Stairway to the Bottom - a Mick Murphy Key West Mystery (7 page)

“She let me go to the kitchen. A mistake I wouldn’t’ve made,” he said with a grin. “We both wanted something to drink and I said there was cold water in the icebox. Motioned me to move, waving the gun. I got up and in the kitchen I had a gun hidden in the cabinet. I went to get the glasses, got the gun and put one shot into her fuckin’ head.” He bragged. “Bitch dropped like a rag. I doubt she knew she was dead. Pretty good shot for a guy who ain’t handled a gun in years.” He chuckled. “Just like riding a bike.”

“The guns you hid around the house were thirty-eights,” I said. “The cops said she was shot with a forty-five.”

“Hollow points.” He smiled. “I always use them, even in the twenty-twos. They fuckin’ explode and do a lot of damage. Maybe a thirty-eight hollow point does the damage of a forty-five, but I never used a forty-five, too loud. Twenty-two for up close and thirty-eights for everything else.” He’d found his comfort zone.

Chapter 13

D
ick Walsh gave me his new cell phone number and told me to call and leave a message, if I needed to. “I check it every six hours,” he said. Paranoid didn’t mean he was stupid, he knew a cell signal was traceable.

“You aren’t living on the Jet Ski,” I said as he prepared to leave.

“No,” he said. “But the less you know, the safer we both are. You can’t tell them what you don’t fuckin’ know.” It seemed his paranoia made him extra cautious, or maybe it wasn’t paranoia, maybe it was his lifestyle.

I tossed him the makeshift line that held the Jet Ski to the
Fenian Bastard
, he started the engine and sped off toward the mangroves and never looked back.

“We could sink the Jet Ski after shooting him,” Bob said, as he cradled the shotgun. “The world would be better off.”

“Yeah,” I said without conviction. “But we’d be taking his place.”

“How?”

“Killing him would make us just like him.” I watched Walsh drive off in the darkness and my headache went with him. I didn’t bother with the binoculars. “I don’t wanna be like him and you don’t either.”

The current pushed the boat slowly toward Key West. Bob went below and put the shotgun in its case. I started the engine and headed home holding the wheel and feeling the water against the hull. It felt real, it felt good, and cleared my head of murder.

“I’ve killed defending myself,” Bob said lighting a cigar. He gave me one. “But the shit he confessed to…” He didn’t finish, he shook his head slowly.

I went below, Bob took the wheel, and I brought back two bottles of Bohemia beer. I lit my cigar and set the autopilot. Darkness still blanketed the water and the lights of Key West highlighted the island like twinkling stars.

“Think about it, Mick,” Bob said scanning the water. “Walsh left this morning and has a boat and new cell phone already. He was prepared for this.”

“My thoughts exactly,” I said. “He talked about killing like we talk about sailing.”

“How do you kill someone you’ve known, in cold blood, because you’re told to?” Bob said and drank the beer. “And he talked about it matter-of-factly, like he was giving you a recipe.”

“He’s a psychopath, the whole bunch is,” I said and blew thick, white cigar smoke into the darkness.

“Yeah, and we’re not, right?” He finished the beer.

I swallowed my beer after sloshing it around in my mouth and hoped it would wash the sour taste away that came from listening to Walsh’s story. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to write it. I wasn’t sure I could.

“Are you going to write it?” Bob asked as if he’d read my mind.

“I don’t know, I don’t want to glorify him or be his apologist,” I said. “What is his story? He’s a sociopath with no sympathy for his victims, no guilt for what he’s done. I think he has prostate cancer and knows he’s dying.”

“Why do you think that?” Bob sat up.

“He kept moving around down below, unable to sit comfortably. He reminded me of Captain Maybe. Remember him? And Padre Thomas said Walsh was ill.”

“Captain Maybe, he died in Cuba.”

“Yeah, prostate cancer and he couldn’t sit still, couldn’t get comfortable, like Walsh.”

“Walsh deserves it, let him die slowly.” He exhaled smoke into the night.

“When we get back, I’m going to give Richard a call and tell him what happened,” I said. “I want to wash my hands of this.”

“That’s a good idea, Mick, but don’t mention me, okay? I don’t need to be interrogated in a small, windowless room for hours.”

“I’ll tell him I got Walsh’s call and motored out on my own.” I smiled. “That’ll keep your name out of it.”

“You giving Richard the tapes?”

