Key Death (A Nicholas Colt Thriller Book 4) Read online

  “I want to know who killed my father,” Wanda said. “And I want to know about him. About his life. About what kind of man he was.”

  I took a sip of coffee. It was lukewarm and bitter. I got up and added half a shot of Old Fitzgerald from my jug in the pantry. I sat back down at the table.

  “Are you there?” Wanda asked.

  “I’m here.”

  “I want to know who killed my father,” she repeated.

  “That could be tough. Maybe even impossible. If it was a drug deal—”

  “I want to know, and I’m willing to pay you whatever it takes to find out.”

  “Me?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “You want me to go down to Key West and investigate your father’s murder?”

  “Yes.”

  I took a drink of my spiked coffee. Key West was an eight-hour drive from the nice little three-bedroom house Juliet and I bought soon after we got married. A murder investigation could take months, and I didn’t want to be separated from my wife for that long. Things had been good between us for a while, and I didn’t want to rock the boat.

  Then again, we had a mortgage and a car payment and a kid in college, and it had been weeks since I’d made any money. The job Wanda Taylor was offering down in the Keys would be a good opportunity for me to contribute to our finances.

  “I’ll have to think about it,” I said.

  “When will you know?”

  “I’ll call you tonight. Just out of curiosity, why is it so important for you to find out who killed your father?”

  There was a long pause, and then she said, “I’m dying, Mr. Colt. The doctors tell me I only have a few more weeks to live. Finding my biological parents was something I felt I had to do. Part of my bucket list, you know? And now that I know my father was murdered, I want to see that justice is served. Whoever was responsible for me not getting to meet my dad needs to pay.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I had no idea.”

  “So you’ll call me tonight?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ll call you tonight.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The cook falls to the floor. His legs twitch a few times, and then he lies still. Rex pries his skull open, reaches in, and scoops out the delicate brain tissue. It is pink and slimy and Rex slings it on the grill and it steams and sizzles and all the other zombies grunt in approval.

  “Brains!” Rex says.

  “Brains!” the other zombies repeat.

  “We need more brains!” Rex says.

  “More brains! More brains!”

  The door to the diner opens, and in walks a fat man wearing khakis and mirrored sunglasses and a silver star.

  “Hey, Charlie,” the fat sheriff says. He takes his sunglasses off. “Wait a minute. You’re not Charlie.”

  “I’m Rex,” Rex says. “Charlie don’t work here anymore.”

  “Now wait just a goddamn minute. Where’s Charlie?”

  “Like I said, Charlie don’t work here anymore.”

  Rex turns and flips the cook’s brain with a spatula. The other zombies are sitting on stools at the counter, looking toward the obese lawman.

  The sheriff rests his hand on the butt of his service revolver. “You boys own those bikes out there?”

  The zombies grunt, nod.

  “We ain’t got no use for no motorcycle gangs around here,” the sheriff says.

  The zombies nod. They rise from their stools, as though they are going to comply with the sheriff’s request to leave town. But you just know they aren’t. You just know they are going to surround the fat redneck sheriff and rip him to pieces, and of course that’s exactly what they do.

  Juliet got home from work a little after eight. I was sitting on the back deck nursing a bottle of Samuel Adams Boston Lager, watching the temperature gauge on the gas barbecue creep toward the red zone.

  Juliet stuck her head through the door and said, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I said. “Grab a beer and come on out.”

  “I think I better grab a quick shower first.”

  “OK. See you in a few.”

  I watched her walk away through the glass. I’d married a beautiful woman. Even in hospital scrubs, she was a beautiful woman. Something stirred inside me every time I looked at her. Half American, half Filipino. Five-three, long black hair, olive complexion. She had a movie-star smile, and eyes like an autumn afternoon. It almost made me feel guilty sometimes, how lucky I was to have her.

  I drained the last of my Sam Adams. I’d started to get up and go for another when my cell phone trilled. It was Brittney.

  “Hey, Daddy,” she said.

  “Hey. I thought you were going to that thing tonight.”

  A few days ago Brittney had told me the author Carl Hiaasen was going to be in Gainesville for a reading and book signing at one of the auditoriums on campus.

  “I’m here,” she said. “He just hasn’t shown up yet. What are you doing?”

  “Fixing to burn some meat,” I said. “Listen, I wanted to let you know I’m going to be leaving town for a while.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Down to the Keys. Maybe for a few weeks.”

  “The Keys? I want to go!”

  “You have school,” I said. “Plus, I’m going on business. I’m going by myself.”

  “Mom’s not going with you?”

  “No. I haven’t even told her yet.”

  Brittney sighed. “You know what happened that one time you went out of town on business. You almost got yourself killed. You came back with a crippled hand and addicted to heroin. And then there was that horror show up in the Okefenokee. Let’s not forget about that. So what kind of business—”

  “A woman hired me to find her father,” I said. “She was adopted at birth, and she has a terminal illness, and she wants to meet her biological parents before she dies.”

  “Oh,” Brittney said.

