Octopus Alibi (11 page)

IN MEMORY OF A WORKER AND A GIVER

The death of Steve Gomez touches everyone on this island. The man brought goodness when he arrived here twelve years ago. He passed it around freely. The man did not have a selfish bone in his body. He did things for Key West and its residents that most of us never noticed, many of us will never know about.

Key Westers will remember Steve’s quick smile and laugh, and his sense of fairness. He made a difference in local politics, and never allowed his campaigns to lean to the negative. His votes in commission meetings showed no favorites and took into account the welfare of longtime, less fortunate residents. We have many lessons to learn from examples he set. We suggest a short prayer, an expression of thanks, a moment to reflect on the life of Steve Gomez.

A generous tribute. I guessed that Marnie had written the piece. I also guessed that someone had edited it. Under it was another eulogy.

IN MEMORY OF A GIVER AND A WORKER

Key West suffered a double loss yesterday. It makes sense that more of us knew Mayor Gomez, but those who had come to know Naomi Douglas will miss her smile and energy. A “freshwater” Conch, she, too, gave freely of her time and resources for the betterment of this island. Naomi had an eye for spotting the needs of the town and a talent for recruiting citizens who could cure problems and obviate challenges before they became our problems. She set examples for us all to believe in the arts, trust our best instincts, and honor our culture.

Naomi Douglas helped many individuals and causes, sought no recognition, made friends and no enemies. The later years of her life were a fine celebration of the best aspects of Key West.

A bit generic, I thought, but a great gesture. Another Marnie Dunwoody touch. I flipped to the Crime Report but got sidetracked by the obituaries.

STEVEN WEBB GOMEZ

Steven Webb Gomez, 46, beloved husband of Yvonne, passed away on April 19, in Key West. Steve had been mayor of Key West for the past six years. Born in Iowa, Gomez moved to the Keys in the late 1980s to “leave the snow shovel behind and reinvent my life.” A former Peace Corps volunteer, an avid sailor, and a master electrician, Steve worked with Exotic and Wild Bird Rescue of the Florida Keys, the Habitat for Humanity, the American Red Cross, and other charities.

In addition to his wife of ten years, Steve is survived by a sister, Elizabeth Ann Hamper, and a brother, Dennis Gomez, both of Akron, Iowa.

A service in celebration of Steve Gomez’s life will be …

Both of Akron, Iowa?

Outside, at a pay box, it took thirty-five cents to screw up my plans for the day. I dialed Marnie Dunwoody’s cell phone. On the third ring she said, “Yes?”

Cagey woman. Her caller ID had come up blank. I said, “Hey.”

“Alex, I thought you’d be gone by now.”

“Do you know of any link between Naomi Douglas and Steve Gomez?”

She was quiet a moment. “I don’t think they were friends. In all the time I’ve known Steve, I’ve never seen him with Mrs. Douglas.”

“Today’s obituary says his brother and sister live in Akron, Iowa. Naomi’s brother’s last address is that same town. It’s not like it’s Miami or Chicago. Two people from a small town in the Midwest die the same day on a Florida island? I think date of death takes on new meaning.”

A long silence at the other end. “Oh, crap.”

“I don’t suppose anyone at the paper suggested he might have been…”

“Murdered? I haven’t heard a thing like that.”

“Do your research like a true sleuth, Marnie. You admired the man. He deserves a fair shake after the fact.”

“He deserved that ahead of time.”

We promised to stay in touch.

I dropped a couple more coins and began to dial Dexter Hayes’s number. I quit, knowing his view on Gomez’s death, his disinterest in Naomi Douglas. I got through to Sheriff Liska, found him in his office. I pitched my discovery, my suspicion, my reluctance to call Hayes.

I said, “You want to look around, I got a house key from Spottswood. She named me her executor.”

“Okay, we don’t need a warrant. Can you meet a deputy in ten minutes?”

I had already half formed my decision to stay, the minute I had caught the Akron link. Maybe I wanted Liska to force me into it. “I’m at the airport, about to fly off to a job. I need the money.”

“Tough rats, bubba. You just stepped in it.”

I said, “You going to pick up the case?”

“You think it’s automatic? I can’t take on ‘suspicion’ cases inside the city limits. If the newspapers ever found out, I’d never hear the end of it. On the other hand, if the city wants to show me that a murder or two took place, I’ll make a decision. No way I’m going to grab jurisdiction on a ‘maybe.’”

