Backwater Bay (Kurt Hunter Mysteries Book 1) Page 6

  “You needin’ your bottom cleaned?”

  I turned around and found myself face-to-face with a man. After a quick eyeball, I decided his name had to be Biff. If there was ever the stereotypical preppy boat guy, I was looking at him. “Just had a few questions.”

  “I’m the owner, if there’s something I can help you with.” He brushed past me, pulling a key chain out of his pocket, and opened the door.

  He must have noticed my uniform because he almost pulled me inside. I guessed I wasn’t his ideal customer and he wanted me out of sight. It was a small office with a room air conditioner barely winning the battle with the August humidity. A small desk was off to the side. The focal point for the room was the employee pictures. All bottoms up and smiling. The place had that Mexican tourist trap kind of feel and my skin started to crawl.

  “What can we do for the Park Service? If y’all are wanting your bottoms cleaned, we’re a little on the pricey side,” he said with a smirk. “Get what you pay for if you know what I mean.”

  I half expected a wink with that last line and was ready to land my Park Service fist on his well-tanned cheeks. Somehow I found it offensive that he was talking about my dead body like that. Instead, I breathed deeply and turned away from him. There were a dozen women on the wall, and I tried to focus on their faces, looking for Abbey. She was in the bottom row. I pulled out my phone and opened the picture of her cert card. It was her.

  “Can you tell me about that girl?” I asked, pointing to her.

  “She’s one of our best. Been around a while and has a slew of regulars.” This time he did wink, and I clenched my fists, trying to restrain myself.

  “How about an employment file?” I asked. I didn’t want his personal views.

  “We run a legal enterprise here. All on the up-and-up, if you get my drift. Anything that happens on the side doesn’t go through here.”

  He was getting defensive now and I needed to change tactics. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  He scratched his head. “Mostly what I do is email. I don’t have much contact.”

  “When was the last time you emailed her?” I asked.

  “Something gone wrong?”

  “Just getting some background. I got no axe to grind with you. I’m just trying to find her.”

  He pulled his phone out and sat down by the desk. “Give me a minute.”

  It was painful watching him fumble through the screens, one finger peck at a time.

  Finally, he looked up. “Been a few weeks.” He ran his hand through his hair. “We don’t run a nine-to-five operation here. Usually, when I get a call, unless the owner requests someone, I put it out to all the girls. First one that answers gets the work. This one was a family deal so it just went to her. It was the Big Bang she was cleaning. The business still went through me because I’ve got a non-compete clause here at the marina.”

  That sounded like a crappy way to treat your employees and their families. He must have sensed my disgust.

  “Hey. I got rent and bills. Insurance too,” he said.

  I sensed the conversation going backward. “No worries. Can you give me the dates and some contact information to reach you?” I asked, pulling my notepad out of my pocket.

  He seemed to get a little jiggy when I started to actually write things down.

  “Something happen to her?”

  I thought I saw a bead of sweat pop out of his forehead and I decided to push just a little harder. “You might say that.” The reaction surprised me so much, I almost wrote Suspect #1 on my pad. Instead, I took one of his business cards from the cheap Plexiglas holder on his desk and handed him one of mine. “If you think of anything, give me a call.” From the look on his face, I knew that was wasted. Biff was not going to be calling.

  9

  It was almost dark when I left the marina. Heading back over the MacArthur Causeway, I reached the mainland and turned left onto US 1. Although I wasn’t an expert on Miami’s neighborhoods, there was a clear line between the upscale Coconut Grove and the older Coral Gables. The streets became closer together and the houses were older and on smaller lots. I turned off South Dixie at Le Jeune Road and drove several blocks past the careful landscaping attempting to conceal the Water and Sewer Department facility.

  Slowing down to search for the address, between the dive tank rattling around the bed of the small white pickup and the Park Service logo on the doors, I was far from discreet, and I caught several looks from dog walkers and joggers. I tried to ignore them and scanned the street for the address on Abbey’s certification card.

  An ad had popped up on my map screen when I entered the address asking if I was interested in buying the house at that location. Out of curiosity, I clicked on it and saw the house was for sale with an asking price just north of six hundred thousand. Looking at the neighborhood now, I couldn’t see it. The houses were mostly old ranches on small lots. As I approached, I did see several nice two-story homes being built. The land was apparently worth more than the houses to the developers trying to rebuild the neighborhood. At this kind of price range, I started to wonder if this was her parents’ house. It was certainly not the kind of neighborhood a boat cleaner could afford, even with Biff’s business plan.

  I ended up finding it by the for sale sign in the front yard and pulled over across from the house. Now I took a minute to look at it before filing it away. I was close enough to a streetlight to see the same inverted bikini-clad bottom as the one on his sign staring back at me. I did notice his name was Gordon. He looked more like a Biff, but I knew I had better start addressing him as his mother did—maybe Gordo, or Gordy, I thought. While I was doing homework, I pulled up the picture with the copy of Abbey’s certification card again and double-checked the address against the faded painted tiles on the mailbox; it matched. I looked at the house. Several lights were on inside.

