Death of the Marked Read online



  DEATH

  of the

  MARKED

  by

  Karl Tutt

  Copyright Karl Tutt 2013

  All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Thanks to Carolyn and Rosalee, my patient readers, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and talents.

  Chapter 1

  The laughter was raucous, full bodied and bold. Buffett’s Roundtable had convened at the Green Parrot. We blended in beautifully with the rest of the reprobates in Key West. People of all shapes, sizes and colors simply looking for a good time, an escape from the debris that cluttered their daily lives. They were locals and tourists, some burned by the sun and others ghostly from the hollows they’d created in their lives.

  It was our own collection of the usual suspects, a few miscellaneous dock rats, Captain Sal, the queen of the charter boat business in Key West; Whipsaw, the godfather of blues in Key West; his mysterious lady companion, Miss Julianne, the woman who saw what others didn’t; Louis Moulet, the bartender at the Raw Bar, on a rare night off; and a welcome addition. Tracy, young and beautiful, was the new owner of The Strip Search, a haven for sex addicts and the weird ones who got off on hard porn and adult toys. Some of those devices looked downright painful, but maybe satisfying, especially if you were into S&M, bondage or just old fashioned deviant behavior. Fritz was MIA, but I figured he was locked onto a computer screen, sucking down Marlboros and Diet Coke and trying to show some new client how he could make a few extra bucks from the suckers he’d assembled.

  Sunny, my lady and my friend, sat next to me waiting for her shift to begin at six. Her hand caressed my neck and she whispered into my ear periodically. She’d been working for Jack, the owner of the Parrot, for a couple of years now. Jack loved her because she sold buckets of beer and generally kept the male patrons focused on her ass instead of a loud argument or scary fistfight.

  I sat watching and listening like a burned out English professor should. I laughed at the right times, talked when I needed to, and shut up when it was time to hear something earthshattering. I still missed Chris. He was my friend and he had been violated. He didn’t commit the murder of the child, even though he’d been arrested and charged. Nevertheless, he’d been branded and embarrassed and now he was gone. I just hoped he was okay.

  “All right, Perfessor, I’m gonna hoist this cold mug to our newest inductee, Miss Tracy, and to all of the other lovely lasses at this table. And I’m gonna rock dis’ house with Sonny Boy Williamson’s ‘One Way Out’ in the Manish Boy way dat’ de master rightfully intended. Here’s to Miss Tracy and the beauties of The Green Parrot.”

  It was Whip at his finest, tan fedora cocked over one eye, arm outstretched, tilting the golden liquid to all of the ladies in the house. He took a mighty gulp and slammed his mug on the table. Then he mounted the stage, tipped a nod to his backup band, the Wreckers. He snapped his finger three times and the blues began to wail. “Ain’t but one way out . . .” The crowd began to sway immediately and one hip couple made for the dance floor.

  “Í don’t think Whip has lost a step,” Sunny said to me and Miss Julianne.

  “The boy’s blood runs 101 proof Wild Turkey and his bones are packed with the Delta’s muddy water all the way to the marrow,” Miss Julianne replied.

  The other members of the Roundtable were knocking knees and slapping the table as he continued. “Cause there’s a man out there. Might be your man, I don’t know.” Tracy was grinning like she hadn’t since the death of her Uncle Malachi. She had taken it hard, but the young rebound, or at least they seem to. She grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the floor. At fifty-two I was no match for a twenty-five year old body that seemed to have no joints. I just faked it and laughed like a fool. Sunny began to slap her hands together and the rest of the table joined her. As we left the floor, I saw Fritz out of the corner of my eye. He was in a hurry. Something was wrong. Fritz wouldn’t do hurry if the bar was on fire.

