The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective (14 page)

He told Freddie a white lie—he had errands to run in connection with closing the office. She looked at him dubiously, but nonetheless agreed to take Clinton with her to work.

The drive left him with time to think, always a dangerous state for him. His mind drifted onto the subject of Kelly Fleming and that kiss. From the kiss his mind wandered into irrational territory—the land of idle speculation: what did that kiss mean? The trouble with thinking too much about Kelly, he mused, was that thinking tended to make her motives far too complicated, whereas they were usually pretty straightforward. Kelly cared. Until she didn’t care.

When Tree was married to her, he tried to convince himself that there was more to it than that. But he finally concluded there wasn’t.

The kiss? That was just a kiss.

He shook off the urge to allow his mind to wander into more dangerously speculative territory. He was happily married. Kelly was a long-ago disappointment—the charismatic news anchor he could not hold onto. Well, age had caught up with her, and although charisma held, she was no longer the popular Chicago newscaster. She was an out-of-work-journalist anxious to cook up something that would get her back in the game.

Was that, then, the reason for the kiss?

Or was the kiss just a kiss?

He arrived at Wynwood early in the afternoon. The sky was unusually overcast as Tree parked the Beetle in an empty space along the street. As he walked around the corner to the garage studio of Oliver Crimson aka André Manteau, the first raindrops began to splatter against the pavement.

The garage appeared deserted. The big entrance door had been pulled down. The blacked-out window panes did not allow anyone to see inside. Along Twenty-sixth Street a wrought iron gate was drawn across a parking area and locked tight below a banner that read DON’T PANIC. Good advice.

Tree returned to the Beetle as the rain came down harder. He got in the car wondering what to do next. He noticed something move in his rearview mirror. He strained around in time to see the gate opening and a red van turn onto the street. Oliver Crimson was behind the wheel.

The van moved through the rain, east on Northwest Twenty-sixth Street. Tree started to follow.

At North Miami Avenue, Crimson turned south, the pelting rain slowing movement. The van turned onto the MacArthur Causeway, choked with traffic, everyone trying to get home. Thus it took forever for Crimson to navigate his van off the causeway. Finally he swung onto Fifth Avenue and then turned south on Ocean Drive where the red van pulled to the curb and stopped.

Tree drove past the van, catching a glimpse of Crimson as he emerged from the driver’s side. He found a parking spot and jumped out of the Beetle, ignoring the rain, hurrying back to where the van was parked. He was in time to see Crimson, head down, march across a weedy patch of ground to a flight of stairs running up the side of a nearby building. He climbed the stairs and disappeared inside.

Tree stood in the pouring rain staring up at a sign that read: “For Sale. Vacant Lot and Hotel.” The structure, desolate in the rain, was an abandoned white elephant, paint peeling, a ragged chain-link fence strung around its perimeter, making a half-hearted effort to protect the black holes that once had been windows and doorways from unwelcome intruders.

Crossing the weedy courtyard, Tree ducked through an open doorway. Peering into the interior, he could make out a sooty maze of crumbling walls and sagging ceilings. The sound of the thudding rain echoed hollowly.

As he stood there, Tree kept thinking the rain was soon going to let up. This was Florida, where precipitation never lasted longer than it took to wish it would stop. But not today. Today, the minutes ticked past with no sign of Crimson or an end to the rain. His cellphone vibrated in his pocket. Freddie calling. He swiped the phone. “I’m in Miami,” he said.

“What are you doing in Miami?”

“Following Oliver Crimson.”

A pause before she said, “Why are you doing that?”

“I didn’t have a chance to tell you last night. Before he was a Wynwood Walls artist, Crimson apparently was a motorcycle gang leader in Montreal.”

“I don’t believe it,” Freddie said. “Who told you that?”

“My new friend in the Canadian Mounted Police.”

“So here’s the thing, Tree. You should not be going near this man.”