“Probably.” It was against everything I believed in as a journalist, but I hadn’t come to Key West to deal with a sociopath. I accepted assignments from magazine that took me outside of the Keys, outside of Florida, and then I returned to sailing and drinking with friends.

“Even if the marshals don’t toss him in prison for killing that woman, they won’t leave him here,” I said to see if I believed it. “They’ll have to set up a new identity for him somewhere else and they’ll take better care of keeping track of him.”

We motored without speaking the rest of the way, drinking a second beer, and finishing our cigars. It was a different harbor at four in the morning. The waterfront businesses closed for the night, the streets appeared empty, and Conch Key only had security lighting. We could smell smoke from a campfire on Palm Tree Island.

The moon set in the Gulf behind us, but there were no revelers in Mallory Square to watch it. I took over from the autopilot and Bob and I paid attention as we turned at the tip of Fleming Key. A soft breeze carried jasmine and other tropical scents from Hilton Haven as we moved through the cut to Garrison Bight. Sporadic traffic raced along North Roosevelt Boulevard. The marina’s docks were bathed in dim light and there was life on the dock.

We had a straight shot at putting the
Fenian Bastard
into her slip, as we came through the cut and wouldn’t have any problem tying off because there were a dozen men waiting for us.

“Cops?” Bob asked.

“Marshals and cops, probably.” I put the engine into low and felt the current against the hull. “Take the wheel.”

I went below and hid the tape recorder and tapes in the hidey-hole my friend Norm Burke had built into the bilge back in California. It held my Glock, which I put back, money and papers.

I closed the bilge cover and went on deck.

The men on the dock spread out as if they were expecting trouble.

“Your buddy Luis probably thinks Walsh is onboard,” Bob grumbled. “Now they’re gonna know I was with you.”

“Can’t do anything about that,” I said and put the engine in neutral so we could glide into the slip. “But think how disappointed Luis is gonna be.”

Bob used the pole hook to catch the line we’d strung between the slip’s two pilings. I put the engine in reverse until Bob was able to stop us. The men on the dock had their guns drawn, including Luis.

Chapter 14

“H
ands where we can see them,” a man screamed in a burly voice from the shadows as we watched the lawmen spread out. “Come off…one at a time…slowly.”

Bob and I shook our heads and mumbled to ourselves at the nonsense, but stopped at the rail and raised our arms. They stood in pairs and I saw Luis next to a man on the pier, two slips away. Luis should have told them this was unnecessary, even if Walsh had been onboard. He didn’t and it was probably so he could enjoy my discomfort.

“This is bullshit.” Bob griped. “You wanna go first?”

“Captain’s the last off the boat,” I joked. “You go first.”

“You owe me,” he growled and moved forward. “I need to put my arms down to get off,” Bob said to the lawmen.

“Carefully,” the voice bellowed, “and slow. No sudden moves.”

“You watch too many movies, jack,” Bob said as he let himself down to the dock. “Who are you guys?”

Two men rushed Bob, forced him to kneel, and then handcuffed him. He looked up at me with a squint-eyed sneer. They couldn’t have done it if Bob hadn’t allowed them. “Is there anyone else onboard?” the heavy voice snarled.

“No.” I lowered myself to the dock and was forced to kneel and then handcuffed.

“Any weapons onboard?”

“A shotgun, in its case,” Bob answered before I could.

“Why do you have a shotgun onboard?”

“Because this is America and I’m allowed to,” Bob shot back angrily. “Who the hell are you guys?”

“We’re asking the questions.”

“Go to hell,” Bob barked as loud as the commands came, “because until I see a badge, I ain’t sayin’ another word.”

“Luis,” I yelled, still on my knees. “This isn’t Cuba, what the hell are you doing?”

I hoped the loud talk would wake a few of the live-aboard boaters who could be witnesses if I needed them later.

Luis and the man bellowing the orders walked to the edge of the finger dock. With hand motions the man had his officers help us stand.

“Luis, what the hell are you doing?” I said.

“We’re looking for a killer,” he said. “And before you start with your usual bullshit, we recorded your channel-sixteen conversation with Walsh, so we know you met with him.”

Two men boarded the
Fenian Bastard
.

“You got a search warrant?” I shouted.

“Probable cause,” the rough-voiced man said with a cold smile. “Go.” He ordered the two men.

“If you’d asked nicely, you would’ve got my cooperation,” I said.

