The Black Palmetto (7 page)

Lora’s eyes widened, as if she just remembered something. “Oh, yeah. I went to the construction site up in Marathon, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. It looks like they might be about half-finished with the shopping center. Nobody was working, probably because of Jake's death.”

“We'll drop by there,” Sam said, “but not today.”

“I’ll give you the address when you’re ready to go. Oh, yeah, I set up an appointment for you with the attorney. I know what you said about not needing one, but this isn't Miami. You might be in a precarious position. He said he'd see you at 4:30 p.m.”

Sam glanced at the clock on the wall of her cubicle: 4:25 p.m. Sam didn’t want to meet with the guy, but he didn’t want to be rousted by the police, either.

“You've got time. His office is right across the street.”

****

Charles Ford seemed frail, had thinning hair, and stood only about five-two. He had a facial tic under his right eye, and wore an empty expression that seemed almost catatonic. Lora had filled Sam in before going over so he wouldn't be surprised. “Don't stare,” she’d said. “He hates that.”

After introductions, Sam and Simone took a seat in front of Ford's desk. The lawyer wore a beige suit that appeared to be made of linen. He smiled at Simone. The tic rippled down the side of his face.

“Okay, tell me what happened,” Ford said.

Sam decided to play along. When he finished the story, Ford nodded. “That jibes with what Lora said. It's a good thing you came in.”

“They didn't seem too interested in arresting me for it.”

Between tics, Ford's face morphed into something that resembled a smile, like an expression on a cat with a mouse under its paw.

“Wait until Morton Bell enters the picture,” Ford said.

“What do you mean?”

“His only son was murdered. After he pitches a fit, they’ll be glad to lock you up.”

“I don't think they can do that,” Sam said.

The attorney did the cat smile again. “They can do anything they want. You're a stranger in town. You made an appointment to meet Jake. An hour later they found him dead. That will be simple logic for Morton Bell.”

“You paint a pretty dismal picture of the local law.”

Shrugging, the lawyer said, “Left to their own devices, they’ll never find this killer, but they will need someone to blame.”

Chapter Nine

Chief Boozler returned to headquarters shortly before 5:00 p.m. and passed Lonnie's desk on his way to his own office.

“I found out about the hearse, Chief.”

“What hearse is that, Lonnie?”

“You know, the one the gravediggers used to move the body. The state boys said a vehicle crashed through the rail of a bridge up above Key Largo, over Blackwater Sound. It might be the reason those two clowns never made it to Lauderdale with that body. And that isn't all. A bomb of some kind was used. Maybe military. They found pieces of metal and human tissue. But most of it probably fell into the water.”

The chief stared for a moment. “Okay, good work, Lonnie. Get me the details on that bomb. There aren't many places to get a military bomb around The Keys.”

“I can't imagine why anyone would want to blow up a hearse.”

“What if someone wanted to destroy the body? You know that call to Howard Tim was a phony.”

“But why would somebody want to destroy a corpse?” Lonnie asked, smiling.

The chief rolled his eyes.

“Use your head. Remember the guy who's coming from Tallahassee to examine the tattoo? Maybe somebody didn't want him to see it.”

“You really think so? Oh, oh yeah. I get the picture now.”

About time.

“Get Dudley to help you, Lonnie. No need in you shouldering all the responsibility on this.”

“That's okay. I can handle it. Dudley's got other things to do.”

“Yeah, well, get him anyway. That's an order.” He stepped away, headed for his office, leaving Lonnie to pout at his desk.

Before entering the door, he asked his secretary if the parole officer had called.

“No calls. I’ve been at my desk since you left earlier.”

Scratching his head, he said, “Huh, he's supposed to be here by five.”

Shrugging, the secretary grabbed her purse and stood to leave. “Unless you have something else, Chief, I'm calling it a day.”

“No, that's okay. I won't be here much longer, myself.”

Back behind his desk he turned his concentration to a budget proposal the city manager had left there the day before.

Morton Bell thundered in through his door. “What's wrong with you, Rich? Your brain going soft like these other idiots around here?”

