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 h
er 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.”