= Three Palms
  by Anthony Vincent Rain


I had been driving north on A1A for two hours. The stretch of beach to my right flashed into view from behind car dealerships, thickets of palms and the occasional boat slip. At the stoplight, I looked over and saw surfboards with tanned riders come flying over the tops of the waves.
  
I had the urge to leave my car right there on the blacktop and borrow one of those boards. Let the water and the sun and salt wash away the frustration of the past few days.

I had been working a bail jumping case. Gary DePalma was a one-time loser up on grand larceny charges. He had evaded his bondsman in New York, got into his Firebird and pointed the car south. 

I was sent to round him up. Tell him he was a bad boy, slap a pair of cuffs on him and bring him back to Gotham.

But DePalma was smart. He had taken his passport with him. He snaked his way through the Carolinas and on into Florida. Once in the land of the gator and the manatee, he headed straight to Miami International Airport and hopped a plane to Colombia. 

I had missed him by a half-hour. End of story.

I called my client, Harry Mack, DePalma's bondsman, and gave him the update. I would have liked to continue on after DePalma. Have my secretary FedEx my passport to me, put my car in long-term parking, buy a Spanish phrasebook in the airport bookstore. What the heck. I had never been to South America. And I was pissed. 

Mack made sucking sounds over the phone, puffing on a cigar, thinking.

"I'll even throw in my frequent flyer miles, Mack." It was getting personal for me now. I'd come all this way for what? Bupkes. 

"No, no plane trips. Head home," he said and hung up. Mack was a man of few words.

So I'd turned the car around. I'd decided to take A1A for a stretch to catch the scenery, which is how I'd ended up at this stoplight watching the teenagers rip the waves.

It was already four o'clock on a Friday afternoon, and my eyes and hands were going numb from all the driving anyway. After the light changed, I did a U-turn and pulled into a motel across from Canova Beach called Three Palms. 

It wasn't much of a place, about a step up from the Bates Motel. The rates were good, though, and I was on Mack's time. Even he couldn't expect me to drive straight through.

"Room seven," said the desk clerk, returning my credit card and handing me a key. He was a man about fifty years old wearing a Buccaneers tee shirt and plaid shorts. 

After I checked in, I drove to a nearby 7-Eleven, picked up a six-pack of Corona and a bag of peanut M&Ms, then settled back at the motel.

I opened two beers and lay on the bed. While I drank, I watched the sun flare flamingo pink, then turn over to blood orange. By the time the sun had burned past the tops of the trees, I'd fallen asleep. 

I woke up when I heard the Corona empties crash to the floor and break. I turned and pulled the sheets over my head and heard the empties crash two more times. 

That's when I realized it wasn't glass breaking. That's when my brain kicked in and told me it was the multiple report of a gun. 

I rolled off the bed and moved to the window. The only light came from the Christmas lights on a pineapple palm in the front court. Christmas was four months ago. 

I saw nothing else.

I opened my room door, looked out for a few seconds, and went downstairs. The humidity slapped me across the face with a wet hand. Off in the distance I could hear the ocean. 

I cut to the parking lot behind the motel. It was a veritable rain forest back there, with thick grass and vegetation. A chorus of crickets replaced the sound of the waves. 

The parking lot was a swath cut into the trees and grass. I moved between the parked cars and saw a man lying face down behind a Taurus. His crumpled body had a sense of permanence to the ground, as though he had been lying there for a million years. The fresh pool of blood, though, said he hadn't been there quite that long.

The man had three bullet wounds to his back. The shots were placed in a tight pattern. I felt under the jaw, not expecting to find a pulse. I didn't.

His eyes were focused on the gravel-covered ground. Whatever he was seeing, it wasn't of this world.

The trunk of the car was up. In it were boxes of computer hardware. Blood spatters were on the boxes and the car. Near the front passenger side, money was scattered in the gravel and grass. 

I looked in the windows. A take-out bag on the front seat was open, as though he hadn't been able to wait till he got home. A bag of dog food was on the back seat. 

The parking lot driveway led out onto Babylon Lane, which ran perpendicular to A1A on the right. A series of lazy-looking ranch houses, scattered like driftwood, ran its length further up. 

I looked both ways, but saw only pine trees and a few lights from the houses. The dunes fronting the beach were dark and vague.

I walked ten feet beyond the dead man, running my eyes over the ground in a semi-circular pattern. I caught the faint glint of a bullet casing. I bent down and nudged it with my fingernail to get a better look. 

It was a steel casing for a 9mm. 

The desk clerk came running into the lot. 

"I called the police," he said. "Is he breathing?" He bent over the body, a pair of reading glasses dangling from his neck.
  
"He's dead," I replied, heading back. 

"Did you see what happened?" 

"No. Is he a guest?"

The clerk put his glasses on. The slackness in his face grew rigid. "No. No, never seen him before." 

I put the back of my wrist against the car hood. "Well, he's been here for some time. His car engine is cool. At least, I assume this is his car."

"What should we do?" he asked.

"Well, you called the cops already. Go check on your other guests." 

He nodded and trotted off. 

I didn't really think he'd need to do anything for his other guests. I just wanted to be alone. As a law enforcement operative, I knew that I shouldn't disturb the crime scene. Nonetheless, I fumbled around in my pocket and pulled out a tissue. Then I pried the man's wallet from his back pocket. 

I brought the wallet over to an arc lamp which lit up several garbage cans and a flock of mosquitoes. The deceased had a Florida driver's license. His name was Donny Jackson, and he was born April 11, 1972. He lived in Titusville, Florida. The photo showed a man with unkempt sandy hair and close set blue eyes. The mouth was loose, the chin sharp. The overall expression was amusement. 

Nothing to be amused about anymore, Donny Jackson. 

His billfold held thirty dollars cash. An ATM card, a Blockbuster membership card and an old Powerball ticket rounded out the contents.

I heard a police siren closing in. I closed the wallet and put it back.

A patrol car from the Brevard County Sheriff's Office pulled in about ten seconds later. From that point on, everything got very busy, very quickly. An ambulance pulled up, as well as units from the Melbourne Police. The crime scene was cordoned off with yellow tape. The ME van arrived along with forensics and more sheriff's cars.

The motel guests were being questioned in the front lobby. We formed a motley crew of tired, disheveled people.

Since I had the distinction of finding the body, the officer who interviewed me said I had to speak to the lieutenant. I got a Diet Coke from a vending machine and sat down on whitewashed cement steps. I tried to think cool thoughts, but it didn't keep me from feeling like a steamed clam. 

Eventually, a cop with officer's stripes on his sleeves and sweat on his face approached me.

