

DEATH

OF

A

BLOOD

By

Karl Tutt

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Karl Tutt 2015

All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Thanks to Carolyn, my patient reader, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and attention.

Prologue

I don't know why I was up so early on that morning. A precious few minutes either way and I would have missed it. I guess I just didn't know then where it would all lead. The tragic circumstances have become clearer to me in an existential way. You can take your philosophy or religion in any incarnation that suits you . . . gives your life meaning or some sort of spiritual sustenance, but for me the last few years have been a forced march toward a dark destiny. The only choice I've had was the interpretation I assigned to it . . . and there's nothing clear about that.

I spotted the lifeless thing bobbing in the basin when I stepped into the cockpit of KAMALA to finish my coffee and enjoy a brilliant Key West sunrise. At first I thought it was a tangle of palm fronds that had been amputated during one of the violent thunderstorms that build in the humid afternoon during the heat of the summer. It seemed brown and spindly as it cut the surface of the orange glow on the water. The tide was ebbing and I turned away to let the fresh salt breeze brush its sweet lips over my cheeks. When I looked back, the floating thing had taken on a different form. I snatched the binoculars from below decks and twisted the eyepieces to focus on the object.

It was human . . . or at least what was left of something that had once lived and breathed. Now it was doing neither. I grabbed my cell phone and dialed 911. From there it only got worse.

Chapter 1

Buffett's Roundtable. That's the name we had assigned to the informal gathering of dock rats and general miscreants that met once a week at The Green Parrot, the locals' bar where Sunny had been the Queen of the Key West bartenders not so long ago. Now she was a professor at the Key West Community College, teaching psychology to aspiring nursing students and those who were ready to transfer credits to one of Florida's fine state universities. We'd found Norfolk a bit too cold and a bit too dangerous for a reluctant Ghostcatcher and the lady that gave him life's warm textures. After my investigation into what damned sure looked like a couple of murders, the weather stayed cold, but Sunny and I were hot items. Norfolk wasn't the place to burn . . . or to burn out permanently. The move might not have been exactly what we wanted, but it was definitely healthy and it was definitely "going home".

All of the usual suspects were present, Tracy, the young and beautiful owner of The Strip Search, Key West's most famous porn shop; Louie, the amiable bartender at the Raw Bar and a guy who'd once saved my life; my old sailing buddy and unparalleled computer geek, Fritz. Chris, my adopted brother, with the latest of his young blond knockouts on his arm, was to Sunny's left. The best bluesman in South Florida, Whipsaw and his long-time paramour, the lovely and mysterious Miss Julianne, were immediately across from me and my lady professor. Captain Sal, the best damned charter boat skip in the Keys, was on my right, slapping backs like a transgender steel worker, as boisterous and bawdy as ever.

The beer was cold. The laughter was loud and the constant smiles and asides among friends made that pumping thing inside your chest beating . . . maybe even loving. We'd already had more than a couple when Chris stood up and tapped a cold bottle of Ice House with a spoon.

"I know what you're all thinking -- that this lovely lady on my right is the latest on a long line of unsuspecting tourists that frequent FOXES' LAIR for frankly licentious purposes." There was a peal of loud laughter. Too much truth in that remark.

"Well this time . . . you got it all wrong. May I, with your permission, of course, introduce Miss Holly Adams, my 21 year old daughter?"

The silence was palpable. Several mouths hung open and there were audible gasps. Finally, Whip stood, lifted an amber mug, and broke the silence.

"Well Chris, I think you done real good. She's an old blues man's dream."

More laughter, a quick round of applause, and the sound of glasses and bottles clinking together. A fitting greeting for the young miss. Then it was back to normal, at least as normal as it gets. I reached across the table and offered my hand. She took it and shook it enthusiastically. In an instant, I collected details. She was definitely blond, the light tresses hung over her shoulders and draped in graceful curls. The eyes were like sparkling denim, deep and penetrating with an astute recognition . . . maybe even an understanding that trumped her age. She wore little makeup and her skin had a pinkish glow beneath the golden tan, full of life and the desire to have more of it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sunny studying Holly with that psychic intensity that only a woman can invoke. No question my lady was a lot smarter about certain things than I was. I supposed I would find out those things later when Sunny opined a woman's take on our new arrival.

The crowd had thinned and Sunny, Louie, and I were slogging the last of our golden nectar . . . entering a boozy twilight zone, but still within striking distance of lucid.

"So what did you think?" I asked.

"Pretty girl," Louie said. "I talked to her some. Obviously intelligent, well spoken. She's from North Carolina . . . Wilmington . . . your old stomping grounds. I asked her about her mother. She teared up for a moment and quietly said, 'Breast cancer'."

Sunny chimed in, "I'm not sure what it is, but she looks a little older than twenty-one . . . something about the way she moved and responded to a group of boat bums and people she'd never met before. A lot of class, actually. Almost too much."

I considered Sunny's remarks, weighing them heavily, given an almost mystical woman's intuition that was approaching legendary . . . at least for me. It had been prescient on several occasions, but for now I dismissed it. Chris and Holly seemed so happy and loving. I hadn't seen him like that since the last time he was . . . or at least thought he was . . . lost in the total abyss of true love. That had happened before, too. The man was the eternal Sir Galahad, determined to save the world's damsels in distress. It was a sucker play, the obsession of the innocent . . . or maybe just the naïve . . . but it was one of the things I loved about him. You can call it a bond. I did.

Chapter 2

The next morning I determined to find out more about the unexpected lady. I had my coffee, this time with just a hint of rich brown Captain Morgan's. One bagel with a bit of butter and a flood of honey and I was ready to face the day.

I walked down the dock to FOXES' LAIR, Chris's old Ericson 36. The chrome brite work sparkled and shined in the morning sun, a constant testimony to Chris's meticulous maintenance and his determination to be ready to seek a distant harbor at a moment's notice. His ocean-going white charger gave true meaning to the term "bristol".

I knocked on the hull and his head popped up out of the companionway. "Come aboard, Cap."

I knew he'd fix me a Bloody Mary without asking. It was a ritual we'd enjoyed for years. Lots of vodka over ice and a hit of ZingZang, a mix with spicy character and more than a few surprises. I waited in the cockpit and soon a hand with a plastic cup emblazoned Captain Tony's, our second favorite watering hole in Key West, was thrust at me. He came up in a pair of boxers checked with a vibrant blue and gold print. His brown body was slim, but taut. I'd seen him summon muscle where there didn't seem to be any . . . especially on a pitching deck in a blow. We enjoyed a morning toast in preparation to get on with the business of the day . . . whatever that was.

"How about that Holly?" he asked, "pretty . . . smart . . . tougher than you think . . . a chip off the old block. I am so proud."

"Damn, Chris, it was kind of weird. I didn't even know you had a daughter."

"I didn't either. She called about two weeks ago. I didn't know who the hell it was. To be honest, I barely remembered her mother. When she gave me the photos, it all came back to me. Holly found them in an old shoebox after her Mom died of breast cancer. She'd tracked me down using the internet . . . wanted to connect . . . to see what her father actually looked like . . . find out what kind of person he was. Looking for love and acceptance, I guess. Well, she got it here from a father who didn't know she existed, and is awfully damned happy that he found out."

"Wow . . . sounds like something out of 'Days of Our Lives'."

"Yeah, I guess it does. Anyway, I'm going to do right by her. She's the only family I got left and she doesn't have to worry about anything anymore."

"What do you mean by that?"

"T.K., as close as we are, there are some things I've never told you. At the time it didn't seem to matter. I guess you can call me a trust fund baby. Dad's brother was very successful in real estate in Raleigh. He was a big drinker, killed three packs a day, got colon cancer and died at forty-eight. He left Dad over five million dollars in holdings. Dad never touched it. That five is probably worth fifty now . . . maybe more. No other family. Now it's mine. So what the hell am I going to do with it? Buy an island, get a bigger boat, find a starlet that needs a sugar daddy? Shit . . . I'm pretty damned happy right here on my old Ericson at Land's End and I'm not gonna mess with it. So when I'm gone . . . and we all will be, sooner or later, Holly gets it."

"Chris, we've been blood for a long time. Forgive me for being brutally frank, but are you sure you want to do that? Is it possible that she's not your daughter? What about DNA and any other evidence that she's telling the truth?"

"Come on, T.K., cut the shit. She even looks like me. I knew her mother. We had a little thing long enough for it all to happen. The dates work. What the hell? Anyway, it's already done. I drove up to Miami, saw an attorney last week. You remember Stevie Wonder, "Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm Yours." Says it all. It's a done deal, my friend."

"Hey, Buddy, if you're happy, I am, too."

Actually I wasn't. I'd seen Chris fall too many times. On at least a few occasions, he'd ended up with unpaid bills, stolen credit cards, and missing boat equipment, all before the inheritance, I guess. One of the young helpless beauties had even left for Georgia in Chris's car with a male friend of questionable reputation. Chris finally got the car back, but it involved the assistance of the Florida Highway Patrol -- and they never did find the girl or the friend. The car eventually ended up in a junkyard.

Still, there are times when you keep your mouth shut . . . and I figured this was one of them. Like I said . . . if he's happy, at least I should be. Still I wanted to know more just to satisfy my own curiosity and a twisted sense of fairness. I finished my Bloody Mary and walked back down the dock.

I talked to Sunny later that afternoon. She and I were thinking the same thing. I called Chris and invited him and Holly over the next evening to cook hamburgers on KAMALA and solve the rest of the world's problems. He promised a six o'clock arrival with two items in tow, his lovely daughter and a boat bag with two good bottles of Cabernet. Of course, he insisted on red since we were dining on the finest ground sirloin Publix Supermarket could offer.

Sunny had already arrived with some local shrimp, crackers and cocktail sauce. She listened intently as I recounted my conversation with Chris. Nothing about it seemed to surprise her, but she was strangely silent -- not like the Sunny I knew and loved. I put a few Kalamata olives in a small bowl and set them on the table in the cockpit. Then I tried to find matching wine glasses and napkins. No such luck. Plastic cups and paper towels would have to do. What the hell? Boat bums seldom stand on ceremony.

Chapter 3

They came down the dock at precisely six. It really wasn't like Chris to be on time unless he was helping a baffled sailor change the impeller on his raw water pump, but I figured he wanted to impress the lady. She, on the other hand, looked like a model from one of those junior fashion magazines. Her hair was dazzling in the sunset and a pair of red cargo shorts clung to her hips. The two tone topsiders and the lipstick matched. A white linen peasant shirt hung loosely on her shoulders. It was embroidered around the neck with a sort of eastern motif. Very retro and very chic. There was a thick gold chain with a Greek coin dangling about her neck. No rings, but a tasteful watch, a pink gold rectangle with a shiny leather band buckled to her wrist.

Her makeup was light, but she knew how to apply it. She was simply striking in a wholesome young Brooke Shields sort of way. She smiled and grabbed a lifeline to board. Then she settled into the cockpit and waited while I went below to uncork the Cab.

"Sorry about the glasses," I said.

"At least they're clean . . . aren't they?" Chris said and rolled his eyes. Then he raised his cup to the heavens and waited for the rest of us to do the same. "To you, brother man, and to these beautiful ladies."

Sunny laughed and put an arm around his neck. He leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. We were off and running. There weren't too many people on the dock and my neighbors on either side were MIA. It's a good thing. Our laughter rolled through the marina like bolts of thunder. Hell, my sides were beginning to ache. I could see why my old sailing mate was enraptured. Holly was quick and clever and a sheer delight to watch. After the burgers, Sunny went below to clean up and Chris offered to help. Sunny shot a glance at me and a barely perceptible nod. Holly and I were alone in the cockpit.

"So, are you in school up in the Carolinas?" I asked.

"I was going to UNC-Wilmington. Just part time, but I had to drop out when Mom passed. We did the best we could, but without her income at the hospital, I couldn't afford it. I'm working as a receptionist at a car dealership. Actually, it's okay. They treat me pretty good and I make the rent. I hope I'll be able to get back to school when things settle down."

"I am sorry to hear about your mom. She was young."

"Yes, she was, but breast cancer doesn't respect age or beauty. She raised me, and I like to think she did a good job. I had lots of love and we got by. Mom was a nurse. She worked extra shifts when I needed something. Now my real dad is in the picture; he's already given me a sense of security I never expected to have in my whole life."

She got a little misty and dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled Kleenex.

"I can't tell you how nice it is to meet Dad's oldest friend. He talks about you constantly. You guys must have had some times."

"Yeah, well I'm taking the fifth."

She laughed. "Which fifth?" she asked, then added, "Don't worry. I'll never tell."

Sunny and Chris came up from below. Clean dishes. We drained the second bottle of Cab and promised a repeat some time before Holly went back north. We didn't know at the time that it wouldn't happen.

After they left, Sunny and I collapsed on the settee below for a final libation, coffee with a tot of Jameson. A nice way to cap off a very pleasant evening.

"So what did you think?" I asked her.

"She's nice enough, pretty and sexy in a young, innocent way, but it's all too perfect."

