The Pier, page 16
To me, Larry’s voice was slightly louder than a tornado warning siren, surely heard by everyone on the island and possibly as far away as Folly—as the crow flies. My imagination was running nearly as fast as my heartbeat.
I didn’t know what Larry’s expletives and instructions meant, but nothing about them sounded good. Charles and I moved from the safety of the balcony to the unknown of the condo.
The smell hit me before I saw anything out of the ordinary. The rancid smell of death struck my nose with a nearly physical blow. The blinds on the only window into the space were closed; I could barely see. Larry was about eight feet away, in the dining area of the open living space. He stood motionless, his arms pushed tight against the sides of his diminutive frame. Bile began rising from the pit of my stomach through my throat. I had to fight to keep from losing it. Thank God I was successful, because my next sight was of Mr. Hogan, on his back, eyes wide open, staring into oblivion; he was lying in a huge puddle of coagulated blood. It looked black in the dimly lit room. For some reason, I kept staring at the Lacoste crocodile logo on his light blue polo shirt.
“Oh, damn,” said Charles, echoing Larry’s observation. “What the hell happened?”
Charles had the wits to close the door behind him; the three of us kept looking from the lifeless form of Mike Hogan to each other, as if to say “Why me, Lord?” The silence was almost more frightening than Larry’s expletives had been.
Larry walked through each room to be sure we were alone.
Looking around the room, I saw a couple of drawers open in the antique secretary in the corner, papers strewn on the floor. I offered, “Looks like a burglary interrupted by Hogan.”
“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind last night,” said Charles, who slowly backed away from the blood pooled on the light hardwood floor.
Duh, I thought; repeating it out loud didn’t seem necessary.
“As the Good Book says,” offered Larry, as he returned to the scene of the crime, “for everything, there is a season. This is the season to get the hell out of here.”
“Bible scholar Larry’s right,” said Charles, already turning toward the front door.
“You two leave slowly and go to the car like you were on a leisurely stroll,” directed Larry. “I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
I took one last look at Hogan, the Lacoste logo, the antique secretary, and my freedom, then slowly left the condo.
Our journey on the wooden walkway through the small shopping area was as leisurely as walking barefoot on burning coals. We made it to the car, started the engine, and prayed for warm air from the heater. The smell of death was still in my nose, in my mouth, and all over my body. I hoped it was my imagination. Charles and I sat staring out the windshield; we prayed no police car pulled up beside us. We didn’t speak for the five minutes it took for Larry to return—a near-record silence for Charles.
“Let’s get off this damn island as quick as we can—driving slowly,” said Larry as he delicately closed the rear door, almost as if he were afraid the noise would resurrect a migraine.
The rapid, slow drive back to the security checkpoint didn’t take more than two minutes; it felt much longer. I could picture us being surrounded by police, sirens blaring, guns pointed at us, police helicopters overhead following our trail, and maybe even a Coast Guard gunboat waiting for us at the bridge off Kiawah.
At least that frightening fantasy got my mind off the smell of the condo that permeated the rest of me.
Much to my delight, and shock, we drove past the security checkpoint without so much as a glance, never seeing a single police car or helicopter. And the waterway separating Kiawah and the rest of South Carolina was so narrow and shallow, the Coast Guard gunboat would have been a canoe carrying someone with a bow and arrow.
What had we gotten ourselves into?
CHAPTER 31
We exited Kiawah and slowly drove into Freshfield Village, a modern retail and office complex rising out of the Low Country farmlands within minutes of the guardhouse. The relatively new resort shopping area was nearly deserted—not unusual in winter. Fortunately, several vehicles were littered about, so we weren’t overly conspicuous. Larry suggested we would draw less attention in one of the restaurants rather than sitting in the car. We went into Newton Farms, a grocery and restaurant that resembled a Disney version of a European market. The last thing we wanted to do was eat, but we went our separate directions to the various food areas and got sandwiches and drinks.