"I'm Lieutenant Harmon," he said, wiping his his hand across his forehead and then his pants leg. When he spoke, his top lip rode up just under his nose, giving him a menacing look. Or comical, depending on your take.

"What's your name?" he asked in a soft southern twang.

"August Caruso." I placed the soda can on the step next to me and stood up.

Harmon had cop's eyes. No light coming out of them, but large amounts of information being absorbed. "My officer said you were awakened by the gunshots and found the body. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"You saw no one else besides the deceased back there?"

"No one." 

He furrowed his brows and folded his arms. "Most people would've stayed inside when they heard the shots. Why did you go out there?"

"I'm a private investigator. I didn't think twice."

He tipped his head back and looked down his nose at me. "Can I see some ID?"

I showed him my PI and driver's licenses.

"You're from New York. Why are you here?" 

"I was working a bail jumping case. I stopped here for the night."

He handed my licenses back to me. "You must be used to this kind of thing back home." Everyone seems to think that. They all watch too much TV. He hitched his shoulders. "You carrying a weapon?" 
  
"I'm not a Federal Bail Agent, just a PI. I don't have a license to carry in Florida."
  
Harmon held his eyes on mine. "How did you expect to handle your perp? With politeness?"
  
"I can't answer that." I winked at him. "Tricks of the trade." 
  
Harmon leaned a little closer. I got a whiff of decaying cologne. "You mind?" He patted my shirt at the waist and under the arms. I got the sense he wanted to say something, but he remained silent for several moments. When he spoke, it was to an officer behind me. 

"Butch," he said. "Extend the perimeter to either sidewalk and make sure those cars keep moving." 
  
He jutted his chin at me, his lip riding up over his teeth again. "I may have more questions for you, Caruso." Red and yellow lights flashed across his face. "How long are you staying in Melbourne?"

I shrugged. Everything was working out so well these past few days, I thought I might never want to leave Florida.

"Give your New York number to one of my officers." He turned and walked away. "Thank you for your cooperation."
  
I gave my numbers, then went back to my room. I helped myself to a Corona from the fridge. I brought the beer and a chair over to the window. The ocean beyond the highway was pitch black. Sailboat lights bobbed up and down on the black waves like stars fallen to earth.

The milling cops held my attention for another couple of hours. Six years in the business and I still found crime fascinating, even the nuts and bolts of a crime scene. Something for a shrink to figure out. 

There was a knock at the door, and I opened it to a young officer. He politely asked if he could look around. 

"For what?" I asked.

"We're just checking to make sure everything is stable."

"All right," I said. "But you won't find any murders lurking behind the shower curtain."

I let him in, surreptitiously moving my bag under the bed with my foot. He looked at the surfaces of the main room, poked his head into the bathroom, then thanked me and left.

I shut the lights and lay down on the bed, still dressed. I fell asleep quickly and dreamed about chasing DePalma. 

I woke up with thick bands of sunlight and a swarm of dust motes flooding my room. I grabbed my M&Ms and headed out to eat breakfast on the balcony. 

The sun infused the colors of the trees and ocean, making them brighter and deeper. The waves rolled in like gently disturbed bath water. This was what really mattered in life. A beautiful day with beautiful scenery. There's going to be crap to deal with most days, but you should still kick back and feel the sun on your face, the ocean at your feet. I held the moment as long as I could.

Finally, I went downstairs and back to the parking lot. The gravel stones had been raked and the victim's car had been towed away. The crime scene tape was gone. The crickets were a fraction of their volume from the night before.

When I strolled around front, the motel clerk was sitting on a wooden bench next to a palm. His rounded brown cheeks were covered with black and gray stubble, and he was wearing the same clothes from the night before.

"You look like you could use some coffee, and I know I could," I said. "I'm buying."

He looked up. "Coffee won't help. The police think my son killed that man."

"What?" I recalled seeing a young kid standing behind the clerk last night. He'd been maybe seventeen or eighteen, and he hadn't said a word. Just stood and watched.

The clerk shook his head sluggishly and wiped his face with his hand.

"They book him?" I asked.

"Not yet. He was released, but the lawyer says it's gonna happen."

"Fill me in." I knelt down next to him.

"The police found a gun under my windows. I live here with my son." He nodded in the direction of the lower left-hand side of the first floor of the motel. "They also found small traces of blood on one window ledge. The police got a warrant to search the premises. They said they had probable cause." 

That must have been the reason the cop came up to my room. 

"The police saw a T-shirt with blood on it sticking out from under KJ's bed. They found shorts and sneakers with traces of blood shoved under the bed too. They questioned him last night and took his fingerprints."

He got up and rubbed the backs of his knees. "The lawyer told me this morning that the police sent the clothes and gun to Orlando for testing. They are saying KJ dropped the gun when he climbed back in his bedroom window, after shooting that man."

"Were your son's fingerprints on the gun?"

"Well, they didn't arrest him."

"Most likely they didn't get prints. Did they give a motive?"

"They said all sorts of senseless things. They questioned KJ all night. They made me sit in the hallway. Wouldn't let me talk to him. They kept my son in a small room seven hours straight. No water, no bathroom break."

"You got a lawyer, right?"

The clerk raised his voice. "The police said 'oh, you don't need a lawyer. We're just asking questions'. Screw them. I argued with the desk sergeant, and he finally called for a public defender. And he took a long time getting to the police station. The lawyer says that the police are building their case for murder. The lawyer thinks the DA will offer a deal. Who wants a deal? My son is innocent." 

The sun had inched up higher on the lawn in front of us. I could almost hear the grass sizzle.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Do you want to check out?"

I was in no rush to face Mack, or New York just yet. Still, this wasn't what I'd had in mind.

I could have moved to the Hilton further up the road. I had ideas of lounging by an Olympic-sized pool drinking frozen margaritas, getting a killer tan. I'd have to cover the expenses that Mack wouldn't, but I was thinking some good should come out of all this.
 
"I'm going to stay in the area a little longer," I said. "But listen, you need to find yourself an experienced trial lawyer. Cops are generally good people, but they're human. If your son looks good as the killer, they'll be inclined to get this case off their desk. I've seen it happen before. You'll want someone who can go toe to toe."

"How do you know so much about this?"

"I'm a private investigator."

"You're a private investigator?" His eyes got big. "Maybe you can help us?"

"I don't see how."

"You're like a cop. The police'll talk to you. Maybe they'll even listen to you."

"They won't talk to me. And listen to me? They'll tell me to stick it where the sun don't shine. And in this state, that's saying something."

He took a step towards me. "Please."