  I spared her the detail that the woman’s father had been murdered, probably by drug dealers. I didn’t want to worry her. She had been through a lot before Juliet and I adopted her. She had been living with her sister, and had run away from home. That’s where I came into the picture. Her sister hired me to find her. Brittney was with a pimp when I tracked her down, and from there it only got worse. I ended up saving her life, and then she ended up saving mine. She still suffered from recurrent nightmares about our ordeal with a religious cult called Chain of Light. She was making progress in her counseling sessions, but I frequently had to remind myself that she was still somewhat fragile emotionally.

  “So what time is Carl Hiaasen supposed to be there?” I asked.

  “Eight-thirty. Any minute. What about that serial killer down in Key West, Dad? Have you heard about that? Oh my god, that is so freaky.”

  “I’ve heard about it,” I said. “But don’t worry, I’ll try to steer clear of any serial killers. Anyway, The Zombie is only interested in people with brains.”

  She laughed. “You’re so goofy. Well, some guy on the stage just told everyone to turn their cell phones off, so I guess I better go.”

  “Talk to you soon, sweetheart. Love you.”

  “Love you too, Daddy. Bye.”

  I got up and walked inside and pulled another longneck out of the refrigerator. I lowered two thick slabs of raw beef onto a plate, grabbed a set of tongs, and went back outside. I set the plate and the tongs on the little table I keep by the grill. A few minutes later, Juliet joined me.

  “Are you going to cook that meat, or just look at it?” she said.

  “Just look at it for now. Isn’t it pretty?”

  “I thought I heard you talking to someone.”

  “It was Brittney. She was at Carl Hiaasen’s book signing and they told everyone to turn their phones off, so she had to go. I was telling her about the job I’m going on.”

  “Job?”

  I told Juliet the whole story, including the part about Phineas T. Carter being a drug smug
gler.

  “You’re not going down there,” she said. “No way. It sounds too dangerous.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I said.

  “No amount of money is worth risking your life for, Nicholas. I want you here with me. I want to be with you for many more years to come.”

  “I will be here with you for many more years to come. But I’ve just been feeling so useless lately. I sit around here and drink beer and watch TV and eat pork rinds. Did you know I’ve gained ten pounds in the last six months? I feel like a bum. A big fat bum. I can’t play the guitar anymore because of my hand, and I can’t get much work as a PI because of my license. What am I supposed to do? I’ve been offered the opportunity to make a big chunk of change, Jules. How can I say no?”

  “I make enough. You don’t have to work.”

  She looked at me, and I could tell by the expression on her face that she knew she’d said the wrong thing. She knew there was more to it than the money. Everyone needs a sense of purpose. Without that, you might as well shrivel up and die.

  “I do have to work,” I said. I left it at that.

  “All right, then. If you’re going, then I’m going with you.”

  “Sure,” I said. “You can just quit your job. That’ll make a lot of sense.”

  “I won’t have to quit. I have a lot of personal leave time built up. And honestly, I could use a vacation.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do know. So it’s settled. I’m going.”

  “What about The Zombie?” I asked.

  She took a sip of her beer. “I am not scared of The Zombie. I eat zombies for breakfast.”

  I laughed, leaned over, and kissed her on the lips. “It’s not really going to be a fun trip. I’ll have to spend most of my time working.”

  “That’s OK. At least we’ll be together part of the time. And I’ll be able to make sure you don’t get into any trouble.”

  “You’re something else,” I said. “Will you marry me?”

  She got up and used the tongs to lower the steaks onto the grill. “I’ll think about it,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”

  And then I thought about it. I couldn’t let her come with me to Key West. There was no way.

  “Look, I really do appreciate the gesture, Jules, and I would love to have you with me, but the truth is I might be dealing with some pretty unsavory characters down there. As much as I would relish your company, I’m just not going to lead you into harm’s way like that.”

  She sat down beside me. The air was thick with smoky meat and disappointment.

  “And I was starting to get excited thinking about a vacation,” she said.

  “I’ll take you on vacation when I get back,” I said. “Anywhere you want to go.”

  “Really? Anywhere? You promise?”

  “I promise,” I said.

  She kissed me, and then kissed me some more, and before we knew it the steaks had burned to ashes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Wanda Taylor showed her mother the photograph I sent of Phineas Carter, and her mother confirmed that he was the right guy. Her mother remembered some of the tattoos. Wanda gave me ten thousand dollars to get started, and she agreed on a hundred an hour plus expenses for the duration. I felt like I’d won the lottery. I didn’t know where Wanda’s wealth came from, and I didn’t ask. She was still tagging along with Lonnie on the Fogerty tour, having fun up in New York. She said they had some dates lined up in Europe after that. I wondered how long it would be before she became too sick to carry on. Maybe she didn’t even plan on doing the hospital thing. Maybe she planned on having as good a time as possible and just riding it out till the end. I didn’t ask about that, either.

  At some point during our discussion, it occurred to Wanda that I might be tempted to sit on the beach and drink margaritas and collect hundreds of dollars a day until she died. Not that she didn’t trust me, she said. I understood her concern. As in any profession, there are unscrupulous private investigators out there, some who would screw their own mothers out of their own inheritances. I told Wanda I would take the ten grand up front, and not a penny more until I had logged at least a hundred hours—about two weeks’ worth of work—and had faxed her the detailed reports on all those hours. If I found out who killed her father sooner than that, I would refund the difference. Ditto if we agreed it was futile to keep searching. If she passed away before any of that happened, which was one of her biggest concerns, the remainder of the money would go to her estate or to the charity of her choice.

