Corcoran came awake at the first sound. Someone knocking on the door. A quick scan of the room - nothing remarkable. He picked his pants up off the bedpost, started putting them on.
“Be there in a minute.”
Knock, knock, knock.
“HANG ON - I'M COMING.”
Pant's on, he crossed the floor. A quick look through the peephole: middle-aged guy in a cheap suit. Friendly looking but, no way around it, a working cop. Corcoran unlocked the door, opened it wide.
“Come in” he said, heading toward the kitchen. “Coffee?”
The man stepped through the door, scanned the room, turned and shut the door.
“No thanks but I wouldn't mind a glass of water.”
“Ice?”
“If it's not too much trouble. A big glass. Please?”
“Come in the kitchen and have a seat.”
The man came in, looked around, stuck a hand out towards Corcoran.
“Jim Davis, Detective, Sarasota Police.”
Corcoran took his hand.
“Corky.”
Davis sat down at the table. Corcoran put a big glass of iced water in front of him, took a cup of coffee out of the microwave and sat down across from him.
“What brings you to Tampa, Detective?”
“Call me Jim.”
“Jim.”
“You seem to have had a little adventure down in Parrish a little while back. Let's just call it a misunderstanding.”
Corcoran didn't bat an eye. “Okay” he said.
“Wasn't the first misunderstanding you've ever had best I can tell, but it might be the first one where you and I crossed paths.”
“Oh?”
“Yep.”
Davis paused, took a deep drink of water and went on.
“Best I can see, that was also the first time you and Vernon Waters crossed paths. And the first time he ever had his arm broken.” He paused again, leaned back and sort of settled in.
The silence held. Davis sat quietly. Corcoran did the same. This detective, he thought, was no simple man. Nor was he one with whom to toy.
About a minute and Corcoran picked up his spoon. He stirred the coffee around a little bit, got up, put it back in the microwave and reheated it for a few seconds.
“So Jim, how do you and I cross paths? You work for Sarasota. Parrish is thirty miles north of you. And it's a whole nuther county.”
“Well, see, Vernon lived in Sarasota. And about a week ago somebody paid him a visit right there at his home. Late at night. It seems they may have helped him make some phone calls. And it seems that they were you”
“Me?”
“Yep. You. And it seems he woke up dead the next morning.”
“WHOA. Whoa. Wait a minute here. He's dead?”
“Dead as a hammer.”
“Dead how?”
“A double-barreled twelve-gauge with double-ought buck, square in the chest from two feet away. Blew his innards all to pieces, out his back and all over the kitchen.”
“Ow.”
“And, on top of that, the bastard reloaded, went back out on the porch and tried to shoot the dog.”
“No.”
“Yep. Old dog was too smart for him though. Looks like he took off and got under the neighbor's house. Only way we knew he'd been shot at was the buckshot tore up his bowl and the sand where he liked to stay out under a tree. One of those oleanders. The bad guy probably shot to kill him without realizing he was gone. The tracks look like the fellow just went nuts when he couldn't find the dog. He searched all over the place. Even crawled under the house. Dog was just too smart. Or maybe he just had a sixth-sense.”
“Good old dog. You get to meet him?”
“Oh yeah. Cocker Spaniel. Old, almost gray, near 'bout blind. Poor old tail just about plumb naked. Very polite.”
“What you reckon will happen to him?”
“No tellin'. I'll load him up and bring him to you if you like?”
“Hmmm… You know, you probably wouldn't say that if you figured on sending me up to Raiford on a murder charge?”
“Naah. You didn't kill him. I thought you might have but now I can see that’s not the case… Besides, the folks I talked to said that you might kill the man but you wouldn't kill the dog, even if he was chewing your leg off. You want me to load him up and bring him?”
“Man, I don't need no dog. Specially no wore out old dog. Specially no wore out old blind dog.”
Davis didn’t answer.
“So how’d you know I was there?”
“Old lady across the street. Spends her life in a wheelchair. Sees everything. Writes it all down. Including your tag number and a pretty good description. She also got a white Cadillac but couldn’t get the number. It came in after you and left ahead of you. Unfortunately you two were too much excitement for one night -- she went to bed right after you left.”