  He grabbed a chair and twisted it around next to me. He lit a Marlboro and leaned his head toward my ear. “Gotta talk to you quick. Angel is gone.” It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that line. Angelica was Fritz’s daughter. I knew her mother, Alisse, briefly at Lake Norman, the huge Carolina lake where I’d learned to sail. She wasn’t a beauty, but there was an alluring energy just beneath the surface and the subtle hint of demons. I never understood how she and Fritz hooked up. He was quiet, even reserved, and radiated strength and competency. She bounced around like a teen starlet, a cup of gin and anything glued to her hand. Posing, batting her long lashes, and kidding everyone on the dock. Especially the men. Maybe opposites do attract, but not for long. Angelica was their only child. I never got the whole story, but apparently motherhood just didn’t suit Alisse. She left Fritz with a three-year-old girl to raise. The rumor was that she bolted with a musician she’d met on one of her infamous “girls nights out”. No one ever heard from her again, including Angelica. Birthdays, Christmas, her first date. No female guidance or woman’s intuition. The child grew and each of us adopted her in our own way, but there was a hole that none of us could fill.

  At twenty-two, there was no kind of trouble she hadn’t been in. Prostitution, dope, burglary, you name it. Angel had seen the inside of every jail cell between Charlotte and Key West. But Fritz loved her. He’d paid for rehab, bail, and a few “less than legal” fees to try to get her straight. So far, none of it had worked.

  I knew her as a child. Deep brown bangs, eyes to match, and the body of a full grown woman by the time she was twelve. I remember her standing on the dock at Wrightsville Beach wailing like a banshee because her chocolate had melted. Fritz spoke quietly to her, grasped her in his bear-like arms and produced more candy from a frayed pocket. Still she screamed and fought. For years I thought she’d just grow out it all. She hadn’t.

  Chapter 2

  I think it all came to me when she arrived at the dock one evening. She was probably seventeen at the time. She hugged me. She always did.

  “Guess what, Uncle T.?” I smiled and shook my head.

  “Look at this,” she said proudly. She rolled up the sleeve of her t-shirt.

  It was an angel. The wings were exquisite, lacy and delicate, floating gracefully behind a thin, willowy form. The body was covered by a wispy gown floating behind an imagined breeze. But it was the face that riveted your eyes. A death’s head, lipless teeth and fleshless eye sockets grinning like the devil’s own minion. Something cold crawled up the back of my neck. I stared for a moment, hoping it wasn’t some sort of prophecy. Not too long after that, she went to jail the first time. Possession of crack cocaine. She was still a minor and got off with probation. Fritz wrote it off to normal teen experimentation. He wasn’t worried. At least, that’s what he told me.

  The next few years were a series of run-ins with the cops. Mostly small stuff, but the momentum was building. She began to disappear for days at a time. Fritz would get frantic. Then she’d call. “Just a couple of hundred to tide her over, maybe some bail money.�
� She’d ask for two; he’d send three. I guess he thought that over time he could love it away. It didn’t happen.

  I was at Fritz’s condo when she brought the guy home. She came in the door, a little too much makeup and skirt a bit too short, but she looked young and fresh. He was a step behind her. He smiled at me and Fritz as he walked in.

  “Dad, this is Angelo. I met him at that party at Lisa’s. We’ve been seeing each other a lot and I told him you just had to meet him. And guess what? We have the same nickname.” She was almost giddy.

  Angelo was maybe six feet, bulky, but lean, 195 or so. A lifter, I suspected. He wore a beautifully tailored silk sports jacket over a black t-shirt and khakis. I thought I recognized the Cardin cut. Alligator shoes with a tassel on his feet. No socks. His hair was almost black, immaculately coiffed away from his forehead. His skin had an olive sheen to it, aquiline nose and a tight mouth with a hint of rose in the lips. But it was the eyes that caught me. There was a glint, but it didn’t warm his face. Something steely and dead crept out of them. It was hard to tell, but I guessed him to be much older that Angel, maybe late twenties.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Monroe. Angel has talked about you incessantly.” His voice was quiet and respectful, but there was no depth to it. It was almost as if he was hiding a healthy dose of contempt for squares. In his eyes, we’d invented the term.

  “I understand you’re a sailor. I am what you sailors call a stink potter, got a little Grady White with a small cabin on it. Only 34 feet, but it suits my needs. And you, sir?” He turned in my direction.

