The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective (23 page)

The Biltmore lobby with its vaulted ceilings and artfully potted palms was as cool and empty as it was the last time he visited. Wherever the denizens of Coral Gables escaped, it was not to the lobby of the Biltmore.

There was no sign of Shay and Melora in any of the cabanas adjacent to the pool, so he went up some steps to the terrace. They were seated at the other end with Johnny Bravo. Tree debated what to do, then decided he had come this far, and, taking a deep breath, he walked to their table.

To his credit, Johnny managed not to look surprised when he saw Tree approach. Melora satisfied herself with a frown, Tree being one more irritant in a day full of them. Shay gave him a cool, appraising look, as if her beauty would not permit her to be surprised by anything as controllable as a man.

“There you are, Tree Callister, Monsieur Detective,” Johnny Bravo called, as though a long lost friend had arrived for lunch. “Come. Join us. You’re just in time. We’re about to order.”

Tree sat on the empty wrought iron chair between Melora and Shay. Melora held a large menu, but ignored it and kept her eyes on Tree. “What are you doing here?”

“It looks like I’m having lunch with you.”

Johnny Bravo raised his hand and called to a distant waiter. “Could we have another menu, please?”

The waiter, a young man with thinning blond hair, hurried over and handed Tree a menu. “Can I get you something to drink, sir?” he said.

Tree asked for a glass of water, and the waiter scurried away.

“What? No wine?” Johnny Bravo said. “I guess I am not in Montreal, am I?”

“Tree, you shouldn’t be here,” Melora said.

“I’m not so sure about that, Sergeant,” Tree said equably. “This could be an opportunity for the four of us to be a little more honest with each other than we have up until now. I know that Johnny is a gangster. That’s clear enough.”

“I’m a Montreal businessman,” Johnny protested. “I have nothing to do with gangsters.”

“But I’m not so sure about you, Melora. Are you really a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police?” Tree continued. “I’m beginning to think you aren’t.”

Johnny Bravo allowed his eyes to go wide with surprise. “Melora? Not a Mountie? Don’t tell me you’ve been lying, Melora.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Melora said. “This is so ridiculous. I’m not going to be part of it.”

“So, Tree.” Johnny’s eyebrows were lifted up in delight. “If she isn’t who she says she is, who do you think she is?”

“Vic Trinchera’s mistress, perhaps,” Tree said.

Melora, red-faced, slapped Tree hard. His head jerked back, his ears ringing. Blood gushed from his nose. “You have no manners,” she said.

“Take it easy, Melora,” Johnny said. “He could have called you something much worse.”

“I’m not that,” she said in a hurt voice. “I’m not what he says I am.”

Tree was holding his nose. Johnny Bravo tossed him one of the white linen napkins on the table. “Here you go, Tree. You’re bleeding.”

Tree took the napkin and looked at Shay. “And then there is Shay. The mystery woman. Partner of the late André Manteau? Muse? What were you to him? How do you play into this?”

“Tree has a point, Shay,” Johnny said. “You’re not exactly biker babe material. André usually liked them in denim with lots of tattoos.”

Shay gave Johnny a cool, appraising look. “No tattoos, Johnny.”

“And no André,” Johnny shot back.

This isn’t getting us anywhere,”she said.

Johnny met her gaze, unblinking. “It gets us to who you really are, Shay. And what it is you want.”

“I want what the two of you want—what Callister here can help us with.”

Nobody sitting at the table answered. The waiter, bug-eyed, arrived with the water. “Is anybody ready to order?” he said in a choked voice.

“Better give us a few more minutes, monsieur,” Johnny Bravo said. “We’ve just started to beat one another up.”

The waiter nodded and went away.

Tree, holding his nose, said, “You want the dog.”

“The tie that binds,” Johnny said. “The glue that sticks us together.”

“Why your men came to my friend’s boat last night,” Tree said.

Johnny Bravo smiled when he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, Johnny. Don’t be so shy about it. The Mexican wrestling masks were a nice touch.”

Johnny looked surprised. “They showed up wearing masks?”

“Not that it was hard to figure out who they were.”

Johnny shook his head. “I’ve got to get better help.”

Shay looked sharply at Johnny. “I thought we had an agreement.”

“We do,” Johnny said.

“You weren’t supposed to start with any of your nonsense. That was part of the agreement.”

“I thought I might be able to move things along a little faster.” He added with a shrug: “You can’t blame a boy for trying.”

Shay turned to Tree, training her direct, no-nonsense gaze on him. “What about it, Tree? What about the dog?”

“Supposing I have information that would help you locate what you’re looking for?”

“See?” Johnny said excitedly. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“He’s got the dog,” Melora agreed.

“What about it, Tree?” Shay, pressing.

The waiter was back, looking more gun-shy than ever.

“I want a club sandwich,” Johnny Bravo said.

“Nothing for me,” Shay said, thumping a forefinger against the menu for emphasis.

Melora let out a pained sigh.

Tree just shook his head, sending the dejected waiter away.

“Where were we?” Johnny Bravo said.

“The dog,” Shay answered. She addressed Tree. “What do you want? Name a figure.”

“Half a million dollars,” Tree said promptly. “And an explanation.”

To Tree’s amazement, no one laughed and immediately dismissed such an outrageous demand. Instead, the three busied themselves trading glances. Finally, Shay said, “The money is fine. But at that price, you don’t get an explanation.”

“You mean you would pay half a million dollars for a dog, but you wouldn’t tell me why?”

“Do you want the money or not?”

Tree hesitated before he said, “Yes, but I’ll need some time.”

