,” Tommy replied.

Carman seemed to accept that. “What do you think the chances are of the body turning up?”

“Not great,” Tommy said. “The incident took place outside the reef, which means that Carras could be floating in Havana Harbor right now, or he could have caught the Gulf Stream and be on his way to Scotland, or something could have found him delicious.”

“Oh.” Carman looked crestfallen.

“Apart from this tip, do you have any evidence at all that Carras was Marinello?”

“None.”

“Did you ever see Carras?”

“Once.”

“Did you ever see Marinello?”

“No.”

“So you can’t make an ID?”

Carman shook his head. “All I have is the photograph, which is apparently the only one in existence. Marinello went through his house and destroyed everything that might have helped find him.”

“A thorough fellow, Mr. Marinello.”

“You better believe it. The guy seemed to just vanish off the face of the earth. He’d apparently been planning his move for some time.”

“Sounds like it. Are you any good at what you do, Mr. Carman?”

“I like to think so. Believe me, my clients wouldn’t have hired me if my reputation wasn’t solid gold. I’m ex-LAPD, twenty years on the job.”

“Are you the only PI they hired?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that they’d hired others, but I don’t know. My clients also have full-time employees who are good at finding people.”

“Be interesting to see if anybody else turns up in Key West,” Tommy said.

“Could happen,” Carman replied. “Tell me, do you know how long Carras and his wife were married?”

“Little more than a year, she says. If he was Marinello, he probably wouldn’t have told her, since he was such a careful man.”

“I agree,” Carman said. “I talked to her yesterday and drew a complete blank. I don’t think she had a clue what I was talking about.”

“Are you going to report all this to your clients?” Tommy asked.

“I haven’t decided.”

“You understand what might happen to Mrs. Carras if you do?”

“It’s crossed my mind.”

“Let me be straight with you, Mr. Carman,” Tommy said. “I don’t want somebody’s goons coming down here to my town and beating up on a citizen, you get my drift?”

“I do. I don’t think she knows anything about Marinello anyway.”

“That wouldn’t much matter to your clients, would it? I mean, they’re not likely to take her denials at face value, are they?”

Carman shook his head. “I wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

“Let’s leave it at this, Mr. Carman: if I find out something that might connect Carras to Marinello, I’ll call you; you do the same for me, okay?”

“Okay,” Carman replied. “I don’t see much point in hanging around this tropical paradise any longer. I’m going back to L.A. Thanks for your help, Detective.” He stuck out his hand.

Tommy shook it, then let Carman out of the back of the car. The PI got onto a scooter and drove away.

Tommy got back in. “What do you think?” he asked Daryl.

“Well, we already knew Carras wasn’t Carras. He could be Marinello. Is Rock short for Rocco?”

“Could be; like in Rocky Graziano.”

“Then the book I saw at Carras’s house could be the connection Carman was looking for.”

“Could be, but as far as you and I are concerned, it’s moot. Carras is dead, and I’m not going to sic the mob on his widow, are you?”

“Not me. If Carras was Marinello, I’d bet she didn’t know it.”

“Way I look at it,” Tommy said, “if somebody can clip the mob for a bundle and get away with it, it’s okay with me.”

C
lare Carras swam slowly up and down the length of the pool. The underwater light was off, and the house was dark. It was just after midnight. A faint, mixed din of rock music wafted over the fence from the direction of Duval Street; the tourists were stocking the bars.

He came in over the back fence, as he had been told to do, looking around him in the darkness.

“Over here,” Clare said quietly. He walked to the edge of the pool, slipped out of his clothes, then slid silently into the water.

After they had made love and he was still begging for another time, she climbed out of the pool and lay on the grass. He came and lay beside her.

“Something’s come up,” she said. “We have to talk.”

“If we have to.”

“A man named Carman showed up in town yesterday; he came to see me in the afternoon.”

“Somebody Harry knew?”

“No. Somebody who was looking for Harry.”

“Well, he’s a little late, isn’t he?”

“He’s not too late to make trouble for us, baby.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“He found out who Harry really was.”

“Wasn’t Harry Harry?”

“Not until a few years ago. He spent the earlier part of his life as somebody else, somebody who disappeared with a lot of somebody else’s money.”