I looked at Sunny. Her face was sort of scrunched up and she was biting her tongue.

"Maybe it's just me, T.K. I mean we love Chris and we want him to be safe and happy. This thing reads like some sort of fairy tale, but there are pieces that just don't fit. I still think she's older that she says. Too much class and savoir faire for a Carolina girl barely out of her teens. And did you see the watch?"

"I honestly didn't pay that much attention to it."

"Cartier, my intrepid Ghostcatcher. A Cartier Tank in pink gold . . . probably seven to ten thousand dollars. You think mom gave it to her for her 16th birthday? And she paid for it on a nurse's salary? That's a whole lot of extra shifts."

"So maybe Chris bought it for her."

"Maybe, but I would think one of them would have mentioned it . . . and come on . . . it's not really Chris' style. A new dinghy engine, maybe even a car, but not a ten thousand dollar watch."

I didn't say anything. I wanted Holly's story to be true. I like my fairy tales with "happily ever after" tagged on the end. If this one wasn't, I didn't want to know. I conjured an image of Chris shinning like a new penny, and immersed in the love and devotion of the beautiful newly discovered daughter. It was all I could see and all I wanted to see . . . at least for now.

Chapter 4

It was couple of days later when I heard the sirens. Bodies floating in the basin is not so good for the tourist trade. Frank Beamon came down the dock. He and I had become friends while working on a case involving the ritual murder of an eleven year old girl who wandered the marina and charmed every boat bum she came in contact with. Frank was Key West's bulldog, a detective of considerable skills and an oversized dose of humanity. A blown knee had kept the FSU star from being a lottery pick in the NBA draft. He still limped when the leg was overtaxed. He thrust his hand at me. I took it.

"Who is it, T.K.?"

"Don't know, Frank. I just saw the thing floating when I came up into the cockpit to finish my coffee."

I saw the revolving blue light of the police launch and watched them poke at the form with a boathook. In a few minutes they had the body aboard and were parking the 22 foot Whaler at the gas dock. Frank started over and I followed. The marine patrol had stretched out the body, face down on the boards. All I could see was a mass of matted bloody hair on the back of its skull. There were cuts and welts on the arms and legs where the sea scavengers had already begun to feast. No movement. One of the officers was shaking his head and biting his lip.

Frank gingerly placed his hands under one shoulder and the hip. He turned the corpse onto his back. My teeth locked in the back of my mouth and I struggled to find a breath. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to see the thing that assailed my eyes. I knew the face all too well. We had cruised together, drunk an ocean of cold beer, and shared things that no other man would ever know. My friend, my brother . . . Chris' flesh was the color of dull concrete. His mouth was slightly open and his bulging eyes stared up into a sunrise he would never see again.

I fought the yellow acid raging in my throat. I heard his laughter and saw the loving looks he and Holly had shared on KAMALA just a few nights before. Accident . . . that was my first guess. Maybe one too many and a stumble on a slippery dock or a rocking boat. Probably hit his head as he fell into the water. Unconscious, maybe too far gone to swim. It happened all the time. It just didn't happen to a man I considered my own blood. Frank looked over at me, grim and determined.

"I promise we'll investigate it fully. I'll ask some questions, get forensics on it. We'll know something in a day or two."

I nodded and went back to my sanctuary, but it didn't seem so safe now. None of us ever know when our number will come up. It is probably my Presbyterian upbringing and the words of a mother who qualified for sainthood. Call it destiny, fate, even a sort of fatalism. Chris's time had come. Those were all the clichés I could summon at the moment. I always look like such a damned fool when I cry -- a 6'2" blubbering lump of twisted muscle -- but I sobbed like a lost child.

I called Sunny and left a message. I figured the rest of the Roundtable would know soon enough. The Cocoanut Telegraph in Key West is quick and efficient. I knew Frank would inform Holly as soon as possible. She'd been staying at the Ocean Reef, a small dive, but a clean one, not far from the marina. I didn't really know her that well, but I knew she'd need someone. I decided to give it a few hours and pay her a visit to offer anything that might be useful. Chris would want that. It was around two when I knocked on the door of 301 C, the number the desk clerk had given me.

She peeked through a crack in the door, then opened it wide and nodded me in. As I stepped through the entrance, she threw her arms around me and clutched me like an infant who was drowning. She wasn't crying, but I knew that each of us handled grief in our own way.

"I just found him and now he's gone."

She was wearing a yellow tank top with no bra, but it was the wrong time to notice. A pair of cut-off denims hung on her hips and she was barefoot. Her toenails were painted a bright red. Her eyes weren't swollen and there was just a smudge of darkness beneath them. Her hair actually looked like she'd just brushed it out. It hung gracefully and glimmered even in the artificial light. Sunny's observations flashed before me. She did look older, but then she should, given what had just happened. After all, her dad was dead. I looked for the watch, but her wrist was bare, no jewelry of any kind.

I sat in a threadbare chair next to a Formica table that should have been at Goodwill a long time ago. The carpet was a foam green that had faded in an obvious traffic pattern. The sheets were a tumble of white and I detected smears of mascara on one pillowcase. The room had an earthy smell . . . not necessarily dirty, but fully lived in. There was a half empty bottle of a Cabernet I recognized as one I couldn't afford. Two plastic cups sat near it, one half full with lipstick smears and one with a trace of ruby liquid circling the bottom. She sat on the edge of the bed and now the tears welled up and crept down her cheeks.

"I don't know what to say. He was your dad, but he was my friend. We can't replace him."

"I know, T.K. Even though our time together was short, he brightened up my life and made me feel loved. I can't tell you what it meant, especially after just losing Mom to that hideous cancer. One thing he made clear -- I think it's even in his will -- was that he should be cremated and you and Fritz should spread his ashes where the Gulf meets the Atlantic. You'll hear it at the reading. I already called Malcom Parker, the attorney we used when Dad insisted that his wishes all be legal and without any questions. He's gonna contact me when they release the body and I can get it all together."

Now she was shaking. I got up and placed my arm around her shoulder. She buried her head in my breast and shivered in spastic waves.

"It's not much, but I'll help any way I can."

"Thanks, T.K. You don't know how much it means for you just to be here now . . . holding me and letting my tears bleed into your chest."

I squeezed her shoulders. "I'll go now, but you call when you need me."

For a moment I wasn't sure she would let go, but the quaking had subsided and I'd done what I came to do.

I walked out into the sunshine, but it seemed like a cruel illusion. It should be dark and rain should be falling. The wind should be howling like a banshee mourning a demon lover. It wasn't, but the howling had sunk into the abyss that was my heart . . . and even my soul.

Chapter 5

I wasn't much good for anything for the rest of the day. I drank, but it didn't help. I tried to sleep, but it wouldn't come. Sunny was due around six, but I wasn't even sure I wanted to see her. There are times when alone is the only thing to be. I guess this was one of them.

Late that afternoon the phone rang. I didn't want to answer it, but it was insistent. I finally picked it up and checked the ID. Key West Police Department. It had to be Frank, and I guess I had to talk to him.

"T.K., I rushed things up, got some prelims. He did die of drowning. There were traces of blood on the edge of the finger pier. It looks like he probably fell while boarding the boat, hit his head and was probably unconscious when he hit the water. We questioned the liveaboards on the dock, but no one saw or heard anything. He'd been dead for less than twelve hours, so he must have gone in somewhere before midnight. That's the obvious stuff."

"Okay, Frank. That might make a little sense, but what about the not so obvious stuff?"

"You don't want to hear it, but when we searched his boat we found traces of white powder on the table in the main salon. There were a couple of baggies in the nav station and some rocks of crack. The doc's not sure until he runs the tests, but he thinks the powder was Flakka, a new designer drug that contains cocaine and crystal meth. You can snort it, inject it or eat it, and it sends you into the next galaxy. When the guys do the autopsy, we'll know more."

I felt myself boil.

"Bullshit," I said vehemently, "he's been off any of that shit for years. Maybe a little weed once in a while, and plenty of booze, but cocaine, crystal meth? He wouldn't have touched that stuff on a bet."

"Hey, don't get pissed at me. I'm just telling you what we found. I know he was like your own blood, but people slide. Dope is like a beautiful woman you can't forget. You might leave her for a while. You know she's no good for you, but she haunts you in your dreams and begs you to return to her. A lot of them do."

"Jesus, Frank. Go fuck yourself. I knew Chris better than his own mother. He was done with it . . . put that crap aside several years ago. . . and fall off a boat? I've seen him go on a pitching deck when it was blowing forty hells. The guy was like a cat."

"Okay . . . maybe we ought to talk when you can be a little more rational. Come on, T.K., face the facts."

He hung up.

I was breathing in short bursts and my guts were on fire. I slammed my fist down on the table. My brother, my blood, an accident, a hole in my life. But wasn't this what it was all about? The unexpected, the tragedy, the movement of a bunch of mindless chessmen by something we couldn't control, much less understand. Where the hell was the compassionate God, the merciful being who controlled and managed everything? Was there any fairness, reason, or meaning in our petty attempt at existence? I was the wrong guy to ask at this juncture.

When Sunny showed up I was damned near drunk. I'd started with beer, then gone to the hard stuff. She came on board, eyes swollen and ghostly pale, but she still looked like a lost sailors' dream. She pulled me to her, squeezed me in a vice-like hug, then looked up into my face. I repeated my conversation with Frank. She shook her head and took a deep breath.

"You need something other than more whiskey. I'll make some strong coffee."

I watched as she filled the pot and measured the dark Columbian. There was no sound except the gurgling from the white plastic and the drip of the fragrant brew. She filled two cups and sat across from me on the settee.

"I can't feel the way you do, Captain. I know you and Chris go back for years, some filled with joy and others with things that were tough. Still, I'll miss him. I like to think he loved me -- not like he did you -- but we had our own type of connection, and it breathed warmth. You have no choice but to grieve, but we've both got to pull ourselves together and make something right. I don't know what that something is now, but we have to act, not just sit and whine. I certainly believe in coincidences . . . just not too many of them."

"Jesus, Sunny. I can hardly move, much less think."

"I got that . . . but we have to. If this was something other than an accident, we need to know and we need to make the perpetrator bleed. Otherwise, we sink into a dark hole that we may never climb out of. Drink some of that coffee and tell me about your visit with Holly."

I tried to pull myself together and remember, despite the anvil crushing my chest. I know Sunny. She wants details. I told her about my time at the motel, general impressions and images that had fixed in my mind. She listened and didn't say much until I finished. I sat and watched her prod and weigh it all in that cool analytical cast of hers. I still wanted Holly to be the mournful Madonna.

"Sheets rumpled. Two wine glasses. Expensive Cabernet. Maybe she'd had company."

"She probably had. Could have been anyone. Lots of people loved Chris. Might have stopped by to pay their respects."

"Perhaps, but would she offer one of them a glass of wine? You said she was braless and that her hair was freshly brushed. No signs that she'd been crying before you got there. You arrive and the floodgates open right on cue. I don't want to be a dispassionate asshole, but something is poking me like a stick at an open sore. If it will close, I'll be happy to shut up and admit I was stupid, but we need to know. See Fritz in the morning and ask him to use his computer magic to see what -- if anything -- is missing."

The tone of Sunny's voice told me it wasn't a request or a suggestion. I nodded. Then I sneaked over to the galley and poured a little Jameson into my coffee. Sunny left a little after eleven. I promised her I would complete my mission by tomorrow afternoon. I can't tell you I felt any better, but at least I had something to do. For that, I was thankful.
Chapter 6

I didn't sleep worth a damn, still twisted and exhausted from the events of the last few days. I threw on some shorts and my cleanest dirty shirt. I was down the dock by eight. Fritz was below. I could hear the light click of computer keys and the whirring of his printer. He was making money already, doing what he loosely called his consulting work. The decks and the hull on NO DECISIONS, his old Grampian 30, were worn and stained, but then so was Fritz. In his case, it suited him quite nicely.

I knocked on the hull and a head like a grizzly bear just out of hibernation popped up in the companionway. I could smell the pile of Marlboro butts that I knew filled the ashtray on his nav station.

"Come aboard, Cap."

I stepped over the lifelines, into the cockpit, took my last hit of fresh air, and sank into the bear's den. It was actually tidier than usual. No dirty clothes on the floor or crusty dishes in the sink. The ashtray was only half full. I wondered if he'd hired a cleaning lady, but that was a reach too far.

"Lots of shit . . . too damned much," he said, "what with Chris and his girl, Holly. I want to be there when you spread his ashes. We damned sure had some times."

I'd never seen the grizzly cry, but he was close.

"Yeah," I mouthed almost silently, "I need some help."

I told him as much as I could remember. Sunny's feeling that something wasn't quite right, the Cartier watch, the details of my visit to Holly's motel room, Chris's will. He lit a Marlboro and sucked the smoke into his massive chest. Then he coughed slightly and cleared his throat with a sound like a rasp scraping over rusted metal.

"There's one more thing," he said, "I've seen Chris skip around on a bouncing deck like a chimpanzee on steroids. Never a misstep, never a hint of fear. The guy was incredibly agile. I just don't see him falling off the dock getting onto his own boat. And the dope? I don't get it."