  I left the truck in the street, figuring parking in the driveway would make the visit somehow more official. In truth, this was the second investigative call of my career and I was feeling my way through it. Leaving the standard-issue Park Service ball cap on the passenger seat, I ran my hands through my hair and walked across the street. As I went up the uneven path, I could see the property was neglected. The tropical landscaping and Spanish-style architecture of the old house were both in need of some TLC. A dog barked, catching me by surprise, and just before I pressed the flamingo doorbell, the door opened.

  A face peered out and squinted at me. It was an odd squint.

  “Ma’am, my name is Kurt Hunter, with the National Park Service,” I said, extending my hand.

  “Holly Sanders,” the woman said, offering her hand, palm down.

  I took it and gave her one of my business cards, figuring this wasn’t a show-your-badge kind of visit. “I’m looking for Abbey Bentley,” I said.

  She gave me a look that I couldn’t quite place. “Why don’t we talk inside.”

  We walked through the foyer, over frayed antique carpets blanketing Southern yellow pine flooring that was in need of refinishing, and went to the kitchen. The walls were plastered, but it looked like the fake drywall texture that was so popular now. The furniture was mostly craftsman, though old. I followed her into the newly remodeled kitchen that was too IKEA for the house, and she offered me a seat at a raised bar.

  “Very nice house,” I said, more to open her up than meaning it. Northern California winters were long, cold, and rainy. I had spent the last half-dozen winters remodeling our old farmhouse, becoming an acceptable carpenter in the process. Thinking about that brought memories of Janet and Allie and the bomb that had destroyed everything. I tried to focus on Holly and push my past aside.

  She must have noticed something. “Can I get you a glass of water, or something stronger maybe?”

  It looked like she had already been into the something stronger. I declined. “Water would be great, thanks,” I said, trying to pull myself together. She turned, got a glass from a cabinet, and
filled it using a small spout on the sink. I took it and thanked her. Taking a sip, I tried to figure out where to start. Her last name was different from Abbey’s, but I noticed a resemblance. “Are you and Abbey related?”

  “She’s my niece,” Holly said. “Is something wrong?”

  I was getting into next-of-kin territory. Taking my phone from my pocket, I opened the picture of Abbey’s cert card and pushed it across the counter. “Is this her?” I saw her hand tremble.

  “Yes. Has something happened to her?”

  “Ma’am, I’m not sure how to ask this, but how can I find her parents?”

  Before she could answer, a door slammed. “Holly?”

  She looked at me apologetically. “My husband.”

  Just as the words were out of her mouth, a man walked into the kitchen and eyed me suspiciously. I could tell right away that something was wrong. If you hang around the small foothill towns in Northern California long enough you can spot alcohol and drug users from a mile away. Abbey’s uncle fell into both categories.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  I got up and extended my hand. “Kurt Hunter with the National Park Service.”

  He looked at Holly. “I told you not to answer the door for these fund-raising types. They can smell your money a mile away.” He turned to me. “What are you saving today? Turtles, Flipper, or what?”

  I was about to answer, but Holly cut me off. “Herb,” she scolded him. “It’s not like that. It’s about Abbey.”

  I could see the change immediately and he staggered backward a few steps, grabbing the counter for support.

  “Her parents?” I asked, trying to refocus the conversation.

  “We’ve been looking after her for a long time,” she said, moving toward her husband and putting an arm around him.

  I guessed this was as good as it was going to get. My problem was, I had no idea what to do now. My training had covered how to break bad news and I guessed this was the time, but there was no positive identification, or even a chance for that with her crab-eaten face. I ran my hand through my hair and the answer came.

  “I have some bad news,” I started. “I think we have your niece in the medical examiner’s office, but we have no positive identification.”

  “You come barging in here and tell us you think Abbey’s dead, but you’re not sure?” Herb said.

  His body language had changed. The dazed and confused look was gone; he was confident now, and trying to take control of the situation, but it looked forced. “Did she live here?”

  “We have an apartment out back that she rented,” Holly said.

  “I’d like to see it if I could,” I said.

  “I’d like to see a warrant,” Herb said.

  “Herb, we are going to cooperate,” Holly told her husband.

  It was starting to look like everyone related to this case was jiggy. I looked at Holly and asked the question again with my eyes, figuring old Herb was too far gone to notice. She led me through a back hallway. I glanced behind me and saw no sign of Herb. Before exiting the house, she grabbed a key hung from a small rope on a hook by the back door.

  Their backyard was pretty plain and overgrown. It was clear they had spent what money they had to improve the inside. Behind a sprawling live oak was a small outbuilding. Holly went to the door and unlocked it with the key. I kept my distance, wanting her to have some space. A light turned on and I guessed that was my cue to enter.

  My first reaction was that the place had been tossed, and I almost asked the question.

  “She was not the greatest housekeeper,” Holly said.

  I stood just inside the door, trying to get my bearings, while Holly started to pick up. I call myself organized, though others have said I’m a bit of a neat freak. Despite my own leanings, this was beyond housekeeping. It looked like a pack of dogs had run through the small apartment, pulling books from shelves and knocking over furniture. The contents of the drawers were all over the floor. It looked like someone had been searching for something. Holly gave up after a minute, righted a fallen chair, and sat at the small table to the left of the front door. “Do you want to file a report?” I asked.