A hammer pounded behind the chief's eyes.

“What's the problem, Mort?”

“Why'd you let that murderer go? Jake is stone-cold dead, and that killer is running free to do whatever he pleases. I want you to arrest him, right now!”

“Sorry Mort, I can't do that. I don't think he killed your son.”

“Well, nobody around here would've done it, and he spoke with Jake no more than an hour before…” His mouth twisted out of shape and tears ran down his cheeks. He mopped them with the backs of his hands.

“I know you're upset, and you have a right to be. But the prosecutor decided we don't have enough evidence to convict. We'd be wasting our time, while the real killer is still out there.”

“Okay, fine. If you won't lock him up for me, let's see if you’ll do it for the mayor.”

The older man stormed out and down the hall. Boozler didn't like the sound of that. He got along just fine with the mayor, but he also knew the man was defenseless when it came to Morton Bell.

Bell had spread enough money around Iguana Key to get the mayor elected, and he had become the best puppet imaginable. Though Bell didn't call on him often, when he did, he expected attention.

Within ten minutes Morton came marching back past his door, a sneer on his face, and stomped out of the building. Then, just about the time Boozler expected the mayor, Charles Ford came in. He hadn't even heard the door open again. Ford entered the office without saying a word and sat down.

“Well, if it isn't Mr. Personality,” the chief said. “What do you want?”

Ford stared for several beats. “Has the mayor been in yet?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know precisely what I'm talking about. I just saw Morty leaving.”

The chief thought about it before responding. “No, he hasn't. What does―”

“Splendid, it will save you some measure of face to not have to reverse a moronic decision.”

“You're representing Mackenzie?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. So just turn Meyer down and be firm. It will be considerably less painful for you both in the long run.”

“Why would I do that for you?”

Ford leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. A couple of beats passed. The corners of his mouth seemed to turn up, as if in a smile, Boozler wasn’t sure.

“Perhaps the voters would like to know how a public servant could afford a Range Rover.”

The blood pulsed past Boozler's ears like noisy windshield wipers. His head felt as if it might pop. This creep had coerced him into releasing a suspect for the John Doe murder two months ago, and now he might get away with it again. Did he know where the money came from, or was he just bluffing?

Boozler took a deep breath and sighed. “What about Morton?”

“What about him? He can take a hike.”

“You are a ruthless bloodsucker.”

Ford nodded. “I'm glad we understand each other.”

“What if Mackenzie is guilty? Wouldn't that make you feel bad?”

The little man’s right eye twitched. “Nice try. I suspect any number of jealous husbands would like to have Jake's genitals bronzed and displayed on their mantels.”

“That’s dangerous talk. If Morton heard you make a statement like that, there's no telling what he might do. And no jury around here would convict him, either.”

Ford chuckled. “The day I'm afraid of a rich redneck like Morton Bell is the day I'll tear down my shingle. I'm leaving now, and I suggest you do the same.”

Though Boozler made no comment as the lawyer left the room, he had to agree. It would be easiest if he couldn't be found. He stood and kicked the wall on his way out, bursting a hole in the thin wood panel.

****

The little shack sat about fifty feet from the bend in the waterway. Harpo Crumm lay on the floor atop a blanket, inching his way back from death's door. He dreamed of people with flowing robes, and angels, everything bright and sunny, in living color.

He found himself quoting Bible verses he’d never read, and witnessed strange visions. The woman who owned the shack said it was because of the fever and pain. But part of it was because of the voices in his head. Voices that told about things that happened somewhere around the beginning of time. But they also told the news and weather, advertised a new club on South Beach, and urged him to vote for some guy he'd never heard of running for Dade County Commission.

After rolling out the door of the exploding hearse, Harpo had floated to the bank of the Sound with his arms wrapped tightly around a piece of a dead tree. The little boy had found him, and he and his mother had pulled Harpo out of the water and dragged him into the shack. He didn't know why he remained with the living, instead of shoveling coal down below, but here he was, and he thought it might be a sign.

