Pumped for Murder

Peaceful Rest Cemetery was flat, hot and treeless—more like a doormat for hell than a place of remembrance.

Helen didn’t like South Florida graveyards, especially this one. In her hometown of St. Louis, cemeteries celebrated the drama of death with weeping willows, mournful monuments and mausoleums with stained glass their occupants never saw. St. Louis death was personal. The loss was commemorated with permanent reminders.

South Florida did not indulge in funereal flights of fancy. Many of its cemeteries didn’t even have tombstones, just flat plaques set flush with the ground so the grass could be easily trimmed. Eternal rest had to be convenient for the endless lawn mowing.

Helen found Mark’s grave shockingly spare: a flat metal plaque with his name and death dates next to a stingy bunch of artificial flowers.

“Some cemeteries have real tombstones that say something,” Helen said. “ ‘Beloved Husband’ or ‘Resting with Our Savior.’ People put flowers, toys or balloons on the graves. Look at this. I’ve seen more personal markers for water mains. At least Mark could have a granite tombstone.”

“Helen, we live in a hurricane zone,” Phil said. “Windstorms topple tombstones.”

“But this flat”—Helen struggled for the right word—“nothing is like Mark never lived.”

“His brother remembers him,” Phil said. “The memories are still alive. That’s why we’re investigating his death. I’m glad the gym is closed for a few days so we can work on Mark’s case. I wanted to see Mark’s grave to check the death dates. So much information about his case has been wrong or missing. These dates match his death certificate. We’re making progress.”

“It doesn’t seem like progress,” Helen said. “But I’m in this for better or worse. What’s the next stop on the Behr death tour?”

“The scene of Mark’s accident,” Phil said. “He was shot in an industrial park in Sunset Palms. That may be more depressing than this cemetery.”

Federal Highway was a four-lane griddle, and Phil’s Jeep scooted along like it had been scalded.

“Those are cute, but they’re not collectibles,” Helen said. “I thought Gus handled luxury cars.”

“He got it in trade along with a Jaguar,” Phil said. He turned on Broward Boulevard, then waited to make a left onto Third Avenue. They were in the heart of Fort Lauderdale’s downtown, surrounded by expensive cars. Helen watched wistfully as they drove by, remembering the days when she was a high-paid executive with a sleek silver Lexus. That car was long gone, along with her life as a corporate wonk.

“Could we afford a Jag?” Helen asked. She could almost feel herself sinking into its luxurious leather seats, icy air blasting in her face. The Jeep hit a pothole, and she clutched the door to keep from bouncing out of her seat.

“We can’t afford a car that’s too noticeable,” Phil said. “We’re private eyes, remember? We have to follow people into all sorts of neighborhoods. A Jaguar would stand out too much.”

“I could handle the luxury end of our trade,” Helen said, “and try to blend in.”

“Nice try,” Phil said. “But that’s not our niche. Coronado Investigations does affordable family investigations. Maybe I could get you a nice minivan.”

“No!” Helen said. “If I drive a minivan I’ll wind up with two preschoolers and Happy Meals on the seats.”

Phil grinned at her. “We can take a look at the PT Cruiser the next time we see Gus.”

“Soon, I hope,” Helen said. She fanned herself with Mark’s accident report and succeeded only in stirring up the hot air. “Is the drug dealer—Ahmet what’s-his-name—still working in Sunset Palms?”

“No,” Phil said. “I checked the street directories while you were dealing with the ’roid rager at the gym. Ahmet closed his import-export business six months after Mark died. He opened a real estate office in Pompano Beach in north Broward County. He outgrew that building ten years ago. Now his office is in downtown Lauderdale. We’ll pass it on our way to Sunset Palms.”

Helen groaned. “Not more time in this rolling furnace. This summer is so hot, it doesn’t even cool down after sunset.”

Helen’s dark hair was plastered to her neck. Sweat ran down her face, and her shirt looked like someone had thrown a bucket of water on it. Phil stayed annoyingly cool, from his silver-white hair to his blue T-shirt.

“Think how cool that minivan will feel,” Phil said, keeping his face straight. “A peek at Ahmet’s office won’t eat up more time—I promise. It’s the other side of the Third Avenue drawbridge.”

They heard a distant horn, the signal that the drawbridge was going up. The Jeep idled in a long line of traffic waiting for the sailboats and yachts to pass under the bridge. Helen swallowed exhaust fumes and more complaints about the un-air-conditioned Jeep. She could see a gold minivan two cars ahead. The innocuous van looked like a warning.

“See the dark gray skyscraper?” Phil pointed to a building like an upended marble shoebox. “That two-story pink stucco building next to it is Yavuz Elegant Homes. Ahmet owns it.”

“Huge parking lot,” Helen said. “He’s doing well if he can afford a block of downtown real estate. Either that, or he’s still dealing drugs.”

“Careful,” Phil said. “Save those comments for me. Ahmet and his old girlfriend Bernie Behr are now solid citizens. Neither one was convicted or even charged with any wrongdoing. They won’t like it if they hear a couple of upstart PIs are spreading rumors about their pasts. Rumors we can’t prove are true.”

“Who am I going to tell?” Helen said. “The muscleheads at the gym? They can’t see past their barbells.”

Helen felt like she was marinating in oil for the rest of the drive to Sunset Palms but decided silence was the wisest choice for marital harmony.

Phil noticed her discomfort, kissed her and said, “I’ll see about getting your air-conditioned car by tomorrow night.”

Phil drove into a rundown industrial park the color of a mustardstained tie. A rusty fence protected the potholed parking lot. Plastic grocery bags clung to the chain-link.

“Mark’s accident happened by this building here,” Phil said, parking in front of the fence. A broken plastic sign proclaimed FLORIDA’S BEST MINIBLINDS: MADE TO YOUR SATISFACTION.

Phil and Helen walked to the padlocked gate and peered inside. “I don’t see any trace of Mark’s accident,” Helen said. “Not even a scrape on the walls where he crashed his car.”

“Let’s see if we can get a better picture by going through the accident report.” Phil unfolded his copy and started reading.

“Mark’s black Monte Carlo came in through this gate,” Phil said. He rattled it.

“Then he crashed into Ahmet’s red Mercedes, parked over there by the building entrance.” He waved his hand to the left.

“His Mercedes spun and hit the Ford belonging to Ahmet’s mother, damaging it.” Phil twirled his hand. “Sometime during this chaos, Mark shot himself—or was shot—and crashed into the side of the building.”

“Ahmet and his mother weren’t on the lot at the time of the shooting,” Helen said. “I think that was in the police report.”

Phil checked the report. “It was. Lorraine Yavuz told the police she was inside the building. She said she heard the car hit the wall. I’m guessing Mark’s Monte Carlo plowed into that flat stretch of cinderblock next to the blue Dumpster.”

“The report doesn’t say,” Phil said. “And the police didn’t ask. When did the drug dealer come running out? Before the shooting—or after it?”