Keys in the door. The knob turned, the door swung inward. Barbara in the doorway, a bunch of plastic grocery bags hanging from her left arm and hand, more of the same on the floor to her right. She reached down and grabbed them by their tops, stepped inside, looked toward the kitchen, saw Corky and his guest.
“Ohh.”
She sat the bags down on the floor, took the keys out of the lock, shut the door, turned to the kitchen, smiled. “Hi. I'm Barbara.” She came towards them, right hand offered to the stranger.
“Jim Davis, Detective, Sarasota Police.” He reached out, took her hand, gave it a firm but gentle shake. “You're beautiful.”
“Well thank you. But I'll bet you say that to all the girls.”
He laughed. “No Ma'am, I don't.”
Corcoran had already begun to collect the bags of groceries. He started sorting through the stuff - looking for things that needed refrigeration.
“Hey, come out of that. I'll get it.”
She shoved him aside, pointed towards his chair.
“You too Jim. Sit back down. Don't let me interfere with whatever you guys are up to. This won't take a minute and then I'll go in the bedroom and leave y'all alone.” She deftly distributed the groceries to their appointed places.
“Is that your old dog out in the car in front?”
Corcoran turned and stared at the detective. Davis kind of hung his head.
“Well, actually Ma'am, I kind of thought he might be yours and Corky’s.”
“What's his name?”
“I don't rightly know, ma’am.”
“I think it's Sam. I'll go give him a treat and some water. He's blind isn't he?”
“Yes ma'am.”
Corcoran stared at Davis, then at Barbara. Davis. Barbara. Almost there but not quite able to catch up.
“Hey.”
“Hush. I'm going to take care of your dog. You guys just go on with what you were doing.” She went out the door, some bologna and a bowl of water in her hands.
“Well.”
“Sorry. The folks I talked to said to bring him. Said you’d take him. I was kind of easing my way towards telling you.”
“Hmmm.”
“Listen, your girl has got the dog thing taken care of. You and I have got to talk.”
“Okay. You know I was there. And you've already said you don't think I did it. So where do we go from here? How can I help - other than the dog?”
“Well, here's the deal. I've been doing this detecting thing for almost thirty years. I know what that business in the bar was all about. And I know what the visit to the house was all about. And I know you didn't kill him. But…”
“But?”
“Well, like I said, I've been at this for a while - but my bosses haven't. A bunch of kids. More about political correctness, less about solving cases. As far as they're concerned, you're the guy and, if I wasn't entirely senile, I'd already have you in a cell in Sarasota. The truth though is that I don't need you in a cell, I need you here. I need you on the street.”
Corcoran waited.
“Waters lived in Sarasota. But, so far as I can tell, he had no ties there whatsoever. He spent his time right here in Tampa. He did his banking in Tampa. His mailing address was a post office box in Tampa. What work he did, he did right here. Looks like the only thing he did in Sarasota was to sleep and feed the dog -- and the dog thing appears to have been more of a habit than any kind of commitment. I can't find one neighbor that knew the man. No doctors, lawyers or accountants. No drug stores. Not even a dry cleaner. Couple of restaurants but none of them knew anything about him and none of them ever saw anybody with him. Whatever it is, it's here. But the case is there and I'm the guy they're looking to for a solution.”
Corky had listened closely. “Jim, it just don't make no sense. It's sixty miles from here to there. I mean Bobby knew the guy had business in Tampa and lived in Sarasota. But neither of us had a clue it was anything like you describe: no connection at all. That just don't make no sense.”
“You're right. It doesn't make a lot of sense.”
“And, if you're convinced I'm not your guy, what's it got to do with me?”
“Very simple. Not what you want to hear, but simple nonetheless. I know how to detect but I don't know Tampa like you do. You're a bail runner, you know how to find folks and bring them in, but I don't know how good you are at what I do: detecting. I have to clear this thing up; that's my job. You're the prime suspect; you need it cleared up or your life is going to get very very complicated… and expensive. You see where this is headed?”
“Oh yes. What you're sayin’, it's you and me -- whether I like it or not?”
“There you go.”
“I say no and I wind up paying for some lawyer's girlfriend's house?”
“You're gettin' there.”
Barbara came back through the door, snagged her purse. “Sam and I are going to the vet to get checked out. Love you.” She kissed him on the head.
“Nice meeting you Detective Jim Davis from Sarasota: an honest man with excellent tastes.”
Davis sat and stared at the place she'd been.