  “This is one of dad’s oldest friends and mine, too,” she said and patted my arm. “Dr. T.K. Fleming. He’s a lit professor over at the university.” Angelo thrust his hand forward and smiled.

  He certainly didn’t look like any of the teenage boys Angel had brought home before. They were scruffy, broke, rude and obviously oversexed. It was hard to talk to them and dismiss the idea their primary goal was to get in her pants. This one was very different, older, refined, polite, and the appearance of money. I glanced out the window. A white Mercedes convertible was parked in the driveway behind Fritz’s old Focus wagon. It looked new. He either had the money, or the credit to get a nice lease.

  “So, you are a student?” Fritz asked.

  She smiled and he laughed quietly. “No sir. I have a little business. Imports and transportation. It’s amazing what you can persuade these South Americans to create. Bric-a-bracs, carvings, small statues, all kinds of home accessories that can be bought for a song and sold for a symphony. I do quite well. But, Mr. Monroe, I understand you’re into computers.”

  That was all it took for Fritz. He launched into his standard dissertation on the marvels of the information age, the doors it opened, the opportunities it offered, the golden age it was ushering in. I had heard the speech a hundred times, but it was still fun to see him work himself into a frenzy over that thing he loved. It reminded me I could use a bit more enthusiasm for something myself.

  It all went very smoothly, but it just didn’t feel right. Sunny always says when it seems too good to be true, it probably is. This situation definitely qualified. Angel was a budding beauty with a body that Beyonce would envy. But despite the trouble she’d been in, she was still just a big child. He was suave, good looking, seemed to be the proverbial man of the world. He could get a bevy of willing ladies at his doorstep if he preferred. What would he want with a naïve, inexperienced, girl?

  “Gentlemen, you must excuse me. I have several appointments. Calls to make. Perhaps you can all join me for dinner some evening.” He put his arm around Angel’s waist and gave her a discreet peck on the cheek. Fritz saw him to the door. I heard the Mercedes rev up and watched him back out of the driveway.

  “Can you believe it, Daddy? Isn’t he just a dream? I mean the way he looks, the way he dresses, and that car! And you know what? He treats me like a lady, not like those stupid high school boys that want to take you to MacDonald’s and borrow the money to pay for it. Then a nice little drive down to the beach so they can paw you and beg you to do stuff you know you shouldn’t do. Too cool. And it’s me he likes. We have the same nickname and even the same tattoo.”

  “You mean the angel?” Fritz stuttered. She nodded. “Okay, he seems like a nice fellow, but isn’t he too old for you?”

  “Come on, Dad. He’s only thirty-two, and so sorry, but I’m just not a little girl anymore.”

  She was and she was proving it. Fritz didn’t see him again and he told me he wasn’t disappointed. Still we both heard his name often and though she didn’t talk much about it, I think he was taking her to some expensive places.

  Chapter 3

  Fritz had retired. He sold his condo in Charlotte and moved his old Grampian 30, NO DECISIONS to the South Carolina coast. He trucked it to a marina near Beaufort. We lost touch.

  I continued to live the life of a respectable professor of English Lit, but hell was at my door. I just didn’t know it. After my involvement in a Martin’s death and the mysterious disappearance of the murderess, I was definitely persona non grata. People at the college turned the other way when they saw me come across campus. I was no longer invited to the Chancellor’s cocktail parties. When the publicity wouldn’t go away, the college decided I needed to. They plied me with a generous early retirement package. It was an out. I was ready for it.

  Mostly on the strength of the academic work I’d published, I was offered a position at the state university near Wrightsville Beach. I moved KAMALA, my O’Day 31 to Seapath, a beautiful marina a few minutes from the inlet and the blue Atlantic Ocean. But again, the dirt caught up with me. I should never have written about it, but I had to have some closure. Had to at least try to make some sense out of the madness. DEATH OF THE SPIRIT was a best seller. The royalties were generous, but I was out of a job again. I was asked politely, but demonstratively, to resign. I didn’t have much choice. It was time to go away quietly. I paid for the slip, provisioned the boat, checked the systems, and headed south.