* * *

The living room was messy. Clothes were draped over furniture and shoes kicked under chairs. Tools were lying on a dusty coffee table.

I felt at home. 

The motel clerk turned out to be the owner/manager. His name was Sunil Singh and he had owned the Three Palms for ten years. His wife had died, and he was raising his son KJ on his own. They lived in cramped quarters in several combined rooms at the motel.

A floral print sofa was against one wall with a love seat across from it. I sat on the love seat, Sunil and KJ opposite on the sofa. We were staring at each other like a bunch of zoo monkeys.
  
KJ sat on the sofa, arms crossed over a Quicksilver T-shirt. He was a slight young man with a thoughtful face behind silver-framed glasses. He tapped his right foot beach slide on his knee. 
  
Sunil had set out two Millers, a Coke and three plastic glasses. I ignored the glasses and drank a Miller from one of the bottles. 

"You lie to me, or I even think you're lying to me, I walk," I said.

Sunil looked sternly at his son. KJ looked at the floor.

"Tell me what happened last night."

"Shouldn't my lawyer be here?" said KJ.

"Talk to him," said Sunil.
  
"I met Donny at the Merritt Island Mall. At the Computer Hut. We started talking and at first, I thought he was a programmer too." KJ spoke slowly, but deliberately. His gaze shifted around the living room, rarely looking at me. "Then he told me he dealt hardware wholesale and could get me some deals."
  
"What do you mean by 'programmer'?"
  
"Computer programming. I'm going to study it at the University of Miami." He leaned over and picked up several loose pennies from a clam ashtray. 
  
"He works part-time for a local company that is farmed work by a video game concern in California," said Sunil. "He's always been very dedicated to school and work. They give him the most difficult assignments."
  
KJ made a face at the compliment.
  
"So, you agreed to buy from Jackson?" I asked.
  
"Yeah, pretty much. I gave him my number and told him where I lived. Last night he called on his cell. I was working at my computer. I mean, I'm on it like ninety-five percent of my time. Donny said he had some great stuff." 
  
"Okay. So then what?"
  
"We went out to his car. I looked over what he had. I saw a Cinema Display and a CD burner that I wanted. He told me a thousand for both." 
  
"Sounds great." I hoped I sounded like I understood what all of that meant.
  
He shook his head. "He had just finished saying that I was getting the deal of my life, when he got shot."
  
"How close were you to him?"
  
"Like right next to him. Less than a foot."

"Could you tell which directions the shots came from?"
  
"From behind. I saw Donny lurch forward against the car bumper, then stagger."
  
"Did you see anyone?"
  
"Are you kidding? I was like in shock at first, then I ran like hell. I didn't see anything except the trees I was running through."
  
"Why did you stash your clothes under your bed?"

KJ tossed the pennies back into the clam ashtray. "I saw I had blood on me. When the police arrived, I panicked." He spread his hands.
  
"Once the lab confirms the DNA on the blood, they're going to arrest you. You made those blood smears on the window?"
  
"Yeah. I went back in through my window. Like they said, only not for the same reason. I was scared as shit. It was closer than the door."
  
"Why are the police picking on my son? I am going to sue them when this is over," said Sunil. "I'm going to sue for millions."
  
"Maybe they think that KJ and Jackson were partners. Maybe they had an argument over how to split the proceeds, and KJ loses his temper and shoots Jackson."
  
"It didn't happen like that," said KJ.
  
"I still haven't figured out how that gun got under my window," said Sunil.
  
"The killer must have followed KJ. He saw him go through the window and figured he'd help the police find a suspect," I said.
  
"Oh, shit," said KJ.

"What happened when the police questioned you?" I asked.

"They talked to me for hours about what I did that night. Pointless crap. They never mentioned I was under suspicion for murder. They just kept asking what I made for dinner, what I watched on TV. What teams I rooted for. Stuff like that. Pointless."

"Did you lie to them? Tell them that you hadn't been with Donny Jackson?"

"Yeah. That was stupid. But I didn't know they were going to throw his murder at me."

"They didn't tell him they found his clothes," said Sunil. "They had us wait outside the house, when they did their search. All of a sudden, they come out and they want to talk to him. But they never mentioned the bloody clothes. That's entrapment."

"No, that's police procedure. They gave KJ space to hang himself and he did. Go on."

"So after hours of talking about pointless stuff, then they suddenly started asking me why I killed him. They said lots of crazy shit. They said Donny probably had it coming to him. That I would feel better once I confessed. I kept saying no, I didn't shoot him. They didn't believe me."

"Then the lawyer arrived and they had to stop questioning him," said Sunil. "The lawyer said charge him or let him go. They let us leave."

After I finished talking to KJ, I stepped outside with Sunil. He lit a cigarette, the humidity keeping the smoke down about his face. 

"When I first moved to Melbourne about twenty-five years ago, this whole area was a mosquito infested swamp," he said. "People avoided the place. They just drove on through to Cocoa, or Fort Lauderdale. I thought this would be a perfect location for a motel. People have to stop and stay somewhere, right? I had a swamp drained to put up Three Palms. But it's not like that anymore. Now everyone is moving to this area. Homes are going up everywhere and roads are being paved. We have a large technology industry now. We have all the fast food restaurants you could want. Times change." He shrugged his shoulders.
  
We stood in silence for a few minutes.

"I guess I'll call it a night," I said. "See what's on the local cable and crash."

"Ever since my wife died, I can't fall asleep," said Sunil. "So I read. Lots of things. I'm reading Stephen Ambrose right now. He's a historian. Have you read him?"

I shook my head no. "I stick mainly to magazines with lots of pictures." 
  
He nodded and looked down. After a long moment, he looked back up. "Do you think my son is innocent?" he asked.
  
"Does KJ know his way around a gun?"
  
"No. I won't even keep one in the office for protection. A lot of the motel owners do that. Not me."
  
"Well, I know that whoever killed Donny Jackson put three tightly placed bullets into the center of his back. That takes skill. I don't see him controlling the retort of one .9mm shot, no less three perfectly located, unless he had lots of practice." 
  
"So now what?"

"Now I find out who wanted Jackson dead."

* * *

The following morning I borrowed KJ's laptop and found the Brevard County Sheriff's web page. I didn't find what I was looking for on the sheriff's site, so I tried the Melbourne Police Department website next.

And there it was: Criminal History Requests. 

A CHR allows virtually anyone with a credit card to discover prior criminal activity on anyone else. It was primarily meant for employers who wanted to screen new employees, but it does have its other uses.