I had hoped we didn’t look it, but I felt we were more nervous than weeds at the Roundup factory.
“Any thoughts on what we should do?” asked Charles after we settled at a table far from the other diners.
“Chris, do you still have the map you got at the checkpoint?” asked Larry, who appeared cool, calm, and collected. “It should have a number for Kiawah Island Security.”
Charles grabbed the edge of our small, polished aluminum table and looked at Larry. “I don’t suppose we’re going to turn ourselves in, are we?”
“We didn’t do anything wrong—not too wrong, anyway. But I don’t think that’s the wise thing to do,” replied Larry. “I’d suggest we drive to Charleston and find a pay phone to call the security office. They can call the police.”
“Larry,” I said, as calmly as I could manage, “you’re the expert. What happened?”
“First, here’s what didn’t happen,” he said, before taking another bite of his fish sandwich. He was the only one of us eating. “I don’t think it was a burglary. Someone worked hard to make it look like he broke in the front door. The last few years, I’ve become an expert on nuts, bolts, shovels, and other hardware-store stuff. Before that, I was—and when needed, still am—an expert on locks, particularly door locks. There are several ways to unlock the one on Hogan’s condo. It wouldn’t be easy; it’s really high quality. But of all the ways to beat it, the crowbar would be the least effective.”
“So he let someone in,” said Charles, his gaze moving slowly from left to right toward the few remaining shoppers.
“Yeah. The door wasn’t the only indication of that,” said Larry. “I know you saw the drawers open, and I don’t know what was taken. I do know the bottom drawer wasn’t opened. It still has a Cartier watch sitting there, plain as day: Roadster model, eighteen-carat gold with diamonds, lists for more than twenty grand.”
“Whew!” said Charles with a slight smile. “Not something you sell in Pewter Hardware, is it?”
“Nope ... learned that in a previous life.”
“How long you think he’s been dead?” I asked.
“From the looks of things and the smell, I’d guess a couple of days—definitely longer than twenty-four hours,” said Larry.
* * * *
“Charles, give me those sissy red gloves,” said Larry as we pulled up to the side of a convenience store just north of downtown Charleston. He said he didn’t want to leave fingerprints on the phone and promised his request had nothing to do with denying Charles his fashion statements. We had driven around for the last hour, trying to find a phone booth—more accurately, a phone booth without a surveillance camera nearby. I didn’t realize how difficult a task that was in the age of cell phones. Phone booths were going the way of the American Motors’ Javelin and the dollar gallon of gas.
Larry called the security department at Kiawah—a brief call. He said he told them, “Dead body, unit 223, Oceanview Villa, hurry.”
I asked if he had been taking speech lessons from Dude, but my friends were a little too busy worrying about a stint in prison to get the humor.
I had always been happy to see the sign “Welcome to Folly Beach, the Edge of America,” but never more so than today. I also had never been more anxious to take a shower. I dropped Larry at the hardware store, then Charles at his apartment. Little was said at either stop.
I stood in the shower, trying to wash the smell of death from my body. I wondered how a peaceful retirement plan that included buying a wonderful home (or home in a wonderful location), opening a modest photo gallery, enjoying the last third (I hoped) of my life, could be overshadowed by a murder, a close acquaintance in a mental hospital, and a whole passel of stranger than strange friends counting on me to solve a crime the police say never happened.
Something seemed wrong with that picture.
CHAPTER 32
“Chris, I’m over on Kiawah,” said Tammy without preamble. “The police found the body of a white male in his midthirties. They said he’d been shot several times. That’s all they’re saying. PVA records show the condo belongs to Michael Hogan.”
The call from Tammy had not come as a surprise. I’d rehearsed my surprise and shocked reaction. She bought it ... I hoped.
“Detective Lawson caught the case,” she continued. “All she said was she’d talk to me later. I’ll let you know if I learn more. Hogan is Amelia’s son, isn’t he?”