Corcoran watched Davis. He grinned. “I understand. No problem. She does that to people.”
Davis noted Corcoran's eyes. Empty when he'd first come in. Sparkling now. A different man. He thought about young Barbara's smile.
“Let's go get a sandwich. The City of Sarasota's buying.”
~ ~ ~ ~
They rode in Davis' car, Corcoran steering him to the Spanish Park Restaurant at the western edge of Ybor City. Shouts of welcome rang out as they came through the door. “Senor Corky.” Their host took them to the back, a table where they could be seen but not heard. A bustle of laughing talking waiters brought sweating ice-cold glasses of water and a basket of hot Cuban bread, crispy crust, soft as an angel's breath inside, straight from the next door bakery. Corcoran introduced Davis to their host as “Mi amigo.”
No question of ordering. The chef appeared with a cook and a helper carrying a vat of Sopa de' Garbanzo, sitting it on a plant stand next to the table. He ladled out a huge bowl for each of them, said “Enjoy” and shooed the help back into the kitchen.
Davis was impressed.
“These folks must really owe you something.”
“No. No. It's just that Barbara and I come here fairly often. It's not about me. They pretty much tolerate me 'cause she lets me hang out with her.”
“Cool. I understand. Hang on a second.”
Davis bowed his head, mumbled quietly for a minute. Corcoran couldn't hear exactly what he said but recognized it as a prayer. He heard him say “In Jesus' name, amen.”
Davis took a taste of the soup. That ended the conversation for a while. They ate the beans and ham and onion and chorizo, sopping the remaining broth with the bread.
As they finished their second bowls their host brought café con leche and a couple of panatelas. A cigar girl cut off the ends and lit the cigars, puffing gently to establish an even ash.
Both men sat back in their chairs. Corcoran loosened his belt. Davis did the same.
“So who starts?' Corcoran asked.
“You probably know more than I do. Why don't you start out?”
“Okay. Way I got involved was Bobby Reams told me the guy owed him some money. Didn't say how much. The deal here was that a bookie, Max. A real nice and honorable guy, a big contributor to charity and to down-and-out individuals, much-loved in the community, just up and died of a massive heart attack. Happened that he died at a bad time for his family – they had no access to any cash and were in a bind.
“They came to Bobby, showed him the books and asked if he might be willing to help out. Well, Bobby took the first significant entry, paid them cash for it, no discount, the full amount; this wasn’t business, it was helping some good folks out of a bind.
“He contacts the recently departed, tells him the situation and the guy tells him to get lost, he ain’t going to pay.
“Well, that’s where I come in.
“You know what I am. I’m a ‘Runner.’ That’s Florida’s version of a bounty hunter. Catch is that Florida doesn’t allow bounty hunters. If that’s what you want to do, you have to sign up as an employee of a bondsman. And you can only work for one bondsman. I work for Bobby. He keeps me pretty busy and I make a good living. What I do is on the up-and-up. One of Bobby’s people skips, I go get them.
“This case was not a part of that. This was personal. Bobby helped somebody and asked me if I would mind helping him. That’s the whole thing in a nutshell. This thing is not on Bobby, it’s on me. Period.
“Bobby tells me this guy works in Tampa and lives in Sarasota. He gives me the addresses. He suggests that maybe it would be best to have our talk somewhere outside of Hillsborough County. He gives me a rundown on the guy's habits and interests. That's how I knew he had that boat. And that's how I knew he had a habit of stopping at that bar in Parrish. Quiet little place, just locals, nobody looking for trouble. That's probably why he stopped there and it's also why I picked the place. Shouldn't nobody interfere and shouldn't nobody know me from Adam's housecat.
“Okay, you know what happened. You know how it happened. You had probably already figured out what it was all about. I talked to him, gave him a week, told him don't make me come back. Figured it was over. Obviously I was wrong. And also seems obvious I was wrong about nobody knowing me. That's got to be how you come to know about it.”
Davis broke in, “The bartender. He skipped on a bond several years back. You brought him in. He got his face tore up later in a wreck. They fixed it but it left him looking different. That's probably why you didn't recognize him. But he recognized you. He also recognized the scam once it all started.
“It was just dumb-luck. I was canvassing, touching every base I could find. Parrish is about halfway between the guy's office and his house. I just stopped in on the off chance. Paydirt. A story and a name.”
