Falafel Jones - Max Fried 02 - Payback's a Beach (20 page)

“…and?”

“…and I’m attempting to locate assets for a client.”

“Who?”

“Can’t say.”

“Don’t have to. It’s Bucky, isn’t it?” Fisher pointed to my ray gun. “He thinks I owe him money and I’ve got some gold hidden aboard, doesn’t he?”

“Do you?”

Fisher laughed, “Can’t say.” Then he held out his hand again. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Fried. Looks like it’s time for you to go.”

I agreed. There was nothing more I could hope to accomplish there and if I hurried, I could get back to the Spy Shack before it closed. I didn’t find what I came for but at least I could limit my rental fee to only $100.

Traffic was in my favor as I drove to the Spy Shack and I made good time. I returned Sid’s ray gun and headed back home to New Smyrna Beach. This time most of the traffic was in the opposite direction. That just made the car following me stand out even more.

I knew the silver Ford Taurus two vehicles behind me was also behind me on my way to the Spy Shack. The car stood out because it had New York plates and a dented front bumper. I noticed it parked across the street when I returned the ray gun and I recognized it again as it followed me home. I was damned if I was going to lead this guy to where I lived. Instead, I pulled into the driveway of a rental house a few blocks north of my street. I knew the owner leased it to tourists and he didn’t have any current tenants.

I pulled into the driveway and made for the front door where I hid behind the bushes. The Taurus parked in the street a few houses down. A man emerged from the vehicle and approached my car. He looked in my car windows and then headed for the door to the house. When he approached, I stood up from my hiding spot and asked, “You want something?”

He seemed surprised to see me appear but he recovered quickly and came close to where I stood. “Yeah. You’re Max Fried, huh?”

His voice seemed familiar but I couldn’t place it. He leaned back and then jerked forward with his fist extended and aimed for my eye. “I’m Detective Snyder. Stay away from my case.”

I ducked but not far enough. His fist caught me on my forehead. I heard a cracking sound and then Snyder swearing in pain. He danced around holding one hand in the other and said, “Damn, my finger. I busted my finger.”

I felt my forehead and then wiped it with my handkerchief. I was sore and I knew there’d be a lump forming there soon but the blood was minimal.

Snyder stopped dancing but he held his finger in his other hand and looked panicked, “I broke my finger. Where’s the hospital?”

I took out my cell phone and said, “Don’t sweat it.” I pointed to the ground. “Have a seat. The police will see that you get medical attention.”

Snyder let go of his finger and held up his good hand. “Don’t. Please don’t. Just a misunderstanding. Don’t call.” Then he looked both ways and ran to his car. I watched him leave and after a few minutes when I was sure he was gone, I drove home.

I walked in my front door and found Mariel parked in front of the big screen TV in our living room. As usual, this time of year, she was watching the Mets on MLB Extra Innings and yelling at the TV. This particular game must have been important because she was swinging a white sweat sock in the air while she expressed her displeasure with the opposing team. I knew this sock and its history. It wasn’t pretty.

Years back, one of the Mets who will remain nameless attended spring training in Port St. Lucie and rented a condo from my brother-in-law’s parents. When training ended, the player left behind that missing sweat sock. My brother-in-law took possession and gave it to Mariel knowing how psycho she was about the team. He and Mariel’s sister have since divorced but the sock remains the same.

Mariel looked up from the TV. “Max, what happened?” She dropped the sock and came to meet me at the door. She reached up to touch my forehead and then stopped short. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s a bit sore. Am I still bleeding?”

“No, not now.” She looked at me from the left and then from the right. “You’ve got a lump there. What happened?”

I told her about meeting Snyder and then the doorbell rang.

Mariel said, “Wait,” went to the kitchen and came back holding a frying pan.

I smiled at the sight and she said, “Yeah, yeah. I know. You never saw me use one before.”

She assumed a batter’s stance and nodded towards the door. I opened it and saw Maddie standing there. Maddie looked at Mariel holding the pan. Then she looked at my forehead and said, “Who knew? I figured you guys to be happily married.”

Mariel asked, “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in jail?”

Maddie shrugged. “Bucky posted bail. Can I come in? I want to hire Max.”

Mariel lowered the pan. “Um, sure. Come on in.” Mariel disappeared into the kitchen and I led Maddie into the living room where she sat on the couch and looked up at the TV. “Oh, the Mets. What’s the score?”

I was about to say, “I don’t know,” when Mariel yelled, “Three to one bottom of the eighth.”

Maddie nodded solemnly and Mariel came back into the room. “You like the Mets?”

Maddie shrugged, “Who doesn’t?”

Mariel nodded towards me. “Him.”

“What? He doesn’t like the Mets? What is he? A Yankees fan?”

“No,” I said, “I don’t follow baseball. Why do you want to hire me?”

“Oh, that. The police think I killed Fisher as payback for dumping me. I want you to prove I didn’t kill him.”

“That’s easy. I just spoke to him.”

Maddie looked at me as if I were crazy. “What? You spoke with Drew Fisher?”

“The dead guy wasn’t Fisher. He was a boat captain Fisher hired to bring the boat south.”

“Who?”

“Some guy Fisher called Cappy.”

“Aw, that’s a shame. I knew Cappy. Poor guy. See, if I were the killer, I’d have known it wasn’t Fisher. I’m innocent, well, maybe not innocent but I didn’t kill anybody.”

Maddie picked up the sweat sock from the couch and held it out to Mariel. “Hon, you left your laundry.”

Mariel opened her mouth and I expected she would start telling Maddie the story about the sock so I said. “Later.”

Mariel looked disappointed but went back into the kitchen where she could eavesdrop and keep an eye on Maddie.

I gestured towards the door. “Since Fisher’s alive, their payback theory is no good.”