"So you and I are on the same train. Do this for me. Find an obit on Holly's mother. Her name was Mary Elizabeth Adams, died in Wilmington maybe two or three years ago. If you can get into the records at UNC-Wilmington, check on a Holly Adams. Should be recent entries. Just nose around the internet. Anything that gives us a little more insight into the situation might be helpful. And this is just you and me. Strictly graveyard talk. Nobody needs to know what you find . . . at least for now."

He took a long drag off the cigarette, hacked a bit, and gave me a mock salute.

"Consider it done, Cap," he growled, "I'll print it all and have it to you first thing in the morning."

I got off NO DECISIONS while I could still breathe. The fresh salt air hit me like the sacred elixir of life. Despite all the rough edges, Fritz was a lover and he'd treasured Chris like I did. He'd do anything he could for our dead friend. It was about the only comfort I could find right now, but it was something.

Chapter 7

My mind told me the sky should be angry and gray. It should be raining and the wind should be keening like a motherless child. It wasn't. Key West was in its finest array . . . the sun playing hide and seek with fluffy, snow white clouds, a light breeze off the Gulf, whispering and caressing our cheeks. It was Sunny, Fritz, Louis, Holly and me.

I hit the starter on KAMALA's diesel. She fired up instantly and purred, unknowing, but eager to be away from the dock dedicated to her mission. The group from Buffett's Roundtable stood on the boards, heads bowed, palms waving reluctant goodbyes to a trusted mate and a stunning example of some of the best things a man can be.

The thing in the Holly's arms was black and about the size of a shoe box. She gripped it tightly. I could barely hear her sobs over the sound of the wind and the hum of the engine. Fritz was on her left, his craggy paw placed gently on her shoulder. Sunny was on the other side, her hand resting on Holly's knee. No one said much of anything. Louis handled the bow lines and we were off, leaving Sombrero Reef to port. The cruise ships and the tour boats disappeared in our wake as we slid out to where the Gulf of Mexico kisses the blue Atlantic.

I'm not a religious man, but as captain and best friend, I had been assigned to say a few last words. I wish I could tell you I had some moving tribute with a thread of philosophy and wisdom, but in the end, I forced some words out of my mouth that I knew were inadequate, if not pathetic.

Holly stood, shaking a bit, but resisting any help. She stepped to the stern and opened the box. The breeze immediately caught the ashes and they became smudges of gray on the water. They lingered for just a moment and disappeared into the indigo swells. I looked at the faces. We were just what we were supposed to be, a funeral brigade. And our friend, my blood, was consigned to the deep.

Some like the word "closure". It means it's all done . . . nothing else to do but grieve. I knew there would be none. The agony and the loss would haunt me as long as I breathed. Sadness . . . yes, but I felt a palpable rage building in me. I'd felt it before. It was part of a darkness I wanted gone, but there was also fear. It took some time before I came to grips with an ugly truth. It was myself I feared more than anything else. I wanted to kill.

We got back to Land's End and the crew helped me tie up KAMALA. They drifted off one at a time until just Sunny and I were left staring at each other and searching for some words . . . any words that would staunch the bleeding inside of us. I didn't want a drink. I didn't want to talk. I wanted blackness, relief, respite, anything that fought the tears and allowed the breath to ease in and out of me.

Sunny stood speechlessly and put her arms around me. She buried her head in my chest for a moment, then kissed me lightly on the cheek and started down the dock.

I watched her move like a wounded lioness and slide into the green Miata.

Now I did need an old friend. I poured too much Jameson into a stout aluminum cup and let it slide down my throat. I drank until I couldn't drink any more. Then I collapsed on the settee and tumbled into a fitful sleep.

I was sailing. The canvas was drawing steadily and I cut through the swells with little effort. I knew it was night, but there was a gunmetal cast on the water, not like moonlight, but enough illumination to see the muscular ripples of gray. Suddenly I had the sense that something was missing. Then something faint and indistinguishable found my ears.

I looked astern and caught a glimpse of a torso bobbing behind me. I couldn't make out a face or the words, but I knew I had to turn back. I tried the wheel, but it wouldn't budge. The jib sheets were made fast to the cleats. I strained, but I couldn't release them. I reached for my rigging knife and tried to saw the lines in half, but the blade ran over the ropes like they'd been greased. I struggled with the gleaming metal, but it was blunt and the lines grew even more taut. I was running away and the cries grew fainter.

I turned for one more look and froze. A hand waved frantically and a face burst out of the water. "I'll be back," I yelled as the cold waves sucked Chris into the darkness. The last thing I heard was a shrill peal of laughter.

I jumped off the settee, stumbling to gain my balance. I was cold and naked. I shook like a terrified child. I didn't want the tears, but they wanted me.

Chapter 8

The next morning my body was trying to beat my brain into consciousness when I heard a knock on the hull. I stuck my head out of the companionway to see Fritz clutching a handful of papers. I waved him aboard and went for a pair of ragged shorts and the coffee maker.

"How about it?" I asked and pointed toward a mug. He nodded and plopped down on the seat at the nav station.

I filled the carafe and put three heaping scoops of dark Columbian in the filter. The scent filled the cabin immediately as the hot water poured through the machine.

"So what'd you think about Holly?" he asked.

"Nice kid. Seemed to be suffering. The whole thing was a scene out of a bad movie. I didn't sleep. Drank too damned much. I guess we'll all deal with it, but it won't ever go away."

"I got it. I liked her, too. She might be the genuine article," he said, "but I found some interesting shit on the internet. Took me some time, but I hacked into the records at the university. There was a student named Holly Adams, attended for three semesters. There was photo of her. It is probably our girl, but the resemblance was faint . . . different hair style, features were a bit off. Kids change quickly. It might be her, but I wouldn't swear to it. I went on to the obits of the Wilmington Star News. I found her mother, a Mary Elizabeth Adams. The dates seemed to match. She was a nurse, but after the list of surviving relatives, her daughter was named as predeceased. I found a small story of an auto accident about a year before that reported the death of a girl. Twenty-one . . . only a kid. No photo. Just some more bad shit. I tried to find any traces of the father. Nothing."

"Did you try public records, her birth certificate?"

"What'd ya think? I'm a dumb rookie. Of course. Father listed as unknown. I printed it all for you." He pointed at the papers that lay on the table.

I took a deep slug of the black Columbian and looked long and hard at Fritz. I felt the acid rising in my throat. I didn't need this shit. I wanted to sit on KAMALA, whine, grieve, and feel sorry for myself over the loss of a friend. I wanted Holly to be his daughter and inherit the trust fund, find a good man, and have some beautiful children.

Fritz looked at me and shook his head. "Leave it alone, T.K. We've both seen the kid. She was tortured. She's probably legit. Let's trust our instincts. That crap in the Star-News doesn't mean a damned thing. The papers get it wrong as much as they get it right."

He drained the mug and ambled up the ladder to the cockpit and onto the dock.

I poured the last of the coffee and started shuffling through the info Fritz had left. There wasn't much that he hadn't told me already. Fritz was smart and he was thorough. I couldn't count the times he'd helped me with the other cases I'd been forced to work on. His judgment was firm and reliable, and his instincts were always on the money. I was sure he was right again. I wanted to leave it alone and try to get on with my life, even it was missing a crucial part of me.

My dad used to tell me that if I could name even two or three people in my life who I could call friend, I was lucky. Chris was one of those. I couldn't escape the thought that somehow I had deserted him. I knew it was a sub-conscious guilt my rational side told me I hadn't actually earned. But it was there and I had to deal with or it would haunt me for what I had left of eternity.

Holly had mentioned an attorney in Fort Lauderdale named Malcom Parker. He was handling the estate. I couldn't pin it down. Call it a hunch, but something in me wanted to know more. I decided to take one final shot, then send the whole business to the graveyard where it probably belonged.

I searched for the number. It was tucked away in a dusty address book under a pile of old boat papers and receipts. She answered on the first ring.

"Dee Rabow Investigations. How can I help you?"

Dee was Fritz's daughter. Chris, Fritz, and I had saved her from an early grave of dope and prostitution a couple of years back. She went on to become a detective with the Fort Lauderdale P.D. Sharp and efficient, but Dee had other problems. She didn't quite understand "politically correct" and she threw out the "book" if it interfered with an investigation. After she ran afoul of some of the elected aficionados and powers that be on the force, she went private. The locals called her Diabla, Spanish for she-devil. She had a new partner named Evelyn, an attorney, and former FBI agent damned near as tough and as ruthless as Dee. She was a Latin beauty, but I knew of at least two men she had killed, all in the line of duty, of course. Between them, they knew more about the underside of the city than damned near anyone in south Florida.

"T.K. How's my favorite almost uncle?"

When I told her the whole story of Chris, she got quiet.

"So what can I do?" she asked.

"There's an attorney in Fort Lauderdale by the name of Malcom Parker. He's handling Chris's estate for Holly. I need to know anything you can dig up on him . . . or on her if she has any other local connections. I'm just trying to put the damned thing to bed. I have a few questions, but not any real suspicions. I want it to be over. I want Chris to rest."

"I understand. Give me a couple of days. I'll call. Tell Dad I love him and I'll talk to him soon."

I mulled through the rest of the day trying not to start preaching to myself and filling my brain with cheap bromides. I did some work, changed the oil even though it wasn't time and polished the brite work. I ran through the standard cliches about life going on and everything happening for the best. It was all bullshit, but it was my only defense and at least it kept me from drinking myself into oblivion.

Chapter 9

Late that afternoon the phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, but I figured I ought to answer in case there was something I needed to know. There was. Holly still sounded like she was barely under control. I needed to attend the reading of the will. Chris had left me something. She didn't say what and I didn't ask. She was already in Lauderdale and I was to be at Malcom Parker's office at ten the next morning. She gave me the address and a phone number in case I got lost or was running late.

I rode the Schwinn over to Sunny's around five. We ordered pizza and drank a bit of Cab. Neither one of us had much to say. We tried the T.V., but even the last episode of "House of Cards" couldn't distract us or carve away the pain. Sunny told me to take the Miata. She'd get a ride to the campus from a neighbor who worked in admissions.

I left about seven the next morning, all cleaned up and attired in khakis, a muted green polo and my tattered blue blazer. I even wiped down my Topsiders with a damp cloth. It was the best I could do, and I damned sure didn't want to appear disrespectful at such a somber occasion. My stomach was churning and I was afraid to try to force anything down.

Sunny had bought an inexpensive GPS that leads you by the nose to damned near anywhere you want to go. It even talked to you like you were a retarded child. Unfortunately, sometimes I am . . . especially when it comes to directions on land. Put me on the boat and I remember every spit of the shoreline and every marker, but I'm insanely lousy at street signs and interstates. Nevertheless, I did as the soulless computer voice instructed and I was parked and inside the high rise hunk of glass right on time. Malcom Parker's office was decorated in standard attorney glitz. Tasteful, mildly opulent, a few signed lithographs on the walls and one damned good looking receptionist. I identified myself and she ushered me into an office about the size of a small restaurant. Holly sat in a lump in an overstuffed leather chair.

Her face was bright pink and crystal tracks led down her cheeks. She wore a pair of tight denim jeans and the same linen peasant blouse she had worn on KAMALA the night of our hamburger feast. The pink Cartier was strapped to her wrist, barely visible beneath a wet handkerchief. I hugged her and tried to get a closer look at the timepiece. It damned sure didn't look like ten grand to me, but then I don't spend a lot of time thumbing through the pages of VOGUE. There were two others there I didn't recognize, but I didn't care. I just wanted this thing over.

Malcom Parker was dressed in lawyer black, a thick head of salt and pepper that almost made his shoulders. The only things notable were a diamond stickpin secured in his gray silk tie and a ring with a huge gleaming stone set in what I was sure was at least 18 karat gold. It reminded me of those monstrous Super Bowl adornments they give to the winners of the annual macho fest. He looked like he could have earned it. An obvious lifter with a neck like a bull and shoulders to match. His freshly shaved face was masked in an attempt at serious sorrow, but I thought there was a scowl lurking behind it. I got the impression he just didn't want to be here, or maybe he just didn't care.

The whole thing was brief. Holly got the bulk of the estate. Chris left me his prized sailing dinghy. He had rescued it from the back lot of a working boat yard up the New River in Lauderdale. The hull was rotting and the varnish had cracked and peeled like a piece of rotten fruit. He had replaced the bad boards on the lapstrake and sanded until his fingers bled. He confessed once that it had eighteen coats of varnish, each one sanded and applied with the finest boar bristle brush he could find. When the tourists poured out of Turtle Kraals and invaded the docks, they always stopped to marvel at the finish that shone like a Lab puppy, full of energy and a healthy dose of mischief. I made a silent vow that the varnish would never crack again. I kissed Holly on the cheek. She pulled me down and spoke into my ear.

"I'll be in Key West in a couple of days to settle some things. The papers for the dinghy are signed, but they're on Dad's boat. . . and there's something else he'd want you to have. I'll bring them to you when I get back."