Johnny’s eyebrows once more rose toward his hairline. “Time? What do you need time for? You’ve got the dog. You know it. I know it.”

“Thanks to you, Johnny, and your visit last night, in fact, I don’t actually have the dog. I need forty-eight hours to get him back.”

“Twenty-four,” Melora said. “You got twenty-four hours. Then all bets are off.”

“In the meantime, everyone stays away from me and my wife,” Tree said. He had his eye on Johnny Bravo when he said this. “No more trashing houses. No more late-night visits.”

Johnny Bravo said, “Perish the thought.”

“Twenty-four hours,” Shay reminded him. “You give up the dog in twenty-four hours.”

35

T
ree was no sooner back in the Hellcat than his cellphone sounded on the seat beside him.

“How are you doing?” Sonny Trinchera demanded.

“I’m doing fine, Sonny,” Tree said. “How are you doing?”

“My brother’s killer, did you find her?”

“It’s being taken care of,” Tree said.

“What’s that mean?”

“It means this is nothing we should talk about over the phone,” Tree said.

“Okay. Let’s meet. I gotta get this settled.”

“I need twenty-four hours,” Tree said.

“Twenty-four hours? What do you need twenty-four hours for?”

“Do you want this settled or not?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then I need some time to put a couple of things together. I’ll be in touch as soon as I’m ready.”

“Don’t screw with me, Callister. I’m warning you, the Mortician isn’t someone you mess around with. Understand me?”

“It’s probably not a good idea to threaten me right now,” Tree said.

“I’m not threatening,” Sonny said. “I am making the situation clear to you.”

“Twenty-four hours,” Tree said.

Before Sonny could offer any more objections or threats, Tree ended the call.

Great, he thought. Now I’m in more trouble than ever.

As Tree looked out through the Hellcat’s windshield, Shay Ostler, alone this time, carrying the Daft Punk helmet, swayed into the Biltmore’s parking lot. Her lustrous hair floated around her as she moved. When she reached the Streetfighter, she pulled the helmet over her head, started the engine, and sped away. Tree turned into the street after her.

________

Shay brought the Ducati Streetfighter to a stop outside an Art Deco house on a tree-lined street in South Beach.

Tree parked down the block, watching Shay get off her motorcycle and cross the street. As she approached the house, a figure stepped out. FBI Special Agent Max Hesselgesser embraced her. Shay kissed him hard on the mouth.

The two of them disappeared inside.

Tree pulled out his cellphone and used his forefinger to poke out a number.

Cee Jay Boone came on the line and said, “I hate it when you call me, Tree.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you’re going to take advantage of things that went on in the past, and ask me to do something I shouldn’t be doing.”

“This time it’s different,” Tree said. “I’m going to get you Edith Goldman’s killer.”

“I thought you didn’t know anything about that,” Cee Jay said.

“I didn’t then. Now I do. Are you interested or not?”

“I’m interested if you have information that pertains to an ongoing police investigation,” Cee Jay said in her formal detective voice. “But what I’m not interested in is sticking my neck out and helping you with things I shouldn’t help you with.”

“All I need is some information.”

“What kind of information?”

“I need to know if there is an FBI agent attached to the Miami office by the name of Max Hesselgesser.”

“Then what?”

“I also need information on a woman named Shay Ostler.”

“I don’t understand what I’m going to get out of this.”

“I told you. Edith’s killer.”

“You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

“I need to know about Hesselgesser and Ostler, and I need it in the next twenty-four hours,” Tree said.

“This guy’s name is Hesselgesser?”

“Max Hesselgesser,” Tree said. “And Shay Ostler.”

“How is she supposed to be connected to this?”

“She was working with André Manteau.”

“The guy they found in your car.”

“That’s correct.”

“Tree, what in God’s name are you involved in?”

“That’s what I need you to help me with,” Tree said.

“I’ll call you back,” Cee Jay said, and hung up.

________

Tree waited and watched as the street grew dark and the lights illuminated the trees lining either side of the roadway.

Cramped and tired, he fought to stay awake. Why did he do this? Madness. Evidence of a wasted detective life.

A single overhead light burned in the entranceway to Hesselgesser’s apartment building, providing shadowy illumination for Shay’s abrupt appearance. She stood on the front step struggling into the Daft Punk helmet before coming down along the walk to the Streetfighter. She sat astride the bike and started the engine. A couple of moments later, she was off down the darkened street.

He almost started after her, but then stayed where he was, wondering about Max Hesselgesser. Why hadn’t he walked her out? He waited for a while and then, driven more by the cramp in his legs than anything, Tree got out and stretched against the side of the car. Blessed relief shot along his thigh. He opened the passenger door and reached into the glove compartment for the Glock.

Jamming it into his pocket, he hobbled across the street. He went up the steps. Green-painted iron bars blocked the way. There were bars in the arched windows flanking the entranceway. A barred gate was ajar. He pushed it open and stepped into a tiled foyer decorated with big potted plants.

He crossed a tree-lined courtyard and went in another door opening into a kitchen. The kitchen led into a dining-living-room area. A guitar was propped against the wall. Tree went through the living room to the single bedroom.

Max Hesselgesser kneeled on the unmade bed. He was naked, wrists handcuffed behind his back. The top of his head had been blown off. Blood soaked the canary yellow bed sheets. Max’s discarded clothing was strewn on the floor near the bed—evidence of his passion to get his pants off for Shay Ostler.

Tree thought about calling the police. He thought about all the ways that would complicate his life right now—the terrible delaying business involved in finding yet another body.

He didn’t have time for that. Amazed to find himself thinking like this, he backed out of the bedroom and went out of the apartment.