Maddie remained seated. “Your lips to Torres’s ears.” She grinned. “That would be an entertaining sight.” Then she waved her hand in front of her face as if to dissipate heat and her smile faded. “Look, they’re still going to come after me for the killing. They’ll just make up a different motive. I had the murder weapon.”

“Why me?” I asked.

“I want somebody local. There are only four private investigators in New Smyrna Beach and you’re the only one already familiar with the case. You got Brenda off. I want you to get me off.” She looked nervously towards the kitchen and said in a louder voice. “I mean get me off the hook, not get me off.” She waved a hand in the air. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m sorry, Maddie. I can’t help you. It’s a conflict of interest. I’m already representing Brenda on this and I’m the one who found the murder weapon on your boat.”

“I got a lawyer working on the drug thing and if they charge me with murder, he can handle that too but I don’t want to let it get that far. If you can find the killer, the police won’t charge me and I can nip this in the bud.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help but aren’t you also concerned about an attempted murder charge for drugging the booze?”

Maddie reached into her bag and pulled out a cigarette. “My lawyer doesn’t think I have to worry about that.”

“Why not?”

She put the cigarette in her mouth and started fumbling in her purse. “Says it might muddy the waters when they charge Fisher’s, I mean Cappy’s killer. If two people want the guy dead, it could create reasonable doubt. He figures that either the police will charge me with his murder or they won’t. No charges for attempting. Besides, while I may have had something against Fisher, Cappy and I got along just fine.” She looked up from her purse. “Got a light?”

“No, we don’t smoke.”

Maddie took the cigarette from her mouth. “Oh, sorry. Well, I can light this in the car. Call me if you change your mind.” She stood and offered me her hand. I shook it and then I saw her to the door.

Mariel came back from the kitchen and asked, “Fisher’s really alive?”

“Yeah.”

“So, now we know it was probably Fisher who used his credit card at the Gas and Go.”

“Yeah and I’m been tracking the wrong guy.”

“So, now what?”

“Well, most murder victims have some connection to their killers. Even if they never met before, even if it’s a random murder, there’s usually something about the victim that connects to the killer.”

“What do you mean?”

“Even if someone is killed walking in the park, the victim made choices about where to be and when that somebody else didn’t.”

“So, I’ve been following Fisher’s movements when I really should be following Cappy’s.”

I left Mariel watching her ballgame in the living room, went to my office, and dialed my phone. If Mike was a captain out of East End, New York, Douglas at the yacht club might know him.

“East End Yacht Club, This is Douglas. How may help you?”

“Douglas, Max Fried.”

“Oh, hi Mr. Fried. Did you and Mr. Snyder find each other OK?”

“Huh?”

“Mr. Snyder called. Said he was in Florida to work a case with you but he lost your address. I told him I didn’t have it and oh boy, there I go again. He told me not to say anything ‘cause he was embarrassed about losing it. I should have kept quiet. You won’t tell him, will you?”

“No, I won’t say anything, but we never hooked up. Do you know where he’s staying? I can meet him there.”

“No, but he complained about road noise from the Dixie Freeway. Do you know where that is?”

“Yeah, it’s not too far from here. Thanks. Douglas, while I’ve got you on the phone, you know a guy called Cappy?”

“Cappy? You mean Captain Mike Kramer?”

“Yeah.”

“A couple of years back, he used to run charters until he got fired for being a drunk. Why?”

“Don’t cancel Fisher’s membership. Turns out he’s alive but Captain Mike is dead.”

“Ouch. That’s a shame.”

“I hear Cappy and Maddie knew each other. That true?”

“Sure, they each had monogrammed barstools in our club.”

“Really?”

“No, but now that I think of it, that’s not a bad idea. I can charge a premium for personalized barstools. Like director’s chairs. Print Captain So and So on the backs.”

“How did they know each? What was the basis for the relationship?”

“They were drinking buddies, plus Kramer captained our sunset cocktail cruises once a week. Maddie never missed those.”

“Did they get along?”

“Oh yeah, Maddie got along with everybody, except for the other women. Well, and except for some parents who had teenaged sons. Let’s just say all of the men loved her and a lot of them, literally.”

“Know anybody who had it in for Kramer?”

“No, oops, got another call. Gotta go. Put in a good word for me at the Coronado. I can start at any time.”

Douglas really came through for me. He confirmed Maddie and Cappy had no beef and he gave me a lead on Snyder. Cappy wasn’t going anywhere, so I decided to deal with Snyder first. I needed to know what he knew about the New York group.

In New Smyrna Beach, the Dixie Freeway is located on the mainland. Also known as A1A, the freeway boasts seven budget motels. Most are left over from the days when tourists drove side roads in cars without air conditioning, ate at burger stands, and slept in bungalow type lodging a few yards from the street. Each motel was built around a parking lot. Some shared the paved area with a pool. Some didn’t. Either way, it was easy to see the patron’s vehicles as I drove down the street.

After passing three motels, I spotted Snyder’s Ford in the parking lot of the Dixie Flower Motor Lodge. Luckily, the Dixie Flower offered guests parking directly in front of their units and his car sat in front of unit number five. I drove around the back of the motor lodge to check out any exits. Snyder’s unit didn’t have a back door and the bathroom window was too small to crawl through. That meant the only way in or out was through the front door or the window next to it.

I parked in front near Snyder’s car and looked through his driver’s side window. Discarded burger and burrito wrappers covered the passenger side floor and a 32-ounce plastic cup sat in one of the cup holders. I stepped onto the concrete walkway in front of the units and knocked on the door to number five. A voice muffled by the door called out, “Who is it?”

He wasn’t going to be able to leave the room without me knowing it and the large window next to the door made it pointless to hide my identity so I said, “Max Fried.”