I told her I knew she had a son named Mike living on Kiawah. All true, nothing but true—just not all the truth.
It was almost eleven before she called back. The body had indeed been Mike Hogan, son of Amelia. Detective Lawson had said it looked like a burglary gone astray. I didn’t think it was prudent to share Larry’s wisdom, so I listened as she said some valuables had been left behind, probably when the burglar had been startled by Hogan. His computer was gone, and so was his wallet and possibly cash.
I asked who’d found him. My fingers were crossed and my breathing erratic as I waited. She didn’t know, but a couple of Hogan’s co-workers had come to the scene. They told the detectives he hadn’t been to work since Tuesday, but they weren’t particularly worried. He had taken an occasional “extra few days off’ to entertain lady friends. Karen—Detective Lawson—had said that no one from his office had seemed too distraught at his demise.
“Any idea when we can get together?” I asked Tammy, the question coming from the part of my brain that hadn’t learned how to take a hint.
“No,” she replied, followed by silence—a very powerful, telling silence.
After what had happened, I was blessed with a sleep-filled night.
* * * *
Saturday, the day most working folks looked forward to, and just another day for those of us among the unemployed, began as did most others. I knew I’d have to resort to deception when the topic of Mr. Hogan’s death surfaced. On Folly, that shouldn’t take long. I bundled up and headed to the Dog; might as well hit it head-on.
“It’s good to see you so early,” said Amber. Only two tables were occupied, so she had time to linger. “The usual?”
She knew me well enough to know the answer, but had extended the courtesy of asking. I nodded as I removed my jacket and moved into my home away from home.
“Have you seen the paper yet?” she asked. She leaned close, wearing a serious look on her face; sad words were soon to follow. “Amelia Hogan’s son, Mike, was killed. They found his body yesterday.”
I was surprised she had seen the story. She arrived at work long before the papers arrived on the island. I asked how she knew.
“The food delivery truck was here before we got the first edition of the paper. Apparently, it’s big news, so the driver had to share. Don’t tell anyone,” she said. “He’s one of my best sources.”
“Of gossip, you mean?” I suggested before smiling.
“Why, Chris, you know better. If it’s a fact, it can’t be gossip. Isn’t Mike one of the heirs-to-be of the Palmer estate?”
“That’s my understanding. Did the paper say what happened?”
“Burglary, they believe. The article didn’t say much more, and neither did my delivery man. Ask your girlfriend; she wrote the story.”
Hoping to get off that topic, I asked Amber about Jason. She said her son was doing great in school. “You’d be amazed what doing some homework will accomplish,” she said.
She added, “What’s with you and Tammy? I haven’t seen her around lately. You seem a little less feisty ... almost a little sad?”
Amber was one of the most perceptive individuals I knew—frighteningly so. Fortunately, my breakfast was ready before I could answer. I didn’t have a clue what my answer would have been.
She had returned with my traditional weekend waffle, and I deflected the conversation by asking if she had heard Charles’s theory about a boat in the Palmer murder. She hadn’t heard—hadn’t seen Charles much the last week—but agreed his theory made sense.
“You know, Chris, it doesn’t matter how much sense it makes. It still doesn’t narrow the list of suspects much. We don’t have boats, and neither does Charles, but about everyone else does.”
Before she started listing everyone with a boat, our conversation was interrupted by Chief Newman, who entered, his professionally trained eyes surveying the diners. Looking for bad guys, I surmised.
“Morning, Brian,” I said. “Have time for coffee or breakfast?”
“I have a minute,” he said, and sat. Amber had seen him enter and brought him black coffee. She knew she didn’t have to ask; if he wanted food, he’d let her know.
“Any news about the murder of Mike Hogan?” I asked. “Amber just told me about it.”
“I’ve talked to Detective Lawson twice since late last night. I had to tell Mr. Hogan’s mother,” he said as he stared out the window. “Coming on the death of Julius Palmer, that was a tough assignment. Chris, I’ve done death notifications for years, going back to my career in the military; it never gets easier.”
