The Quick Adios (Times Six) (Alex Rutledge Mystery Series) Page 2

  Dressing down to blend into the scenery was fine for The Aristocrats, but I went inside and changed my shirt. Even in Key West, looking respectable has a positive effect on crime scene access. I installed fresh batteries and memory cards, and put back-ups for each of those plus my digital recorder into my big camera bag. Behind my cottage, I locked the bicycle in favor of the quicker ride to the island’s south side.

  My ‘70 Triumph Bonneville lives in a backyard shed custom-built to protect it from storms, floods and lowlife. I rolled it around front to find a FedEx van stopped in the lane. The driver waved an envelope at me. I set the stand and walked over to accept a large, flat packet from Sarasota. I didn’t recognize the sender’s name.

  Inside the packet was a heavy manila envelope labeled, “Quote Request. Prepared for Alex Rutledge Photography, Key West, Florida.” I took it as a bright launch of the year for my one-man enterprise. I didn’t have time to read it just then. I reopened my house, tossed the proposal on a chair and locked up.

  Driving out of the lane, I speculated on Marnie’s warning about the scene being bigger than they were letting on. Right away I came up with three big ideas. A tie-in to other murders, local or elsewhere; dead famous visitors; or dead wealthy locals.

  My mind was open, but my curiosity was under control.

  It was not my gig, my problem or my style.

  2.

  I crossed Garrison Bight Bridge stuck behind three snowbirds on fume-spewing rental mopeds. Their pace past Houseboat Row let me slow my brain and collect my thoughts. Crime scene rules that applied to me, the civilian with connections, ranged from heavy-handed to loose and trusting. It depended on the presence of news media and which cops I dealt with. I knew not to foul evidence or contaminate a scene. I always knocked out quality work, but I refused to be upset the few times the cops asked me to leave. They had their reasons, and I had already swapped my ego for their fee. This time I was out to help two close friends at The Tideline condo. I would face disparate tasks on arrival, but I didn’t want to disappoint or embarrass either one by being shown the door.

  Beth Watkins was after clues, hard evidence and respect from her fellow officers. Marnie Dunwoody, to syndicate her news article, needed photos that told of urgency and human suffering. Images to pitch tragedy and horror to the masses, but having little to do with forensics. My twin objectives made me wish that I was barefoot back on my porch, reviewing the elegant quote request from Sarasota, counting in advance the welcome boost to my bank account. Slugging down the beer that I had given away to Dubbie Tanner. But I had promised two friends…

  The mopeds turned left on Roosevelt, and I ran down First, trying to dream up fly-on-the-wall vantage points for Marnie’s establishing shots. She could use views of the condo exterior, cops in uniform, their vehicles, and crowd control. I didn’t need the outside officers to take me for a gawker with YouTube aspirations. And I had to get inside quickly to help Beth Watkins fend off the sheriff’s investigators and hang on to her case.

  Moments later I was no one’s white knight. On the only direct route between downtown and the airport, a green and white Crown Vic straddled the centerline of Bertha Street next to the Shanna Key Irish Pub. Why was a county vehicle working inside city limits? Why was there a roadblock for an incident three blocks away, inside a building?

  “…bigger than they’re letting on.”

  I foresaw no access at all.

  Luck came through, for the moment. I recognized Chris Ericson, who knew that I had worked for his boss, Sheriff Liska, and for several detectives at the city. He also knew of my personal link to Beth Watkins. Like so many law officers, Deputy Ericson came to the job size large. Big neck, huge forearms, strong hands. In his Kevlar vest he looked like a sculpted robot with a tight-leash attitude. Scowling, his arms crossed, his butt pressed to the rear fender, he was a perfect roadblock. I stopped next to his cruiser’s rear bumper with my Triumph pointed toward the crime scene. I switched off the motor and removed my helmet.

  “I got a call twenty minutes ago,” I said, “Do I need a wrist band?”

  “You might be out of a pay check,” said Ericson.

  “Did the city tell you to turn me around?”

  He shook his head. “Ten minutes ago Sheriff Liska secured everything inside a five-block radius.”