Corcoran shook his head. “What are the odds?” He took a breath, collected his thoughts.
“Well, let's go on. A week went by, actually two. Bobby calls me. Tells me the guy hasn't come through. Tells me how much. I do a little checking. The guy's got a house but it would take a while to sell it and the whole thing could fall apart. Same thing with his car and it ain't worth all that much no-ways. He's got a bunch of other stuff but the main thing is that boat. Keeps it in Tampa there at Ballast Point. Worth at least one-fifty. Probably more. You got connections you can find somebody's got the cash and willing to deal right now for a quick return like that. Pay twenty-five tonight, turn it over for a hundred tomorrow. Hey? I'd do that.
“So I go to the house. Check it out. Come back after dark. I'm sure you got it figured out. We talk. I offer him a chance to make some calls. He gets a guy - sounds like somebody he's been involved with, like they'd been into something wouldn't do for me to know about. They talk like they're dealin' over the boat but they're not - it's about something else. I don't know what. Remember, I’m just getting one side of the conversation. Sounded to me like there might be a stash somewhere made twenty-five look like peanuts -- but our boy couldn't touch it for a while. Kinda sounded like he might be suggesting he’d have to get amongst that stash and that seemed to turn the whole thing 'round. The guy agreed to do it.
“Anyway, the guy drives down with the cash. I'm figuring it was a loan with a major payback. No paperwork. No bill of sale. Don't matter to me long as I get Bobby's money.
“Guy leaves. White Cadillac. Looked fairly new. Only name I got was Marco. We weren't introduced, but he did make it his business to look me over pretty good. I'd bet by now he knows at least as much about me as you do.
“Anyway, he's maybe five-six, maybe two-fifty, maybe forty-five years old. Dark complexion. Pockmarks. Still got his hair. Salt and pepper. I watched Vernon punch the numbers in the phone but I can't tell you now just what they were.
“That's it. The whole thing. Bobby gave me ten-percent and that's the last I thought of it till you showed up.”
Corcoran leaned back. Took a sip of water. Picked up his cup and signaled the waiter. Two fresh cups appeared at once, new spoons, new napkins, the old ones whisked away as though they never had existed.
“Accent?”
“Ohio. Indiana. He wanted a cold-drink, he'd ask for a soda or a pop.”
“How about Marco?”
“Jersey mob.”
“Vernon's general carriage?”
“Ordinary guy. Maybe a little rough stuff in the background. Not up to nuthin’ heavy.”
“Marco?”
“Connected. Matter-of-fact-cocky. Over-confidant.”
“Dress?'
“Vernon, ordinary. Marco expensive, open collar, gold.”
“Buddies?”
“Associates.”
“Where's Marco from?”
“Took about an hour and a half for him to get there. Tampa? Somewhere within that range.”
“Tattoos? Scars? Abnormalities?”
“Nothing.”
Davis summed it up. “Okay. So what we got is a forty-five year old guy, five-six, two-fifty, dark complexion, pockmarks, salt and pepper, expensive cloths, flashy, drives a new white Cadillac, Jersey accent, maybe mob connected or a wanna-be, reachable by phone within about a sixty-mile radius of Sarasota, keeps twenty-five large in cash somewhere where he can get it quick?”
“That's him.”
“Did he do the crime?”
“Hey, our boy has gone along for more than forty years without getting shot dead in his living room. Marco lets him hold twenty-five and he's dead before the sun comes up? He maybe didn't do it. I don't know. But, if it wasn't him, at least he knows who and why. Right?”
“You got it. So that's our next step? Marco?”
“Marco.”
“Back in a minute.” Davis pushed his chair back, rose, looked around, headed for the restroom.
When Davis got back Corcoran took his place. Davis didn't sit down. He looked around. Emilio, the host, appeared as though from out of nowhere. “Senor?”
Davis handed him a credit card.
“Gracias Senor.” Emilio was gone as fast as he had come.
Corcoran and Emilio arrived back at the table simultaneously. Emilio handed Davis the check and card. Davis leaned over, put the check on the table, wrote the tip on it and signed. He handed it to Emilio.
“Gracias Senor. Muchas Gracias. Please come back Senor. And, Senor Corky, you must come back too, and bring the lovely Senorita. We are not whole without her.”