Chief Newman had always maintained a strong professional relationship with Detective Lawson, even though she was his daughter. In fact, their true relationship hadn’t been known on Folly until last year. Folks had suspected for years that he had been having an affair with the young, attractive detective from Charleston. That had made better gossip, to be sure. More than a few people were disappointed when they learned the truth.
“Detective Lawson told me they’re treating it as a burglary,” he said as he turned his attention back to me and his coffee. “Hogan surprised the perp and lost his life for it.”
“Any possible connection between his death and that of Palmer?” I asked, knowing his response.
“Course there’s always a possibility, but I sure don’t see any. Mike Hogan was seldom over here. Oh, and don’t forget, Hogan was shot; Palmer committed suicide! You seem to keep forgetting that.”
I was able to steer the rest of the conversation to the weather. I realized when I got home that enough time had elapsed to allow me to visit Bill. Visiting hours weren’t until afternoon, so I called Bob Howard to see if he was available for lunch. I thought it would be interesting to meet him on his turf for a change.
“Chris, I’m mighty damn busy—trying to make a living, you know,” barked the “lovable” old crank. “But as a favor to an old client, I’d allow you to buy me lunch.”
I agreed to buy; he agreed to eat—a lot. We settled on a restaurant near the hospital. I’d never heard of it, but if it was Mr. Howard’s recommendation, an interesting experience was sure to be had.
Al’s Bar and Gourmet Grill was only a block off Calhoun Street, the main road to Charleston from Folly, and three blocks from the hospital. Calling it a hole in the wall would have elevated its status far beyond what it deserved. It was located in a concrete-block building it shared with a Laundromat. At some point in ancient history, the building had been white. The lower half of the restaurant’s large plate-glass window had been painted black to provide privacy for the diners. The neon sign wasn’t on at that time of day; I bet it wouldn’t be on after dark either.
I saw Bob’s car on the street just past the building. It wasn’t hard to spot; the purple color was the first hint, and the retracted convertible top was just a bonus clue. After all, it must have been a sweltering fifty degrees.
I entered and stood in the doorway for a few seconds to allow my eyes to adjust to the lighting—more accurately, the lack of lighting. The illuminated ambience was provided primarily by a Budweiser and a Budweiser Light neon sign behind the bar. The unapologetic country sounds of George Jones telling someone he stopped loving her today sweetened the air. The luncheon crowd consisted of Bob, seated in the only booth, two elderly black gentlemen, at one of six tables, a bartender, and me.
I had complete confidence the “Al’s Bar” part of the name was accurate. The “Gourmet Grill,” I suspected, was considerably less literal. I told my taste buds I’d withhold judgment until I partook of these supposedly gourmet delights. After all, Bob wouldn’t be here if Al didn’t have good pies, and maybe food.
“That’s the best damn country song ever written. The Possum sure knows how to wring every tear out of a note,” said Bob—not the normal welcome, but I’d never said Bob was normal. He had a Bud in his left hand and a French fry in his right as he leaned heavily against the torn, black vinyl booth back.
Truth be known, I agreed with Bob about the song. One of the few things Tammy and I shared was a love for country music, particularly classic country.
Bob seemed slightly disappointed that I knew what he was talking about. I had finally learned that most of his repartee was to keep people off guard, so he could stay in control.
“So, Bob, other than a large portion of possum, what would you recommend at this fine dining establishment?” I slid into the booth opposite the disheveled, lounging Realtor.
“Cheeseburger. Not only would I recommend it, it’s required. Everything else tastes like shit. Don’t even think about any of that vege-fuckin’-tarian stuff or rabbit-food lettuce crap. Better order the cheeseburger well done—that botulism stuff isn’t out of the question either. French fries are good too; these are the big fat ones, not those skinny-ass faux fries the fast-food restaurants push off on you.”