“Then why am I meeting a deputy?”

“I’m cautious. I’m not stupid.”

“Can your deputy pick me up here at the airport?”

“Be on the curb by the Conch Flyer Restaurant. I’ll send all your best friends to get you.” He clicked off.

I would be a day late to Grand Cayman.

I got myself bumped off the flight by a friend behind the counter. I asked her to pull my bags from the outbound luggage and to hold them for a day. I dialed Teresa’s office and got her voice mail. I said, “Your hunch we talked about? It might be right on. What I said about a steel trap? Play your cards close at the office. I’m here for another day.”

I worked up the cojones to call the ad agency that had booked me into the Cayman job. I begged the account executive to bump the gig a day. He waffled. I knew he was being lazy, knew the deadline was bogus. The delay would cause logistical problems. That was my fault, and the agency would be embarrassed. I offered to work at two-thirds my day rate. The underpaid young man in Sarasota put pained reluctance in his voice, then said okay.

My escape from the rock had lost its traction.

10

T
HE WHITE
F
ORD
E
XPLORER
carried a green and gold paint scheme, a roof-mount light bar, and ten years’ worth of dent and rust repairs. Detective Sergeant Bobbi Lewis unlatched the right side door, moved a leather gear belt and a belly-pack from the passenger seat to the floor behind it, motioned me in. She wore khaki slacks, a white polo shirt with an imprinted badge, and new running shoes. She flashed a bored “wild goose chase” expression, offered me no greeting, tilted back a can of Mountain Dew. Her face looked flushed, and she smelled of bath soap and hair conditioner. She tapped a dash decal, an official reminder to fasten my seat belt. Once I got past the good odors, the SUV’s interior smelled like all police vehicles. Sweat, spilled coffee, the sour residue of aftershave and boot polish. The steering wheel was red, but the top of it had faded to grayish pink.

Bobbi Lewis does a fine job for the county. She’s smart and deliberate, tough behind her femininity. Plenty of people have misjudged her five-eight size, attractive presence, her ability to use force. I’d worked with her twice. We had shared success, and I felt comfortable with our rapport.

She blew past taxis to the airport exit. “So, what is it?” she said. “The original sidewalk sleuth speculates that a shaky link between deaths, this hometown commonality, gives us proof of multiple foul play?”

Commonality? Foul play? I had never heard Lewis use cop jargon.

“I didn’t claim ‘proof,’ detective. I told your boss there was a chance that two crimes had been committed.”

“Liska said you were the woman’s executor. That your only interest?”

“I reported a possible crime. Problem?”

Lewis kept her eyes dead ahead. “Right. You made a nine-one-one call direct to the top man. You like that kind of power?”

She’d always been friendly before. So much for rapport. I smelled toothpaste breath and assumed she was on a late-shift, late-sleep schedule.

“He thought enough of my reasoning to send you here.”

She nodded. “The mayor takes himself out. The elderly woman dies in her sleep. They kicked the bucket the same day for a reason?”

“Hell of a coincidence.”

“Coincidence happens,” she said.

“If we found a reason, we might find crimes.”

“We?”

I couldn’t play verbal Ping-Pong with a pro. I could tell no answer would satisfy her. She had been ordered by Sheriff Liska to check out my tip. I wanted that to happen without prejudice. I shut up.

She said, “Why the airport?”

I told her about Grand Cayman.

“Tough life,” she said.

“Did you know the mayor?”

She checked her mirrors, then turned my way for an instant. “Yeah.”

Her tone told me shut up again. We drove over the Bight, toward Eaton.

“Been out to Stock Island lately?” she said.

“Not since that murder.” A few months back, she and I had worked an ugly one that was linked to several others. The killer had tried to warn me away. He had torched my old Kawasaki. “Not that it’s ever on my regular rounds,” I said.

We turned onto Grinnell. She backed into the only vacant spot in sight.
RESIDENTIAL PARKING
was painted on the pavement. “I hate to do this,” she said. “My good friend lives on Catherine. There aren’t any meters or special spaces, and she hasn’t parked within a block of her house since Christmas.”

We climbed out, she popped the back hatch, and removed a toolbox and a large towel. “Good thing that wind died down,” she said. “It was about to drive me nuts.”