Both yesterday's and today's local paper had run articles on the murder. Neither one had revealed Jackson's name, and my guess was the police were still trying to find a next of kin. They did toss the reporters one tidbit. They said that the victim appeared to have stolen merchandise in his car trunk. I guessed Jackson hadn't just started stealing.

I typed in Jackson's name, his date of birth and address, which I remembered from his driver's license. A social security number would have streamlined things, but I didn't have it. 

I put in my credit card numbers and drank coffee while I waited. Within a short period of time, the CHR registered a hit.

Jackson had been arrested a year ago for robbing a sporting goods store in Routledge. He had also been arrested for assault at the Melbourne Greyhound Park just a few weeks ago. 

The rest of the information provided further details, including location and time of arrest, as well as demographics on Jackson, such as physical description and his occupation, which was lawn maintenance. Maybe he had been killed by an irate customer who'd found a patch of crabgrass.

I shut down the laptop, grabbed my car keys and my shades. I went through my bag and took out my Ed Brown .45-caliber and holster, which I'd told the lieutenant I didn't have with me. C'est la vie.

By now, the police would have gone through Jackson's apartment, but I thought I'd have a look for myself anyway. You never know.

I went out to my Lexus, locked my gun into the glove compartment and checked the map for Titusville. There comes a point early in a case where doors either open or close. If they open, you have to move fast. Jackson's priors were an opening.

Jackson lived in a middle-income cul de sac next to a run-down golf course. The ponds on the course were drying up and the grass was tall. I had to practically drive across one of the holes just to get to the apartments. I kept my eyes peeled for flying golf balls.
  
I pulled into the complex and parked by a dumpster two doors down from Jackson. He lived on the first floor of a yellow two-level unit, a weather-beaten wood stairwell connecting the levels. Another ground floor apartment was attached on the left. 
  
I rang the bell and looked in the front window. I would give it a few seconds, making sure no one was around, before taking out my latex gloves and pick case. 

The apartment to the left suddenly opened up. 

A woman in her sixties came halfway out. She was about five three and wore square brown eyeglasses. Her hair was short and intensely gold, as though someone had dyed it with melted bullion. I could hear opera music playing inside her apartment.

"Hello," I said. I took off my shades.
  
"Are you a friend of Donny's?" 

"No. I'm a private detective." I showed her my license. "In case you're not aware, I have some bad news. Your neighbor was murdered the day before last."

She fingered a crucifix around her neck. "Oh, I know. The police were here. It's just too terrible to think about. Were you hired by someone in his family?"

"No. I represent other interests." 

"Oh."

I glanced past her at the space her halfway closed door made. I tried to be discreet, but she must have noticed. She let it close all the way.

"Why were you knocking on his door?" she asked.

"I thought he might have lived with someone."

"He lived alone, and he had no family that I know of."
  
"That's a shame," I said.
 
"Oh, I agree. Most of my family is back in Queens. That's in New York. I followed my daughter down here, but now she's moved to LA." Her face flushed. 
  
"I'm from New York too," I said. "Manhattan."

The woman gave a slight jerk of her head. "Really? You know what I miss? New York pizza. I'm Delores Kenny." 
  
"Nice to meet you. I'm August Caruso. Did you talk to the police, Delores?"
  
"Well, yes. They questioned me. They asked me for some personal information, you know, my full name. Things of that nature. They also asked me when was the last time I had seen Donny. They were in his apartment a long time, and they took some of his things away in plastic bags. Then they left, and Frank locked up. He's the head maintenance man. They told him to let no one inside."
  
"Is Frank around?" I asked.
  
"No," she said quickly. "He works other complexes besides this one. Poor Donny. He seemed so happy the last time I saw him. He came over to watch the Marlins game with me last week. Awful game. He had a nice haircut, though. He seemed so upbeat." 
  
"Was there a special reason?" I said.
  
"Excuse me?"
  
"Why he seemed upbeat. Maybe it was for a special reason?"
  
"I don't think so. I noticed the haircut, of course, so I thought maybe he had some occasion, but he didn't say anything about that. I did ask him where he got it. He told me The Chatterbox off Wickham Road, a girl named Karen." She laughed and touched her hair. "I went there a few days ago to get my hair colored. The girl was awfully nervous, but good."

"So you and Donny were friends?"

"Well, no. I think I was more of a replacement mother to him. Sometimes we would have a cup of coffee together, or watch a game like I said. Every now and then I would cook dinner for him. He seemed so lost. Like he needed someone to talk to, you know, a parent figure. I tried to help, but he was so impulsive. Quick to get in trouble."

"Did he have any friends?"
  
"Well, there's Louis," she said. "He lives across the way," she pointed with a stubby right forefinger, "but you'll probably find him by the pool." 

Louis was lying out on a lounge chair, a bottle of sunscreen and a towel to the side, sports pages splayed open on the ground. He was about Donny Jackson's age, same dirty blond hair and wiry build. He had a disheveled look, but in a cool way. Something I could never pull off in my twenties. 

A long blue pool dominated the space. The water was crystal clear with wavy ribbons of sunshine bouncing around inside it. I could smell the chlorine.
  
I sat down on the lounger next to Louis and he looked at me over streamlined sunglasses, the type baseball players wore. His eyes were vacant and dark.

"My name is August Caruso," I said. "I'm a private investigator looking into Donny Jackson's death. I heard you knew Donny." I flipped my wallet open and showed him my license.
  
Louis considered me. His mind processed thought without any ripple effects on his face. "L and D Landscaping. I'm the 'L', he was the 'D'."
  
"You don't seem surprised to hear he's dead."

"It's a small complex. News travels fast. I mean, I'm sorry he's gone and all." 

"Anything that you can tell me about Donny would be helpful."

"Well, we met here at the complex and decided to go into business together. We were both looking for jobs at the time. It seemed like a good idea. There's more than enough work."

"When did you start the business?"

"Year and a half ago, I guess."

"So you just, what? Worked together, but weren't friends?"

"We hung a little."
  
"How did you feel about his being arrested last year?"

Louis dipped his head down and looked at me over his sunglasses again. "He made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes."

"That's generous of you."

"You had to know Donny. He was ambitious, but in his own way. He didn't care about being rich, exactly, but he was always looking for something big enough to get him out of living in cheap apartments and driving used cars. That desire fueled him, man. You know, money at any cost. Sometimes how he got that money crossed the line."

"That didn't bother you?"

He shrugged. "I overlooked it."
  
"Can you give me any facts about the arrest?"

"Not specifics. I know that they let him off with a lighter sentence because they already got too many people in jail. They gave him an ankle monitor to wear for six months. He couldn't even go to work. Things got tight. I had to loan him money."
  
