Tom McInnes - Dog Island Part 5

"Yeah, it is."

"Do you think it means anything?"

"I have no idea."

Four uneventful days pa.s.sed. I made some calls, practiced a little law, and learned that See Sh.o.r.e Cottage was owned by ProAm Holdings Corp. Apparently, the same company owned a number of beach properties scattered along the Panhandle, in addition to substantial real estate investments in one of the agricultural regions located in the north-central part of the state. Also, finally, on Tuesday morning I spoke with Billie Timmons at Dolphin Rentals about the painting duo of Tim and Sonny. She refused to "divulge information" about the property, but did offer to let me rent the place for a nice vacation with my wife and children. I told her I didn't have anyone who fit into those particular categories but that I knew a private cop with an ex-stripper girlfriend who might be interested, and she thanked me for calling.

On Wednesday, I received a fax of two clippings from the weekly Appalachicola Times. One described an attempted burglary on St. George Island that Sheriff Todd Wilson said had resulted in no harm to anyone and no theft of property. (No need to scare the tourists.) He did mention that a window had been broken. The second clipping was a short notice placed by the management of the Pelican's Roost restaurant. It requested help in locating a missing employee named Carli Monroe.

Scribbled on the bottom of the fax was a note from Joey.

Tom, I had a little trouble the first night here. Tied up with a couple of locals in a bar parking lot. Have their ID, etc. Will be in Mobile late this afternoon. Meet me at L.B.'s place around 4:00. We need to discuss my progress and this stuff from the local paper.

Joey A few minutes before four, I turned down Loutie Blue's historic, tree-lined street and parked next to the curb. Joey's Expedition was in the driveway.

chapter eight.

Shipping merchants settled along Monterey Street in the late 1700s, building rambling clapboard houses with impossibly high ceilings and wavy gla.s.s in their tall windows. Like most historic districts, the place went to seed in the fifties and sixties when prosperous World War II veterans were making everything newer and, they thought, better; and, like some of the lucky places that dodged new lives as parking lots or turnpikes, the neighborhood around Monterey Street started a gradual comeback in the seventies. Joey once told me that Loutie bought her place about ten years ago for eighty grand. Now she could sell it for four times that.

The house was built when friends actually walked to see each other. So, instead of a modern-America concrete strip curving from the driveway to the front steps, a wide herringbone-pattern brick walk started on the shaded sidewalk and led visitors through twin rows of impatiens and up the steps to a covered porch.

I b.u.mped a bra.s.s knocker against the door. Loutie appeared and led me back to the kitchen. It was a replay of my last visit to that room. Loutie leaned against her counter, and Susan and Joey sat at the table. No coffee this time. They were all sipping Abita wheat beer. At least Susan and Loutie were sipping theirs; Joey was taking his in mouthfuls.

I asked, "Is there some reason Carli's not here?"

"She's just outside. My flowers are the only thing she's shown any interest in since she got here. So I put her to work this afternoon planting bulbs I've had in the refrigerator. Unless there's something she shouldn't hear, I can call her in."

I said, "Nothing from me. Joey?"

He shook his head and took in a swallow of Abita. Loutie stepped into the mudroom and called out for Carli. We heard Carli say, "Just a minute."

I asked, "How's she doing?"

Susan said, "I'm not sure. She seems fine on the surface."

"She's a long way from fine," Loutie said. "She just doesn't show it.""

I asked, "How can you tell?" But, before the conversation could go any further, a screen door slammed, and Carli walked into the kitchen. She was barefoot and wearing the same blue jean cutoffs I had seen before. This time, though, her shirt was one of those flimsy tank-top undershirts that everybody's grandfather wore. And it was soaked through, concealing nothing, clinging like a second skin, and plainly displaying an exceptional pair of gravity-defying teenage b.r.e.a.s.t.s with tan, erect nipples. She looked sweaty from yard work, but the shirt seemed a little wetter than the rest of her.

While Joey and I sat there looking and trying not to look at our young client's knockers, Loutie said, "Carli, go put on a decent shirt."

Carli said, "I'm fine," and started to pull out a chair at the table.

Loutie caught Carli's eye and gave her what was, for me anyway, a sphincter-tightening look. When Loutie spoke again, her voice was an octave lower. She said, "Do it."

Carli dropped her eyes to the floor and walked quickly out of the room.

I said, "What's wrong with her? That's the second time she's pulled something like that. And it's not like she's just your basic high school tease driving the boys crazy. To her, Joey and I have got to look like a couple of old men."

Joey looked up and said, "Speak for yourself."

While we were talking, Loutie had moved to the doorway to make sure Carli wasn't within earshot. She turned toward us and said, "It's probably more p.r.o.nounced because you're older. I think some older man taught her early, probably in ways you can't imagine, that her only value to men is s.e.xual. She's been abused, and she's scared. And she's acting out when you're around because she wants your help and probably your approval."