  “Well, shit,” I said, thinking more about Marnie losing her scoop than my being out a pay check.

  “Look, Rutledge,” said Deputy Ericson. “I’m just the messenger.”

  “How about residents of the area?”

  “Let me guess,” he said. “You live on Josephine.”

  “Let’s keep going with that.”

  “You’re going straight home with medicine for a sick child.”

  I nodded my acceptance of his little blue lie. “I was told a double murder. Why all the security?”

  “They didn’t share their reasons,” said Ericson, “but it’s probably just crowd control. From what the office told me, it’s your typical drunk tourist bang-bang kind of deal.”

  “I got that, too,” I said. “As if Key West has anything typical.”

  “Water puddles everywhere, that’s typical,” he said. “Plus, in this town, sooner or later, everyone fucks up.” He waved to direct a motorist down Flagler then turned back to me. “I mean everyone. Minor or major, local or visitor. You’re going straight to a private home?”

  “Exactly what I had in mind.”

  We both heard my cell phone buzz. I glanced down at my vibrating pocket.

  “That’s your pretty boss looking for you,” said the deputy. “Don’t piss her off by dawdling. She might run over your foot with her slick motorcycle.”

  Months earlier Ericson had come within a minute of busting Beth Watkins for a speed run on Cudjoe Key. She had bumped her Ducati well past 130 mph on Blimp Road, then departed for Key West after being summoned to a crime scene. I had been left behind with my antique Bonneville to deny all, to suggest that the deputy must have heard a passing jet. Ericson knew that planes weren’t allowed near the blimp. He also knew of Beth’s reputation for riding a powerful café racer. Out of respect for a fellow officer, he had let his query slide. But all three of us knew he was owed a favor in return, yet to be determined. Now I owed him another.

  I thanked him with a silent nod, replaced my helmet, started the bike and rode away under the shade of a single cloud.

  The Tideline Condominium, only 1,000 feet from the Atlantic side of the island, was built in the 1990s, directly across the street from the first major development in Key West, 1800 Atlantic. When “1800” was built in the mid-’80s, it drew boatloads of criticism, but it was legal and opulent. The place filled quickly and inspired similar projects on the island’s south side, including The Tideline with its ground-level protected parking, two residential levels, royal palms and peaked roof. I had heard that its condos were smaller but more luxurious than those of its larger neighbors.

  The side street where I parked, by chance, behind Marnie Dunwoody’s Jeep, was quieter than I expected. I was only three hundred feet from The Tideline, perhaps three hundred yards from the ocean. The air carried beach smells, a musty odor of damp seaweed. I locked my helmet to the Triumph’s handlebar then, answering to habit, to assure myself that the camera was working, I removed it from its bag and pointed it south on Josephine Street. I clicked off several pictures without aiming or framing. Perfect exposure, fine focus. I was good to go.

  I walked east on Atlantic Boulevard toward the crime scene. Most boulevards have medians, a line of trees, green grass or left-turn lanes. Atlantic is a skinny two-lane close to the beach, prone to flooding in storms. I once noticed on an eighty-year-old map that it used to be called Ruth Street.

  Right away, for Marnie, I wanted an overall shot, the ground-level parking area around two sides of the building and three residential floors. I needed some altitude to see over the condo’s surrounding shrubs and give my shot perspective. An idea came to mind that w
as interrupted by the buzz of my phone. The missed-call screen told me that Tanner, not Beth, had rung while I chatted with Deputy Ericson.

  “Yo, bro,” said Dubbie.

  I didn’t respond.

  “Okay,” he said. “I will never say ‘Yo, bro,’ again. Greg’s last name is Pulver.” He spelled it for me. “We found pictures on Facebook. I’ve seen the guy around town.”

  “How about an address, his partner’s name?”

  “No home address yet. Wiley knows someone to ask at Pepe’s. Best we can tell, from Facebook remarks, he’s also employed by a woman named Ocilla.”

  “Hot damn,” I said, “I think your detective agency’s on track. Can you check him out, see if there’s dirt on the street? See if Greg was having affairs with his clients?”