I snapped out of my world, into the real one. For the first time in three weeks the thrashing of fronds and treetops had ceased. I heard Skil saws, distant sirens, Harley-Davidsons, packs of mopeds. Key West’s soundtrack had resumed.

“You’ve been in the house?” she said.

“Last night, maybe twenty minutes. Maybe a half hour.”

“I need to know what you did, what you touched.”

I described my wandering through the house.

“You’ve touched the computer, so it’s contaminated by your prints?”

I nodded. “I used the front and back doors, the windows in the living room. I walked through the kitchen, checked out the refrigerator for spoiled food.”

“And?”

“Trash pickup was yesterday. I figured the outdated chilled items could wait a few days. I could deal with it when I got back from down south. Better than garbage sitting in the hot sun getting ripe.”

“Good. Don’t touch anything in the refrigerator. Did you use her toilet? Take a pee in there?”

“No.”

“Wonderful. Don’t touch anything this time, even if you touched it before. Doors, windows, the kitchen, whatever.”

“You’re going in with all these precautions,” I said. “But you’re not tuned in to my theory.”

Detective Lewis took a step back, held her hands like a coach explaining strategy to a rookie. “She died in her bed, but her ‘sudden and unexpected demise’ was unattended. State law requires that such deaths be followed by autopsy. You with me so far?”

I said I was.

“The elderly in Florida skew the mortality rate. And autopsies run up huge expenses. They aren’t ordered as often as they should be, and this county isn’t blessed with fine facilities. If there’d been body bruises, the funeral home people would’ve informed us. Or they would have called the state attorney’s office. I’ve seen their list of red flags. They’re all trained to spot petechiae, signs of strangulation, punctures, bruising, other tip-offs to murder. We got no reports. Where does that leave us?”

I shrugged, shook my head.

“Did you see broken windows or marks on the doors? Signs of forced entry? Things askew, to indicate a struggle?”

I kept shaking my head. I wanted to suggest that Naomi had been killed somewhere else and placed in her bed. I let Lewis ramble.

“I got no report of an ice pick in the eardrum,” she said. “We have no signs of foul play. Are we thinking gas inhalation or electrocution? Are we looking for arsenic in the Ovaltine? Poisoning would give us clues.”

I stared at her. She had built an argument before the facts.

She said, “We’re down to natural causes. A part of her body gave out. Maybe she died of a broken heart. Let’s go have a look around.”

Maybe Naomi knew that a man from her hometown was going to shoot himself. Maybe that’s what broke her heart.

Lewis scanned Naomi’s front porch. She checked out the front window perimeters and the door frame, looking for pry marks or security sensors. She took in the wooden furniture, the cushion fabrics, dark green shutters. She studied the house number in gold leaf on the glass transom, the mailbox, a woven, lidded basket. I was struck with the same feeling I’d had when Cootie Ortega was in my home. Lewis was sizing up the porch, putting value to objects.

Finally she stooped, spread the towel on the floor, and placed her toolbox on it. It looked to me like a homemade evidence-gathering kit. She pulled out cloth socks to be worn over our shoes, two pair of rubber gloves. I saw a Polaroid camera, a small autofocus camera, a thirty-foot measuring tape, and a digital voice recorder.

We put on our socks and gloves, and she pointed at the lock. I let us in. She took her box and towel inside, made room for me, then stopped. If we didn’t open a window quickly, we would croak from the heat.

She asked me not to move for a minute or two. She looked around, saw what she needed. She removed a small telephone from her box and plugged its jack into a port in the living room’s front wall. She connected the digital recorder to the phone, and pushed the
TALK
button. From where I stood, I heard the staccato tones that indicate messages.

“Bingo,” she said. “Have you got BellSouth’s message service?”

I told her the access number.

She clicked the recorder and dialed the number. “This didn’t happen this way,” she said. “You dialed the number. You wrote down what you heard.”

“I was going to do that, anyway.”

“Right,” she said. “You dialed star-sixty-nine, too. You wanted to know where her last call came from.”

I felt goose bumps on my arms, the kind I got for brilliant lyrics, great music licks and solos. I followed her orders, stayed put. When she had finished noting the last incoming call, she left her gear hooked up. I assumed that she wanted to catch calls that rang while we were in the house, do the caller ID routine each time.