Vampire Slayer Murdered in Key West - Mick Murphy Short Stories (4 page)

The parking lot between the bank and the Hog’s Breath had two cars in it and the outdoor bar area looked empty. As I rode in off Duval Street, I thought Lucky got tired of waiting and left. I was wrong.

I locked my bike in the bike rack and headed in.

To the right of the parking lot entrance of the Hog there is a stage, to the left a small raw bar that also served draught beer. Straight ahead was the large full-service bar with seating on all four sides.

Lucky was sitting on the ground, bar stools were turned over, and a sword, thrust through his stomach, impaled him to the bar. A small pirate flag hung from its grip. Lucky’s face showed pain and fear. Blood dripped in multiple spots down his T-shirt. I looked around, but there was no one. The
con leche
turned in my stomach. I walked to the side of the bar that faced the restaurant, so I wouldn’t have to see Lucky, and called the Chief.

Next, I called Tracy upstairs.

“Tracy, there’s going to be some police action downstairs,” I took a deep breath, “stay upstairs, but call Charlie and tell him someone has died at the bar …”

“Mick!” She didn’t let me finish. “Who?”

“You’re going to have enough cops upstairs in a little while, just call Charlie and prepare yourself …”

“For what?” the gravelly whisper began to sound nervous. “What’s happening?”

“Call Charlie, Tracy, and don’t mention my package, please. All you know is Lucky asked for me, so you called me, nothing else. The cops are on their way. Put the package in the safe, please,” I disconnected the call and lit a cigar. I needed the package and I trusted Tracy to put it away and keep our secret, but knew it would cost me a lunch and twenty questions, in a day or two.

A squad car screeched into the parking lot, lights flashing, and siren wailing. The Chief pulled in a few seconds behind and had the cop turn them off. He held the uniformed officer back and walked toward me. He stopped and looked down at Lucky, then motioned me to meet him.

“You said he was Lucky,” he shook his head. “I guess he isn’t anymore.”

I chomped on the cigar, but there wasn’t the foul odor that the boat cabin had, I was just nervous.

The Chief got closer and bent down to the body. “Stab wounds,” he said, more to himself than to me.

“There’s a trail of blood from the raw bar to where you are,” I pointed to small splatters of blood on the cracked concrete floor.

“Why are you here?” he stood up. “Were you meeting him too?”

“I was having coffee with Padre Thomas and Tracy upstairs called and told me Lucky was here looking for me.”

“The crazy priest! Don’t you know any normal people?” he shook his head and watched the crime scene van drive in. “Did you touch anything? The sword?”

“You’re the most normal person I know, Chief, and no, I didn’t touch anything.”

Sherlock stopped at the entrance and looked down at Lucky. He scanned the stage and the raw bar and he saw the blood spatters. He walked to where they began and waved the Chief over. Pretending he was holding a sword, Sherlock twirled his wrist and thrust forward like Errol Flynn in an old swashbuckling movie, forcing the Chief backward.

“Tell me something,” he stabbed forward and the Chief backed up. “Tell me something, tell me something,” he repeated as he thrust forward. In four or five steps the Chief had his back against the stage railing and Sherlock turned him to the bar, “Tell me something,” he yelled and the Chief almost tripped over Lucky.

“The killer is getting messy and nervous,” Sherlock said, dropping his imaginary sword. “There was a conversation, he didn’t like what he heard, or didn’t hear and killed the guy quickly and cleanly on the boat. Here, he stabbed the vic,” he looked down at the body, “maybe six times from what I can see. He’s after something or someone and he’s getting nervous. Who’s left of the three?”

“Wizard is back at the station, so we know he didn’t do this,” the Chief looked at me. “The other old guy is Bubba?”

“Yeah,” I sat back down. “If he’s not on his boat, he’s probably at a bar.”

The Chief took Sherlock’s radio and called dispatch. He wanted Bubba picked up.

“What is it with the swords and pirate flags?” Sherlock checked behind the body.

“You know their story about finding the treasure, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard so many versions, I don’t believe any of them.”

“You’re probably right,” I took the cigar out of my mouth. “Tony was helping them write their memoirs and my guess is someone’s afraid of something in the story.”

“Why?” the Chief moved closer.

“If I knew that, I’d know who the killer is, wouldn’t I?”