“Uh-oh,” he said.

“I’m glad you’re getting the point, baby. We do
not
want these particular people coming around asking for their money back.”

“Who are these people?”

“Believe me, it’s better if you don’t know any more about that.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Trouble is, they might take Carman seriously about the connection to Harry, and we can’t have that.”

“We certainly can’t,” he said.

“Do you think you could handle the problem?”

“For you? Of course.”

“For both of us, baby.”

“Do you know where he’s staying?”

“He’s at the Pier House. I followed him home after the inquest. He’d been talking to that cop, Tommy Sculley.”

“Not good.”

“No, but not necessarily bad, either. I don’t think he’s likely to tell Sculley who he’s working for.”

“No?”

“Believe me, no. But we’re going to have to take care of Mr. Carman, and we can’t do it in Key West. I don’t want the people he works for to even know he was here.”

“Did he fly in?”

“No, he flew into Miami, rented a car, and drove down. He told me he’d never been to the Keys, and he wanted to know what it was like. In fact, Mr. Carman told me a lot more than he should have. He told me, for instance, during our conversation, that he liked to travel under an assumed name, and that he always paid his travel expenses in cash whenever possible. Mr. Carman is a private detective, and I think he’s seen too many movies about his profession.”

“So?”

“So what we have to do is to get him back to Miami and deal with him there.”

“I’ll bet you already have it worked out how to do that.”

She smiled. “I have. Mr. Carman was in a bar on Duval Street a couple of hours ago. He could be back in his room by now. Shall we see?”

“Let’s.”

She picked up the poolside phone and dialed the hotel room directly, bypassing the switchboard.

“Hello?” His voice was sleepy and slurred.

“Mr. Carman?”

“Yes.”

“This is the person you talked to yesterday afternoon; do you remember?”

“Yes, of course.” He was awake now.

“I’m in Miami, and I have some information about the man whose photograph you showed me yesterday.”

“That’s very good. When can I have it?”

“You’ll have to move fast, I’m afraid; I’ve left Key West, and I’m not coming back.”

“I can move as fast as you like,” Carman replied. “Where can we meet?”

“First, you have to promise me that you won’t ever tell your clients you spoke with me.”

“All right; I won’t tell them.”

“Do you have a Florida road map?”

“Got one right here; let me turn on the light. Okay, got it.”

“Do you see where Highway 1 leaves Key Largo and goes north?”

“Yes.”

“That goes to Homestead. From there take Route 997 north until it joins 27, then turn north.”

“Got it.”

“Highway 27 crosses I-75, and there’s a tollbooth. There’s a rest stop just before the tollbooth; stop there. I’ll leave all the information in an envelope behind the toilet in the men’s room.”

“What sort of information is it?”

“Everything you need to make the connection. But leave me out of it, remember?”

“Don’t worry, you won’t even exist.”

“That’s the way I prefer it. Now, you must leave at once to get there before dawn; after that the rest stop will get busy, and somebody might find the envelope before you do.”

“I can be out of the hotel in ten minutes; I’ve already paid my bill.”

“Good. We won’t be talking again. You’ll make good time on the road this time of night, but don’t get any speeding tickets.”

“I won’t. Thank you and good-bye.”

“Good-bye.” She hung up. “He’s all yours,” she said, “but you’d better hurry.”

He stood up and started to get dressed.

“Search him and his car for any sign of Key West—hotel bill, matchbooks—anything. And there’s a photograph; bring it to me.”

“Gotcha.”

She stood up and kissed him. “Thank you, baby,” she said. “Next time we meet I’ll do something special for you.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” he said.

When he had left, Clare got back into the pool and resumed her laps—slowly and easily. Harry had taught her how.

Carman pulled into the rest stop and switched off his lights. There was a glow in the sky to the east, but the place wasn’t crowded; only one other car there.

He got out of his car and walked toward the little building housing the restrooms, wondering if they’d be unlocked this time of day. When he reached the door, he saw that the hasp had been jimmied off the door and hung, useless, with the padlock still on it. He opened the door and felt for the light switch. He found it, but the lights didn’t come on. “Shit,” he said, feeling his way toward the toilet. It was the last word he ever spoke.