Susan said, "I knew she was afraid of her father, but that's all. Did she tell you about this?"

"No, I've just been watching her. That child has been s.e.xually abused by someone. Probably her father from what you're saying." Loutie turned to me. "Tom, I think it also explains why Carli insisted on reporting the murder on St. George to begin with. If Carli's father was the abuser, he's already killed that child inside a hundred times over. Carli didn't want to walk away from this murder the way her mother or her family or friends walked away from her abuse without helping."

I said, "How can you be so sure? The way you explain it, it seems to make sense. But people are screwed up for a lot of different reasons."

Joey piped in. "This isn't a deposition, Tom. Just take her word for it." He sounded angry.

I was taken aback. "What's wrong with you?"

Loutie put a hand on Joey's shoulder and squeezed to quiet him. She said, "Joey knows my history."

I thought for a second and said, "Oh."

Loutie said, "You know I used to strip. I'm not ashamed of it. It's how I got this house, in a roundabout way. And it set me up so I can work with Joey to make ends meet, and I don't have to go to some office every day and blow the boss to keep my job."

Joey interrupted to tell her she didn't owe anybody any excuses.

She said, not unkindly, "Hush Joey. I'm not making excuses. I'm explaining how I know something." Loutie faced me again. "A therapist told me once that ninety percent of exotic dancers have been s.e.xually abused, and, from the girls I knew in the business, that seems low.

"I grew up mostly in foster homes. Some of them were okay. Some were bad, and some were awful. At thirteen, I looked eighteen, the way Carli looks twenty at fifteen. Anyway..." Loutie turned away to look out the window as she continued. "I was thirteen when I started having problems with a forty-year-old a.s.shole who was suppose to be taking care of me. No one believed me, and no one helped. And I ended up probably more screwed up, for a few years, than Carli is now."

Loutie's eyes looked soft and tired when she turned away from the window to face us. She took a long pull from her beer.

I said, "Sorry."

"There's nothing for you to be sorry about. You didn't do anything wrong. Neither did I, and neither did Carli. The only difference between me and Carli is that she doesn't understand that yet." Her voice sounded husky. She took another long swallow of beer and cleared her throat. Then we watched as Loutie pushed more hurt than most people ever deal with back down where it had been for twenty years. In the s.p.a.ce of a few seconds, her eyes turned as hard and cool as gla.s.s, and, through pure force of will, she became the old Loutie Blue again. The level of self-control we had witnessed was amazing and sad and a little frightening.

We were quiet until Carli came back into the room wearing a washed face and her Florida State football jersey.

Carli looked at Loutie and said, "You happy?"

"Thrilled," Loutie said and turned to look at me. "Who's got something to report?"

I pointed a finger at Joey. "He's done all the work, but before he gets started, I want to talk about this fax Joey sent me this morning." I reached inside a leather folder, pulled out the fax, and put it in front of Carli. "This is a problem. The newspaper story about the break-in is pretty weak and doesn't present any problems on its own. The problem is that it appeared in today's paper. And the notice that you are missing was in the same edition. Now Carli, I may be giving these people too much credit, but it wouldn't be impossible for someone to connect the timing of your disappearance with the break-in at Susan's house. Particularly, if they ask around a little and find out you and Susan are friends." Loutie put a c.o.ke in front of Carli. She ignored it. Her lips had turned pale. I went on. "This is not something to freak out over. It's a stretch to think they'll put this together. Even if they did, no one outside this room knows you're here with Loutie. You are completely safe, Carli. But, I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't tell you about this and tell you that we can no longer a.s.sume that no one has figured out that you were the witness on the beach." I turned to look at Susan. "That's the long shota"that somebody has put all this together and decided the witness was Carli. The reality, the thing we know, is that they found your name in my appointment book, and three men came to your house with guns.

"I know none of this is a news flash. But I want you to go on taking it seriously. Stay here, stay out of sight, and, for goodness sake, don't call anybody. And that goes for you too, Carli. With caller ID and star-sixty-nine, calling somebody these days is like announcing your address."

I tried to sound more confident than I felt. "Joey and I will get you through this, but we can't do it if we're having to worry every minute of the day about whether you're safe." Carli's lips had returned to their natural color, and she was sipping her c.o.ke. Good. "Carli. We're working for you. Do you have any questions?"

Carli drank some more c.o.ke and studied the table in front of her. She said, "What happened at the house the other night? You know, when you and Susan went back to talk with the cops, and me and Joey waited for you by the road. What did you tell them?"

