Falafel Jones - Max Fried 02 - Payback's a Beach (19 page)

“Unidentifiable fingerprints? Could they belong to the dead guy?”

“They can’t tell. Too much body damage.”

“So, all this helps Brenda?”

Ed sounded enthused. “Yeah, if I defended her, I’d have a field day with that piece of evidence.” Then Ed paused. “Or maybe I should say lack of evidence. All I need is to do is create a reasonable doubt.” In a dramatic voice, he said, “Detective Torres, you testified there are fingerprints on the murder weapon that do not belong to my client. How do you know these prints don’t belong to the killer?” Ed snorted. “Done!”

Now that Ed had recorded the lien, I had to locate assets worth seizing. I logged back onto the PI database and ran an asset search. Fisher didn’t own anything besides his 1989 boat,
Amante,
and a 10 year old, Mercedes C230, 4 cylinder, sports sedan. The Kelly Blue book showed the car’s value at only $7,000 and Bucky said Fisher owed more on the boat than it was worth. Seven thousand was a long way from the half a million Fisher owed Bucky. It wouldn’t even cover the finder’s fee Bucky promised me. I had to find more than that. I wondered if there was any truth to Bucky’s story about missing gold and if there was where it could be. Prior to the murder, Fisher docked the
Amante
for a while at the Coronado Yacht Club, so I phoned Ed for help.

“Commodore?”

“Geez Max, don’t you start too.”

“Well, I’m calling you in your yacht club capacity.”

Ed let loose a heavy sigh. “Very well. What do you need?”

“Does Fisher or the
Amante
have an equipment box at the yacht club like Maddie’s?”

“Sure. There’s a cabinet assigned to each slip we rent. Why?”

“Can you get me access to it?”

“I guess so. When?”

“Can you meet me at the club now?”

“No, but I can phone ahead and have someone at the club help you. Probably Debbie.”

I grabbed my car keys and headed to the garage. I couldn’t remember the last time I took out the car this often. Mariel looked up at me as I passed by the kitchen.

“You’re going out again?”

“Yeah, I want to see if Fisher left anything of value at the yacht club.” I watched her bend over to empty the dishwasher and smiled at how good she looked. “Wanna come?”

She stood up straight, faced me and shook her head. “What? And give up all this fun?”

We kissed goodbye and I left.

When I entered the Coronado Yacht Club bar, a man stood with his back to me polishing glasses. He must have heard me coming because he turned and said, “Hi. What can I get you?”

“Debbie, please.”

“Mr. Fried?”

I nodded.

He said, “The commodore phoned. Have a seat, please.” Then he picked up a walkie-talkie and said, “Debbie to the bar, please.”

I sat waiting for a minute or so until Debbie entered the lounge from the back entrance. I recognized her from when she opened Maddie’s health club locker.

“Hi, Mr. Fried, I’m Debbie.”

“Hi.”

“Commodore said to show you the equipment locker for the
Amante.
This way, please.”

I followed her out to the docks and asked, “You spend a lot of time at the club?”

“Been here nine months. Well, not continuously. I work eight hours, five days a week. It’s a nice place to work. A lot of what I do here, members do for leisure. Plus they pay for the privilege.”

“Did you see Fisher or anybody associated with the
Amante
here at the club?”

“No. Saw the boat at the dock the other day but nobody in sight. Why?”

“I’m trying to figure out who the dead sailor was.”

“You mean it wasn’t Fisher who washed up on the beach?”

“Yeah, someone else. Could Fisher have rented the slip without anyone seeing him?”

“Sure, slips go fast this time of year. Most people rent them a year in advance. Usually when they check out, they reserve for the next year.”

Debbie stopped at an empty slip built to accommodate 50-foot ships. She took a key ring from her cargo shorts and pointed with it to a wooden cabinet bolted to a wooden post. “This is it.” She bent to insert the key in the lock. “That’s odd.”

“What?”

“Key doesn’t fit.” She held the key at eye level and examined it. Then she walked over to the locker at the next slip. She inserted her key, opened the door, and stood back looking puzzled. She locked up the open cabinet and returned to say, “It’s the right key. I don’t get it.”

We both bent to examine the lock on Fisher’s cabinet. Debbie said, “Looks new.”

I remembered the shim Debbie used to open Maddie’s locker. “Can you get it open without a key?”

She stood straight and tilted her head back. “You mean pick the lock?”

“Ed said the club has full access rights to these cabinets.”

Debbie smiled. “Be right back.”

I leaned against the cabinet and waited. A few minutes later, Debbie returned holding needle nose pliers and two paper clips. She straightened the bends in each clip, handed me one and said, “Hold the pick.”

I took it and she used the pliers to bend one end of the other clip at a 90 degree angle. She said, “This will provide the tension,” and then swapped me the pliers for the other clip. She squatted down so the lock was eye level and inserted her clips. “First, I apply the tension with the bent clip. Then I insert the straight pick in the top of the keyhole and start raking the pins from the back to the front.”

I watched her insert the pick about a dozen times, and then she moved the tension clip, stood up and grinned. “Got it.”

I opened the unlocked door and looked inside. I didn’t find any gold, cash, or jewels. Only two items occupied the cabinet, the original lock somebody laid on a shelf and next to it a US passport. I removed the passport and opened it. “Issued to a Michael Kramer.” I showed Debbie the photo. “Recognize him?”

She shook her head. “No. You?”

“No.”

“What do you make of this?”

“Somebody changed the lock to keep other people from seeing what’s inside but now that we’ve seen it. I have no idea why.”

I replaced the passport and closed the cabinet. The lock clicked shut and Debbie asked, “Maybe, they just wanted to keep the passport safe?”

“Maybe.”