“This sword looks as old as the other one,” Sherlock studied the sword handle. “There can’t be that many pirate swords on the island … maybe we’re looking for a collector.”

“Since the Pirate Soul museum opened there’s no shortage of replicas,” I said.

“Damn,” he stood up. “Two bodies, two swords, it’s gotta be the same killer,” he pointed toward the sword and pirate flag, “who is scared and that makes him more dangerous than methodical. Unless you’ve got an idea about a suspect, Chief, I think you need to call FDLE.”

“Yeah,” he sat at a barstool, his back to the body. “But let’s give our detectives a few hours on their own, maybe they’ll come up with a suspect.”

The Florida Department of Law Enforcement is like a state FBI and is used often by small municipalities in the Florida Keys when major crimes occur. Sherlock regularly uses the FDLE crime lab in his investigations.

“Someone at the marina must have seen something,” I added in support.

“You’re right there, Mick,” Sherlock answered a little too quickly, “people saw you, but no one saw anyone before you got on the boat.”

“Well, then,” I stuffed the cigar back in my mouth, “they didn’t see Tony get on, so they missed him, why not the killer?”

Two police cars pulled to a stop in the parking lot. It was time for the investigation to get going and I knew that meant talking to Tracy.

“Give your statement to the officer outside,” the Chief said. “And come to the station when Luis calls you. Any idea why Lucky was looking for you here, when the bar’s not open?”

“None,” I lied.

“You were lookin’ for the first vic and he got himself killed,” Sherlock said flatly, “you were comin’ to meet this vic, and he’s dead. Do me a favor, Mick, go home and stop lookin’ for people!”

• • •

I didn’t go home, because I needed the package Lucky had left with Tracy. A section of the sky filled with rain clouds, but to the north, the sun shined. I rode my bike to Harpoon Harry’s, knowing it would be hours before the police finished at the Hog’s Breath.

The breakfast crowd had gone and it was too early for the lunch bunch, so I grabbed a table in back and Ron, the owner, brought me a mug of black coffee and the menu. I ordered an egg and cheese sandwich on Cuban bread.

“You mind if I join you?”

Attorney Shawn Eden stood there, a warm smile spread across his freshly shaven face. I poured sugar into my
con leche
and pointed at the empty seat across from me.

Shawn is a big man, in size and in the community. His thick mop of hair has turned gray, but once it was as black as his attorney’s heart. His family has been in the Keys for forever and he is a Conch, the name given to local families that have lived here for generations. His dress code is colorful print shirts, creased linen pants, and expensive loafers without socks.

Ron brought him a mug of coffee and Shawn waved off the menu.

“A shame about your friend,” he said and poured four spoons of sugar into his coffee. “I talked with him recently about my backing the treasure hunters.” He couldn’t stifle a laugh. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but those guys were anything but treasure hunters.”

“You made a lot of money off their treasure, counselor,” I sipped my coffee.

“I met the three of them back in the ‘60s,” he closed his eyes. “More than forty years ago. I was fresh out of law school and I had my degree. What you see here in Key West today, that’s not what it was like when I came home.” He pointed toward the harbor and Waterfront Market, “That area there was filled with shrimp boats, PT’s was a tough country-western bar. And the shrimpers weren’t bringing in much shrimp, but they had a lot of square groupers to unload,” he laughed, again. “God, what a town this used to be.”

Square groupers are bales of marijuana. Key West businessmen backed local fishermen and they made fortunes bringing in loads of marijuana from mother ships offshore. It went on into the 1980s, but then the smugglers switched to cocaine and the rules changed. The money was better, but DEA and Custom Agents where in Key West and family men were going away to do hard time in far off jails. It stopped being a sport everyone was involved in, about that time.

“You’re right though, I made good money off their treasure,” he sipped the coffee. “I never thought I would. I saw the three of them as colorful characters and tried to help them out with money. I thought of it as a handout, they considered it an investment in their businesses.”

“Then you’re lucky they looked at it that way.”

“Well, yeah,” he smiled. “For the derelict drunkards and liars they were, or are,” he smiled again, “they turned out to be men of their words.”

“They sign anything?” I began to nibble my sandwich.

