Falafel Jones - Max Fried 02 - Payback's a Beach (22 page)

I climbed the stairs to the wrap around porch and entered the foyer where a woman greeted me from behind a waist high counter. “Welcome to the Boathouse B and B. Are you looking for a room?”

“No, thank you.” I looked into the spacious living room and noticed a picture window that covered most of the back wall. Just outside the window, Drew Fisher sat at a table on a patio. I told the woman, “I’m looking for a friend.” Then I pointed and said, “There he is.”

She leaned over the counter to see and said, “Oh, that’s Mr. Fisher. Enjoy your visit and please come back again.”

I thanked her, went outside, and sat down at Drew’s table. He looked at me already seated and said, “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Fried?”

“Thank you.”

“Look, I already told you. I’m not going to help you recover any of Bucky’s money. He invested with me on the up and up and I’ll pay him back as soon as I can. If it wasn’t for that crazy woman Maddie, Bucky and I would be just fine.”

“What about Captain Mike? Would he still be fine?”

Fisher poured a clear liquid from a hip flask into bottle of cola. “I feel bad about that. Mike and I were friends.”

“Well, let’s talk about that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mike’s dead. Killed with a fish net covered with your fingerprints and filled with fake gold. Let’s talk about the murder weapon.”

“No.”

“OK then, how about I tell the police you purchased gold, a crucible, tongs, and an acetylene torch?”

Fisher’s tan started to look a little pale. “What do you want to know?”

“There isn’t any $500,000 gold bar or solid gold anything. Is there?”

Fisher looked down into his drink again. Then he took a sip from the glass as if to gather some strength. “No. No gold bar. The fish net was a decoy. I made sure Snyder saw me buy those things. I only bought enough gold to plate the rod. The plan was that he’d think a half a million in gold was hidden on board and he’d follow Mike down to Florida.”

“Leaving you free to do what?”

“Meet with some clients so we could start making back Bucky’s investment.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, I booked a corporate team building trip. Mike was supposed to fly back and take them out for a week while I took the
Amante
back to New York.”

“That sounds promising. Why are you still here?”

“No need to go back. No captain, no charter.”

“Can’t you captain the boat?”

“Ship, not boat and no. I don’t have a Coast Guard license to take on passengers for pay like Mike did. Without him, I’m going lose the charter I booked.”

“Can’t you hire someone else to do it?”

“Find someone in two days? Yeah, right.” Fisher drained his glass and said, “That’s all I’m going to say. You can go out the way you came in.”

When I returned home, Mariel was still poolside but now, she was chatting on the phone. We waved at each other through the sliding door and then I went to change back into my swimsuit. By the time I got to the pool, she was off the phone. She turned to face me. “Mom says, ‘Hello.’ How’d it go?”

“I’m not too keen on Fisher as the killer.”

“Why’s that?”

“No motive. Cappy’s death doesn’t benefit Fisher. It only makes it harder for him to pay Bucky.”

“So, it’s down to either Brenda or Snyder?”

“I guess so. I don’t know. It just seems like I’m missing something.”

When I needed to clear my head and think, nothing worked as well as running or swimming laps so I stepped into the pool. After a few minutes in the warm water, my thoughts narrowed to making clean strokes and I began to focus on my rhythm as I touched one end of the pool and then the other. I counted the lizards sunning themselves on the pool screen walls and then it hit me. I got out of the water and stood dripping next to Mariel’s chair.

“I’ve got another idea.”

She looked at me expectantly.

I said, “Maybe the murder has nothing to do with the New York crowd or the gold. Maybe somebody had it in for Cappy because he was Cappy.”

“You mean maybe someone took revenge because of something Cappy did to them? Hmmm. Like who?”

“I don’t know. I’ll need to find out more about him first.” I toweled off, headed back into the house, and changed into my cargo shorts.

Back in my office, I sat at my computer and searched for registered sex offenders in New York and Florida. If Kramer forced himself on Brenda, he might have a history doing that sort of thing and he could be on the list. No hits found.

I connected to the PI database I used to locate Fisher and did a search for Michael Kramer in New York. I got way too many hits, so I narrowed the age range. Still too many names appeared so I restricted the search again to include only Long Island.

That left six people on the list, each one named Michael Kramer. One was 72 years old but all the rest were 32 years old with the same birth date at different addresses. I found my guy. The most recent address listed was a post office box in East End, New York. I knew he didn’t live in the post office, so I located his prior address and dialed the phone number.

A woman answered after three rings. I didn’t know who she was or if she even knew Kramer, so I was vague and said only, “Hi, I’m calling about Mike Kramer.”

“That bum? What do you want with him?”

Well, it seemed she knew him but I didn’t know if she knew he was dead. Breaking that kind of news could put an end to my call before I could learn anything useful. “I need someone to captain a boat and a guy at the marina mentioned his name.” I took a chance and asked, “Is this Mrs. Kramer?”

“The former Mrs. Kramer. Threw the bum out seven years ago. Smartest thing I ever did.”

“You know where I can find him?”

“I just heard he died down in Florida. Before that, you could usually find him in the gutter. That’s where he’d end up after a binge. There or under a neighbor’s azalea bush.”

“I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Drunk as he could be, he never had any problems steering a boat. He sailed drunk a lot better than he drove but now it’s too late. Too bad. He didn’t leave me anything. If you could have hired him, maybe I’d get an alimony check.”

I hung up with the former Mrs. Kramer and tried to figure out where to look next. I decided that if he drank that much, he might have come to the attention of local law enforcement. I did a criminal history search on Kramer and found a three-year old arrest for drunk and disorderly conduct and involuntary manslaughter. I dug down further to access the court records and found there was a problem with the eyewitnesses. As a result, Kramer was able to plead down to the lesser charge. I searched local newspaper archives and found the following.