  Dubbie ignored me. “Wiley is running Ocilla through the search sites and, right away, having no luck. In order to better follow your orders and deplete your expense cash, I will report to the Green Parrot, the Bull and Whistle, Schooner Wharf and similar iconic saloons to learn more about Greg Pulver’s habits and associates.”

  “A work ethic to which we all aspire,” I said.

  Tanner hung up. It rang again.

  “Change of plans, Alex” said Beth. “We won’t need your help after all. If you’ve left the house, you can turn around and go home.”

  “I’ve left the house,” I said.

  “You probably can’t get in here. Your friend the sheriff just set up a five-block perimeter. No vehicles in or out.”

  “Why can’t my friend make one exception?”

  “The response teams are crowding out into the roadway. The traffic issues…”

  “Beth, am I fired because their scene techs don’t want… ?”

  “Essentially, yes,” she said. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this incoming.”

  The call ended. I had been dropped into the out basket, but my promise to Marnie Dunwoody still stood.

  Dodging onlookers on foot, a few bike riders taking curiosity breaks, I made my way to the in-line skaters’ Southern–most Hockey Club, across Bertha from the condo. Though I had walked less than three hundred feet, I found the sea breeze carried even more pungent odors of beached plankton. A five-foot chain-link fence surrounded the vacant rink. I had no ladder, so a shot from its roof was out. With every cop in sight distracted by the headline crime, I saw no risk in light-duty trespassing. The club had mounted their home team sign on twin posts near the fence. With my camera bag strap around my neck, using gaps in the chain-link and stupid bravado, I managed a toehold. I hoisted myself, planted my feet on the top bar of the fence, and hung one elbow over the sign top.

  The perch gave me a five-foot advantage and did wonders for the Nikon’s point of view. I framed the condo’s east wall and the cars in the near lot, then went back and forth for panoramic effect. I zoomed into the 1800 Atlantic parking area across the road, then photographed sidewalk onlookers closer to me. By the spectrum of attire, from T-shirts, sweat pants and flip-flops to dress shirts, shoes and sun dresses, the sidewalk group appeared to be Tideline condo dwellers evacuated on short notice.

  I had a bitch of a time climbing down without snagging my ass on fence barbs or breaking my ankles. On my way to solid ground I noticed the sound of a low-flying single-engine aircraft. Someone else with the point of view I really needed.

  I wasn’t sure that I had taken helpful photos, but my larger task would be getting a camera to Marnie. I crossed Bertha, stepped through a landscaped border into The Tideline parking lot and took a half-dozen random shots, cars and vans, only for the satisfaction of pressing the shutter button. Marnie would find the photos useless. And I was stuck. She was going to get scooped by a reporter in a small plane, and my first attempt at online journalism would end in failure.

  Closer to the yellow incident streamer around the police command post, I finally saw a photo I wanted. A few cops stood around wearing MCSO and KWPD jackets, but no one noticed me. I pushed the button five times as I panned left to right, then pushed my luck, aimed the zoom toward the open rear door of the county’s forensic truck, shot several more. I knew that my camera’s sensor wasn’t capturing what I could clearly make out in the van’s dim interior light: a scene tech moving around, sorting gear, placing objects on a work counter. He was preparing for something, either to carry supplies inside or to receive evidence from inside the building. Digital pictures are free; I kept shooting.

  I had been in that van on two occasions in the past four years, so I knew what it meant when the tech reached into the cabinet that held body bags. His arm moved twice from the high shelf to a hefty-looking backpack, confirming the two deaths that Beth had mentioned. He then raised his arm once again to the cabinet and placed a third black bag in the backpack. I hit the button several more times as the tech climbed out, slammed the van’s rear door and walked into the building.

  Focusing on the technician’s chore, I had paid too little attention to the crowd around me. A city cop in a group of onlookers must have seen me snap the last few pictures. I didn’t recognize him, and he didn’t know why I was there. He keyed his shoulder mike and beckoned me with his free arm. Not wanting to get trapped in a long explanation, I put my camera into its carrying pouch, faded across Bertha Street and took out my cell to call Marnie.