I gave her a final hug and left. It was done. I was slightly nauseous, but I knew I needed to eat. I drove down to the beach and parked in front of LuLu's Bait Shack. A fresh fish sandwich, some hot fries, and a schooner of cold Yuengling was as good a cure as I could come up with. The server was a budding beauty. Long, luxurious locks with their own kind of varnish and eyes almost black, but with the hint of stars on a cloudless night. She was pert and pleasant, and -- I couldn't help it – sexy in a sort of innocent way. I watched her glide away from the table with an appropriate bounce. The beer came quickly and I stared toward the beach, not really seeing anything, my mind turning.

I was satisfied. Holly was the real thing. Her grief had touched me in way I hadn't been touched since the death of Alexis, the murdered child I had come to love. Let the hurt heal and enjoy the estate. It had been Chris's wish and now it was mine. I didn't need to see her again, only to wrap myself in the thought that she was safe, and the hope that she could be happy. I felt a pang of relief. It was time to let it go.

On the way home, I reached for my cell phone. I wanted to call Sunny and tell her how it went and that I was through trying to exhume skeletons where none were buried. That's when I realized that in my haste this morning, I had left it on the nav station. The drive was slow, but not unpleasant – especially since I had put my demons aside.

I checked my messages when I got back to the boat. I recognized the first number as my favorite P.I. I hit the redial button.

"It's T.K. checking in, Dee."

"Hey. Sorry. Not much to report. Parker had had a couple of complaints from clients sent to the Florida Bar, but nothing really serious or unusual. Attorneys all get them from time to time. He's a month behind in his rent at that crystal palace he calls an office. Again, nothing unusual. Those boys are always juggling the cash flow. Me and Ev will stay on it, but it sure looks like a dead end."

"Thank you, Darlin'. If you decide you want to escape the big city for a few days, come on down and Sunny and I will buy you dinner and a nice bottle of Cab."

"If things stay this quiet in the big city, I might be there sooner than you think." She laughed and hung up.

I looked at the next number. I felt like I should know it, but no instant recognition. There was a message. I knew the voice immediately. It was Tracy, our Buffett's Roundtable regular, and the reluctant proprietor of The Strip Search, Key West's favorite hangout for the perverts who were addicted to porn. Her Uncle Mal had left it to her in his will after his very inconvenient murder.

"T.K. I need to see you as soon as possible. Unless I hear different, I'll stop by KAMALA when I leave here around four."

I erased the message. It was almost three. I didn't have long to wait.

Chapter 10

I sat at the table in the salon and wondered. There was an obvious urgency in her voice. No friendly greetings or jokes. But not necessary. I knew her well. I had consoled her after the death of her favorite uncle and even helped turn up the bad guys who had done the violent deed. She had helped Dee get back on her feet after the dope and the sex. I guess she was like my adopted niece.

Tracy came down the dock as scheduled. She had on her work clothes, a pair of ratty tennis shoes, baggy black slacks, and a dull gray top that hid features that would stop you in your tracks in a bikini. She always said that her customers didn't need any encouragement to wade through the piles of magazines and videos that kept their blood pumping and the cash register ringing. A very apt definition of "low profile."

I welcomed her aboard and she gave me a tender squeeze and a peck on the cheek. I offered a cold beer, but she politely declined.

We went below and settled on either side of the table. She brushed aside a silky blond lock and glanced at me sideways through eyes the color of indigo.

"I should have said something before now, but Chris was so happy. And I wasn't sure. It was just a faded image that sort of stuck in the back of my mind for several days. I dismissed it at first, but it kept coming. Then when he drowned . . . I couldn't shake it. I thought that I had seen Holly somewhere before. In my business, that's not necessarily a good thing."

"I don't quite understand, Tracy."

"Okay. I tried to do some searching online, but it didn't turn up anything. A few days later I was putting up stock. Some of the hot new porn stars, the month's magazines, new issues, and the latest shipment of sex toys that some of my clientele get off on. Dreary work and pretty damned mindless. I picked up a DVD titled "Putting It In". There it was. I went back to the office and slid it into the player. She was young, hot, and beautiful and had talents that shouldn't even be legal. Her fuck buddy would have put Ron Jeremy to shame. I wouldn't bet my last nickel on it, but I'm pretty sure it was her. She was billed as Mysteria La Coeur, the Queen of the Night."

"Now hold it . . . you're saying that Holly was, or is, a porn actress?"

"What I'm saying is that you need to look at the video. Then make your own call. I'm telling you what I think . . . not what I know."

She reached into her handbag and placed the box gently on the table. Then she got up, gave me a quick hug, and left.

Okay . . . so shit. I thought I had it all figured out. I hoped maybe I did, but this was a new kink, pun intended. I picked up the box and looked at the photos. They were too small, and most of the scenes had so damned much skin that faces didn't matter. I didn't have a DVD player on the boat, but Sunny and I had picked up a used one at a yard sale a couple of months earlier. It worked. I called her.

"Hello schweethart," I said in my best Humphrey Bogart, "how about some porn tonight?"

"You got it Big Boy . . . as long as it's followed by the real thing." She really didn't sound much like Lauren Bacall, but I got the message.

"Cool. We'll pop some popcorn and have a night at the movies. See you at six."

I could smell the fresh kernels as she let me in. She was barefoot and wore a pair of skimpy red shorts and a diaphanous white top. No bra. Her best features were definitely on display. She placed the disk in the player and hit a few buttons on the remote. Then she turned out the lights.

Let me just say that the film was quite intense. I didn't think the screen play would win an Oscar unless moaning and grunting qualified as dialogue. The acting – if you can call it that – was not exactly first class. But it damned sure did the job. I hate to admit it, but my cargo shorts seemed to shrink while other parts of me grew. Mysteria's face was shrouded in a flock of red curls. For a moment, she reminded me of Blaze Starr, the legendary burlesque queen who had seduced Earl Long, then the governor of Louisiana. Of course, Holly was a blond, but Sunny reminded me, not too gently, that they did sell hair dye at Walgreens.

Sunny sat on the sofa a couple of feet away, stuffing handfuls of popcorn into her mouth and nodding approval from time to time. While the credits ran, she got off the cushions and disappeared back towards the bedroom.

In a couple of minutes, she came out, minus the shorts and the top. In their place was a lacy black satin camisole. It shimmered in sensuous waves, barely covering the essentials in the flickering glare of the screen. She gave me her best "come hither" look and waved a finger.

"Like I told you, Sport . . . as long as it's followed by the real thing."

She didn't have to ask twice.

When it was over, I didn't have the strength to dial 911. Anyway, I figured I'd be dead before they got there. Sunny propped herself up on a pillow and said, "Had enough?"

I wanted to say never, but my lips wouldn't move. Then it was down to business.

"Not totally sure . . . what with all that red hair covering her face, but I'd bet even money it was her," she said, "the grieving daughter -- all young, fresh, and loving – blowing the guy with the monster cock and grinning like a satiated siren."

Those were the words I didn't want to hear. I guess I was the sucker again . . . not the first time, nor would it be the last. But it still didn't mean that the girl was a murderer. Maybe after the death of her mother she had to work her way through school . . . and maybe Kim Kardashian was really a man. What I really wanted to do was throw up. Just one question -- where do we go from here?

I didn't know, but with Sunny's warm body cradled into my side, I slept like a damned baby.

Chapter 11

Sunny left for campus the next morning and I finally lumbered out of bed. The laptop was on the kitchen table. I fired it up and poured the last of the coffee Sunny had left for me. There was one slightly stale French pastry in a wrinkled white bag. I figured what the hell? Looked like free breakfast to me.

I pulled up Google and typed Mysteria LaCoeur. Nothing. Then I remembered a porn site that Chris used to visit. He had told me it covered everything a serious lover of naked bodies could want, from the sublime to the down-right perverse. He had also mentioned a bevy of has-been celebrities and stars of the grosser genre of the silver screen. It was Boo something. I found it and scrolled through the categories. Twosomes, threesomes, oriental, Russian, Latina, Indian and even some featuring our barnyard friends. Decadent didn't even describe it. Toward the bottom of the greatest hits was a column of what I figured must be well-known porn actresses. I found her about four rows down. She was there, big breasted and pouty mouth, looking like the answer to every deviant's fondest dreams.

I clicked on one of the episodes. More of the same as we'd seen in the Academy Award winner, "Putting it In". Actually you can forget the Academy Award Winning part, but the rest was Mysteria doing things to this giant black dude that would have crippled a normal man for life.

Holly? I didn't want to think so, but Sunny was probably right. I was still holding out for the "working her way through college" bit, but it wasn't a fit. I tried a few other search strategies, but nothing came. Holly Adams? Was that even her real name? And how could I find out? Suddenly I had an idea. With Frank's help, maybe I could strike gold.

Sunny had one of those three day viruses. Sinuses packed up and a constant hack. Too much pollen, I suspected. One of the great things about South Florida is that there is always something blooming. Hibiscus, Oleander, and a variety of tropical foliage that stuns the landscape and leaves copious traces of stuff that's a curse for anyone with allergies. I had made all of the appropriate sympathetic gestures and filled her with Benadryl. She'd been out by seven the last few nights.

I was sitting on KAMALA watching the sunset. The sky to the west was painted in orange and purple with wisps of gray clouds in brush stokes only a master could create. I couldn't pin it down, but I had a feeling something was going to happen. I was waiting for a call or whatever form it took. I wasn't disappointed.

She came down the dock with a bottle in each hand and an envelope tucked into her waistband. The low rise white cotton shorts were pasted on her buttocks. A frilly loose top cut just above her navel swayed as she walked. It was hard not to notice the nipples. They swayed in a perfect rhythm while the straight blond mane danced around her shoulders.

"I got the papers. Can I come aboard?"

I helped her over the lifelines. She sat in the cockpit and shivered slightly.

"Can we go below?" she asked innocently. I nodded.

She stepped down into the salon and set the two bottles on the table. A bottle of J. Lohr Cabernet and a nearly full quart of Jameson. She pointed at it.

"Dad told me it was your favorite. Maybe we can have a drink in his honor."

I uncorked the Cab and set two wineglasses in front of her.  
"I'll do the Cab, T.K., but you have a hit of the Irish whiskey. It's what Dad would want."

She was probably right. I grabbed a tumbler and filled it half-full with the brown nectar. She handed me the papers and we toasted Chris. I thought for a minute she was going to choke up, but she bit her tongue and it passed. The whiskey burned. It didn't seem to taste quite right, but then nothing had since the day they'd fished him out of the basin.

She slipped her feet out of the sandals and placed them on the edge of the table. The bottoms were pink and supple, no callouses or dead skin, just a fresh glow. Her toenails gleamed beneath a clear polish. She leaned back into the cushion and her knees hit my eye level. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but it was something no self-respecting dirty old man would have missed. I was sure she wasn't wearing panties. I tried to imagine her with fiery red curls, but it just didn't quite compute. Still, I couldn't keep visions of the Mysteria DVD from dancing in and out of my head. The conversation was harmless, or so I thought at first. I sipped the Jameson and listened.

"T.K., you've done so much for me and I know how you loved Dad. I almost feel guilty. I've taken so much from you and offered so little. I just wanted to say thank you. And I want you to know if there's anything I can do for you . . . and I mean anything . . . just let me know."

She put her bare feet on the floor. Then she leaned over the table and picked up the wine glass. One small hand reached across the surface and beckoned to me. I took it and squeezed lightly. She smiled and breathed deeply. Maybe it was my imagination . . . maybe it wasn't intentional, but she damned sure gave me a full view of two voluptuous breasts, nipples at attention, that Aphrodite would have envied. I felt a bolt go through me. I can't help it that I'm a man and sometimes weak, but this just wasn't right. I guess I was ashamed. After all, she was Chris's daughter, and less than half my age.

I took a deep breath and shuddered a bit. She noticed. She smiled again and said, "Well, one more drink and I oughta go, but if there's anything . . ."

She picked up the Cab and poured it almost to the rim. Then she made sure the Irish flowed from the green bottle. "A final toast," she said. I didn't want a final toast. I wanted her to leave before I did something that I knew I would regret. But she sat and we talked for a few more minutes. Nothing heavy or suggestive, just like two friends rehashing old news. I was getting woozy by the time I reached the bottom of the tumbler. She hugged me a little harder than I might expect, her hand underneath my shirt, kneading my back just at the waistband of my shorts. I backed off a little and bit my tongue. She riveted me with those blue eyes and whispered, "Anything."

When she left, a part of me was definitely relieved, even glad that I hadn't done what baser parts of me desired . . . and yet, I had what I wanted. I put her glass in the sink, but I didn't wash it.

I sat and tried to re-run the scenario. Had Holly come on to me? I damned sure seemed like it . . . no bra, no panties, was there anything she could do? . . . And she meant anything. The show had been a good one. She probably knew Sunny was at home in bed. But why? The will was in probate, we had spread the ashes. Maybe somehow she was aware that I was looking closer at a situation that had too many odd coincidences, one that might involve a murder. I poured one more hit of the Jameson. It almost tasted rancid and things got hazy. I couldn't think, much less concentrate. I got up and stumbled, but managed to crawl into the v berth. Then it all went to black.