"What about the assault at the race track a few weeks ago?"

Louis shook his head. "I don't know nothing about that. Donny got distant lately. He missed a lot of work. Didn't really communicate with me."

"Any idea why?"

Louis closed his eyes and angled his face at the sun. "Not really."

"Do you know why anyone would want to kill him?"

"No, I don't."
  
I gave him my business card, with my motel number written on the back. "If you think of anything else," I said. 

Then I left the complex. Donny's apartment could wait until later.

The Melbourne Public Library sat in a shady square on Pineapple Avenue. It was a neat, cream colored building on the mainland side of the Indian and Banana River, just before the Causeway. 

Inside, it was quiet and smelled like Pine Sol. There were three people within, two librarians and yours truly. To the left were book stacks, to the right were periodicals and computer terminals. 

I told the librarian that I wanted to access the local paper archives going back one year. 

"For just the Space Coast area, sugar?" 

"If that covers Melbourne into Routledge."

"Yes, it does. You want Florida Today. We have all those archives on computer." 

She led me over to a terminal, brought up the web site and typed in a password. She smiled and walked away.

I scanned back issues of the newspaper starting in the winter of 2000. It didn't take long. There wasn't much news in this town. 

The biggest cover stories were devoted to NASA, and most of those were about the Space Shuttle. NASA was just twenty minutes up the coast. Hence the nickname, Space Coast. 

The local crime stats and brief stories were on the second page. On March 20th of 2000, there was a three-paragraph article with the headline "Sporting Goods Store Robbed." It went on to state that Jack's World of Sports in Routledge had been broken into and a thousand dollars in cash stolen on March 19th. The money had been taken from a closet which was serving as a makeshift safe while the real deal was being repaired. Two men had been seen hanging around and acting suspicious in the parking lot earlier in the evening. 

I found a small follow-up article about two weeks later headed "Titusville Man Arrested." It was only a few sentences long and stated that Jackson was arrested for robbing Jack's, and no other arrests were expected. 

Then I found the article from three weeks ago. Jackson had assaulted a man named John Lee Thomas at the Melbourne Greyhound Park on a Tuesday morning. 

The article stated that Mr. Thomas owned Orange Kennel, which was housed at the racetrack. Apparently, Jackson had gotten onto the kennel's private property, where Mr. Thomas stopped him. Jackson claimed to be looking for the men's room, while Mr. Thomas said that Jackson was acting suspiciously. Either way, they got into an altercation, track security called the police, and Jackson was arrested.

I printed out copies of both articles and thanked the librarian. 

"You're welcome, sugar," she said.

* * *

The three dogs at the front were no more than a blur of colors and flying dirt. They were disciplined, ignoring each other except for positioning, and paying attention only to the mechanical lure. In a fraction of a second, red number seven pulled away and damn near caught the lure.

After he crossed the finish line first, to cheers and groans, he loped a bit longer and then headed towards his trainer, who patted him low on the chest and led him away.

Most of the bettors were seated in the dining area, avoiding the sun and watching the race results on monitors. I picked up a brochure at the next table. It stated that last year's total purse at Melbourne Racing Park was just over two hundred thousand dollars. The figure was low, but it looked like the crowd was mostly retirees, so it wasn't too surprising. 

I asked one of the waiters where I could find Mr. Thomas. He pointed to an older man in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki pants down by the open dog boxes.

Thomas was speaking to one of his employees, who had several dogs leashed together sitting next to him. The dogs looked off across the dirt oval, occasionally nuzzling one another, but basically acting mellow in the hot afternoon. Not a bad idea, I thought. 

I introduced myself to Thomas and explained to him why I was there. He excused the employee, who had to wait while one of the dogs relieved itself by the edge of the track. 

Thomas was a gregarious man in his fifties. He punctuated his sentences with a finger jabbed into the air, generally in my direction. 

"No way that boy was lost looking for a restroom," he said. "Only ones relieving themselves down here are the dogs, son." 

He looked behind him at the track.
  
"The article stated that you two struggled."

Thomas laughed. "Well, he sort of pushed me to get away. He was more scared at getting caught than anything, I guess." Thomas put a meaty hand up to his brow to block the sun, then started jabbing the air again with the other hand. "I was sure he was up to no good, but I only wanted to scare him, and I don't have time to give a statement and go to court and that. I dropped the charges."

That would explain why Donny Jackson was walking around instead of sitting in jail. 

"You say he was killed, son?"

"Shot to death."

"That's a damn shame." He looked at me with lifted eyebrows. "I told Ellen to mention him to the police when she lost Odyssey."

"Odyssey?"

"A racing dog that was stolen two weeks ago."

"You think Jackson was involved?" I had forgotten about it, but now I remembered the dog food in his car.

"Son, I'm saying I think he may have. Look, he was sniffing around down here for something. Pardon the pun. A week later, a dog is stolen." 

He pointed toward a woman leaning by the first row seats on the outer lip of the oval track. She was talking on a cell phone. "That's Ellen Gay Newport. Her dog was the one stolen. You should talk to her, son."
  
"Odyssey was a three year old male from a long line of runners," said Ms. Newport. "He won a puppy stakes that netted twenty-five grand. That's when I knew he was special, that he inherited a bit of that genetic magic. He was one of my top earners, and his future earnings potential was significant. He liked the inside lane and he had early speed. And he loved to run. Lord, that dog could run all day."

Newport wore large black sunglasses, with a pair of binoculars hanging around her neck. Her hands were rough and the nails bitten down.

"So whoever stole Odyssey plans to race him?"

She shook her head. "Impossible. There are safeguards within the industry. All the dogs are tattooed for identification. And you can't race a dog without the right paperwork. They would be extremely foolish to try and race him."

"So why steal him?"

"I have no idea." She took a folded racing form from her shirt pocket and fanned herself. "I was going to retire Odyssey and breed him in another two years. I've started to freeze some of his sperm for just that purpose already. He certainly could go on racing past four, but that's the normal time to start thinking about breeding."

"How much can you get for his pups?"

"I estimate between two and five thousand each. That's based on his winnings. His sperm I can sell for a thousand dollars a sample."
  
"So whoever stole him can sell his pups?" 
  
"Again, that's really not possible. Most buyers want proof of lineage. A racing dog is an investment. A potential owner wants to maximize that investment. You don't want to spend that kind of money and wind up with a house pet."
  
"What about selling on the black market, or over the Internet?"

Newport's cell chirped and she looked at the caller ID before responding. "I can't speak for the morals of everyone involved in this sport. Sure, there are unethical people and sure, maybe someone would look the other way. But that's going to be the rare case, I think. If you're trying to sell a litter, you can't make money on one sale or two. You can only make money on multiple litters. That can't be supported by black market alone."