“Neither am I Emilio. Neither am I. I'll bring her back in just a day or two.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Back to the car. And back to the apartment. They pulled up to the curb and parked. Davis stayed under the wheel, left the motor running.
“So,” said Corcoran, “you've got my side of it. What do you have that I left out?”
“Well, Vernon was a realtor. Had an office on Kennedy. About a block from Dale Mabry. Specialized in commercial leasing. Mom and Pop stuff. You want to open some kind of small shop, Vernon's the man to see. You want an office in an older building, he's the man. Been at it for six years. And doing fairly well. If he didn't have the upkeep on that boat he'd be doing better. That and football. He had to bet. Not enough to get in trouble but enough to keep him close to home. He'd get a dollar ahead, he had to bet it on a football game.”
Corcoran interrupted, “Who covered his action? Not Max, not on the football. Max didn’t do football. Maybe Marco?”
“No. A guy by the name of Johnny Two Toes. Don't ask - you'll be happier if you don't know. Could be some connection to Marco but it didn't jump out at me. Of course I didn't even know to look for a Marco when I was putting this together. If Marco is mobbed up it's likely that they knew each other, maybe did some kind of business together.
“I followed our boy Vernon back to before he came here, found out he really did come from Ohio. You were right about the accent. He was born there. Just outside of Dayton.
“One odd thing: he had a good business going there, and then, one day, he just packed up and left. Folks there remember him but they had no idea where he went or why.
“Came down here seven years ago. Took a year looking around the state and getting situated. Got a real estate license, started right off the bat in the commercial leasing line. And bought the house in Sarasota. We don't know why. Nobody seems to know why. There's got to be some reason but we, none of us, don't have a clue.
“Personal habits? Hey, outside of an occasional weekend on the boat with a lady, the stops in Parrish were about the only thing that wasn't work. And that was just a way to relax on the way home; he never talked to anyone, never brought anyone in, never took anyone out. And the ladies? Well, looks like the boat and the football weren't the only things that took his cash. No connections. One weekend. Maybe two. That's it. Different one most every time. Good lookers. Pros. Another possible link to Marco. These were high-class girls.
“Relatives? Parents dead. Natural causes. No siblings. An aunt in Kentucky but she hadn't seen him since before he left Ohio. Some cousins around the country. No contact for years and years. Friends? He had some but he dropped them when he moved. Kind of odd 'cause some of them had thought that they were close and then one day he's gone. Just gone.
“No will that we've been able to find. And nobody asking about him. For now we've got him in a cooler down in Sarasota. Nothing remarkable about the autopsy. Just what it looked like. Shotgun. No drugs, no medical problems. Nothing unusual except the way he died.
“I guess that's it. There's probably more but I just can't think of it right now. That food got to me. More of it than I'm used to in the middle of the day. And richer than I'm used to too. But good? Oh man.
“Guess I'd better head back to Sarasota for now. I'll try to do some more digging from down there. How about you seeing what you can come up with as far as Marco is concerned. The odds are he's from Tampa. Don't you think?”
“Oh yeah. He's from here all right. I'm on it. Ought to have him pretty much pinned down by this time tomorrow. Leave me a card, I'll call you.”
Davis handed him a business card. “If nobody’s there just leave a message on the machine - it will beep me as soon as you hang up. I'll find you.”
Corcoran got out of the car, started to go towards the door. Thought of something else. Leaned down to the window. “What about the dog? Where did he come from? And why would a guy like this even have a dog? Especially an old worn out dog? What about the dog?”
Davis slapped his forehead with his palm. “The dog. I knew there was something wasn't right. Knew it. Just couldn't put my finger on it. Trust me, by this time tomorrow I'll know what there is to know about your buddy, Sam.”
“Okay. Have a good one. Talk to you tomorrow. I'll take care of Marco; you take care of Sam.” Corcoran straightened up. Davis pulled out, headed down the street. Corcoran headed to the door.
Brake lights. Davis started backing up. Corcoran stopped, stooped down to the window again.
“The phone? I checked. No calls went out that night.”
“Oh. Sorry. I forgot. He had a perfectly good phone but he used a cell phone. I'll bet it was one of those pre-paid deals where there wouldn't be a record. You didn't find it at the house?”
“No. No cell phone. Hmmm.”
“Yeah. The killer took it with him.”
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