"First Carli, let me explain something I should have told you already. Everything we're talking about here is privileged. That means you don't ever have to tell anyone on earth about anything we say here, and I'll never tell anyone any of this. I would go to jail before I would tell anyone anything you tell me as your attorney.

"Do you understand all this?"

She nodded her head.

I said, "Carli, please look at me and answer me out loud. This is important. I don't want to hear later that you weren't really sure what I was talking about. Do you understand everything I've told you?"

She said, "I understand what you said, but..."

"But what, Carli?"

"That stuff about going to jail to protect me. Is that true? Would you really do that?"

I smiled. "Don't worry, n.o.body's going to throw me in jail for doing my job. But yes Carli, if it came to it, I would definitely go to jail to protect you and what you tell me."

Our fifteen-year-old exhibitionist client actually blushed. She said, "What about the other night at Susan's beach house? You still haven't answered my question about that."

"I'm getting to that. I wanted you to understand privilege before I got into it with you.

"After Susan and I left you and Joey on the beach, we talked about how to handle the sheriff. I told her to tell the truth about everything except you and Joey being at the house that night. Normally, I would never lie to the police." Joey cleared his throat. I ignored him. "But the sheriff and his people were just treating it as an attempted burglary anyway, so I didn't see any reason to argue with them.

"When we got back to the house, the sheriff and two deputies were there. We explained who we were, and Susan asked to go upstairs to take an aspirin. No one had been up there yet, so Susan quickly made up your and Joey's beds and came back down.

"The only sticky part was explaining about multiple gunshots that had been reported to the sheriff's office. But, with gla.s.s blown all over the living room, it wasn't hard to convince the sheriff that the intruders shot up the house for fun."

Joey said, "And that wouldn't be unusual. Teenagers who break into a house are usually drunk or stoned and spend more time trashing the place than looking for stuff to steal. And Sheriff Wilson would know that. Also, while I was down there this week, a couple of people I talked to said something about 'all the trouble we've been having with these young guys,' or something close to that. I'm guessing that the break-in at Susan's wasn't the first local crime glossed over so they wouldn't upset the tourists."

I asked Carli, "Is that it? Do you have any other questions about anything?" Carli shook her head. I looked at Joey.

Joey reached down, lifted a brown paper shopping bag off the floor, and dumped its contents on the kitchen table. Most of it looked like stuff you'd find on someone's dresser: keys, cash and change, one billfold, and three Churchill-sized cigars. A couple of less routine items rounded out the collection: a switchblade with a yellow handle and a half-smoked joint.

He looked at me. "You see my note on the fax about getting jumped by a couple of locals the first night down there?" I nodded. "Well, this is what they had on 'em.

"The first night there, I'm driving around, getting the feel of the place, and stopping in any bars I come up on to have a drink and ask a few questions. Around eleven, I stop in a place called the Shrimp Boat, buy a gla.s.s of whatever's on tap, and tell the bartender I'm looking into the break-in the night before on St. George Island." Joey stopped to drain his beer. "Somebody my size doesn't get told to f.u.c.k off as much as your normal, run-of-the-mill loudmouth. But this bartendera"who must have weighed about a hundred forty soaking weta"gave me that instruction. So, I take a couple more sips of lukewarm beer and move on, figuring, you know, that the Shrimp Boat had future possibilities.

"Outside, I get in the car and, two hundred yards down the road, I know somebody's following me. I keep going. Looking for somewhere with lights and people. Over across the bridge, I see a place called Mother's Milk."

Susan laughed and said, "That's impressive, Joey. Between the Shrimp Boat and Mother's Milk, you managed to hit the two sleaziest places in Franklin County, Florida, in one night."

Joey smiled and said, "Thank you. I didn't think I was gonna find three killers at the yacht club or at one of those yuppie restaurants they got stuffed into the storefronts there. d.a.m.nedest thing I ever saw. Places that used to be diners and feed stores, they got filled with pasta restaurants, cappuccino shops, s.h.i.t like that.

"Anyway, getting back to my story, I pull into the parking lot of Mother's Milk, figuring whoever's tailing me will probably hang back and maybe follow me if I go inside. But I park, and these two a.s.sholes in a red pickup pull in behind me and block me in. To make a long story short, they ask me why I'm asking questions about the burglary. I decline to provide information, and they come after me with that little yellow knife there and a baseball bat. I took the bat and tapped them with the small end."

I said, "Tapped them, huh?"

"Yeah, I tapped 'em. It ain't what you saw on the Rodney King tape, but it's the way cops are supposed to use a nightstick. You don't wail on somebody with one, unless you want 'em dead. You just pop 'em on the knees and shins and shoulders and maybe across the nose. Hurts like h.e.l.l." Joey stood and retrieved another Abita from the refrigerator. He leaned against the counter next to Loutie and twisted off the cap. "They were a couple of tough boys. Prison tattoos and one of 'em with three or four teeth missing from other fights. They weren't talking.