  Which put me on a deadline, so to speak.

  I loaded my 1996 GMC Jimmy and headed to Key West on a Sunday. On the way to the interstate, I stopped by my camper on Lake Barkley to pick up a .38-caliber revolver I call Little Bill. I’ve had it for a long time. It’s the one I like to carry when I’m working. Juliet doesn’t like guns in the house, so I keep most of my firearms locked in the Airstream. All but one. There’s a .357 Magnum strapped to the bottom of our bed frame, and years ago I had made sure Juliet knew how to use it. It had saved me one time from a man named Derek Wahl, who had tried to stab me with a butcher knife.

  It was early November, and hurricane season was winding down, so I wasn’t too worried about the weather. I’d booked a room at a hotel in town, a place I’d stayed before. I went ahead and reserved it for a week. I figured I would be there at least that long. I made sure they put me on the second floor, facing the parking lot. The rooms facing the pool made me feel boxed in, and I liked being able to look out the window and watch the traffic go by.

  By the time I got there and got everything settled, it was going on seven o’clock. I walked down to the lounge, bellied up to the bar, ordered an Old Fitz on the rocks. The bartender brought it and I swirled the ice with a swizzle stick and took a long satisfying pull.

  There was a guy sitting on a stool on the little stage in the corner, singing and playing acoustic guitar. His name was Wesley West. I’d seen it on the sign by the hallway leading to the lounge. He was wearing dark glasses and a beret. He wasn’t very good. I probably could have outplayed him on the guitar, even with my gimpy hand. I walked over and stuffed a ten in his tip jar anyway. I knew how hard it was to make a living as a musician.

  I ordered another drink and took it to a table and opened up my netbook. I Googled the address where Phineas T. Carter had been murdered, and found the real-estate company that had handled the rental agreement. Red Parrot Realty. The agent’s name was Darcy Clermont.

  I called her, got voice mail, and left a message. Ten minutes later, she called me back. I knew she would. Real-estate agents always do. Most of them have to hustle 24/7 to scratch out a living. They always call you back.

  “My name is Nicholas Colt,” I said. “I’m interested in a rental property you were handling awhile back.”

  I told her the address.

  “That’s actually a condominium,” she said. “The owner had been subleasing it, but she’s living there herself now. That one’s not available, but I have plenty of places I could show you. Places even nicer than that one for about the same price.”

  “I was wondering if I could get some information from you about the former tenant,” I said. “Phineas T. Carter.”

  “That was his name, but of course any information I have about him would be confidential.”

  “Was he living there with someone?” I asked.

  “I really can’t—”

  “I know he was murdered, and I know it happened at that address. I just need to find out if he had a roommate. A girlfriend or a boyfriend or just a friend who was staying with him. I’m not going to try to sell them anything. I just want to talk.”

  “Are you a cop?” Darcy Clermont asked. “I’ve already talked to about a hundred of them.”

  “Private,” I said. “Mr. Carter’s daughter hired me to investigate his murder. She has a terminal illness, so I’m hoping to get the information she wants before…you know.”

  When you tell s
omeone your client’s dying, it makes them feel bad. Sometimes it makes them feel bad enough to give you the information you want. It puts them on the spot. After all, what kind of human being would withhold a harmless little piece of information from a woman on her deathbed? I’ve been known to tell people my clients are dying when they’re really not. Technically, it’s not even a lie. We’re all on the way out, one way or another. It’s only a matter of time.

  Darcy Clermont was silent for a few beats, and then said, “Well, I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but I’ve already told the police and they’ve already cleared her as a suspect, so I don’t see what harm it could do. Mr. Carter was indeed living there with someone. A woman.”

  “What’s her name?” I asked.

  “Hold on. Let me see if I can pull the lease up.”

  I waited. The cocktail waitress asked me if I wanted another drink, and I did. She brought it. I took a sip. The guy onstage was trying to sing Jimmy Buffett’s “Lovely Cruise.” He was butchering it.

  Darcy Clermont came back on. “Here it is. She actually cosigned the rental agreement. Her name is Pamela Wade.”

  “Do you have a forwarding address for her?” I asked. “Or a phone number?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t. But that’s her name. I remember she was very nice.”

  “What about the woman who owns the condominium?” I asked.

  “What about her?”

  “Can you give me her name and number?”

  She hesitated. “Well, I guess it’s no big secret, since you already know the address.”

  She gave me the name and number.

  “Thanks so much for your time,” I said. “If I’m ever in the market for some property down here, I will certainly give you a call.”

  I finished my drink and paid my tab, walked back up to my room, and ordered a pizza.

  There was nobody by the name of Pamela Wade in the Key West white pages, but there was one in Fort Lauderdale. I ran her name and phone number through one of the online databases I use, saw that she was about the same age as Phineas Carter. It was a long shot, but I figured what the hell. I dialed the number.