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I climbed over Nick to get dressed. I followed Ricky Stephens to work then waited across the street in the parking lot of a strip mall to be relieved by Elliot the Slim. In my mind, I relived the passionate night before and chuckled, remembering how after making love, I’d become tangled in the sheets and fallen out of bed.
I’d said, “That’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into,” in reference to our love of old black-and-white comedy.
“That’s not how the quote goes,” Nick said.
“Is too.”
“Nope. That’s a common misconception.”
“You’re wrong.”
And like the football bet I’d paid off by teaching a class about flaccid penises in classic art, we made a bet as to the accuracy of the quote. We looked for Laurel and Hardy movies online and selected Another Fine Mess.
“See?” I said. “It’s even in the title.”
But Nick gave me a smug grin.
Sure enough, when the line came up, it was “Well, here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into.” Nice instead of fine. I’d had another bet to pay off, and I had, with lustful passion.
Grinning at the memory, I was startled when Elliot the Slim said, “S’up, Lise?”
I hadn’t seen him walk up and kneel by my open window. “Hello, Elliot. How’s it going?”
“Kinda pissed,” he said and walked from the car to his observation post under trees in an empty lot next to the parking lot.
I got out and followed him to where he was unfolding a blanket onto a flat piece of cardboard.
“You’re not mad at me, are you?” I asked.
He sat on the blanket, with a look of surprise. “What? You? Nah, Lise. You’re righteous.”
“Thanks, Elliot. That means a lot.”
Tall and skinny, Elliot the Slim had long dark hair, which hadn’t been washed in weeks. His long beard gave him a Viking look, but his clothes and bundled belongings definitely said Destitute. His age was a mystery. He was either young and aged dramatically by circumstance and hard living, or he was late middle-aged and held on to a youthful aura.
He handed me a small flyer with a photo of a building on it. “No, I’m mad ’cause this bitch comes up to me outta nowhere and gives me this.” His volume grew at the indignation of having to relate what had happened. “How insulting.”
Printed on the flyer was: “Homeless? If you need a bed, a shower, a meal, and someone to talk to, stop by Saint Benedict House.”
“Well, don’t be too mad. She was just trying to be charitable. I’ve heard good things about Saint Benedict House.”
“But, Lise, I ain’t homeless,” he said.
“No?”
“How can I be homeless when San Marco is my home?”
I smiled at him. “Good point. I guess sometimes people think someone’s homeless if they don’t have a roof over their head.”
“That’s just ludicrous.”
Elliot the Slim could be found most days within a six-block radius between the university and the historic district; students, faculty, and tourists were good to hit up for a buck here and there. I’d used him on a stakeout before, and he’d turned out to be a great asset. He had infinite patience, which was important for a stakeout. I had met him almost a year ago while trying to serve a summons on an insurance CEO. As the businessman was leaving his office building for lunch, I’d called his name and held out the envelope with the summons inside. He’d started for it, realized what it was, and snatched his hand back. He harrumphed, smiled arrogantly, and walked on without taking it.
Elliot had been sitting on the sidewalk and witnessed my failed attempt. “You want him to take that?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Here, give it to me.”
I wondered about how smart it was to let a disheveled homeless man take legal papers then shrugged and passed it to him. He folded it in half, then I crossed the street and sat at an open-air coffee shop to watch. Forty-five minutes later, the CEO returned. He passed Elliot and started into the building. Elliot stood and surreptitiously dropped the envelope on the sidewalk.
“Hey, man, you dropped something,” Elliot called and picked up the envelope.
The CEO stopped, walked back to Elliot, and took it. When the man saw what it was, he yelled at Elliot to move away from his building. The CEO checked left and right before finally seeing me as I stood from my table. Cup of coffee in hand, I attempted to mimic his smug smile as I waved. Afterward, I gave Elliot a twenty. Since then, he had delivered four more summonses for me.
I looked at Elliot. “I know what you mean about San Marco being your home, but if you ever want to get a place, you know, an apartment or something, I’d be glad to help you out.”