"I thought about calling the sheriff, but any cop would have just thrown us all in jail for brawling outside a bar. So, I emptied their pockets, went through the truck, got the tag number, that kinda stuff. Before I left, I popped the hood and yanked a few wires off the distributor so they'd stay put."

"What have you found out from the things you took out of their pockets?" I asked him.

Joey told us that the only one with IDa"Thomas Bobby Hayc.o.c.ka"also owned the truck. Mr. Hayc.o.c.k had a record going back twenty years and featuring drug dealing, battery, and attempted murder. Hayc.o.c.k's friend had no ID and wouldn't talk, but he had a dagger tattoo on his left forearm with R.I.P. over it and the initials R.E.T. under it. The two had almost seven hundred dollars between them, not to mention a bat, a knife, a joint, and three cigars.

Susan picked up one of the huge cigars, looked at the label, and rolled it between her fingers. She said, "Mr. Hayc.o.c.k has pretty good taste for someone with prison tattoos. This is a Cuban, handmade Cohiba. Legally, you can't get them in this country. But every now and then Bird used to get a few from his gallery in New Orleans. The gallery owner picked them up in Canada when he was up there schmoozing some wildlife artist. These things cost about thirty-five, forty dollars each even up there."

I said, "Where'd some Franklin County hard-a.s.s come up with three forty-dollar, imported, contraband Cuban cigars?"

Joey said, "Interesting, ain't it?"

I nodded. "Yes, it is. You had this Hayc.o.c.k's name and tag, his criminal record, and some kind of address. What happened when you checked out his address? He wasn't there, was he?"

"You think you're smart, don't you?"

I just looked at him. It was a rhetorical question.

"No. He wasn't there, and he didn't come home for two more days. I found a comfortable place in the brush nearby, and caught up on my reading. He showed up Sunday night at his little house, stayed inside until just before daybreak, and came out with a stuffed sports bag and a half-full, brown grocery bag like this one." Joey held up the bag he had used to hold his attackers' possessions. "I followed him down the coast to a marina in Carrabelle. He waited around there until seven and got on the ferry to Dog Island."

"How close is that to St. George?" I asked.

Susan said, "It's just northeast of St. George. Less than a mile. It's about half as big, and it doesn't have a causeway. You've got to either take the ferry or take a plane. They've got a little landing strip in the middle of the island. Or, of course, you could always go by boat if the chop's not too bad and you watch out for oyster beds.

"It's a lot less developed than St. George, too, because it's harder to get to. The last couple of years, though, a few people with big money have started building some major houses out there. Still, for the most part, it's pretty undeveloped. There's just one small motel and mostly a lot of old-fashioned, wooden beach houses."

"And our friend Tommy Bobby Hayc.o.c.k is in one of 'em." Joey added, "This ferry he got on ain't exactly the Staten Island Ferry. It's a little p.i.s.sant boat, where everybody sees everybody else. So I waited for the next one and went over. Like Susan says, there's not much on Dog Island, so I was able to find him pretty quick.

"Last night, I tailed Hayc.o.c.k when he went out on a little adventure. And, Tom, if you got a few days to kill, I think I can show you where those Cuban cigars come from."

chapter nine.

Seasons never change smoothly along the coast.

By Thursday morning, winter had stuttered forward again into March and dropped the temperature on the Panhandle from high seventies to low fifties. A steady rain fell from gray cloud cover, drenching the morning in melancholy tones.

I reached over and clicked off the high beams as a scattering of weekend houses began to transition into boat shops and real estate offices. Joey directed me through downtown Carrabelle, over a curving bridge, and into a marina that looked like a transplant from Buzzard's Bay in Ma.s.sachusetts. Row upon row of oversized yachts lined a maze of concrete docks, and, everywhere, gray-haired couples roamed about, sipping coffee and talking boats.

We were expected at the marina office, and, after dropping ten twenties on the counter, my Jeep got the one vehicle slot on the seven-o'clock ferry. Back out in the morning drizzle, I drove around a bunker and down a concrete incline to the ferry. One of the less promising delegates from Generation X stood on deck and waved us forward. I rolled onto the boat and stopped next to a guy with three gold hoops piercing one eyebrow and a large blue dot tattooed across the bridge of his nose.

Joey said, "You don't see that every day."

I smiled and poured some coffee from a steel thermos into a plastic cup. And we waited. The FSU station out of Tallaha.s.see was rerunning a segment from "Car Talk." Joey and I listened to middle-age guys in New England act silly until the ferry left the dock and moved toward the mouth of the harbor; then Joey reached over and turned off the radio. Enough was enough.