  She gave me that squinty “I don’t understand” look. I took a few steps into the small kitchen that was just beyond the table. To the right, on the other side of a hallway that serviced two doors, was the living area. I guessed the two doors were a bedroom and bathroom. I looked back at Holly and saw her head in her hands. Her body heaved and I could hear her inhale deeply. Not really sure what to do, I went to the sink and filled a glass with water, which I placed on the table in front of her. She didn’t seem to notice.

  Moving around the small apartment, I tried to get a sense of her niece. There were a lot of pictures, some framed and others just pinned to the wall. Many were underwater photographs. “Did she take these?” I asked.

  Holly took a second to gather herself and turned to me. Her face was grief stricken and I immediately felt bad about asking. “She did. This is all hers,” she said, drinking from the water glass. “Sorry.”

  “They’re very good.”

  “Diving was her passion. I just wish she had stayed in school.”

  “Please, if you’d rather do this another time, I understand.” I was in a place I’d never been in and wanted out. There was nothing else to be gained without a thorough search, which I felt was inappropriate.

  She seemed to pull herself together. “No, whatever I can do to help.”

  I was uneasy but wanted something for having come this far. “A DNA sample would be helpful in identifying her. Maybe a hairbrush?” I asked.

  She got up and went back to the bathroom, returning a minute later holding out a brush. I didn’t have an evidence bag with me, so I took it by the handle, holding it gingerly and carefully keeping it away from anything that might contaminate it. I was heading to the kitchen to look for a baggie when Herb crashed through the door.

  He stumbled in and said something unintelligible. Holly went to him, but he brushed her away. The chair that she had been sitting on toppled over and Holly ran past me out of the apartment, leaving me alone with Herb. I heard a crash and turned back to see he was on the floor, hopefully passed out. As long as Holly was safe, I decided there was nothing further to be gained there and showed myself out.

  I stopped a few blocks away in the parking lot of a strip mall occupied by a nail salon, yogurt shop, and liquor store—everything you’d ever need in South Florida. Staring at the neon beer signs, and wanting one more than I was ready to admit to myself, I went through my last two encounters, trying to get them straight in my head before I called Justine.

  In the last few hours, I had gone from a sticker on a dive tank to an identity and two possible suspects. Maybe it was just my dislike for the men, but they were one and two on my short list. I had a long way to go to prove motive and opportunity, let alone how the murder was committed, but the alarm bells were ringing. It came back to me then that Sid had ruled the death a boating accident—not a homicide. Before I could start interrogating suspects, I had to find the cause of death.

  “Hey,” Justine answered on the second ring.

  We were clearly into phase two of our relationship now that I had her cell number and didn’t need to go through the Miami-Dade switchboard. “Hey, got time for dinner? I have some news.”

  “They’ve got me really busy here. Any chance you can pick up some takeout and come by?”

  “You name it,” I said, grateful for the opportunity to both see her and get into the lab.

  An hour later, we sat in the crime lab with boxes of Thai takeout in front of us. It didn’t quite measure up to the lobster we’d had for lunch and I still wanted that beer.

  “So, tell me a story,” she said, stuffing noodles into her mouth with chopsticks.

  I wasn’t as adept and used a fork for mine. Between bites, I told her about Bottoms Up and my meeting with Abbey’s aunt and uncle. We finished and dumped the contai
ners in the trash. It was time to ask the big question. “So,” I started with a pregnant pause, “identifying the body. I didn’t want to bring her aunt in to see her in this condition.” Justine nodded and I continued. “I grabbed a hairbrush from the apartment. Can we run DNA on it to get a positive ID?”

  “So,” she mimicked me. “We need to talk to Sid. She’s his baby as long as she’s in the morgue.”

  This gave me the lead-in I needed. “And the ‘cause-of-death’ thing. I’m thinking there’s more to this than a boating accident.” Everything about the body, the gear, and the people involved was suspicious.

  10

  I was feeling the adrenaline rush of progress and knew sleep wasn’t coming. “Maybe I could go see Sid? I could grab a piece of hair or something and bring it back to compare to the brush?”

  “I guess we’re just trying to establish her identity. I can compare the hair strands under a microscope and be pretty certain. At least sure enough to see if a DNA test is worthwhile.”

  “Cool,” I said, starting for the door.

  “Hold on there, Inspector. I better give him a call first.”

  I knew I was pushing the boundaries of her patience and made an excuse to use the bathroom to get away for a minute. I stared at myself in the mirror, and what I saw didn’t match the way I felt. I’d been running for almost two days on only a few hours of sleep on the couch and it was starting to show. The stubble had filled in on my chin, and my eyes were sunken, with rings around them. Washing my face with cold water—which is an oxymoron in Florida, as the tap water is eighty degrees—did nothing for me. I brushed back my hair and tried to look a little more presentable. Taking a deep breath I went back into the lab.

  “He’s there and you can go over,” Justine said.

  I could tell something was up by her voice. “And?”

  “Just be careful around him. You can’t walk in there and tell him it’s a murder when he’s already ruled it an accidental death.”