Elliot gave me a smile that would melt butter. “You’re good people, Lise. But I’ll pass on a place. You ever hear of agoraphobia?”
“Sure. It’s the fear of being outside.”
“I got the opposite, whatever that’s called. I can’t stand being indoors for long.”
I knelt next to him. “But you’ve gone inside a couple of times for me. Once at the library and that other time serving papers in that office building.”
“Made my skin crawl.” He shivered.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have made you go in.”
“I can take it in short bursts.”
My respect for Elliot the Slim shot up tenfold. “You’re employee of the month, Elliot.”
“Really? Wow.” He had a big smile. “Do I get a plaque?”
“You want one?”
“Not really. I got too much stuff to haul around as it is.”
“How about I get one made and keep it on the wall at my office?”
“Awesome.”
“Gotta run. Let me know if anything happens,” I said, figuring nothing would and feeling frustrated at the snail’s pace at which this case was moving.
When I got to my office, I dropped my cell phone on my desk, and a second later, the generic ringtone sounded.
I checked caller ID. “Uh-oh.”
Baker was calling. The phone trilled again. All I could think was that he had filed a complaint and wanted to gloat. The ringtone went off again, and I could only stare at the phone like it was some cursed totem. Knowing the call would go to voicemail if I waited longer, I snatched up the phone and thumbed the answer button.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my not-favorite detective.”
“Listen, Norwood, Ortega and I want to sit down with you and discuss something.”
“I thought you fired me.”
“Well, I’m hiring you again,” he said heatedly. After a beat, he said, “So? How about a get-together?”
“Damn it, Baker. Last time we spoke, you threatened my livelihood.”
His volume rose a notch. “Only because you were interfering in my investigation. You know you weren’t supposed to do that.”
“Well, maybe.”
“Look, Norwood, I didn’t file a complaint, nor do I intend to file a complaint. And let’s be honest here—you want to help us some more on this case. Right?”
I sighed. “I do.”
I met them for lunch at Son of a Beach, a popular spot for the locals. Located next to the city’s busiest beach ramp on Osprey Street off A1A, Son of a Beach was made of weathered wood planks decorated with hundreds of pieces of driftwood. We sat on the beachside deck under an umbrella, but it was still pretty hot. Baker and Ortega had removed their jackets and rolled up their sleeves. I was eating fish tacos, and the boys ordered burgers. Both foot and auto traffic to the beach was heavy, and I smiled at how Baker’s attention got drawn to a group of young women in bikinis.
As if he could read my mind, Baker said, “I should have sat on that side of the table.”
“Hard to concentrate?” I asked.
“You’d have to be dead, a priest, or gay not to notice the flesh today, and I’m not any of those.”
“Don’t drool, and we’ll be fine,” I said.
“I can’t promise a thing,” Baker said.
Wow, a non-sarcastic joke. Score one for the detective.
Ortega chuckled. “Just another day in paradise.”
“So what’d you learn about Hurst?” I asked.
Baker wiped his mouth with a napkin, took a swallow of sweet tea, and said, “He was a player in Miami, rubbed elbows with celebrities, the uber-rich, artists, and the uppity-ups in organized crime. We called the district attorney’s office and spoke to the prosecutor on his criminal case. Hurst was an out-of-control partier. Cocaine was his drug, and a party wasn’t a party without him engaging in kinky sex.”
Ortega referred to a small notebook. “That’s how twenty-one-year-old Belinda Vasquez ended up in Hurst’s bed. There’d been a drug-fueled group-grope the night before. Afterward, all the participants went to Hurst’s pool for skinny-dipping. Belinda had passed out at that point. The prosecutor wanted to add sexual assault to his drug charge, but witnesses said Belinda was a more-than-willing participant.”
I pictured the corpulent man, naked and rutting, but then quickly flushed it from my mind. Not something to dwell on at lunch. “Quite a stretch from being kinky to raping and killing.”