I think I dreamed, but I'm not sure. All I know is I had an ethereal awareness that I was outside my body, hovering over a crowd. I was watching. They were there, standing in a line. No one saying a word. They were waiting, their heads at their chests and a pall over each of the faces. I wasn't sure, but none of them seemed to be breathing. I struggled to recognize even one of them, but their features were gray and indistinct. It seemed a silent parade of the dead. Suddenly I had joined them. I stood at the end of the line quaking, but silent like the rest. Then I heard the voice. It was weak and distant, but I had to answer.

I woke up. I looked around at the pale lime green walls and inhaled the disinfectant. I heard the tinny clack of a cart go by the door. Then I fingered the tubes injected into my hand. I felt something pumping. It throbbed and stung, but somehow there was comfort. I was alive. Sunny sat next to my bed. She put a hand to my cheek and sobbed. A hefty nurse in sky blue pants and a flowery top came in. She checked the blood pressure monitor and smiled.

"For a while we didn't think you'd make it. Push the call button when you feel like you can eat." She patted me on the shoulder and nodded at Sunny. She dabbed her eyes with a Kleenex.

"How long have I been here?"

"Too damned long. Three days and you look like a refugee from Auschwitz. You gotta eat something as soon as your stomach can handle it."

I managed a quizzical look and tried to rattle my head all the way into consciousness.

"They think you were poisoned. Maybe ptomaine, but there were traces of something in your system, almost like you'd overdosed on some kind of drug. Not sure . . . could have been bad seafood, something you picked up, or God knows what. The tests of the stuff they found in your gut should be ready today. Might know something for sure then . . . might not."

I was weak and my mind still wasn't clear, but I hadn't eaten any seafood. The only thing I had over done was the Jameson, but that was a punishment I'd known before. This was no simple hangover. It was different . . . and despite my dim powers of concentration, it scared the shit out of me.

"So what the hell happened?" I mumbled.

"I called several times. When you didn't answer, I decided to check the boat. You were out. Had thrown up all over the place. Getting the shit out of your system is probably what saved your ass. I called 911. The emergency people hauled you out of the marina and they sent you straight to intensive care. You were barely hanging on, severely dehydrated, and your system was in a state of severe shock. These people are good. Now they think you'll be just dandy in a couple more days, but you have to eat and drink as many fluids as your body will stand. That's it. You're safe and I've got to get to campus. I've been sitting here for 48 hours and now it's time to get to something a little less life threatening."

She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

"It's okay. You're with me," she whispered, "and that's just where you need to be. Eat, drink, and later we'll make merry."

Even in my pallid state, that was the kind of promise that inspired. I pushed the call button and ordered a cheeseburger and fries, but the nurse brought me lemon Jello and a chocolate chip cookie. It actually tasted pretty damned good. What the hell? I'd get there.

Chapter 12

The next couple of days bored the shit out of me. I even watched Jerry Springer. Sometimes the trash can be quite diverting, even though you know you're gonna have to throw it out sooner or later. I tried to evaluate the free agents and draft choices the Dolphins were weighing, but I've never done well with that kind of speculation. They had already signed Suh, a monster defensive tackle and they had given Tannehill a contract extension and acquired some new targets for his passes. That was a good start, but there were still a few holes in the offensive line. I just wanted the schedule to begin, even if it was the shitty preseason games, but there was lots of time before that. My real concern hung with me like a bad case of the flu . . . was this some sort of screw-up or an attempt at murder?

I had plenty of tapes in my head. I played them all in succession, even tried to make some notes. If someone was after me, I wanted to know who and why. When Sunny came by that night, I asked her to retrieve the bottles of Cab and Jameson that should have been on KAMALA. She called later from the dock. Nothing but the two empty glasses, one on the table and one in the sink. I asked her to carefully remove each of them, place them in plastic baggies and deliver them to my friend Frank, Head of the Detectives for the Key West P.D.

It felt good to get back to the boat. After what had happened, maybe I wasn't as safe as I thought, but the sounds of Land's End and the smell of salt air gave me comfort I damned sure couldn't feel in that hospital bed. Several people had been by to check on me . . . Fritz, Louie, Tracy, Whipsaw, and, of course, Sunny. I was about companied out when I heard one more set of footsteps clomping down the dock. I shuddered, but slid the hatch back. It was Frank. Except for the limp, he still looked like a guy who could go one-on-one with Lebron or James Westbrook. His dark skin shone with sweat and damned near glowed. He raised a right hand holding a manila envelope, and waved.

"Got something for you, Buddy," he said as he stepped on board.

I offered him a cold beer, but I knew he wouldn't take it while he was on duty. I also knew he wouldn't consider me rude if I had one. After all, we'd damned near become friends, although you always wonder with a cop.

"You're no dumb sonovabitch. We got the prints off the wine glass. A little smudged, but we got a match. She ain't Holly."

"I don't want to hear that," I sighed and waited for what had to be bad news. "So who the hell is she?"

"Get ready. You're gonna love this. One Miriam Sadowski, the widow of Milton Foreman, the late owner of ForeFirst, manufacturer of electric hand tools, multi-millionaire, and noted philanthropist, most recently of Palm Beach. They were on the guest lists of Donald Trump, Wayne Huizenga, and a number of other notables who love seeing their names in the society section of the Post."

"I don't get it," I said and shook my head.

"Oh, there's more. She was 27 and he was 66. To put it mildly, his family didn't approve. He changed his will, left damned near everything to his young bride. They were married for about two years when Milton succumbed to a heart attack. Apparently he had just had his annual checkup and had been certified healthy as a horse. There were rumors, investigations, but nothing more incriminating than dirty words. The two kids, Mercer and Estelle, contested the will, but Miriam's attorney, Mr. Malcolm Parker, successfully defended her in court. It took about five years, but she ran through every damned dollar."

"So you're sure Miriam Sadowski Foreman is Holly Adams?"

"I didn't say that. I'm just telling you the prints match, and it seems as though the lady has a past. We don't have a damned thing on her . . . no basis for charges, an arrest, or even a reason to bring her in for questioning."

"So it all ends here?" I asked.

"Sorry, T.K. . . but it does, unless you can turn up something . . . give us a reason to beat the bushes a little more."

Frank placed the envelope on the table and left. I stared at it and swallowed the last of the beer. I guessed the Happily Ever After scenario was no longer an option.

I went to the fridge and extracted one more Yuengling. The bottle was icy in my hand. I listened for the reassuring click as I popped the cap. My brain was a miasma of half-finished thoughts and pregnant hunches. I thought about Chris.

He was blood. He was dead. An accident . . . maybe so, but there was more. I had to find out what it was. I wanted some things to connect, but they wouldn't until I knew more. It was worth one more call.

Chapter 13

No answer, but I left a message. It didn't take long.

"T.K., it's Dee. I figured you wouldn't be calling if it wasn't important. Let me guess, Chris?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"So what's with the Ma'am shit. You trying to make me feel old?"

"Not on your life, but I'm getting older by the minute. This case is getting more and more complicated. I'm not sure, but I think someone tried to poison me. I'm beginning to wonder if Lucrezia Borgia has been reincarnated right here in the good old Conch Republic. I just got out of the hospital. If it hadn't of been for Sunny, you'd be burying me at sea."

I gave her as much detail as I had. I could feel her biting her lip even over the phone.

"So what can I do?"

"You got any contacts in Palm Beach? I need the rundown on a Miriam Sadowski Foreman, widow of Milton, the tool guy. ForeFirst."

"Yeah, I've heard of him . . . I've got a buddy up there. Used to be on the force here in Lauderdale. He's like me, had to go private after a run-in with the powers that be. Name's Bert Weldon. He's a bit of a hard ass, but in this business, that's a definite plus. I'll call him tonight, give you his number. Let him have a couple of days. He owes me a favor, actually more than one. Also . . . Ev knows some of that crowd from her attorney days and her flirtations with the South Florida social circus. I'll run it by her, see if she can make any connections."

"Don't want to rush you, but I need it."

"Hey, if it helps nail the bastards who maybe did Chris, I am happy to be rushed."

I thanked her and hung up. They say patience is virtue, whoever "they" are. Unfortunately it is a virtue I do not possess.

I didn't have to wait long. It was Dee.

"Bert wants to meet with you for lunch in Key Largo tomorrow. Bay Point around 11:30."

"I'll be there."

I called Sunny and asked to borrow the Miata for the day. When she heard the circumstances, she agreed to get a ride to campus the next morning. I rode my Schwinn over to her apartment around six. She was stacked up with essays. We had a quick glass of Cabernet and she handed me the keys.

The next morning I left the marina at 9:30. The little British Racing Green devil scooted up the highway like a Ferarri's little sister. I dropped the top and slid some Bob Seger into the CD player. On the road again, that's where I was -- "Turn the Page". I was giving it my best effort, and damned if it wasn't fun. She purred and occasionally attempted a roar like a little lion cub just coming into her own.

I hit the parking lot of Bay Point right on time. A hostess in a tight black mini skirt and a snowy tank top smiled like Helen of Troy and seated me outside near the docks. She couldn't have been more than eighteen. I fought the dirty old man in me, but he was definitely winning.

I ordered a Bloody Mary and sat. The docks were filled with small, open fishing boats, a couple of offshore monsters, and a few idle sloops. There wasn't much activity, but it was Thursday. The place probably came alive on the weekends.

I was sipping quietly when a mountain came in. The hostess flashed that smile again and pointed a pink finger in my direction.

He walked over to the table with a grace you wouldn't expect from a man of that size. His head was as shiny and black as a polished eight ball. A salt and pepper beard started in a sharp point just below his ear and circled his chin with razor precision. No moustache. He wore a silky gray sport coat over a burgundy polo and a pair of dark slacks. I might as well have been waiting for a modern-day Egyptian Pharaoh.

"Dr. Fleming. Bert Weldon," he said and shoved a hand like a meat hook in my direction. I figured he could have crushed every bone. The grip was slightly sweaty, warm, and firm. There was a huge hunk of gold on his ring finger. It looked like a class ring, but I couldn't make out the inscription. The server came and he ordered a Heineken, no glass. His voice didn't quite suit him. It was soft and almost girlish.

He unbuttoned his coat and reached into his inside pocket. I saw the butt of a large handgun sticking out of a flat black holster on his belt. He unfolded a photo copy of a newspaper article and slid it across the table.

I studied it. The image was grainy and even blurred a bit, but there was no doubt.

"It's her," I said, "Holly Adams, Miriam Sadowski Foreman, whatever you want to call her. I assume the man on her arm is Milton, the tool millionaire."

"You got it. They had donated a tidy sum to the Fine Arts Center and all of the South Florida luminaries were there to fawn over them. He was 65. She was 27. Married for three years, then an untimely heart attack. No autopsy, quick cremation. Nice and neat. Rumor says she inherited something short of a hundred million."

"So Mr. Weldon, what's your angle here?"

"Let's just say I represent some interested parties who feel the will should be the subject of further scrutiny. Not that it makes a lot of difference. She ran through most of it. Now there's lots of stuff for sale. The Hatteras 65, the eight thousand square foot manse on the ICW, even the private jet. I hear she's down to a few hundred grand. Sad, isn't it? How the hell will she get to the French Riviera this year? Fly coach?"

"Does the name Malcom Parker mean anything to you?"

"Actually, it means quite a lot. Three thousand dollar suits, Gucci loafers . . . doesn't hide the fact that he's the lowest of bottom feeders. Even the sharks won't swim with him. He handled probate for Foreman's will. After the funeral, he and the grieving widow flew off to Bermuda to seek the Balm of Gilead and salve their wounds. It took them a month. That's lots of rubbing. Then they returned. He went to the club and she went shopping. Oh . . . and there's one more thing. I think she's done it before."

I took another sip of my Bloody Mary and wiped my mouth with a paper napkin. Sunny had been suspicious from the beginning, but I had been sucked in. Maybe it was a "man thing". Holly was pretty, sweet, and seemed so innocent. Had the woman who'd wept as she spread her dad's ashes off the stern of my boat killed two, three, maybe more . . . for a big payday? Mistaken identity, coincidence? I remembered Sunny's words, "I believe in coincidences, I just don't believe in too many of them."

I looked at the photo again and shook my head. He tipped the last of the Heineken. We hadn't even had lunch, but somehow I wasn't too hungry.

"Keep that," he said and pointed at the copy. "Let's stay in touch. And by the way, say hello to Frank for me. We were fraternity brothers at state."

He placed a couple of twenties on the table. "Expenses," he said. Then he ambled off toward the door and I ordered another Bloody.

The ride back to Key West wasn't nearly as pleasant, but what the hell? I had plenty to think about.

