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A Mad Mick Murphy
Mystery CHAPTER TWO Luis Morales, at five-foot-ten, looked more like a Latin model than a Key West detective. His wavy black hair had highlights of gray, his olive complexion, bright smile, and large brown eyes made him handsome and popular with the local ladies. And, he knew it. Danny Smith stood in the downpour talking to Luis through a half opened car window. Danny pointed in my direction before walking away to help a newly arrived officer secure yellow crime scene tape across the club’s chain link fence. Luis stepped out of the car, his KWPD baseball cap pulled down tight and his blue police windbreaker zipped. I walked to the refrigerator, unlocked it, took out a can of Albertson’s ginger ale, and sat back down. Luis walked slowly from the car, through the gate to the clubhouse deck, as if the rain didn’t exist. “Mick, I am sorry about Tom.” He unzipped the windbreaker and took a notepad from his shirt pocket. “Thanks.” I was trying to be polite. “Officer Smith said you found Tom.” “I did.” “Tell me what you did.” I told him and he wrote. He waited for me to finish before saying anything. “You cut the ropes holding him to the piling,” he pointed to the evidence bag on the deck that held the rope. Luis sat at one of the wooden picnic tables in the clubhouse. “Yes.” “Did you touch anything else?” “I got the two-by-four out of the water.” “Do you think that’s what they used to beat him?” “I was hoping you’d tell me.” “CSI will check to see if it’s Tom’s blood,” he said and looked at me. “I wouldn’t be surprised.” I didn’t answer. He was trying to be polite too and I didn’t want to say anything that might change that. I took a swallow of ginger ale. “How many people were to meet you to discuss the race?” I could feel politeness washing away in the rain, as soon as he mentioned the race. Danny must have put everything I said into his verbal report. “The usual suspects.” He looked at me again and forced a quick smile. “As many as last year?” “What difference does it make?” “In theory, those attending knew where Tom would be this early. I’d like to see if anyone had a grudge. I have to begin somewhere, unless you have an idea.” “I don’t think the boaters had anything to do with this,” I bit my tongue and didn’t say anything about gusanos. “I wish I knew who did.” “I wish you did too, because you would tell me, right?” He wrote something down. “Of course.” He jotted into the notebook and I thought, maybe he was playing a word game with himself. “Could it have been a robbery?” “The only things locked at the sail club are the front gate and the refrigerator. There’s nothing to steal.” “Could he have found some scumbags sleeping here and it turned ugly?” “More likely than thieves.” He scribbled some more and then hesitated, as if he was about to say something. He reread from the notebook, to himself. “What are the chances these perps were looking for you?” His dark eyes turned hard and his thin smile was cold. “Could they have mistaken Tom for you?” “If they did, they didn’t know me,” I said. “We don’t look anything alike.” “You both have beards and it was early in the morning.” He hefted his shoulders and continued to stare at me. “I have red hair and I always need a haircut,” I tried a smile, but it wouldn’t come. “Tom’s is salt and pepper, they didn’t mistake us.” “Anything you’re working on that could have you in trouble?” Being a journalist, I’ve worked on stories that involved Central American revolutionaries, drug smugglers, politicians and a variety of hoodlums for the weekly news magazines, but this had nothing to do with my career. “I am not working on anything. The winds are blowing and I want to go sailing.” “To Cuba?’ “Not in these winds, Luis. The Gulf Stream has to have ten-to-fifteen-foot waves on average. No one boats over in those conditions.” “Rafters do,” he wrote again in the notebook. Rain pounded the roof, and off to the west I could see lightening and then thunder exploded around us as I silently counted to five. Luis looked up. “How close was that?” But, he wasn’t asking me. “I hope you find the bastards.” “I’m sure you do.” He eyed the crime scene from where we were and continued writing in the notebook. “Are we finished?” I tossed the empty soda can into the trash barrel. “For now,” he said, without looking up. “The Chief wanted to hear from you.” The weather forced me to leave my dingy tied at the dock, so I walked the short distance to my live-aboard slip at Garrison Bight Marina. I cupped my cell phone to my ear and called Key West Police Chief Richard Dowley. “You wanted me to call.” I walked along Palm Avenue, rain, thunder, and