“Yep. Anyway, his legal costs skyrocketed. They finally settled out of court, which cost Hurst his business and most of his money. He left Miami with his tail between his legs and ended up here in San Marco.”
“So I did good?” I asked.
Baker grunted. “We’d have come across him sooner or later.”
“Uh-huh,” I uttered, like I didn’t believe him.
“The point is”—Ortega cut in before Baker could respond—“we now have a suspect where we didn’t have one before. We plan on talking to him, but before he knows the police are looking at him, we’d like to hire you as a consultant again. We want you to go in and talk to him while wearing a wire.”
Wow! A bigger role in the biggest case of my life. Initially, I wanted to reply with, “Hell yeah, I’m in,” but then again, pride dictated that I didn’t sound too eager. “Really? You want me to go in and say, ‘Hey, commit any sexually violent murders lately?’”
“No, we don’t want you to ask that,” Baker said loudly, ignoring the nearby diners who were gawking at us.
Ortega leaned in. “We want to utilize your expertise. Go in and chat with him. See if you can steer the conversation to classic sculptures, see what he says.”
“Guys with raunchy appetites tend to open up more to an attractive woman,” Baker said.
“Thanks.”
“I’m not complimenting you,” Baker said. “Use your sex, your gender, and your knowledge of art, particularly sculpture, and get this guy talking. Hell, flirt with him a little. We don’t expect to learn much but want to see if we get anything before we go in and question him officially.”
“I take it you guys will be nearby?” I asked.
“Sitting in a car right outside,” Ortega said.
“Well, I don’t know how much good I’ll do.” I turned to check out the bikini-clad body that had captured Baker’s attention. “But I’ve always wanted to wear a wire.”
We finished lunch, Ortega settled the tab, and we got into our cars. I followed them to Cadiz Street, and we parked half a block from the gallery. I got into their car, and Baker, as he put it, wired me up. His idea of a wire and mine were different. He called my cell phone, and we kept the line open, though he muted his mouthpiece. Baker would put his phone on speaker so the digital recorder he carried could record the call. It all seemed a step up from using two cans connected by string. I accused Baker of being the Barney Fife of the San Marco PD.
“Look, smartass,” Baker said, “what we’re doing isn’t exactly on the up and up. You weren’t paying attention in PI school if you don’t know that you need a warrant in Florida if you’re going to record a conversation without the other person knowing it.”
“I know that. What I didn’t know was that you didn’t have a warrant.”
Ortega said, “Takes time to get a warrant, and while we have learned some interesting things about Mr. Hurst, it’s all circumstantial, so there’s no guarantee a judge would sign off on one.”
“Besides,” Baker added, “we won’t be using what we record today in any official capacity. We want to get a feel for the guy, that’s all, see if anything interesting pops up. You got a problem with that?”
“No, because if it ever comes up, I’ll say I assumed you had a warrant.”
Granite faced, Baker stared at me via the rearview mirror and nodded. “And we won’t say a thing to dissuade that assumption.”
I got out and walked to the gallery, pausing between the kinetic sculptures. Thinking that I was about to have a one-on-one with a possible killer, I was surprisingly calm. I was, in fact, enjoying myself. I felt like a character from one of those old movies I loved so much, a tough dame like Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not. On a deeper level, the seriousness of what I was about to do struck me. This opportunity was in tune with what I wanted to do in my career—and in remembrance of my cousin.
I opened the door and stepped into the frigid air, wondering if he kept the gallery so cold because of his obesity.
“Well, hello,” I heard with the same delivery I’d heard countless times from men on the prowl at bars and nightclubs.
I rolled my eyes while my back was to him, then I turned and flashed him a beauty-pageant smile. “Well, hello, yourself.”
The big man I’d seen the previous day sat on a barstool at the cash register counter, though in front of it. He held a dwindling half of a sandwich, a Cuban, most likely. Smiling as he chewed, he placed the sandwich on a plate loaded with chips and a pickle then wiped at his lips with a napkin.