"So Odyssey is no good to them?"

"Not for making money. I don't see how."

"Did you mention Mr. Thomas's theory to the police?"

She laughed. "Sure, when they first interviewed me. The police just listened and said nothing. The insurance company didn't believe me at all. The claims adjuster thinks I had something to do with Odyssey's disappearance."
  
"An insurance scam?"

She nodded. "I bought a lot of insurance. Odyssey earned a lot. His breeding would have netted me a lot. Anyone in my position would do the same thing. It was strictly a business decision."

She took off her sunglasses and looked me in the eye. "Don't get the wrong idea. Odyssey isn't just a money machine to me, Mr. Caruso. He has a wonderful heart. You know how some animals seem possessed of a special spirit, an almost humanlike soul? That was Odyssey."

"How was Odyssey stolen?"

Newport made a face. "Fact is, we don't really have security here at Melbourne Park, or at least we didn't. Whoever took Odyssey either studied the park and realized this, or he was naive enough to think he could just walk up and take a dog. Which, as it turns out, is what he did. 

"We have a dog walker who feeds the dogs, exercises them, brushes them. You get the picture. Well, she took several of the dogs out for exercise and left some of the others in their pen. Someone just walked up, put Odyssey on a leash and walked him out the back way. I don't think the person necessarily knew my dogs and their records. Dante was left behind and his record is better than Odyssey's."

"Did you ever contact Donny Jackson directly?"

"No, I figured I'd let the authorities handle that. I had no direct proof." 

"Odyssey is a valuable dog. You weren't even a little bit curious, or maybe even angry that this man may have taken your valuable property?"

"No. I only had Thomas's theory to go by. What are you getting at?"

"If I were you, I might go talk to Jackson, or hire someone to go talk to him. Maybe lean on him a little bit. Shake him up and see what falls loose."

"That's the way you operate, not me. And I'll cut to the chase. I had nothing to do with his murder. I want my dog back, but I wouldn't kill over it."

She put her sunglasses back on. "I have a race to get ready for. I put reward posters up. That's how I'm dealing with it. Help yourself to one, if you want."

I thanked her for her time and walked away. I watched where I stepped.

The information operator gave me an address for The Chatterbox that turned out to be only five minutes down from the racetrack. I thought the woman who cut Jackson's hair might be worth talking to. 

The Chatterbox was located in a new wide-open shopping complex. All the storefronts were made of candy-pink stucco, the metal trim gleaming and the glass fronts smoked. A digitized billboard advertised a sale on wetsuits at Ron Jon's Surf Shop. The hair salon was on the far-left corner. 

Inside, it was cool and split into two levels. The floors were covered with thick lime carpeting and there were lots of hanging plants, potted palms and birds of paradise. The walls had large mirrors fastened to them and I could see myself from various angles. 

Most of the clients were old ladies with white hair going in and blue hair going out. A chemical odor intermixed with the smell of plastic and shampoo.
  
I asked the salon manager, Donna Lee according to her nametag, where I could find Karen. 

"That would be her over there," said Donna Lee. She pointed to the second level, where a woman in her late twenties perched in a cutting chair with a glossy up to her nose. 

"I need to take your name."

"I'm not here for a haircut," I said. 

Donna Lee smiled blandly at me and let me by.

"Excuse me, Karen?" I asked as I approached her workstation. Other than the usual hair stuff, it was dominated by a photo of Karen with a yellow Mustang, splotched with patches of white where the salt had eaten the paint. A few thousand dollars would have done wonders for the car, but I didn't suppose most hairstylists had that kind of extra money lying around.
  
She lowered her magazine and half glanced at my hair. "Uh-huh. You here for a cut? You have to give your name to the manager. She'll call you when I'm ready." 
  
"No, I want to talk to you. I'm a private detective. Got a minute?" I showed her my license.

The magazine sank to her lap. 
  
"I have some questions about a man murdered a few days ago at Canova Beach. You might have read about it in the papers. The man who was killed was Donny Jackson. I understand you were his stylist."

"That was Donny?" Her face twitched slowly, like a palm leaf lifted by a hot breeze. "I guess I can give you five," she said. She put the magazine on the chair and grabbed a pack of cigarettes. "I have an appointment coming in soon, though." 

We walked outside, the ladies in the salon watching our multiple reflections in the mirrors, and we sat on a bench in the shade.
  
"How did you find me?" she asked. She shook out a cigarette and lit it.

"Jackson mentioned your name to a neighbor. He was impressed with your work."

"Oh." 

I watched small beads of sweat break out on her upper lip. "Did he tell you anything about himself?"
  
"No." She smoothed her shorts with her hands. "Just the usual mindless chit chat. Weather, movies. He talked about sports some, but I don't follow." She waved at the cigarette smoke.

"Are you helping the police with the investigation?"

"No."

"I'm just wondering if they know why someone would kill Donny. I mean, if it were for a particular reason."

"No one knows at this point. That's why any little bit of information you might be able to give me would help."

"Look, I'm sorry. He didn't really share anything personal. I still can't believe that was him in the paper--the murder, the stolen goods and all that. I didn't even know he had a record. You know?"

I nodded. 

We both watched a little old lady walk, slowly but with determination, from the parking lot to the salon. 

Karen stood up. "That's my appointment. I have to get back." She tossed her cigarette butt on the ground and stepped on it.
  
"I appreciate your taking the time to see me." I gave her my card and asked her to call me if she could remember anything else. 

She went inside and I pulled out my cell and called Sunil. 

"August, the police arrested KJ for murder. The gun and blood results came back from Orlando. The gun is the murder weapon and the DNA on the clothes matched Jackson's."

"We knew that the blood would match. Stay cool, okay? I'm working a lead."

"A lead?"

"Yeah. On a dog." I didn't think about the pun until the words were out, but they got right by Sunil anyway.

"A dog? What does that have to do with anything? What do you mean, a dog?" He sounded a little high strung.

"Sunil, trust me on this one. Listen, did you read about the murder in the paper? Yesterday's and today's papers?"

"Unfortunately."

"Did either one mention Jackson having a prison record?"

"No, they didn't. Does he? Why didn't the police tell our lawyer?"

"I gotta go," I said and hung up.

There was a two-door yellow Mustang with white patches on the body in the parking lot. I went back to the salon and looked inside. Karen was cutting the old lady's hair. 

I crossed over to the Mustang and opened the door like I had done it a million times. No alarm went off.
  