“Never, we shook hands,” he closed his eyes again. “I backed their bringing Conch in from the Bahamas and they scuttle their boat on some sandbar and ended up eating most of the Conch before the Coast Guard found them. I paid for them to get their captain’s licenses so they could use one of their boats to take tourists to the reef. Hell, Mick, there had to be a dozen other schemes. I remember the day they walked into my office with some of their treasure and wanted me to be their partner.”

“They needed money.”

“You got that right. In all, I probably put in a little more than fifty grand,” he grinned. “What a return on that investment.”

“You know Lucky was murdered too,” I watched him for a reaction. I didn’t see one, but then he’s an attorney and I am not sure they react to anything other than billing hours.

“Yeah, I got a call from the police.”

Shawn’s contacts went into all city departments and many local businesses, because he and his family owned a variety of businesses in Key West and the Upper Keys.

“Everyone knows I handle their legal affairs,” he broke off a piece of my sandwich and ate it. “I do that pro bono, too.”

“The cops have the Wizard and they’re looking for Bubba.”

“I know these guys, they couldn’t kill anyone, they might drown you by mistake,” he laughed, “but they couldn’t kill anyone.”

“Maybe it has something to do with the book?”

Shawn laughed clearly this time. “The book! Mick, it wouldn’t be a memoir it would be a work of fiction. They haven’t been in their right minds for forty years. Is that what the cops think?”

“I have no idea what the cops think.”

“Yeah, but you found both bodies.”

“I can’t argue that, counselor, and I think I’m Sherlock’s number one suspect.”

“You’re another one I’d lay money on couldn’t kill someone.”

“You know me, Shawn, I believe in running away so I can run another day.”

“A man after my own heart. Hey, I need to get to the police station and see they aren’t using a rubber hose on Wizard. I’ll see you around,” he stood up, said something to Ron and left.

I drank another cup of coffee, but still had a couple of hours before I could go back and get what Lucky had left with Tracy.

• • •

Light rain wet one side of Caroline Street, as I rode my bike toward Simonton Street, where I turned and then again on Fleming Street, going against the one-way traffic. The rain stayed at the waterfront. I locked my bike in front of Island Books.

Books, shelved and in stacks, filled the narrow store. Books about Key West, its history, and its characters ran along the right wall; and there were signed books by Key West authors on a display as you first came into the shop. New books, used books, picture books filled the store. In the next room, the condition was the same, books, and more books.

I saw Mitch’s head through the open door to his small office in the back, he was working at his computer. There was no one at the register and two customers wandered through the store.

“You’re here early,” Mitch said. He must have had eyes in the back of his head.

“Have you heard about the two murders?”

He turned in his book-cramped office and stared at me. “In Key West?” Classical music played lightly from his computer speakers.

“Yeah, in Key West.”

“Tell me.” He pushed his glasses up on his noise and waited.

I told him and he listened quietly.

“Any suspects? I mean, besides you.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I don’t know what they’ve done in the last few hours, maybe they do, maybe they don’t.”

“Are you hiding out?” he twisted in his chair.

“When they call me to come in for questioning I’ll go in.”

“Really? Take an attorney.”

“I don’t need one.”

“Famous last words. Look it, if they’ve got no one else, then it has to be you. I beg your pardon, but that’s how it works.”

“I don’t think so, Mitch. I have witnesses, there’s no physical evidence …”

“Coincidence, Mick,” he pushed his glasses back in place and stood up. “Take my advice and don’t go to the police station without legal representation, coincidence has put others in jail.”

Outside, I lit another cigar and decided to walk along Duval Street toward the Hog’s Breath. I could see the rain clouds hovering at Lower Duval. Cars and scooters rushed in both directions and the sidewalks were busy with tourists. Outside Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville Restaurant, people were lined up for lunch seating. At Fat Tuesday’s early revelers enjoyed the toxic frozen drinks they served and across Caroline Street Fogerty’s had its first lunch group seated. The island was busy for mid-week. Rain was a block away.

The two hundred block of Duval was the party area, be it spring break or Fantasy Fest or any day of the week with a D in it. The Tree Bar, Angelina’s Pizza, and Rick’s were open and busy. Across the street, the Lazy Gecko, Sloppy Joe’s Bar, and Irish Kevin’s were just as busy. This block of Key West sold a good time by the glass and there was no shortage of takers. Rain drizzled across Greene Street, like a beaded curtain.