“You were in here the other day?” he asked.
“Yesterday, as a matter of fact.”
“Ah, I never forget a pretty face.”
“And I never forget a flatterer.”
He chuckled, wiped his hands, and stood. “So how may I help you?”
I decided to lay it on thick. “I was killing time yesterday before an appointment, but I found your gallery so charming that I had to come back while I had more time.”
“I’m glad you did.” He moved toward me and held out his hand. “I’m Adolph Hurst.”
“I’m Margaret Atwood,” I told him, using my favorite alias.
His eyebrows rose. “Like the writer?”
“Uh-huh. Show me around your shop.”
He held out his arm, and I took it. All business, he led me from room to room, filling me in on the artists and their histories. Several were artists from southern Florida; a couple had incredible talent. I figured he knew them back when he was a Miami dealer. The artwork in the front room averaged in the one-thousand-to-five-thousand-dollar range, steep prices for San Marco. It got even pricier in the room I hadn’t gone into on my last visit. The least expensive there was seven thousand dollars, and a large painting of Henry Flagler’s San Marco estate had a sixty-eight-thousand-dollar price tag.
“This room is a little steep for my pocketbook,” I told him.
“Understandable.” He led me to the room that held his work. “These are the more affordable pieces, under a thousand dollars.”
He worked his way around the room, giving me the background of each artist, saving his work for last.
“I saw these yesterday,” I said, indicating his paintings. “The artist has a wonderful sense of humor.” I looked closely at the one with Marge Simpson’s hairdo on Nefertiti. “Wait a minute. These are signed A. Hurst. That’s you, isn’t it?”
“Guilty.” He put his hand on his chest and cast his eyes down in false modesty.
“They’re wonderful.”
“Thank you.”
“Where’d you get the idea to combine cartoon elements with classic sculpture?”
He waved at air. “Where does anyone get any idea? Out of the ether, I suppose.”
“Does it mean anything?” I asked.
“Not really. Oh, I suppose I could try to impress you and say it’s a statement on contemporary pop culture juxtaposed upon mankind’s great achievements.”
“Well, that is impressive.”
He smiled. “Sorry to say I just came up with the idea one day and liked the finished product. But please, if the other explanation holds me in higher esteem, pretend that’s the answer.”
For a moment, I found myself charmed by the portly man, but then I remembered Angela wired to the coquina stone at De Leon Park.
“You know, I studied a little art history at San Marco University,” I said, and we wandered back to the front room.
“So, you have a keener eye than most?”
“Oh, probably not. At least not for paintings. I have a thing for classic sculpture, which is why I like your paintings.”
“Greek and Roman?” he asked.
“Yes, but not limited to. I like everything from Da Vinci to Michelangelo to more modern stuff from Edvard Eriksen and H.R. Giger.” I slipped in Edvard Eriksen’s name and watched Hurst to see if the name of the sculptor of The Little Mermaid would get a reaction. It didn’t, at least not that I recognized.
“Perhaps you have an appreciation of the three dimensionality that—” The young couple I’d seen Hurst talking with yesterday walked in and got his attention. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”
Damn, just as the ball got rolling. “Sure, take your time.”
“Ah, James, Maris, welcome back.” Hurst approached the couple. “I have your painting framed and wrapped in the back.”
Hurst left the three of us in the front room. After nodding hello to me, the couple continued on into the room with the more expensive artwork, leaving me to assume they were loaded. I moved to the counter, where Hurst’s lunch sat on the plate. He’d about finished half of his sandwich, but the other half sat untouched. The pickle, a large dill, had been sliced in half lengthwise. He’d taken one bite, leaving a perfect indentation of his bite pattern. My heartbeat picked up as I made sure I was still alone in the front room. I wrapped the pickle in his napkin and stuck it in my purse.
I went to the door he’d gone through and called, “Adolph, I have to leave. But I promise to drop in again.”
He replied from a couple of rooms back, “Please do. I’d love to discuss sculpture with you.”