Chapter 14

I thought a lot about Bert Weldon. I was willing to bet he and Frank Beamon were cut from the same cloth. He struck me as a bulldog. He had sunk his teeth into the bloody flesh of this case and he wouldn't let go until he was down to the bone. I would wait. If I didn't come up with something, I was sure he would. That night it was barbecued chicken, slathered in my own original sauce. Ketchup, yellow mustard, honey, A-1 sauce, and Worcestershire. Mix it to your own taste. The secret ingredient is actually the mustard. You can thank me later. We sipped a bottle of Lost Angels Cab. I know, it should have been a chardonnay or a sauvignon blanc, but we just don't do the white stuff. I inhaled the sweet smoke and told Sunny about our meeting.

"Actually nothing I wouldn't have suspected," she said. "Call it what you want, but there were too many things that weren't quite right. Now we have to wonder if the "Chris's long, lost daughter thing wasn't a clever way to get at the money. If it seems too good to be true, it probably is. So it goes. But how did she and Parker find out that he was a trust fund baby . . . and the connection with the mother? How the hell did they know that Chris had a relationship years ago with a nurse in Wilmington?"

"All good questions," I said, "but behold the internet. It's the boon and the curse of modern technology. Hell, we're all naked now. You can find out damned near anything about damned near anyone just by pushing the right buttons. Obituaries, public records, Facebook, Twitter . . . it gives the smart user access to information that might have been buried for eons before the 'information highway' so damned easy."

"I wish you weren't so damned right, my learned Captain and fearless Ghostcatcher."

"Okay, Pal. You can cut the sarcasm. Eat your gourmet meal, drain your glass, and prepare to have your body defiled by a washed up college professor in a most energetic and erotic way."

"Promise?" she said and placed her hands under her chin like an innocent little girl waiting for a peppermint stick.

I kept my promise and I think she liked it. At least that's how I interpreted the moaning. She left before midnight with the loveliest of smiles and at least a hint of satisfaction. I slept like the proverbial baby, but it didn't mean I was ready for the next morning.

Chapter 15

He sat at the bar that evening nursing an Absolut over ice. He hadn't learned much he didn't already know, but the trip was worth it. The next move was anybody's guess, but it would come. She sat on the stool one seat away and waited for the bartender. He had to notice her flaming red hair and the emerald green dress that clung to her pert breasts and hips like it was sprayed on. Her face was flawless, the color of blushing porcelain. She crossed her legs and turned a little toward him. She smiled and he returned the favor.

"Buy me a drink?" she asked, almost girlishly.

"I thought that was my line," he said and grinned.

"Well, I just figured we'd cut to the chase."

"Sure. Interesting choice of words. What'll it be?" He signaled the bartender and she ordered a Tanqueray and tonic.

"With a slice of lime," she cooed. She slid over next to him and turned so that her knee was against his thigh. He felt the gentle nudge and the warmth almost immediately. He knew it was intentional. They sat for a minute without talking.

"I'm happy to buy you a drink," he said, "and I welcome the company, but just to be clear, I don't pay for the stuff."

Her eyes flung daggers of indignation.

"Sorry, but you, sir, have the wrong idea. I am not a hooker. I just don't like to drink alone. I come in here often. Meet some nice people . . . men and women. I'm an accountant, small firm down near the beach. Seems like every one in here is either twenty-one or eighty. Nice to see someone closer to my age out for a little relaxation, and I was hoping for some intelligent conversation. Nothing more."

He wasn't sure he believed her, but it seemed like the best option at the moment. She was beautiful and he'd know more if he'd let her talk. Her perfume wafted its sweet scent into his nose. It definitely complimented the rest of the package.

"It'll probably sound like a line, but you look like someone I should know."

"Maybe I am . . . I mean . . . someone you should know."

He'd only seen the photographs. He couldn't be sure. The hair was different, a vibrant red, and the features of the face didn't quite match. He'd never seen her in person. He just couldn't be sure, but he could be wary. Anyway, it was his nature. She didn't seem to have anything arrogant or demeaning in her voice. He might have expected that. Still, he took a stab.

"So how about names? What should I call you? Miriam maybe?"

She looked at her glass and ran her fingers slowly down through the crystal beads. Then she turned and shot hot emerald lasers through his brown eyes.

"Hey, if that works for you, it's fine with me . . . and you look like a Walter." He pursed his lips and nodded.

They chatted about nothing, but if anyone had been watching, the quiet laughter and knowing smiles would have suggested a budding intimacy. The man had survived by keeping his radar on full alert. More than once he'd been in the sights of a crazed thug or just a client who didn't particularly like the way his case had concluded, but the booze and the ravishing redhead beside him were weaving a perverse enchantment. A couple more drinks and a warm glow began to envelop the scene. She raised her glass.

"I guess I've had enough," she whispered. "Time to go home. I've got lots of mindless numbers to punch in the morning. Close to tax season and everyone wants their forms filed yesterday. Perhaps you could save me cab fare and take me home. It's not far."

"I suppose I could, but maybe you'd like to stop off at my place for a night cap?"

"I appreciate the offer, but I don't usually go home with men I just met."

"Sure," he said and signaled for the tab. He paid with a VISA and tipped the bartender generously.

Once they got in his plain gray Pontiac, things changed. She reached over the console and put her hand on his thigh, rubbing gently, but steadily. He could feel her palm almost touching his cock. It was getting thick and beginning to throb. He pulled into the parking lot under his building, leaving the engine running.

"I'll take you home. Just say the word. It's been great, but nothing else has to happen."

"I think it does," she said. "I like my men big and dark, and you meet both requirements." He turned the key and cut off the engine.

In his apartment, he offered her a drink, but she shook her head and began to unbutton her dress. As the green satin began to fall away, the full mounds of her breasts heaved with each breath. She reached behind her chest and unfastened the scanty bra. The nipples were like brown silver dollars, taut and eager for his touch. Then she took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

"Sit," she commanded.

He settled onto the edge of the bed. She slipped off her heels and let the dress fall gracefully to the floor. A red thong covered all that was left. Her shape would have put J Lo to shame. She knelt, and with nimble fingers began to unbutton his shirt. She eased it over his rippled arms. Now the belt. Then she pulled his slacks over his hips. A tiny alarm sounded in his head, but it was too late. His pulse pounded with his need. This deed would be done.

"Give me just a minute," she whispered.

She disappeared into the small living room and unlocked the front door with a muffled click. She reached in her pocketbook and withdrew the tool. He waited. She came back in, her right hand in the small of her back, and threw herself on top of him, running a supple finger over the thick stubble of his face and smothering his neck and chest with quick flicks of her ripe tongue.

The sex was quick, but relentless. She arched her back and burst into cries and moans that were almost feral. When he came, it was an eruption like a long-dead volcano spewing hot lava and dark smoke. She crawled off him and he almost breathed a sigh of relief, but he knew there would be more.

There was.

A man in a gray suit cradled a silvery Glock and stood at the foot of his bed. The barrel was pointed at his face. The man focused on her red hair and snarled. "You had to fuck him, didn't you?" She said nothing.

He held the Glock steady. "Be still or be dead, Cocksucker," the suit threatened.

The big man sat up, still breathing heavily. Now it was all very clear. He felt the skin prick at the back of his neck and something thick and warm ran down his spine. The gleaming point was almost to his brain, but in his last moments it hit him. Now he had it all figured out.

Chapter 16

I was still a little fuzzy headed when the phone rang. I thought about not answering it at all. Let 'em leave a message. That's what we used to do. Sounds silly, but it worked. Still, the sound was insistent, maybe even urgent. I fumbled for it on the side table.

"T.K., get your ass out of the bed."

"I don't have to, Dee. You did it for me."

"Yeah . . . well I got news you don't want to hear. They found Bert Weldon this morning. He was at his apartment in the bedroom. His body was nude, his boxers, shirt and slacks folded neatly on a chair. He had an icepick sticking out of the back of his neck. It had reached his cerebral cortex. Not even that much blood. Nevertheless, he was very dead. The Medical Examiner found traces of semen on the sheets. She thinks he had recently had a sexual encounter. They're still working on details . . . a complete forensic sweep, interviewing neighbors, trying to get a lead on any kind of motive. So far not much. Some of the cops in town didn't like him too much. He was a little too industrious and dedicated for them. Not afraid to call it like he saw it, regardless of who got stepped on. Some of them aren't weeping. I don't know how far the investigation will go. A buddy of mine in the Palm Beach PD called me. I'll give you an update as soon as I have more information. Just thought you'd want to know."

"I guess I do. Thanks, Dee. I only met him yesterday, but it didn't take long for me to like him. He didn't seem like an easy man to take down."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. For now, you'd better watch your ass."

Okay . . . an icepick. Easy to conceal. Quick and deadly if you knew what you were doing. It sounded like the guy had just gotten laid. Probably a woman, a Black Widow just like the beguiling spider whose poisonous fangs could be so fatal. It was an obvious guess that he was on to something. He didn't strike me as a man who could be easily tempted, but I'd seen those smiles before . . . the promises they made and the darkness that sometimes followed. You think it's all under control. It'll be simple. You'll get what you want . . . and what you need, but things get hazy. Your judgement has gone south. The risk, the danger . . . they all seep into the background when the soft flesh presses against you and you feel the warm breath caressing your chest. It's so damned good . . . at least until the steel punctures your neck.

I made a cup of Cuban and doused it with a healthy dose of Jameson. I got my old spiral notebook and a pen. If I could get something on a page, it might get my mind in a place where I could try to make some sense out of this whole ugly business.

Nothing came. Someone had killed Bert Weldon. Someone had killed Chris, and someone had tried to kill me. It all pointed to Holly, aka Miriam, aka Mysteria, or whoever the hell she really was. A good detective always follows the money. That trail was clear. Good looking young woman with expensive tastes and other obvious talents . . . no scruples, not to mention any kind of human morality. Get what you can get and do whatever it takes to feed the monster. Holly was that woman. I was sure of that. I just needed the details . . . some thread to tie it all together so we could get her and put her in a place where the tenants were all like her . . . no more suckers, no more victims, no more dead bodies. Just other guilty inmates locked up in damp gray cells.

So where to now? Frank, Sunny, Dee? I didn't know. I tried to find something to do with the day. After all, I was the Ghostcatcher. I should be able to figure it out. Well, I couldn't.

It was almost four when the phone rang. I recognized the voice immediately even though it was one I wasn't sure I'd ever hear again.

"T.K. Don't hang up. I know I'm probably the last person you want to hear from, but you gotta understand. I know what you think. I killed them, and I tried to kill you. But it's not true. Tell me you'll meet me so I can explain . . . maybe even get to the people who did it. I know you feel like you can't trust me, but at least give me a chance. I can't come down there. I'm sure they're following me. They'll kill me if they can. I know too much. Leave in the morning. Sail up to Newfound Harbor. They won't expect it. I'll be on the dock at Little Palm. Pick me up in your dinghy. I'll tell you everything. Please . . . It's got to be over. I want to live."

She was right. I didn't trust her. It had to be a set up. Maybe I knew too much, too. But what else was I going to do? It was a bizarre request, but it was a risk I had to take. I'd prepare. Chris would have done it for me regardless of the danger. If she could provide me with the info I needed to bring it to a close, it would be worth it. If not? What the hell? At least I gave it my best shot.

"I should be there by four unless the weather goes bad. I'll pick you up at the dock like you say. Remember, I've got friends."

"I wish I could say the same." She hung up.

When I told Sunny about my little cruise, she looked at me like I had lost my mind. She was probably right. She sipped her ruby Cab and stared at the floor of the cockpit on KAMALA.

"Come on, Cap. By now, the Ghostcatcher should be able to smell a trap from a hundred miles. Sure . . . she gets you in that damned near deserted cove, away from any help or safety. She already damned near killed you with the poisoned whiskey. Now you're ready to jump right back into her web with no plans, no backup. Hell, she could have a submarine in the basin and a torpedo with your name on it. Get real, T.K. How many times are you going to let Miss Poor and Needy suck you into another abyss? Face it, this could be your last."

Sunny was right, but that wasn't unusual. I was being dumb, but that wasn't unusual either.

"I gotta do it . . . for Chris, maybe just for me. If I don't investigate every angle to try to avenge his murder, I can't look in the mirror when I shave in the mornings."

"Okay Cap . . . P.T. Barnum said, 'There's a sucker born every minute.' You, my love, are the living embodiment of that tome of wisdom. Make sure you have your cell charged. I want you to check in with me every hour. Call Frank. Tell him about your foolhardy scheme. Maybe he can have a patrol boat or the Coasties nearby if you need them. Hell, do what you have to do, my beloved Knight Errant."

I shook my head and took a heavy hit of Evan Williams. I promised to make the calls. She obviously wasn't satisfied, but at least she was quiet. For Sunny that, in itself, is an accomplishment.

The hamburgers on the grill sizzled and spit a scent of rich beef. If this was my last meal, at least it would be a good one . . . and I wasn't going to beat myself up for scoffing up the French fries.