The Volusia Chronicle, March 18, 2010

Bar brawler gets off

Michael Kramer, arrested by Volusia County Police for killing trucker Dwayne Hutchins in a Daytona Beach bar fight, beat the system when the prosecution proved unable to provide any eyewitnesses to the fight. Due to pressure from Defense Attorney Elliot Fuchs, the prosecutor withdrew a charge of manslaughter in exchange for Kramer pleading to a lesser charge.

After I read the article, I wondered if maybe someone who cared for Dwayne Hutchins might have had it in for Cappy Kramer. Back on the database, I found an address for Dwayne, the deceased, not too far from me. It was in an apartment complex on the mainland in New Smyrna Beach. I grabbed my car keys, kissed Mariel goodbye, and left the island for what my neighbor calls America.

I drove west on State Route 44 for about ten minutes until I was a mile east of I95 and at the entrance to the Sandstone Apartment complex. Dwayne last lived in unit 213. Well, actually, he last lived in a bar until Cappy killed him.

While I didn’t expect to find Dwayne in the apartment, I hoped the new tenant or a neighbor might know where I could find any family he may have left behind.

I knocked on the door to 213 and waited. After a bit, I heard a dog barking, some unknown noises behind the door and then the sound of a door latch releasing.

Just then, I realized I might be confronting a killer and I stepped back instinctively. It was a stupid move. Being a foot further wasn’t going to keep me safe. The door flung open wide. A thin, muscular, young man, in a sleeveless T-shirt stepped out into the space I just vacated and he shut the door behind himself.

He was my height and looked me directly in the eye. Our noses were inches apart but I didn’t want to step back because I didn’t know how he’d take it. I tried to show him my most pleasant smile but all he did was stare at me until the silence got awkward. I stuck out my hand in the six inches between our stomachs and said, “Hi. I’m Max Fried.”

The man looked down at my hand for a moment. Then he shook it and said, “Darrel Hutchins. Call me Hutch.”

“Hutch. Max.”

“You don’t look like a salesman. Witnesses come in pairs and all my bills are paid so tell me, Max, why are you here?”

I didn’t know what to make of his comment. Was it good I didn’t look like a salesman or was he saying that I didn’t look friendly and professional?

“Were you related to Dwayne Hutchins?”

Hutch pressed his lips tight and nodded. Then he said, “My Dad,” and went back to staring into my eyes.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t be. There was no loss. Not to me. Not to anybody.”

I was sufficiently surprised by his comment that I stepped back and increased my comfort zone.

“I understand a man named Mike Kramer killed him in a fight.”

“Yeah, I saw him sucker punched with a longneck.”

“Then what did your dad do?”

“My dad? He laughed. He thought hitting Kramer with the bottle was funny. Twisted bastard.”

“Wait. You mean your dad sucker punched Kramer?”

“Yup. That was the old man’s style, or lack thereof.”

“What happened?”

“Kramer bought a three dollar beer with a twenty dollar bill and left his change sitting on the bar. Dad sat down next to him, ordered a beer, and paid with a five. The bartender brought him his bottle and placed Dad’s two bucks change on the bar next to Kramer’s 17. Kramer looks away at the pool table where some guy is whooping about his win and Dad grabs Kramer’s change, leaving his own two bucks on the bar.”

“But Kramer saw him?”

“Bet your ass, he did, but he was cool. Said something like, ‘Excuse me pal, you got the wrong change there.’ Dad steps back to the bar and hits Kramer in the head with his bottle. Kramer goes down to the floor. Geez, I thought he killed him.” Hutch took a deep breath and shook his head. “As if that wasn’t bad enough, my old man kicks him in the gut and calls him a liar. Then he pulls back to kick him again and Kramer grabs Dad’s leg to minimize the blow. Dad loses balance, smacks his head on the bar edge and dies.”

Hutch paused and neither of us said anything for a moment. Then I asked, “So, you don’t have anything against Kramer?”

Hutch looked at me as if I were crazy and said, “Hell, no. I even told him that when he came round to apologize. Is that was this is all about? Kramer send you?”

“No. Kramer’s dead. Murdered a few days ago.”

Hutch said, “Damn” and then his eyes widened. “And you think I might have had something to do with it. That’s why you’re here. You a cop?”

“No, PI and now that I have the story, I don’t think you had anything to do with Kramer’s death.”

Hutch nodded. “Damn straight I didn’t.”

“But, maybe you can help me. When did you last see Kramer?”

“Well, I saw him at the trial. The D.A. tried to get me to testify against him but I wouldn’t. Then about a year ago, Kramer came back to see me again. Looked like a different man. All cleaned up. Sober. Said he was in AA and he was at the step where he apologizes for what he did to people. I told him what I just told you. No apology required.”

I thanked Hutch and headed on home.

Back at the house, I brought Mariel up to date and she said, “You’re going to have to dig deeper if you want to find anything on Kramer. She was right. I went back to my office and sat at my computer. If folks called Kramer Cappy, he might own a boat. In New York, the Department of Motor Vehicles handles boat registrations. For a few dollars, I was able to run a New York State DMV search on Mike Kramer. I got a lot of hits so I narrowed my search to boat registrations. Bingo. Michael Kramer of East End, New York registered a boat named the
Goldenrod
.

I ran a quick DMV search on Drew Fisher and found only his driver’s license and the registration for his aging Mercedes. Now, I also knew why Snyder couldn’t find the
Goldenrod
. Fisher’s name doesn’t appear in any other DMV records. Any asset search Snyder might have completed would have revealed any car, boat, or airplanes Fisher owned. Since I already ran one, I knew Fisher didn’t own anything except the
Amante
and the car.