Salt water had washed away most of the blood, but he had an ugly gash on his chest where the bullet had ricocheted off the little radio in his shirt pocket. He also had an inflamed knot on one side of his forehead with a piece of metal sticking out of it. The woman said it looked a lot like the tip of the antenna on the portable radio she had in her kitchen, only smaller. She wanted to take him to a hospital to get it out. Alas, she didn’t have transportation or a phone.

Few people knew Harpo Crumm had been a hospital corpsman with the military in an earlier life. He had almost forgotten it himself. But he remembered just long enough to tell the woman he needed antibiotics if she could find some. She left on foot and came back several hours later carrying a pint jar full of capsules the size of jumbo jellybeans. The label prescribed the medicine for someone named Heifer. The pills weren't a flavor of antibiotic Harpo recognized, but they would have to do. He took double the prescribed dose, and for the next twenty-four hours his head simmered and buzzed, while the tunes and visions just kept on playing.

Chapter Ten

Boozler drove around for a few minutes, thinking about Morton Bell. The old guy would get what he wanted, one way or another, but he wouldn't get it tonight. They had always been adversaries, primarily because of their first meeting. As a teen, Rich had come down from Miami to a June bash held at the Bell estate. Mitzi, Morton's only daughter, had invited him. Though he'd seen her at the beach a few times, they'd never actually been on a date. With hair the color of honey, blue eyes that would cause a compass to go haywire, and a body that drew ogles from every boy on the beach, he assumed she was out of his league.

About an hour into the party, Mitzi pulled him aside and asked if he wanted to walk on the beach. He’d said yes, of course. They each left the crowd, going in different directions, and he met in her backyard. After stepping into the sand, away from the lights and noise inside, she took him by surprise with a kiss. The kiss, and what followed, led him to believe she had more experience than he had thought. Certainly more than he had.

Five minutes later, they lay half clothed in the sand. Then old Morty stepped through the dunes with a flashlight and started yelling. He grabbed Boozler by the ankle and dragged him through the sand and shells for what seemed like a hundred yards, cursing the entire time. For days after that, Boozler suffered from scratches and scrapes on various parts of his body.

Mitzi went off to boarding school the following week, and the next time Boozler saw her was at Christmas, when she came home for the holidays. He had thought of little else for those months, and the minute he heard she was home, he drove down the Overseas Highway and rode by her house. It appeared her parents were away, and he wanted to surprise her. But when she opened the door, he was the one who got the surprise. She seemed different, not as pretty as he'd remembered, and she frowned when she saw him. The reason became clear when a grown man peeked around the corner.

“What is it, Mits?” the guy asked.

“Oh, just some kid.”

Rich was crushed. He thought he might never get over it, but like other things, that feeling soon passed.

In the years since, he and Morton had spoken few words to each other.

Boozler checked his watch. 7:00 p.m., just enough time. He turned down a county road lined with scrub and live oaks and came to a frame house on a shaded lot. Ellen, a striking woman of forty, met him at the door. She had been seeing him for a year or so, and since she had already been married and divorced a couple of times, she didn't want to try again. That suited him just fine, since he already had a wife.

“Get in here, you big lug. I've been wondering when you’d be back. It's been a week now.”

Twenty minutes later, Boozler lay back and rested his head on the soft pillow, listening to his own pulse in his ears, savoring the sweet exhaustion. His eyelids felt as if connected to lead weights, and his consciousness slipped away.

“Did you get it done or not?” the man asked.

They had just sat down at the private table in the corner of the restaurant and ordered drinks. Boozler didn't like the man's tone, but being a rookie cop, he knew he had to watch what he said.

“Yeah, I did it.”

“You wear gloves?” Concern pinched at the corners of the man's eyes.

“Of course. I know what I'm doing.”

The man took a deep breath and let it out, now relaxed. “Yes, I suppose you do.”

Drinks arrived, and Boozler took a long pull from the glass in front of him. “Now, let's talk about what you're going to do for me,” Boozler said.

The man's eyes changed as he peered at something over Boozler's shoulder. When he turned in his seat, another face glared down at him. A young man, no more than twenty-years-old, but his eyes seemed much older.