There wasn't much conversation the rest of the evening. We ate. The debacle didn't much affect Sunny's appetite, but then nothing does. She wolfed down two monster burgers and I was lucky to even get any of the fries. Meanwhile the Cab flowed. She finally gave me a rather nasty look and shook her head. Then she headed up the dock. I checked my Taurus .38. She was clean and loaded, five slugs in the cylinder. I place it under a ragged t-shirt in the nav station. It would be quick and easy to get to, not to mention deadly, if the situation called for it.

Chapter 17

I left about seven the next morning. I wanted to cover the 40 miles to Newfound and have the anchor down by late afternoon. On the way I made my calls to Frank and checked in with Sunny. She was still in a foul mood, but hell, I was at sea. Frank promised to alert the Coast Guard and fill them in on the basics of my ill-advised plan . . . if that's even what it could be called. I could tell by the tone of Frank's voice he thought I was an idiot. So it goes. Not the first time. He knew that, too.

The day was magnificent. 10 to 12 knots out of the southeast, not much in the way of swells. KAMALA was flying full canvas and making a steady six to seven knots over the ground. She pranced like a Kentucky Derby winner, proud and strong, headed for the finish line, even though we still didn't know where that line was. I sipped a couple of Ice House and ate some sardines and peanut butter on saltines. It tasted mighty damned good. I was in Newfound just across from Little Palm, anchor down and set by three. It was hot, but the breeze cooled the furnace and KAMALA waltzed at anchor like the lady she is. I checked the dock with the binoculars, but nothing but the usual . . . at least until around four. She appeared and waved, looking like a lost child on the first day of school waiting for the bus.

I stepped off the stern and piled into my Achilles. The outboard fired up on the first pull and I was off to meet the lady. I still wasn't sure why.

She wore a large brim straw hat with her hair tucked up underneath. Massive, black rimmed sunglasses. I thought I recognized them from a Prada display I'd seen in a window on Duval Street. As I got closer I could see wisps of the blond silk trying to escape in the breeze. Very short denim cut-offs and a yellow linen top that teased around her breasts. Blue paisley Tevas on browned feet, the toes freshly painted a bright pink, fingernails to match. She was wearing the Cartier. She glanced at it as I drove up to the dock. I guessed time was important to her. A small blue bag hung limply from her wrist.

She hesitated a minute, then climbed into the dinghy.

"Thanks, T.K." she almost whispered, keeping a healthy distance between us. I pulled up to the boarding platform of the O'Day 31 and she stepped up onto the boat. I pushed the engine kill switch and tied the painter to the stern cleat. She sat down in the cockpit and took the hat off her head. The yellow locks fell around her face. She shook her head and brushed them back with an insouciant wave. There were dark orbs under her eyes, but her skin glowed like a pagan goddess in the sun.

"I need a drink. Something strong. You probably do, too. It will be hard for you to believe me, but I all I want is an open mind. I know how you felt about Chris. I didn't kill him, and I didn't poison you, but I know who did, and I know why. I guess it's just time to make things right."

I stepped below and pulled out a fifth of Evan Williams. She watched and nodded.

"Just ice," she said. I filled her request and then mixed myself a strong one.

"Maybe we should go below," she said, "they might be watching."

We went down the companionway. The temperature was fine. All of the hatches were open and I had the DC fan running. The breeze was fresh and salty. She sat on the settee and crossed her legs. She took a sip of the bourbon and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. There would be no invitations to seduction this time.

"Okay, Holly, or should I call you Miriam?"

"Suit yourself. Either one works," she said with a hint of irony in her voice. "You know a lot of the story. I did con the old man, Foreman. Actually he was kind of sweet in his own way, treated me great, and the millions from the tool business made him all the sweeter. If I wanted it, all I had to do was say the word. He called me 'Princess'. Jewelry, resorts, the best people . . . they were all at my feet. I admit I did persuade him to change his will. Those damned kids of his, Mercer and Estelle, were a matched pair, bastard and bitch, spoiled beyond any redemption and greedy as hell. They thought it would all be theirs and little Miriam could live in the trailer park and drink Roma Rocket. They only made one mistake. They thought I was too dumb to figure it all out. I wasn't. When the old man died, I was actually distraught. He loved me in his own way and he showed it. Plus, I had the money."

"You know there was talk . . . "

"Yeah . . . mostly planted by them. When they found out they were getting pennies, they contested the will . . . fed the rumor mill in Palm Beach. 'Screw the little gold digger. She killed him for the bucks'. But it didn't work. They hired a private investigator, big black guy who had a reputation for getting results, no matter what it took. But I was clean. Still, I blew it. I'd never seen that kind of money, never had the kind of freedom it bought. I just figured it would last forever. I had my own attorney, Malcolm Parker. I listened to that sonovabitch too much. But the truth was I had to have the estate. I felt like I'd earned it.

Mercer and Estelle and their dusky go-boy had uncovered some interesting details about the old man's finances and my past. Stuff I didn't know they had, photos, old videos, and other stuff they said could send me to jail for a long time. I was scared . . . started paying them . . . thousands at a time. I withdrew the money in sums of less than ten thousand so the bank wouldn't have to report it to the IRS or anybody else. But the pile of green was getting smaller and smaller. So now I was a junkie, bleeding cash to those pricks. Malcolm had some contacts, some info. I don't know where he got it, but it led to Chris. I guess I was already a whore in my head -- maybe even in my heart -- so what difference would one more scam make? At least this time I didn't have to blow anybody."

A couple of times a tear formed at the corner of her left eye and a sob seemed permanently stuck in her throat. But she cleared it and swiped at the eye with the Cartier fist. If she was lying, it was Oscar-worthy, Emmy award winning and deserving of any Tony on the planet. But the expert liar always mixes a bit of truth in with the fabrications, then convinces herself it is all true. I had to remind myself that she was exactly that expert.

"You said they'd kill you if they had the chance. You've gotta have fifty mill or so in the bank. Why kill the goose who lays the golden egg?"

"There's a clause. I don't understand it all . . . legalese and all that shit. If anything happens to me, the remaining estate reverts to the original heirs. That's them, Mercer and Estelle, I guess. I don't have any family left, so they could put it all in their baskets and do a happy dance."

Now here was the poor little orphan minus the red curls. Daddy Warbucks had left her a fortune and she was in danger. What did she expect me to do? And when I'd done it, what were the chances I might mysteriously disappear? Too many questions. Not enough answers. I watched her closely and remembered my loaded friend hiding under the t-shirt in the nav station. I decided to wait. Maybe the next installment would come if I was patient. I went to the galley and freshened my whiskey. I lifted the bottle and she handed me her glass.

She breathed heavily, and sipped the Evan Williams, but she seemed lifeless. She stared at the table, but I saw her raise her eyes when she thought I was distracted . . . checking me out. She wanted a reaction . . . a sign to let her know if it was time to go on, change her tactics, or just leave me to stew in my own confusion. There was one other possibility I had to consider . . . it was all the truth. We've all done some things we regret . . . things we're actually ashamed of. The ghosts rattle the chains in our heads, but when the survival mode kicks in we all become savages. Morality and honor become luxuries we can't afford. There's no black and white when your only priority is to continue breathing . . . and for some . . . spending. We sat for a few more minutes. It reminded me of that game you played when you were a kid. The first one to blink is the loser, but it made no difference. There wouldn't be any winners in this perverse game.

Chapter 18

Suddenly I heard a loud thump on the hull, as if something had crashed into the fiberglass. I grabbed the Taurus from the nav station. I wasn't expecting any company that wasn't already aboard, and my senses were stoked on the adrenaline surging through my veins.

A man stood rocking in a 13 foot Boston Whaler. I listened to the Merc 8 HP chatter in a familiar cadence. I half expected to see Malcolm Parker, but the face wasn't that familiar, even though I thought I'd seen it before. He held on to the coaming of KAMALA to steady the small runabout. His right hand was at his side. He smiled and raised it. A dark gray pistol was pointed at my chest. It looked like a .45. Maybe the answer to my confusion was close at hand. At that range, the slug would blow a hole in my chest big enough to drive a semi through.

"Place the gun on the deck," he said. "Be very slow and very cautious. This thing in my hand could go off at any minute." He grinned at me like a tiger that had my balls in his mouth and was just waiting to chomp down.

I stood in the cockpit and did as he instructed. I heard Holly behind me coming up the companionway. I scanned the basin. Not another boat in sight, and no one on the docks at Little Palm. I quickly wondered if Frank's promise to have the Coast Guard nearby was a reality or just a feeble wish I hoped would come true. That's when I felt the first prick of the cold steel stabbing into the back of my neck. Then things went black.

The sun had set and the darkness covered us like a wet wool blanket. I reached for the penlight I always kept in the coaming compartment. The only thing I knew for sure was that I wasn't dead. I put my hand to the back of my neck. There was a wooden handle with a spike glued in place. My first instinct was to yank it out, but in the haze that permeated my consciousness, I realized if I did, the trickle of blood would become a flood. Somehow the wicked steel had missed my brain stem. The blood had coagulated around the wound. It was probably the only thing that had saved me. I reached for the Taurus. It was where I had left it when the intruder had given his orders. I tried to stand up, but I bumped against something solid, but fleshy.

Holly lay beside me in the cockpit. She had a hole in the middle of her forehead. The crimson was thick and had the consistency of Jell-O that hadn't quite set. It had run over the floor and into the cockpit drains. I slipped on the sticky fluid as I reached for her wrist. No pulse. Her body had already grown stiff and pale. I stumbled below and turned on the VHF.

"Mayday, Mayday. This is the sailing vessel KAMALA anchored in Newfound Harbor. Request immediate assistance." I found out later that Sunny had already called them. I had missed my check-in and she hadn't wasted any time.

The Coast Guard answered and we switched to channel 22. When I told them I had a dead body aboard, they responded rather quickly. Then the darkness sucked me into its black jaws.

When I woke, I knew immediately I wasn't on KAMALA. The walls were pale green and my eyes focused on a brown figure sitting at my bed.

"T.K. Come on out of it. You're going to be okay. The x-rays are negative and the wound closed nicely. Good thing the Coasties were around the corner and one of their guys was an EMT. You'll be here until tomorrow just for observation, but you were damned lucky."

It was Frank. He had kept his promise and I was alive. That was the good news.

"Here's the rest of it," he said grimly. "I've got to read you your rights and arrest you for the murder of Miriam Sadowski."

"What the hell? I didn't kill her."

"I know, T.K. But she was shot with your .38 at close range. Your fingerprints are the only ones on the gun. We have the weapon, opportunity, and motive. There will be a patrolman at your door around the clock. You will not be allowed any visitors. When they release you, we're going down to the station and you'll be booked."

"You might as well tell me to have a swell day while you're at it."

"Get an attorney, T.K. That's the best advice I can give you and it's the only thing I can say at this point."

"Okay, Frank. I guess I still ought to thank you."

"Get an attorney," he said with steel in his voice.

Then he got up and shoved the chair back into the corner. My head wasn't totally clear. I knew I was probably still sedated. Why not give in? I slept the sleep of the dead, but I guess it just wasn't my time . . . at least not yet.

I was still a bit groggy the next morning when Frank and the uniforms showed up. No cuffs. Just polite pressure on the arm to point me toward the police cruiser. The scene at the station was right off of one of those bad cop shows. Everyone tight-lipped and pumped up in case the hardened criminal bolted for the door or tried some other foolhardy move. I hadn't contacted an attorney, but Frank had already talked to a judge. It was a woman I knew from working on a couple of previous cases with the Key West PD. She had agreed to release me on my own recognizance as long as I didn't leave the area. It's always nice to know some of the right people, especially if your ass is in a sling. And mine was.

Sunny met me at the station. After the forensics team had done their duty, she and Fritz had retrieved KAMALA from Newfound Harbor. She was sitting in her slip at Land's End patiently awaiting the return of her captain, i.e., the vicious fugitive that I was purported to be. I stepped on board. I could still see the pink film in the cockpit floor where Holly had died. They had hosed it down, but it lingered. I knew it would fade with time, but I wanted it to be gone. Now.

Sunny followed me and I fired up the coffee maker. A strong cup of Cuban with a dollop of Jameson was definitely in order.

"Well, you got you damned sure got yourself into it this time, T.K. I hate to be the bitch that said 'I told you so', so I won't utter those words."

"Thanks a lot, my lady love. Your kindness knows no bounds." She laughed, but just a little.

"So where do we go from here?" she asked.

I told her the whole story . . . the tale -- for whatever it was worth -- that I had gotten from Holly. The arrival of our unexpected visitor . . . the one with the large gun . . . the one I think I may have recognized, and a few other minor details that might come in handy when we began our search.

"Okay sucker, you should have known from the start it was set up."

"I guess I did, but a part of me wanted to take the risk if we could find out what really happened to Chris."

"Yeah . . . well now you have an extra hole in your head to remind you that next time you need to be a little smarter, and maybe a little less intrepid . . . perhaps even exercise a little old-fashioned horse sense."

"Duly noted, my love. Now let's get on with business. I think I know who put the bullet in Holly's forehead."