I pulled the sun visors down and coupons and gas station receipts fell into my lap. In the glove compartment, I found a registration in the name of Karen Fox and several unpaid utility bills. 
  
I popped the trunk, got out and gave that a quick look. There was a tire and a beach umbrella and folding lounge chair. A romance novel was stuck in the chair.

I got back into the car and gave it one more go-over, though I wasn't sure what I was looking for. What bothered me was her initial reaction to my saying Jackson was murdered, and that she said she didn't know Jackson had a record. How did she know that? She said she had read it, but the papers hadn't mentioned it. They'd only mentioned the stolen merchandise in the trunk. Maybe she made an inference, but that's a long leap.
  
I examined the back seat and found hair clips and a small spray bottle. I got in front and put my hand under the front seats. I felt something and came up with a video in a plastic bag. It was called "Teaching Your Greyhound Puppy to Race." 

There are several things I don't believe in. Santa Claus, honest politicians and my ever winning a lottery are high on that list.

So is coincidence.

* * *

Karen Fox's block consisted of older houses, mainly of brown woods, others of white painted brick. Some were set behind leafy hedges and trees, others were left open to bake in the sun. Manicured lawns were framed by lush green bushes with either white or purple flowers. It was really quite an exotic looking block. 

Karen's house was a neat ranch with bushes surrounding it and a palm planted on the front lawn. Old palm fronds had fallen onto the lawn and hadn't been picked up.

I parked two houses down and removed my gun from the glove compartment, clipping it to my belt under my shirt. 

To get to the back door, I had to cut between dense vegetation, the leaves scratching my legs. I heard something rustle and half expected to see an alligator jump out at me. The rear of the house faced a pond with more ranch houses on the other side. A lone white duck was sticking its bill into the muddy bank and flapping its wings. 

I looked through locked sliding glass doors and saw no one. I picked the lock and entered the kitchen. The house had a humid, musty smell. Dirty dishes were in the sink, more than I would expect one person to use. In the living room, a sofa bed was opened out, sheets falling to the floor. 

I moved down a hallway and looked inside a bathroom, and then a bedroom done in white and yellow with a large four-poster in the middle of the floor. In the bedroom closet, I found a .32 caliber gun on a shelf under some clothes. The chambers were empty and dirty, and the gun hadn't been fired in some time, if ever. I left it where it was.

I moved back into the hallway and came to a locked door at the end. The door was relatively flimsy, and I forced it open with my shoulder. 

Inside was a dog cage and feeding bowl. A blanket was on the floor. There was no dog.
  
I went back into the kitchen and searched the cabinets until I found sandwich bags in a cupboard. I pulled one bag out. 
  
I went back into the room with the dog cage and put a few hairs from the blanket in the sandwich bag. The whole thing went in my pocket.

I went back into the living room and sat in an armchair, waiting for Karen to come home. 

An hour passed while I meditated. The sun went away and dark clouds appeared. I got up and turned on the AC. I looked out the front bay window at the clouds. They were a dark gray against a powder gray sky. Lightning bolts shot out of the clouds and came straight down to the ground. It started to drizzle.

Assuming Donny Jackson did steal Odyssey, there were two suspects here. Ellen Gay Newport had the money to hire someone to lean on Jackson. Someone had helped himself to her money tree, and that had to have pissed her off, no matter what she said.

The other suspect was Karen Fox. She'd have to explain the tape and the dog cage. Of course, I've also had clients fake me out in the past, and probably I shouldn't rule KJ out completely, though I was almost certain of his innocence. 
  
After another hour, I heard a car pull up. Karen Fox got out of her yellow Mustang and ran through the rain. I had moved the armchair so that it faced the front door. When Karen walked in, she was startled to see me. 

"How did you get in here?" 

"Bow wow," I said.

"I'm calling the police." She went towards a small hallway table with a cordless phone on it. 

"No, you're not."

She held the phone, but didn't dial it. I could see her eyes go cloudy, her mind forming a defense.

"Sit down," I said.
  
She hesitated, then moved to the sofa.
  
"Let's try this on for size. You shot Donny because you didn't need him anymore. He got you the dog and was expendable."

"I didn't kill Donny. I told you I knew nothing about that." 

"I'm not hearing you deny stealing the dog."

Her posture wilted. "You can't prove anything." She glanced down the hall and saw that the door to the dog room was open. "So I have a dog cage. So what? I'm thinking of getting a spaniel."

I took out the sandwich bag. "Ellen Newport froze some of Odyssey's sperm for breeding. How much you want to bet that the DNA from this hair matches the DNA from Odyssey?"

She wilted a little more. "You're in here illegally. You can't take that. You don't have a warrant."

"I'm not a cop and I'm not working for the police. I don't need a warrant. What were you going to do with Odyssey? You can't race him, so what's the angle?"

She stayed silent.

"I'm not a hard ass, Karen. I'll barter. You tell me the truth and I'll tell the police that you were cooperative. Otherwise...." I shrugged my shoulders. It was my standard routine. It worked with the novice criminal every time.

She leaned back and put her hands through her wet hair. "I don't have to talk to you."

"Fine, then why don't you go ahead and call the police."

"No, wait," she said. She balled her hands into fists and rested them on her legs. "I'm bored working in the salon, you know? I want something of my own. I saw this show on Greyhounds on the Discovery Channel. I love animals, so I thought about breeding and racing dogs. I couldn't afford to buy one from a pedigree litter. So I decided to steal two dogs. Then, I would race the puppies and build up a stable with the best runners. Anyone can race a puppy. Proof of ownership is less strict than with the adult dogs.

"I needed a partner, though. I knew Donny from high school, and we ran into each other at a bar in Titusville a while ago. He wasn't happy with his life either. I had heard he had been arrested. That got me to thinking.

"I told him my idea, and he agreed to help me for a piece of the future earnings. He stole Odyssey. He was supposed to steal a female dog next." She sighed and sat back on the sofa.
  
"What happened after he took Odyssey?"

"We kept the dog here. He was a sweetheart. But my parents were coming in from Atlanta and staying with me. I told Donny he had to take Odyssey for a week. Next thing I know, you come into the salon and tell me Donny is dead."

"And the dog?"

"I don't know where the dog is. I went by Donny's apartment a few days ago, because I hadn't heard from him. I looked in, but there was no dog."

"Do you think Donny was killed because of Odyssey?"

She looked like she was about to cry. "I don't know. I mean, it's just a dog. We didn't hurt no one. How would anyone know he stole the dog?"

"One of the owners at Melbourne Park told me that he suspected Donny, and Odyssey's owner herself mentioned his name to the police. Do you think Donny would have told anyone?"