lighting my companions. “I was doing yard work when Officer Smith called about Tom,” he said, hesitantly. “Tom’s in surgery, right now. What are you guys into?” “Nothing.” “Mick, is he messing with someone’s wife? Or are you working on a story and they were looking for you?” I told him what I had said to Luis about not working on anything at the time. But, I reminded myself that the past had come after me before. Criminals have long memories and survive on revenge, as do Latin drug dealers. “You think this was random?” “No.” “You want to come by the house, I’m done with yard work.” “I’m soaked,” I said. “It’ll be about an hour.” “I’ll make us a couple of sandwiches, I’m hungry,” and he hung up. Richard lives in New Town in a two-bedroom blockhouse with his wife Patty. By the time I arrived, the rain had stopped and the sun was fighting to come out. He greeted me at the door. The chief is a big man, six-foot-four, and a good 250 pounds and he has cold brown cop’s eyes. Saturday was his day off. Crimes like Tom’s beating are rare in Key West. The crime concerned him professionally, but the fact that he knew the victim made it more personal. “You must be the most punctual guy in Key West,” he said, as I walked in. “Sandwiches are in the kitchen.” He had made two ham and cheese sandwiches, dumped a bag of potato chips into a bowl, and poured two mugs of beer. I started right off by telling him everything that had happened from the time I arrived at the sail club. “Why was Tom there? Why were you there that early?” “We were having the first meeting for the Key West-Havana race. Tom, Bob Lynds and I were supposed to meet and prepare the place.” “Damn it, Mick, you’re gonna bring Treasury back, aren’t you?” he said between bites. “Didn’t everyone get in enough trouble last year?” It wasn’t a police matter, it was a federal matter, but his officers had to assist the U.S. Custom’s officers intercept the sailboat racers as they returned from Cuba last year. He didn’t like losing half his street cops. “We all have OFAC licenses. We deliver humanitarian aid to Cuba, just like last year.” The federal government had begun hassling boaters going to Cuba a few years ago, and when we arrived back in Key West last year, Customs and Treasury agents from the Office of Foreign Asset Control ignored out licenses. They confiscated cameras, GPS’s and anything that could show money had been spent outside Marina Hemingway, or that boaters had traveled while there. As a journalist, I was exempt from the restrictions, but they gave my crew hell. No one had heard anything back since, and it had been a year and the items confiscated had not been returned. “So is this related?” “It might be.” It caught him by surprise. He sat up straight in his chair. “I’m listening.” “Tom only said one word to me, I think.” He waited another long second and shook his head. “You know, if rubber hoses were still in vogue I’d be using one on you right now.” Richard’s face muscles tightened. “He said ‘gusanos.’” “How?” Richard demanded in his cop’s voice. “The doctors said his jaw is broken in a couple of places, his nose is busted, he lost teeth and his whole face is swollen. How’d he say gusanos?” “Slowly, but I heard it.” “Gusanos, that’s Havana slang for the Miami exiles, right?” “Yeah.” “You and the Miami Cubans aren’t exactly friendly, right?” “What are you getting at, Richard?” “Mick, I don’t need you hearing things that weren’t said. It isn’t going to help this investigation.” “How long have you known me?” “I’m a cop right now, Mick, not your friend,” he swallowed some beer. “I’ve got a guy, someone I know, who could be dead before the day’s over. He’s been beaten savagely and I want to get the people who did it. I don’t need to be chasing ghosts. Things like this don’t happen in Key West.” We both ate in silence. The crunching of potato chips was the only sounds in the house. The beer was cold, but had lost its taste. “Do you really think this had anything to do with the sailboat race?” he said, to break the silence. “I don’t know. Tom didn’t put up a fight, so they caught him by surprise or there had to be a few of them,” I sipped my beer. “To the hardcore exiles, this race is like treason. Don’t discount what I heard.” “I won’t,” He got us two cold beers. “Detective Morales has your report, right?” “He hates us, he’s not gonna do a good job.” “He’s a damn good detective, and he will do his job. Did you tell him about Tom saying gusanos?” “No, I thought better of it.” “Smart on your part.” He smiled for the first time. “I’m concerned about this, Richard. If this is about the race, it may not over.” “You’re right to be concerned, Mick,” he said, and lost the smile. |