“Anything else?”

I said, “No. Thank you, Debbie,” and walked out to my car.

I hit a dead end at the yacht club and finding that passport only added to my confusion. It didn’t get me any closer to finding Fisher’s assets and at this point, I had no clue where else to look except for the
Amante
. Maybe Bucky was right about Fisher disguising the gold, but if he was, I’d need some way to know when I’d found it.

As odd as it sounds, I didn’t know what I needed but I knew where to get it. A while back, I discovered a shop in Orlando, Florida called the Spy Shack. I needed to find a hidden listening device and the shop owner, Sid Speichek, had exactly what I needed. I suspected that if anyone could help me find gold, it would be Sid.

I pulled up in front of the converted gas station where he did his business and I went inside. The same old dog on the floor gave me a bored “What, you again?” look. Then he went back to resting his head on his paws and listening to the opera music his owner favored. Sid looked over at me and said, “Welcome back.”

I said, “Geez, I haven’t been here in over a year. You remember me?”

Speichek gave me a grin, “Don’t need to remember you. You did that for me.”

“What?”

“Well, I know that you’ve been here before and that you spent at least $100.”

“Wow.”

“I also know you’re carrying my business card, probably in your wallet.”

I pulled my wallet from my cargo shorts and removed his business card. I waved it at him and said. “That’s pretty impressive. How’d you do that? Last time I was here, you couldn’t even get my name right.”

Speichek smiled and stuck his thumbs under his suspenders, “RFID.”

“RFID?”

“Radio Frequency Identification.”

“Yeah, I know what it means but how’d you use it?”

Speichek pointed. “That business card. I only give those to folks who spend $100 or more in my shop. It contains a passive RFID card, costs me only thirty cents to produce. When you walked through the door, my card reader read it.”

“Pretty slick.”

Spiecheck shrugged and said, “I like to think so. One day I got bored and made them. So, what can I do for you, Mr. Fried?”

“Hey, you know my name too. That can’t be on the card.”

Speichek smiled. “No, it’s not. Last time, I got your name wrong on the credit card slip. Took me quite a while to straighten it out and get my money so your name stuck.”

“Well, I’m looking for gold.”

He said, “Who isn’t? Where you looking?”

When I said, “On a boat,” I thought he’d think I was crazy.

Instead, he nodded, “Come with me.” He slid off his stool. I followed him into a back room where he pointed a gun at me.

Speichek waved the gun around and said, “This here’s a handheld XRF analyzer gun. It radiates a beam and then measures the frequency of the radiation bounced back from the target.” He pointed to a display on the back of the gun. “See here?”

I nodded.

“This shows you the percentage of each of the metals detected. She’ll not only tell you when she’s pointed at gold, she’ll tell you how pure it is.”

“Wow, how much is this?”

“Forty thou.”

I gasped. “Forty grand?” If I were lucky enough to find the gold, I’d pay 80% of my finder’s fee just to buy this thing.

Speichek seemed to recognize my distress and said, “This particular unit’s used. I took it in on trade, be willing to rent it to you. Hundred bucks a day.”

I took it.

Despite my comment to Bucky about a gold steering wheel, I really didn’t think Drew replaced any boat parts with gold ones. Even so, the only places in Florida I could associate with Fisher were the yacht club and the
Amante.

I drove back to the Coast Guard station and pulled up to the gate. Just as I started to roll my window down, the seaman in the guard booth recognized me and waved me on. I drove down the road to the docks and when I arrived, the
Amante
was still there. I didn’t see anyone in the area, so I climbed aboard the boat and looked around the cockpit.

The boat looked clean. I guessed recent rain must have washed off the dried blood and fingerprint powder. Someone had also cleared away the clutter on deck. I tapped the steering wheel and pointed the gun I rented from the Spy Shack. No metals detected. I guessed it must have been wood after all. After I pointed my ray gun at various objects without any luck, I opened the cabin door and went inside.

While I ray gunned a number of items below decks, I heard a thump. I froze and listened. Everything was quiet. Then I heard a scraping sound. It came from inside the head. I positioned myself near the bathroom door but far enough that I would be out of reach should someone be inside. The door flung open and a man exited.

We gawked at each other and he said, “Who the hell are you?”

My mouth hung open and I stepped back.

The man pointed to my gold detector. “What is that? A ray gun?”

I looked down to see I had instinctively aimed it like a weapon, “Um, yeah.” I was embarrassed this stranger thought I believed my ray gun could protect me.

He reached out his hand, “I’m sorry. We got off to a bad start. You startled me.”

I shook his hand, “Me too. Max Fried.”

He smiled at me, “Hi, I’m Drew Fisher.

I was too shocked to release his hand. “Fisher? Drew Fisher? The guy who owns this boat? The guy everyone thinks is dead?”

“Well, not everyone,” he smiled, “I don’t think I’m dead.” He looked down at my hand still grasping his.

“Oh, sorry,” I let go, “but if you’re not dead, then who…?”

“Cappy.”

“Cappy?”

“Name was Mike but everyone called him Cappy. Poor guy. I didn’t have time to bring the boat down myself so I hired him to do it.”

“Mike Kramer?”

“Yeah. You know him?”

“No, I just heard the name.” I decided not to mention finding Kramer’s passport. “Water damage made the body difficult to identify. The police thought it was you.”

“Yeah, we talked. Cappy and I are about the same size. Looks like he was even wearing my clothes when he died.”

We shook our heads in a moment of silence for poor Cappy, and then Fisher asked, “So, what are you doing on my boat?”

Somehow, boarding the boat when the owner was dead didn’t seem a breach of etiquette but now, face to face, I wasn’t so sure I was on solid ground. “I, um, I’m a private investigator.”