  I hadn’t seen Fritz in five years until we ran into each other at Salty Mike’s, a favorite watering hole on the docks in Charleston. After the usual catching up, I asked him about Angel. He just shook his head and said nothing. We sailed together after that, him on NO DECISIONS and me on KAMALA, sometimes in the ICW and offshore when the weather gods blessed us. Finally we ran out of land. We stopped at Land’s End in Key West, just to provision and relax for a few days. That was two years ago.

  Sunny had taken her shift. I waved at the boys and girls that made up the Roundtable. Fritz followed me. “My boat or yours?” I said. We decided on KAMALA. We settled into the cockpit and I went below to retrieve an old ashtray I kept on board especially for Fritz. He thanked me and fired up one in an endless series of Marlboros. I grabbed an Ice House from the fridge and popped a Diet Coke for him.

  “I think it’s serious this time, T.K. She’s been down here almost six months. Has a good job, seems to be straight most of the time. Looks good. You’ve seen her. Nice little apartment and a cute roommate, Brandy. They had me over for dinner a couple of times. The place was clean. I couldn’t see any signs of trouble. Thought maybe the worst was over. Then, all of sudden, she’s gone. Nobody’s seen her. Brandy doesn’t know. No phone calls, no texts, no nothing. It’s been a week now. T.K. I’m worried. I thought the last rehab had taken. But you know the history.”

  I did. To be honest, I figured she was on the crack again and maybe on the run. But I didn’t say that to Fritz.

  “Fritz, have you called the cops? Maybe you need to file a report or something.”

  “That’s the thing. You got buddies over there, Detective Beamon. He likes you. You helped him solve the murder of Alexis. I don’t want Angel busted again. I can help her. I know I can, but I got to find her first. I need you, T.K. You’re the Ghostcatcher.”

  “Jesus, Fritz. Please, not that crap again.”

  “Okay, sorry.
But I got to have you on my side. No telling what she might be into. She’s not perfect, but my blood runs in her veins. She’s my baby. I can help her,” he said again.

  Maybe he could, but like he said, I know the history. Fritz was as good a friend as I had, especially since Chris had disappeared. I promised to call Frank, but I told him we’d probably have to file a Missing Persons Report. He nodded and lit another cigarette. Frank Beamon was the clever and cagey detective on the Key West Police Force. He missed out on a pro basketball career by one false step at Florida State. Four knee surgeries later he was at the academy and trying to figure out how to get by on the salary of a rookie cop. We’d become friends working on the murder of Alexis. Locals called him the bulldog. Once he picked up the scent, he wouldn’t let go until his teeth locked into the bone. He was the best man I knew to supply Fritz with a serious investigation if one was needed.

  The next morning Sunny showed up before her ritual swim. She stepped on board wearing a pair of shorts that were cut to the crotch and a top that displayed every sweet inch of the health and vigor that radiated from her body. Her skin was as creamy and brown as a premium latte and it rippled subtly whispering vitality and maturity. She kissed me on the cheek and sat. “Coffee,” she growled. She frowned, but listened as I told her about the conversation with Fritz.

  “Oh my God, T.K. Not again. Believe me, I like the kid. Got a few skeletons in my own closet, but this tape is on endless replay. No telling where she is or who she’s with. And that includes jail. And I can’t believe he pulled that damned Ghostcatcher card on you.”

  “I know, Sunny. But what the hell can I do? I called Frank earlier. We’re going to meet him at the station at eleven. Fritz is an old and trusted friend. We’ve cruised together. He’s been there when I needed him. Now it’s my turn. You can’t blame him for loving his daughter.”

  “I didn’t tell you this before, because I know you are her Uncle T. That job Fritz was talking about. Yeah, she was doing okay, but it’s what she was doing. I heard some of the regulars at the Parrot talking and drooling all over themselves. They’d been to the Velvet Glove.”