The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective (11 page)

“Correct,” Tree said.

The agent consulted the file in front of him. “The two of you don’t have the same last name,” Max Hesselgesser said.

“Nonetheless, she is my wife and I want to know that she is okay.”

“I suppose that depends on what your definition of ‘okay’ is, doesn’t it? If you mean do we have her in the other room beating her with a rubber hose? No, so in that sense she’s okay. If you mean are the two of you facing possible criminal charges, then I would have to say neither one of you is okay—unless you start to cooperate with us.”

“What sort of criminal charges would we be facing?”

Hesselgesser consulted the file again. “It appears you’ve got quite a rap sheet going here, Walter.”

Rap sheet? Tree never imagined the day would come when anyone would tell him he had an FBI rap sheet. The perils of growing old.

“Major league stuff,” Hesselgesser continued. “A couple of murder charges.”

“I was cleared of those charges,” Tree said.

“So you were, Walter. So you were. But now you’ve encountered Special Agent Max Hesselgesser, and I’m a pretty tenacious son of a gun, so you may not find this hoop so easy to jump through.”

“You still haven’t told me what I’m being charged with,” Tree said.

“You haven’t been charged with anything yet.”

“Then why are you holding me?”

“It says here you are a private investigator,” Hesselgesser said.

“Retired,” Tree said.

“Okay, Walter, what’s a retired private eye doing hanging around with a gangster named Johnny Bravo?”

“You still haven’t explained why you are holding me, Special Agent.”

“I’m holding you, Walter, because I want you to answer my question.” A certain tightness had entered Hesselgesser’s voice.

“Here’s the thing. I don’t want to answer your question.”

“I think you would be best advised to answer me, Walter.” If it was possible, Hesselgesser’s face had become harder. The muscles around the corners of his mouth performed little dances of tension.

“Tell me this, Max. Why did you arrest Johnny Bravo in the first place?”

“You’ve got it all wrong here, Walter,” Hesselgesser said. “I ask the questions. You provide the answers.”

“Max, with all due respect, if you want me to answer your question, then you had better answer mine—particularly since the answer to my question is probably going to be in the
Miami Herald
tomorrow morning.”

Max Hesselgesser drummed his fingers briefly against the surface of the desk before he said, “We’re holding Mr. Bravo as a person of interest in a murder investigation.”

“The murder of Vic Trinchera?”

Hesselgesser allowed his head to move up and down slightly. “What do you know about it?”

“Not much,” Tree said. “I got a call from my lawyer saying someone in Miami wished to speak to a private investigator.”

“That was Vic Trinchera?”

“It was,” Tree said.

“What did he want?”

“I never found out,” Tree said. “When I got to his house, he drove away, and the next thing I knew, the police found his body.”

“How did you get hooked up with Johnny Bravo and his pals?”

“My wife and I were at the Wynwood Walls. His people pulled up and said Johnny Bravo wanted to meet with us.”

“Why would Johnny Bravo want to meet with you?”

Tree shrugged. “He wanted to know what I was doing with Vic Trinchera.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t tell him anything. I didn’t have the chance, thanks to you guys.”

Hesselgesser spent more time drumming his fingers against the edge of the table. “Vic Trinchera didn’t say anything to you about a dog, did he?”

Tree felt everything inside him tense. “Dog?” he said as casually as he could manage.

“Yes, a dog. Did he say anything about a dog?”

“He didn’t say much about anything,” Tree said.

“No dog?”

“Why would the FBI be interested in Vic Trinchera’s dog?” Tree said.

“Maybe the dog’s a witness to Mr. Trinchera’s murder,” Hesselgesser said. It was hard to tell if he was kidding.

“If you’re not going to charge me with dognapping, then I’d like to collect my wife and go home,” Tree said.

“You want to know what I think, Walter?”

“I don’t like being called Walter,” Tree said.

“I think you know a whole lot more than you’re telling us.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. How about dogs and Vic Trinchera’s murder?”

“What is it about me that convinces police officers throughout South Florida that I’m involved in various murders.”

“Because you probably are, Walter. My experience? Where there is smoke, there is fire.” He rapped his knuckles against the table. “From here on in, I’ll be keeping a close eye on you.”

Hesselgesser slid a business card across the table. “Keep in touch,” he said.

“I’m adding you to my Christmas card list,” Tree said.

15

B
y the time they got a taxi back to the Wynwood Walls—the FBI refused to drive them—and retrieved Freddie’s Mercedes, it was after eight. Tree was fighting fatigue as he turned the car off North Miami Avenue onto I-95, headed west out of the city. Freddie, on the other hand, positively crackled with energy. Her brush with gangsters and law enforcement, rather than making her miserable and concerned, had left her pumped.

“What did you tell them?” she said to Tree. “Do you suppose our stories matched?”

“I don’t know,” Tree said. “What was your story?”

“I just told them what was more or less true—that these guys jumped us and drove us to the Biltmore Hotel. The agents interviewing me asked what I knew about this Johnny Bravo. I said I didn’t have a clue who he was, that you’d better ask my husband.”

“This agent, Max Hesselgesser, asked me about Vic’s dog.”

“You’re kidding. He wanted to know about Clinton? What did you tell him?”

“That I didn’t know anything about a dog.”

“So you lied to the FBI.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite that way.”

“What other way could you put it?”

“Did they ask you about the dog?”

“Not a word.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes, Tree trying to stifle yawns, breathing deeply to keep himself awake.