  My phone vibrated in my hand. The window read: B WATKINS.

  I promised myself not to lie and pressed the button.

  “Alex,” she said. “Why are you taking pictures out in the street?”

  “Long story, but I’m doing someone a favor.”

  “You’re not doing me any.”

  I scanned The Tideline, saw her standing on a third-floor balcony. “It has nothing to do with you.”

  “You’re wrong, Alex,” she said, sounding like a cop. “A lot of people associate the two of us. If one of my colleagues, one of the wrong ones, spots you taking pictures, I’m under the bus, and we already promised Marnie a photo op. Please go away.”

  “Her camera crapped out on her…”

  Again Beth spoke sharply: “She needs to borrow yours.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I said.

  “She’s in a briefing room. I’ll send an officer out to get it.”

  “What officer won’t associate the two of us?”

  “I’ve managed to find a few friends at work,” she said. “Please stay where you are for a minute or two.”

  I didn’t want to have my gear confiscated, lose the pictures I had taken. I waited a few seconds, took advantage of a sago palm, and stepped out of Beth’s line-of-sight. It took me fewer than fifteen seconds to swap an unused data chip into the Nikon and place the chip with photos in my pocket. I moved sideways so she could see me again, but she had gone away from the window.

  The group of evacuees had pushed back a few yards closer to me. I approached a man dressed in striped shorts and a tank top. A brush cut and excellent earlobe-level sideburns.

  “Excuse me.” I pointed to the southeast corner of the third floor. “Do you know what apartment number that is?”

  He turned toward me, looked puzzled, and shook his head. He nudged a woman near him, mumbled in what I took to be Russian. She also had a brush cut and tank top plus a colorful dragon tattoo on her left shoulder. I believe our planet now has more dragon tattoos than pickup trucks.

  Pointing again, hoping for better luck, I posed the question to the young woman.

  She looked at the building then turned and stared at my chest without focusing. It took her about ten seconds to consider her answer. Without lifting her eyes to mine she said, in a crisp military voice, a perfect midwest accent, “Three-zero-two, sir.”

  She looked away and didn’t respond when I thanked her.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  The shape of a linebacker, my height, the officer wore a white polo shirt over a white T-shirt, black shorts, no hat or hair, and opaque sunglasses. His neck was as big around as his bald head. His belt carri
ed an array of restraints, communication equipment, weapons and chromium hardware. We backed away from the clutch of silent onlookers.

  “You popping for tabs?” he said.

  “Come again?”

  “Paparazzi for the tabloids?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t shoot crime scenes for money.”

  “Why do it?” he said.

  “The same reason as you. To stop or solve crimes.”

  The officer shook his head and laughed. “Shit, bubba, other people do that crap. My gig is to react, not stop or solve. The more crimes I react to, the more job security I nail down. I’m out here for rent plus my family’s health insurance, and it keeps me out of the bars.”

  “And you get to carry a gun.” I pulled one of the small Canons from my pocket. “The power is all yours. Are you going to give this to Ms. Dunwoody?”

  He adjusted his swagger, looked unsure how to react to my “power” remark. He let it slide and took the camera from my hand. “I’ll deliver it personally, Rutledge.”

  “Why would the tabloids have an interest?” I said.

  “I don’t know how those fuckers think. But even more I don’t know why a civilian would want to waste time taking pictures outside of a crime scene.”

  I was stumped for an answer that made sense to either of us.

  “I’m supposed to watch you go away,” he said. “Orders from the female detective, through me to you.”

  “Great job you got,” I said.

  “Whatever,” he said. “Guess we know who wears the gun in your house.”

  He hadn’t let it slide after all.

  I walked north on Josephine away from Atlantic Boulevard and away from the breeze. A January day, and my ballcap was damp with sweat. I wished for a cloud to pass above me. I heard another small plane, then a chopper, and knew that people with better views and video had scooped Marnie on visuals. Her best hope was the story behind the story. Stopping in front of a porch filled with colorful Styrofoam trapline floats, I tapped Dubbie Tanner’s number on my cell.