“And what are we going to get now?” the man asked with a vulgar leer.

“Nothing until I see something official,” I said and the man behind me pulled down so hard on my cuffs that it sent spasms of pain shooting into my shoulders.

The boss man turned to Luis. “Take them to the station; we’ll see if they’ll cooperate there.” He turned and strutted toward the parking lot.

“Luis,” I yelled as they rough-marched us along the pier. “I need to tie her off properly.” None of these clowns had tied the boat lines to the dock’s cleats properly.

“In another life, Mick.” He pranced ahead of us.

They put Bob and me in different cars and drove us to the police station. The night was giving way to an early, gray dawn and I couldn’t stifle a yawn. Two beers at four in the morning wasn’t an energy boost. I knew Luis would push this as much as he could because when Richard became involved rules would be followed. I hoped so, anyway, as a marshal pulled me from the car.

My hands remained handcuffed behind me. A marshal forced me into a seat in the interrogation room. No one spoke. The marshals did their job with synchronized motion, as their training had taught them to. They left the room. Bright lights glared and closing my eyes didn’t help much. No two-way mirrors on the soundproofed wall for interrogation observation like on TV, but I knew there was a video camera and directional mic placed close to the ceiling. My concern was whether Luis turned them on or not.

I didn’t wait long. Luis came into the room, followed by the bellowing-voiced marshal still wearing a windbreaker with
U.S. Marshal
stenciled in large letters across the back and small lettering and a badge image stenciled on the front, over where his heart would be if he had one.

Luis smiled and looked at his wristwatch. He had to be estimating how long before Richard arrived.

“I want an attorney,” I moaned. If the video was working I wanted my voice to sound strained.

“You’re not under arrest, so why do you need an attorney?” the marshal said.

“You’ve not identified yourselves, I am handcuffed, my shoulders hurt, it’s what, four or five in the morning?” I griped loudly for the hidden mic “If this ain’t an arrest, what is it?”

The Marshal nodded and Luis sighed and freed me from the handcuffs. I put my hands on the table and rubbed my wrists for the camera.

“I’m a U.S. Marshal and we have procedures to follow when approaching an escapee,” he recited coldly. His chiseled features reminded me of granite from the Quincy quarry of my youth. Short gray hair added to his cold look. Maybe his pallor did, too. Or, maybe it was the room’s lighting. His pale blue eyes looked like diluted pools of water and it made me wonder if he had a shallow soul or maybe no soul at all. Maybe I was too tired to see otherwise. Maybe I was hallucinating. I needed sleep.

“You have to understand that, with your background,” he said. “We had reason to believe you were harboring a fugitive and acted accordingly.”

I forced a laugh. “You’re bullshitting me, right?” I yelled. “Walsh isn’t a fugitive.”

“That’s not his name,” the marshal said, holding the hard smile. “He escaped from custody almost three years ago and I’m going to catch him, with or without your help.”

“How does someone escape from witness protection?” I sat back, stretched my legs, and yawned.

The marshal shot Luis a quick frown and then turned his attention back to me.

“I’ll ask the questions,” he said with some of his bravado gone, “and you’ll answer them. You understand?”

“I understand I’m gonna get up and leave.” I tried to rub the weariness from my eyes. “I’ll get Bob on my way out, unless you’ve arrested him, too.”

“We let him go in the parking lot,” the marshal said and matched my grin.

That caught me off guard. Why did they want me and not Bob? We were both on the boat, we both met Walsh, or so they thought. Now I was curious and, as my mother warned me, curiosity killed the cat and she should’ve added maybe a journalist or two.

Chapter 15

L
uis looked at his wristwatch and nodded toward the marshal, whose expression was cold and unreadable, but Luis was lit up like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. He enjoyed my predicament. He kept checking the time because everything had limitations and when Richard came this would be over and Luis held responsible for his actions. He’d be back in the fold.

“Since the man you know as Walsh was not with you, we assume he wanted to see you for a reason other than a boat ride,” the marshal said, as if he were recalling rehearsed words. “What is your relationship with him? I know what you’ve told the Key West PD.” He held up his hands to keep me from answering. “I want the truth. Why were you the only person he called after he
murdered
the woman?” He emphasized murdered. “That’s why you’re here and your friend isn’t. He has nothing we want. You on the other hand, seem to be a glitch in our equation. So, tell me, why you?”