“Tell me this,” Freddie said finally. “Why do we keep lying about the dog?”

“Because we are trying to protect him.”

“From the FBI?”

“From everyone until we find out what’s going on.”

Freddie said, “You know the one person who might have some answers.”

“Edith Goldman?”

“Who is also looking for the dog, is she not?”

“She’s even offering a reward.”

“Maybe it’s time we found out why.”

“Should I give her a call?”

“No,” Freddie said. “You’ve tried that, and you didn’t get anywhere.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Let’s not give her a chance to ignore us.”

“How do we do that?”

“We drive around to her place,” Freddie said.

“Now?”

“It’s Sunday night, probably the best time to get her at home. Besides, I have to go to work tomorrow, so if we’re going to do this together, we’d better do it now.”

Tree gave her a sidelong glance. “I thought you wanted me to retire.”

“You are retired,” Freddie answered. “You’re a
retired
detective trying to help a dog named Clinton.”

“It makes so much more sense when you say it,” Tree said.

“My logic is impeccable,” Freddie agreed.

_________

Edith’s townhouse was within walking distance of her office in downtown Fort Myers. It was after eleven by the time Tree found a parking spot on the street. He hobbled out of the car, stretching his sore joints. Freddie, meanwhile, hopped out and was halfway along the block before she realized her husband wasn’t with her.

“Come on,” she called to him with an impatient wave of her hand.

“I’m too old for this,” Tree said.

“No kidding,” Freddie said.

She was already up the walkway to the townhouse. A light shone in the ground-floor windows. Freddie rang the doorbell. Chimes sounded from inside.

Tree joined Freddie at the door and together they waited. Freddie rang the bell again. “Could be no one’s home,” Tree said.

“There are lights on,” Freddie said.

She rang the bell a third time and then pounded on the frosted glass. The door swung open a crack.

“That was the door opening,” Freddie said.

“Yes.” Tree felt his stomach turn. He had experienced this sickening, sinking feeling before, and it was never good.

Freddie pushed the door open wider. Amber light glowed from the interior. “Edith,” Freddie called. “It’s me. Freddie Stayner. Are you here?”

Tree was hoping against hope Edith’s husky voice would come back to them, urging them to come on in, and could she pour Freddie a glass of wine, and what a pleasant surprise, and sit down and let’s chat.

But that did not happen. There was only silence.

“I don’t like this,” Freddie said in a whisper, as though it was necessary to keep their voices low.

Tree stepped through the doorway into the entry hall, calling out, “Edith, it’s Freddie and Tree. We’re coming in.”

The hallway opened into a living room. Ivory walls displayed modern art pieces. Tree moved through the living room, sensing rather than seeing Freddie behind him. He called Edith’s name again, stepping down another short hall leading to the kitchen.

The kitchen floor was done in Italian tile. Tree remembered Edith saying that she had picked it out herself during a visit to Positano. A widening crimson pool spread across the tile.

Behind him, Tree heard Freddie draw in her breath sharply. She grabbed at Tree’s arm. He held her, and she began to tremble against him, her eyes welling with tears.

Edith Goldman sprawled on the tile. Her coiffed head swam in red.

16

A
blur of sirens and flashing lights and uniformed officers, detectives who looked as though they had just come from their sons’ softball practice, badges hanging from thin chains around sun-reddened necks, crime-scene techies in white “bunny suits,” questions, questions, and more questions—all the questions rising to a scream: what were they doing in Edith’s house? How was it they came to find her body?

Good questions. What were they doing, anyway? Why was he finding yet another bloody corpse, surrounded by dour cops? Too many cops. Florida overflowed with cops. It seemed Tree had met them all, and they all looked at him suspiciously, as though every word out of his mouth was a lie. They were more or less right—not every word necessarily, but enough of them to justify the suspicious looks.

The Fort Myers detectives were short on information about Edith. She had been shot three times. Twice in the back of the head. Once in the chest. That’s all they would say. Instead, they wanted to know what Tree did for a living. Tree had no choice but to tell them he was a private detective, a retired private detective he hastened to add. But they did not seem to hear the retired part. A private dick had found Edith’s body. What was all that about? Did Tree know more than he was willing to confess? They always thought Tree knew more, when in fact he did not know much of anything.

Tree told his interrogators he and Freddie drove to this townhouse after several calls to Edith had gone unreturned. They decided to go to her place to make sure she was all right. Not quite a lie, but not the truth, either. He did not mention, for example—and neither did Freddie— that two hours before they found Edith they had been sitting with their wrists bound answering questions posed by the Miami FBI, questions about a missing dog—a dog everyone appeared to want, a dog that may have gotten Edith Goldman killed. Would you kill someone over a dog? Tree wondered.

Apparently that was a possibility.

It was after one o’clock by the time the police finally released them. Freddie leaned close to Tree, holding his arm as he drove. There were no further tears but occasionally her body shook involuntarily.

They crossed the causeway onto Sanibel in silence and then started along Periwinkle Way. The business of being kidnapped, arrested, questioned, and then discovering a dead body and being questioned more, had left them numb and exhausted.

The island was quiet at this time of night. You could fool yourself into thinking that only the two of you were left in the whole world, stranded in a darkness broken by flashing images of Edith Goldman swimming in blood.

“I don’t like this,” Freddie said as they crossed Blind Pass onto Captiva. “This isn’t fun.”

“No,” Tree said. “No, it isn’t.”