Don Bruns - Too Much Stuff

She waited, timing her delivery.

“Just who are they going to believe?”

She was right. I prayed that the gun wasn’t registered to anyone. If it was, Emily could be doing time.

“You go into the embassy, in character, during a party. Hide in plain sight.”

I couldn’t place it.

“Come on, man. Tom Cruise, nineteen ninety-five or six.”

“ Mission Impossible .”

“Yeah.”

“And it has relevance because?”

“Something happened in plain sight and we’re missing it, just like Em said.”

James had actually agreed with Em. That was a surprise.

“A boat came in. People got off the boat.”

Emily had gone to the room to freshen up. Guys don’t freshen up. Splash some water on my face and I’m good to go. James and I sat in two beach chairs, staring out at the flat water and the clear blue sky.

“What did those people have?”

“Suitcases. All of them had suitcases,” I said.

“Personal items or are they posing as tourists and actually smuggling something?”

“Whoa. That’s a thought.” I was impressed. James was really getting into this.

“What are they smuggling?”

“Okay, this is a stretch, amigo, but what if, what if this gold thing is out there. What if Weezle and Markim found the gold bars? Maybe in the ocean. Maybe they found a treasure map. What if these people are out there, diving and bringing back the gold bars in those suitcases?”

And just like that, I wasn’t so impressed.

“James, that’s really far-fetched.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

We sat there watching seagulls swirl around a small fishing boat that drifted offshore.

“Swordfish tournament going on this week.”

He nodded his head. “This is the Keys, son. There are always fishing tournaments going on.”

“This one runs from seven in the evening until three in the morning.”

“And you think the boat coming in at that hour-”

“Em thinks.”

“I think what?” She snuck up and put her hands on my shoulders. “I put the computer under the bed.”

“And the gun?”

She smiled. “The thirty-eight? Where I can get it if I have to.”

They’d released the pistol as well. With five shells left. There was a verbal warning to get it registered, so apparently no one had claimed ownership. And since there was no evidence that she’d shot anyone, they gave it back to her. I decided she was the perfect person to be the keeper of the pistol-KOTP.

“I was just telling James that you thought the timing of the fishing tournament and the boat coming to dock at three thirty might be tied together.”

“Just a thought,” she said. “And, by the way, I’m going to the drugstore. Got to get a new nail file after my last one went to the good of the cause. Want to come?”

What I really wanted to do was drive. Her Carrera was hot and I’d never been behind the wheel of a Porsche. The black beauty had three hundred forty-five horsepower. The powerful V-6 was meant for speed, but during our short trip to the store she kept it at forty-five. No, she did not let me drive.

“It’s brand-new, Skip. You know how I am with my cars.”

I did. She rode them hard, kept them for a year or two until she was tired of them, then got rid of them. And when she would go on hiatus during our relationship, I was always afraid that was what she was doing to me.

She pulled into the parking lot and I grabbed her arm.

“Check it out.”

Parked on the right side of the store was a black Harley with a gold fender.

“There’s got to be more than one, Skip.”

“Park in the other row so we can see who gets on it.”

“What if this person works here? We could be waiting a long time.”

She pulled in and we waited. Ten minutes went by and we looked at each other.

“Private investigators do stakeouts that last hours. Days.”

She was right. The two of us were impatient after ten minutes.

“Give it another ten.”

“I guess my nails can wait that long.”

Ten minutes to the second he walked out the door. Slight build, in a short-sleeved shirt and jeans. I studied him as well as I could, trying to see if he resembled Todd Markim, Weezle’s partner. He had a similar look, but I’d only seen the Internet Yellow Pages ad, and at this distance I wasn’t quite sure. What we both noticed was his right arm.

From his wrist to his elbow it was wrapped in gauze and bandages.

“Could’ve had an accident and scraped it pretty bad,” I said.

“Could have scalded it. Maybe he was cooking and accidentally spilled boiling water on it.”

“Maybe he was working on the bike and-”

“Let’s say it, Skip. Could be a flesh wound from a bullet.”

The man pulled on his helmet, gingerly, and headed out into traffic.

“Okay, okay, the nail file can wait.” Em gunned the engine and we were in pursuit.

We left Islamorada, heading south. Em put two or three cars between us and the biker, but considering there is only one road and just two lanes almost all the way to Key West, hiding from anyone was going to be tough. At least the rider didn’t know the Carrera. We didn’t think he did.

“This could be a wild-goose chase.” She kept her eyes on the road, looking very sexy behind the wheel of her new sports car.

“Could be. But we’re kind of at a standstill until we read that piece of paper tomorrow.”

“If this guy is Todd Markim, have you thought about what you’re going to do? I mean, you have nothing on him except that he’s a private investigator who’s gone missing. He didn’t steal anything from Mrs. Trueblood, did he? I mean, he’s allowed to walk off the job, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You have no evidence that he murdered the guy in your room?”

“No.”

“We’re really not sure he was the one trying to get into our room this morning.” She hesitated. “The one I think I shot.”

“No.”

“Just wondered what you were planning.” She never looked at me, just kept her eyes on the traffic up ahead.

But of course, this was a jab to let me know that I never plan. Whatever happens, happens. I don’t know if it’s my philosophy of life, or if I just don’t bother. Either way, it’s probably not a good strategy for a PI.

“Maybe I’ll talk to him. Ask him if he or his partner were the ones who threw paint at the truck and took a shot at us in our room. I’ll ask him if he’s the one who bashed in his partner’s head.”

She smirked.

The speed was about sixty and with no lanes for passing, everyone evened out. Our myopic view was caused by mangrove trees growing high in the water on both sides of the road, so we just stared ahead. At more road. Crossing a bridge, I finally got a view of the open water, a brief look at where the blue sky met the blue of the gulf on the horizon. Florida was full of visual delights.

From a side road a box truck pulled out, blocking our view of the cars and the bike up ahead. A crudely painted sign was scrawled on the side.

HAULERS

“Damn.”

“Skip, it’s not like he’s got the option to lose us. I mean, we’ll see him if he gets off the road.”

And we did. But too late.

We passed a sign that said: LOWER MATACOMBE STATE PARK AND CAMPGROUNDS. A moment later, we drove by the paved road that exited right, into that very park, and we saw the motorcycle as it rounded a curve on that road and was lost in the trees. He’d gotten away.

“Damn.” This time it was Em. “I’ll find an exit and turn around.”

Thirty seconds later she braked and pulled the Porsche off onto a bare patch of earth. Spinning around, she pulled up to the highway and waited another two minutes while a stream of vehicles paraded by. Finally, we crossed the road and reversed direction. This time she made the exit, slowed down, and drove back into the trees that had swallowed the biker and his ride.