Just then a figure appeared at the top of the steps running up the building on the other side of the courtyard. Crimson, his face bloody, staggered against the railing and then lurched down the steps.

“I’m going to have to call you back,” Tree said to Freddie.

“Tree—”

He shoved the phone into his pocket and dashed across the courtyard as Crimson reached the bottom of the stairs and fell to his knees. He clutched a plastic baggie. Tree saw that he was bleeding from his nose and mouth. His left eye was puffy and purple and someone had made a nasty mess of his cheek.

“Are you all right?” Tree asked.

Crimson jerked his head up, surprised to see Tree. “No, you idiot,” he yelled. “I’m not all right. I’m bleeding.”

He reached his hand up and Tree took it and lifted him to his feet. Crimson dropped the baggie. He groaned. “I need that.” He fell to the wet ground, groping around. “Help me up,” Crimson ordered, once he had retrieved the plastic bag. “Hurry!”

Tree lifted him up again, and together they started toward the street. “Let’s get out of here,” Crimson mumbled.

“What happened?” Tree asked.

The question was left hanging because at the top of the stairs, a figure appeared. Crimson screamed angrily and yanked himself away from Tree. Meanwhile, the figure at the top of the stairs fumbled under his jacket.

Crimson, bent down and pulled up his pant leg revealing an ankle holster. With a smoothness that impressed Tree, he drew a snub-nosed revolver from the holster, turned the gun toward the top of the stairs, and fired. The figure jumped in alarm, continuing to fumble. Crimson swore loudly and then fired again. Through the blur of rain, Tree could see the figure at the top of the stairs sag back against the railing. Crimson fired a third shot. The figure jerked sideways and disappeared inside the building.

Crimson, the gun in his hand, turned to face Tree. “Get me out of here,” he ordered.

“What are we going to do about that gun?” Tree said.

“We’re going to remember I shoot people with it,” Crimson said. “Now, help me out.”

Tree half carried, half dragged Crimson, holding the baggie against his stomach, onto the street. It was raining even harder now. They got to Tree’s Beetle. “What’s this?” Crimson demanded.

“It’s my car,” Tree said.

“This piece of crap?” Crimson’s bloody mouth was twisted in disdain. “I’m an important artist.”

“You’re a guy with a gun, bleeding on a Miami street.”

“I’m not getting into this.”

“Good,” Tree said. “Why don’t I just leave you here?”

“All right, all right.” Crimson sagged against the car. His face had gone bone white. “What I have to endure,” he gasped. “Let’s get a move on.”

Tree opened the door and lowered Crimson into the passenger seat, then squeezed behind the wheel and started the engine. Next to him, Crimson slumped against the window. For a moment, Tree thought he might have died, but then his eyes flickered a bit, and he looked over at Tree, as if trying to figure out who had rescued him. Then his eyes closed again, and he sank into unconsciousness.

The snub-nosed gun nestled in Crimson’s lap on top of the baggie. Tree was tempted to reach over and pluck it away. He moved his hand off the steering wheel. As soon as he did, Crimson’s eyes popped open. “Don’t even think about it,” he said.

Tree put his hand back on the wheel. Crimson settled against the seat and soon drifted off again. The sound of his heavy breathing filled the car, overwhelming the rattle of the pounding rain.

21

C
rossing Alligator Alley, Crimson suddenly jerked into consciousness, announcing, “The truth always happens!”

“What?” Tree said.

“Where am I?” Blood caked his cheek and had soaked into his shirt collar. As he struggled to sit up, the gun in his lap fell to the floor of the Beetle.

“We’re on Alligator Alley,” Tree said.

“Why are we here?”

“I didn’t know what else to do with you,” Tree said. “I don’t know what happened in Miami, but people with guns are after you.”

“I need something,” Crimson said. He fumbled with the baggie.

With shaking hands he tore open the baggie to scoop out a quantity of white powder. He lifted his finger to his nostril and sharply inhaled. “Ah, yes. That’s it. That’s better.”