I turned on my laptop and typed in the name. There were several immediate hits. I tapped the mouse and one Mercer Foreman appeared on the screen, smiling as he handed over a check to the Palm Beach Historical Restoration Association.

"That's the guy."

Sunny looked at the screen and scowled.

"So Mercer Foreman, the loving son. This is the bastard almost sent you to never-never land? You sure?"

I nodded.

"Next question . . . how do we get him?"

I didn't know.

Chapter 19

The first step was to find him . . . and his sister, Estelle. I figured she might be sunken up to her elbows in this vicious whirlpool. There was a good possibility Mercer believed his plan had worked. He probably thought I was as dead as a tuna. It wouldn't take long for him to find out that wasn't the case, but perhaps we had a sliver of time on our side. I might even be able to trace the Whaler he had used to come to KAMALA to do the dirty deeds. Frank would help. At the very least, I had to place our boy at the scene of the crime. The bottom line was I had to save my ass. I did have a murder charge against me, and friends or not, Frank wouldn't be able to stall in a case this sensational. There was plenty of evidence to make me look very guilty. Juries are scary. Poor little rich girl murdered, no-good boat bum avenging his philandering friend. Who cared that I had an icepick sticking out of my neck? It might just play. That was a chance I didn't want to take.

I called Dee.

"I think I can probably tell you where he is almost instantly. Let me put you on hold for a second."

Actually, it took a couple of minutes, but she was back.

"My buddy in Palm Beach says he'd take heavy odds that the bastard was sipping a Mimosa in his penthouse on the 24th floor of Ocean Towers, a beachfront high rise where the 'wannabes' and the 'already ares' enjoy a view of the Atlantic that starts at a couple of mill. Of course, that includes twenty-four hour valet parking, and a concierge that can get you a cheeseburger or a plate of Beef Wellington any time of the day or night. Who says you can't have everything?"

"Not riff-raff like me." I tried a phony sneer even though I didn't think it would make it through the cell tower. Then I told her about my episode in Newfound Harbor, the icepick, and the murder charge.

"Jesus, T.K. Do you think you could go at least a month or two without getting up to your ass in quicksand? You, old friend, definitely have a death wish."

We traded some lighter conversation and she told me to hug Sunny and her dad.

"Okay, keep me posted and call if I can help. Things are a little slow now. Ev and I are just in the right mood for some pro bono work, especially if it will help nail Chris's killer."

I thanked her and hung up. I drank a second cup of coffee and tried to think. Frank had promised to send one of his boys up the coast to try to find the Whaler. But I knew the Key West PD had its own agenda. The tourists were thick right now. That meant plenty of booze and probably women, loose and otherwise, were greasing the skids for a boom in "Drunk and Disorderlies", drug abuse, and the petty crime that accompanied it. Patience, I told myself. One among many other virtues totally missing from my repertoire.

Sunny is usually a fount of ideas, a lot of them reasonable. She believed in a plan, and sometimes it was hard to move her without one. But this time we kept coming up empty.

"There's one thing we can be sure of, T.K. He tried to kill you once. He'll do it again. He thinks it's the only way he can be completely safe . . . and he's probably right. We need to get off our asses before he succeeds."

I stood up.

"Okay, I'm off my ass. Now what?"

She was getting that gleam in her eye. Sometimes that was a good thing, but you can never be sure.

"How about a pre-emptive strike? Let's pay Mr. Foreman a visit. We know where he is. We may still have the element of surprise. You never know . . . maybe we can catch the sonovabitch with his pants down. What do you think, my passionate Ghostcatcher?"

There was nothing I liked about her idea, but sitting and waiting is not my strong suit. In my mind, I ran through a host of clichés, "strike while the iron is hot, nail them when they're unaware, don't put off until tomorrow what you can do today." None of them worked, but I still had the pounding headache, the bandage on the back of my neck, and Chris was still dead. One more cliché . . . time to roll the dice. The cops had confiscated my Taurus for evidence, but Sunny still had the little Ruger .22 I had given her months back for protection. It was basically a target pistol, but it would have to do.

"Okay, my Darling, take the top off."

Sunny looked at me quizzically. I could tell she didn't think this was the right time for a round of "you show me yours and I'll show you mine." Then she smiled and nodded. I removed the small recorder and microphone from the plastic baggie I kept it in to protect it from moisture. I checked the lithium battery just to be safe and pulled out the surgical tape. I placed it just beneath her right breast and secured it. I ran the wire up under her arm and just inside the folds in her top. Unless he frisked us, and I didn't think he would, it would remain invisible. It was a long shot, but we got in the Miata and headed north. I figured we'd make Palm Beach around three. Hopefully, he'd still be into the Mimosas.

We pulled up under the portico of the Ocean Towers and the smartly uniformed attendant gave the old Miata a disdainful, if not down right distasteful, look.

"May I help you, sir," he sneered. I stepped out of the car and got very close to man. My 6'2' 190 lbs. did what was intended. He started to cower, but rolled his shoulders and thought better of it. I turned on the haughtiest voice I could muster and frowned prodigiously.

"We are here to see Mr. Foreman. He is expecting us."

"I will announce your arrival. Your name, sir?"

"My good man. As I previously stated, he is expecting us. Please do not be pedantic. Just park the car."

I handed him a twenty. He eyed it, smiled, nodded, and opened the door for Sunny. His attention was instantly diverted by one very tight pair of jeans and a top that plunged to an enticing level. He melted. She handed him the keys. I saw him grinning as he pulled away. I ignored the concierge even though his uniform looked like an Italian Generalissimo. We pranced to the elevator and pushed twenty-four for the penthouse. I put my hand below Sunny's breast and shook the tape recorder.

"Dirty old man," she snarled and slapped my hand with mock viciousness.

I rang the bell and waited. No response. I was just about to hit it again when I heard the knob turning. Mercer Foreman stood in the frame, starched khakis and a pink Izod, a pair of tan Sperry Gold Cups on his feet. He was actually better looking close up and in person. A haircut that probably cost a hundred and fifty bucks, and a large diamond set in gold on his ring finger. He held a crystal glass monogramed with MGF. A lime green liquid spilled over a few cubes of ice and nearly ran over the rim.

"I'm not sure how you got by Howard. He is customarily very efficient. Nevertheless, it is a distinct pleasure to see you, Dr. Fleming, and your charming associate. I must admit, I am somewhat surprised, but please do come in. May I offer you a cocktail? It is a bit early, but to coin a well-worn phrase, it's always five o'clock somewhere."

We declined. Sunny and I sat on an overstuffed leather sectional. He elegantly slid into a tapestried bamboo chair across from us and crossed his legs. Thin lips plied the edges of the glass. He took a sip, and placed it on a small brass table. I wondered if the expression on his face always said, "Something definitely smells spoiled."

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"I think you know, Mercer. I'm sure your memory is not that bad. The last time we met, you were in a small Whaler pointing a .45 at my head. When I woke from the icepick that barely missed my brain, there was a dead woman on my cockpit with a slug in the middle of her forehead . . . a slug that came from my gun."

"Well, Dr. Fleming. These things happen. Sometimes necessity dictates that we take extreme actions. I actually liked Miriam a great deal. We even had a dalliance or two. She was quite useful and quite satisfactory. But let me be brief, if I may. I have deciphered the intent of your unexpected arrival."

"And what is that, Mercer?"

"As you may know, I have recently come into a rather large sum of money."

"About fifty million, I'd guess."

"Well, let's not quibble over numbers. I have definitely had to get my hands dirty, as the plebeians might say. Trust me . . . I don't care for it. Frankly, it interferes with a lifestyle with which I have become enamored . . . one I would like to continue to indulge in. I would certainly not be opposed to providing a healthy stipend to one whose silence could allow me that courtesy. The figure $50,000 comes to mind immediately, but I am a reasonable man and always open to negotiations. The murder charge against you will never reach fruition. With some financing, I expect you could be quite comfortable."

Sunny had been silent. I rubbed my hands together and feigned serious consideration.

"You know, Mercer. I don't question your generosity, but I am much more comfortable with six figures . . . say one hundred thousand? I wouldn't want you to give up those pleasures you've become accustomed to."

I felt like we had enough on tape. Sunny nodded at me and I tilted my head to let her know we were leaving shortly.

"Well, I would certainly like to settle this now. I assure you my check is good. A moment, please."

He got up and sauntered towards the bedroom. A check with his signature would be the final nail in his coffin. When the door opened, he didn't come out.

A small redhead appeared. She wore a pair of tight-fitting black slacks and a green tank top stretched across a set that would have suited a porn star. She was barefoot and she held what was probably the .45 I'd seen at Newfound Harbor. I didn't like the expression on her face or the way the thick barrel pointed.

"Bullshit," she snarled. "You think you're going to walk out of here with a hundred thousand dollars of our hard-earned money. It took too much to get it. Your stupid friend . . . Chris . . . Miriam . . . all our planning. It's done, and you will be, too. I'll think of you when I'm on the Riviera sipping drinks with Mercer and some of our devoted friends."

She shook her head and the fiery curls danced like demons waiting for the kill.

Mercer came out behind her. "Estelle . . . this is not the time, not the place. Too much noise and too much blood. That carpet cost twenty thousand dollars."

"Tough shit, Mercer. I'll handle it. You'll just fuck it up like you always do. The rug makes a nice shroud. Order a new one. Don't let your guts go soft when we've got the chance to end this once and for all."

He looked at me, then at Sunny, seeming to consider her words. He was trying hard for aloof, but I could detect fear running through his body. There was a bead of sweat on his brow and his lip quivered slightly. Estelle held the .45 like she'd been born with in her hand. I had no doubt she'd splatter my brains without any hesitation.

Sunny stepped away from my side. I felt the Ruger pressing into my back, but I knew I'd be dead before I could get to it, much less take aim.

"I do respect all of the time and trouble you've gone through, Dr. Fleming. As a gesture, I'll permit you to choose. Do you want me to kill you now, so you won't have to witness the death of your companion, or shall I just shoot her first? Either way is perfectly acceptable to me."

Sunny took another step backwards. The redhead turned the pistol toward her.

"Understand, you bleached bitch. I am very good at the pistol range and moving targets are a specialty. Be still, and I'll make it as painless as possible."

I slowly raised my hand like a timid first grader asking for permission to go to the bathroom. Estelle looked at me and put her other hand on the gun. Sunny took my cue and dove over the couch like an Olympic high jumper. Estelle fired two rounds into the soft leather. It sounded like cannons going off in succession. I dropped to one knee and found the Ruger. My first shot hit her in the shoulder. She looked at the tiny hole made by the .22 and smiled. She pointed the .45 at my chest. My second shot hit her above her left eyebrow. She staggered.

"You bastard," she spit, and slumped to the floor. Blood gurgled from her mouth and merged into the ruby threads of Persian carpet. I approached the body and kicked the .45 away from her outstretched arm. I couldn't tell whether she was breathing or not. Sunny's head popped out from behind the cushions. She was shaking, but she bit her lip, looked at me, and nodded an okay.

Mercer had watched it all. He collapsed into a chair like a puppet whose strings had been sliced with a razor. Then he began to whimper softly.

I called 911. Then I called Frank.

Epilogue

The Palm Beach cops were quick and efficient. This is the kind of publicity they like to avoid in the land of milk and honey. Frank had made a couple of calls vouching for us and identifying me as an official consultant of the Key West PD. It helped. They confiscated the tape we'd made and both the weapons. Sunny and I weren't at the police station nearly as long as I would have exspected. By eleven that night we were back on the road to Key West. It was a quiet ride . . . no Springsteen . . . no conversation . . . just glad to be alive.

When the cops got him to the interrogation room, Mercer melted like butter on a hot stove. It was Estelle . . . at least that's what he told them. She was the mastermind. Sure . . . he'd done some bad things, but she had threatened him. He was scared . . . thought he was next, and she was just plain crazy. Meanwhile, Frank had found the guy who rented him the Whaler. Positive ID, and Mercer was stupid enough to pay with a VISA card. The time and date were stamped on the receipt. There's one thing in life you can always rely on . . . dumb crooks.

Estelle lived. I was glad. I never liked killing anyone, much less a woman.The bullet had grazed the brain and missed most of the bones. The lead hadn't exploded and made the inside of her head a tossed salad, although later she might wish it had. She was in the Broward County jail with no bail. The DA, even though he wasn't sure our tape would be admissible, felt confident the Black Widow would be spending the rest of her life in lock-up wearing those fashionable gray jammies with the numbers on them. Frank had the charges against me dropped.

There were still some shady areas . . . some things I didn't know. I thought Holly had killed Bert. The lady definitely had a way with an icepick. Malcom was her triggerman, but the case was still open. Where would the money go? I didn't know. But Sunny was safe; I was safe, and we got Chris's killers. I guess that was all that mattered. The cops could do the rest.

We sat at the Green Parrot . . . another illustrious meeting of Buffett's Roundtable . . . all of the reprobates in their appointed places. We raised one last toast to a blood that would never be replaced. It was followed by a few tears and bated moments of silence. Then the grief cleared. The laughter was muted, but it had begun all over again. Chris wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