"Well, he had asked if he could bring someone in originally, but I said no."
  
"Did he give a name?"

"Uh-uh."

"So what happened when you said no?"

"He was cool. I told him if everything went well, he and I would be legitimate racing dog owners. Rich legitimate owners. He said he had a partner who did break-ins with him, but I told him to chose. He was totally into the dogs. He couldn't wait to rake in the cash. He said he would have to disappoint his partner twice, but it was well worth it."

"Twice?"

"Yeah."

"You know you're going to have to tell this to the police."

She leaned forward. "I've been sick about this ever since you told me Donny was dead. I've been looking over my shoulder. I'm scared."
  
I dropped Karen off at the sheriff's. I told her to give her statement only to Harmon and that I would come back later. 

* * *

I crossed the golf course and saw a pair of white cranes strutting gracefully on skeletal legs through the high grass. They seemed to be in no hurry, unlike me. I parked across from the dumpster, checked the clip on my Ed Brown, and took a pair of cuffs out of the glove compartment. I also took a pair of latex gloves.

I walked over to Louis's door and knocked. 

Sound came from the other side. The door opened slightly, enough for me to see Louis's right eye and a sliver of his right cheek. Further below, I saw the muzzle of a gun.

"You have bad timing," he said. 

I shrugged, then pushed the door hard with my free hand and part of my shoulder, sending the door flying back and Louis to the floor of his living room. The gun flew out of his hand.
  
I pulled my Ed Brown and leveled the Cross dovetail front sight at the center of his face. "Don't move." I backed up, kicked his gun under the sofa, and closed the front door.

"Here, a present for you." I tossed him the cuffs that I had brought for DePalma. "Put one cuff on your right wrist and the other on your left ankle."
  
"You can't do this," he said and started to get up.

I raised the sight to his forehead. "I can do this."

He didn't like it, but he complied. When he was done cuffing himself, he looked like an amateur magician messing up a Houdini trick.

I looked around the room. There were several boxed television sets, DVD players and Sega Play Stations. "Louis, you've become quite the entertainment addict."

"What do you want?" he asked.

I kicked over a Chili's bag sitting on the floor. A lot of loose cash in small denominations fell out. "You're a busy man, Louis."

He tried to shift his weight and ended up falling to his side. "What the hell do you want?"

"I want a kid to go to college to study programming."

Louis stopped struggling and looked up at me with confusion. 

There was no desk and no closets in the living room, so I started with the kitchen. I looked in the cabinets and the refrigerator. Nothing.

"There's leftover chicken McNuggets on the bottom shelf, if you're hungry," said Louis.

Wise ass.

The bedroom was off to the left,and I made Louis scoot over to it as best he could. I looked in a bedroom dresser and on closet shelves. Nothing. 

I carefully pulled out a toolbox under the bed and snapped it open.

Bingo.
  
I put on a pair of latex gloves and pulled out a box of Russian-made steel encased .9mm bullets. 

"The casing I examined at the motel murder scene was steel. Just like these, Louis." Most gun owners used brass. I used brass. "I'm betting the casings and bullets at the motel match these." I shook the box in Louis's face. "But I'll also bet you know this for a fact."
  
"That don't mean nothing," said Louis. "I ain't ever seen them before. They must've been left here by the previous tenant."
  
"And your fingerprints won't be on the box, or the bullets inside? Or maybe on the bullets in the .9mm under the sofa?"

Louis looked away.

"Yeah, you're a bright guy."

"You ain't got my fingerprints on the gun. There's no witnesses and no DNA."

"We've got a motive. It goes like this. Donny finds a way to finally hit it big. A way to get out of the cheap apartments and used cars, like you said. Only thing is he dumps you in the process. You're pissed. After all you did for him. The money you gave him while he was under house arrest. Suddenly, he's going to leave you in the cold because he found a better deal."

"What're you talking about?"

"The dog. Donny wouldn't cut you in on the greyhounds. You were partners in crime and now he was telling you he was terminating it."

"We landscaped together, that was it."

"The newspaper account of the sporting store robbery said two men were seen acting suspiciously in the parking lot before it was robbed. You and Donny didn't just cut grass together. You robbed together. His dumping you didn't just hurt your day job. It messed up your night job too. And it pissed you off."

"Prove it."

"I'm the PI. I don't have to prove it. The DA will. Maybe he'll find evidence to tie you into the sporting goods job. Maybe the police will find DNA that ties you to the motel. And then when he makes his case that these bullets match the type used in Donny Jackson's murder, maybe he even proves they came from this very box, if the manufacturing is impure, you're going down on murder. He won't need your prints on the gun. Trust me."

Louis looked away from me and dropped his head.

I bent down. "I have just one question. Where is the dog?"

"I don't know," he said.

* * *

I called the sheriff's office and identified myself as Louis. I said I had pertinent information on the Donny Jackson murder and that I wanted someone to come to my apartment right away. 

When they got there, they'd find Louis handcuffed around his toilet and a box of shells sitting on a kitchen tabletop. With the gun, the money and the stolen items in the living room, they should be able to put two and two together. Just to be sure, I would drop in on Harmon later. Besides which, I had promised Karen I would put in a good word for her. 

First, though, I had unfinished business.
  
I crossed over to Delores Kenny's apartment and rang the bell. She opened it up and came halfway out. I could hear the TV this time.
  
"Oh, hello, August."

"The police have Donny's killer in custody, or they will in a second." On cue, a patrol pulled past us on the way to Louis's apartment. "Delores, I have to ask you for the dog."

She moved her lips briefly before speaking. "I'm sorry. Did you say 'dog'?" She tried to let her door close behind her, but I put my foot in the way.

"Delores, the dog was stolen. He's very valuable. Now, I could ask Frank or the officers who came to Donny's apartment that night if there was a dog." 

"I thought Donny got himself a pet. I didn't know it was stolen. I told the officers I would adopt it. He's been keeping me company."
  
"I have to take the dog back to its rightful owner."

She twisted her hands together and nodded her head. She opened the door and I followed her inside. A gray and white dog, with a little extra weight on him, was sitting in the entrance to the kitchen.

Ellen Gay Newport gave me the three thousand-dollar reward offered for Odyssey. I told Sunil to forget my fee, to use it on KJ's college costs. 

Then I hung around the beach for another week, motel expenses picked up by Sunil. I got four calls from Mack, but I didn't answer any of them.


ANTHONY VINCENT RAIN makes his home in New York City. He has contributed short stories to various magazines, and "Three Palms" marks his debut in HandHeldCrime. He has recently completed a novel.

Copyright (c) 2001 Anthony Vincent Rain