“Is that cocaine?” Tree demanded.

“No, you jerk,” Crimson said. “It’s baking soda. I’m making cookies when I get home.”

He inhaled more of the white powder.

“I don’t want you using cocaine in my car,” Tree said, primmer than he intended.

“You don’t, huh? Well, isn’t that too bad.”

“So what was all that about back there?”

“What is it the newspapers like to say? A drug deal gone wrong? Yeah, that’s it. A drug deal gone wrong. They messed with the wrong hombre when they decided to cheat Crimson.”

He inhaled more cocaine, his head snapping back each time. Then he glared suspiciously at Tree. “What were you doing there?”

“I happened to be in the neighborhood,” was all Tree could think to say.

“That’s crap,” Crimson snapped. “The truth always happens, man. The truth is you were following me.”

“Okay, I was following you,” Tree admitted.

Crimson looked as if he could not quite believe what he was hearing. “What’s with you, anyway, man? Why would you follow me?”

“For one thing, you’re not an artist named Crimson,” Tree said, keeping his eyes on the empty road ahead.

“You’re right. I’m not
an
artist. I am
the
artist.”

“You’re a biker from Montreal. Your real name is André Manteau.”

“Don’t listen to that
crap
, man. Someone has taken fact and twisted it into fiction.”

His head rolled against the seat’s backrest. He seemed exhausted again. “Life is art, man. Understand that. Anything you do with your life becomes your art. The fiction is turned into your fact.”

“So, you are a biker?”

“We all have a past, man. He who has not sinned casts the first stone. Know what I mean? Who filled your head with these lies, anyway?”

“A Canadian Mountie.”

Crimson laughed and shook his head. He occupied himself inhaling more of the contents of the baggie. Then he said, “Okay, you’ve been talking to the Mounties. Listening to their crap. But that still doesn’t explain why you were following me.”

“I wanted to know more about the dog.”

“Dog? Man, what are you talking about? A dog?”

“The French hound you gave to Vic Trinchera.”

“You mean the hound Vic
stole
from me.”

“I’m trying to figure out why everyone is after this dog,” Tree said.

“That’s what you’re trying to figure out, is it?”

“Can you help me?”

“You know, Tree, or whatever your name is, from what I’ve seen so far, I don’t think you’ve got the brains to figure any of this out.”

“That’s why I came back to you, Crimson. So you can help a dumb guy like me. Only I discover you’re so smart, you’re shooting drug dealers in abandoned hotels in downtown Miami.”

Crimson laughed and said, “Our lives crossed like two hot wires.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Crimson carefully closed the baggie and said, “Pull over to the side of the road.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” Tree said.

“I don’t care where we are, pull over!”

“I’m not stopping,” Tree said.

Crimson reached down with a pained grunt and grabbed the snub-nosed revolver off the floor. “You are going to pull over or else,” he said, pointing the gun at Tree.

“Or else what?”

“Man, how stupid are you? What do you think? Or else I shoot you.”

“I’m driving the car, you can’t shoot me.”

“Don’t forget what I told you. Truth, man. It always happens. The truth is, you’re living in South Florida, and you’re driving with a cocaine addict high as a kite. People like me shoot people like you all the time.”

Crimson had a point. Tree eased off the gas and turned the Beetle onto the shoulder and came to a stop. As soon as he did, Crimson jammed the gun into Tree’s ribs and said, “Get out.”

“Get out? What do you mean get out?”

“Don’t make me ask you again. Get out of the car—and leave the keys in the ignition.”

“You know I saved your life back there.”

“I’m high on drugs. I don’t know what I’m doing. Now get out.”

Tree lifted the latch on the driver’s door and eased himself out. He was stiff from the long drive but felt better when he saw Crimson in even more pain as he slowly extracted himself from the other side. He hobbled around, keeping the gun pointed at Tree, who, realizing what was about to happen said, “Without me, you’d be a dead man.”