James Swain - Bad News Travels

“Sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Danny O’Brien. Is he here?”

“That all depends on who’s asking,” she said.

“My name’s Jon Lancaster. Danny and I are old buddies. He told me to look him up if I ever made it to Key West.”

“Danny’s giving a paddleboard lesson right now. What’s in the bag?”

He showed her the six-pack he’d bought from the local minimart. He offered her one, and she killed the tall boy and popped the fresh can.

“Much obliged. Danny lives in the back,” she said. “You can wait until he comes home. Don’t make any noise. I’m about to take a nap.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

The clapboard garage had been recently converted into an apartment, the paint still fresh. The door was ajar, and he said, “Anyone home?” before entering. The interior was around four hundred square feet, with a George Foreman grill for cooking, a daybed, and a black cat sleeping on the AC unit. He popped a beer and stuffed the rest into the fridge. A stack of flyers sat on a table. He grabbed one and headed outside.

He sat on a rusted chair beneath the shade of a banyan tree and read the flyer while sipping his beer. Lazy Dog Paddleboard Tours. Two-hour eco tours, paddle yoga, and paddle fit classes. Paddleboarding is easier than it looks — come take a class! At the bottom of the page was an email contact, but no phone number.

He heard footsteps and rose from his chair. A man with a neatly trimmed white beard and tanned legs came around the side of the house. He wore clamdigger swim trunks and a long-sleeve shirt to protect him from the sun, and held a glistening paddleboard and an oar by his side. Seeing his visitor, he froze.

“May I help you?” the man asked.

Lancaster held up the flyer. “Your landlady said I could wait until you came back. I’m interested in learning how to paddleboard, and heard you were the local expert.”

The man rested the paddleboard and oar on the side of the garage, and offered his hand. “I’m Danny O’Brien. Nice to meet you.”

“Same here.”

“Have you ever paddleboarded before?”

“This would be my first time.”

“It’s easier than riding a bike, and lots of fun. You’ll get the hang of it in no time. I charge fifty dollars an hour, and provide all the equipment. Cash only.”

“Sounds like a deal. Can we start this afternoon?”

“Of course. Sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Jon. Jon Lancaster.”

O’Brien blinked, and then he blinked again. The blood drained from his face, and he looked like he might pass out. Lancaster helped him into the chair.

“You’re Beth’s boyfriend,” he whispered.

“That’s right.”

“How... did you find me?”

“It wasn’t very hard. Let me get you a cold beer. I brought some with me.”

He went into the apartment and rummaged through the cabinets. His host impressed him as the type of guy who drank his beer out of a glass. He went outside holding a mug with a foaming head, and gave it to him.

“Here you go.”

Lancaster found another rusted chair and positioned it across from his host, and watched him drink. The beverage was consumed in a series of long, desperate gulps.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Dr. Daniels. Beth’s told me a lot about you.”

“Call me Martin. Does Beth know that I’m alive?”

“No. I wanted to find you first, before I told her.”

Martin stared into the depths of his glass. The ruse was over, and he seemed uncertain how to proceed, so he asked the obvious. “Who told you I was here?”

“Dr. Matoff said you were hiding out in the Keys. He confessed to filing false autopsy reports, and claiming that the bodies of two veterans living at the VA who’d committed suicide were actually you and Sykes.”

“The Keys are a big place. How did you know where to look?”

“Because I’ve looked before. When a fugitive hides in the Keys, he avoids the smaller islands, and goes to Key West, which has a larger population. I have a friend here who was able to track you down.”

“So my behavior was predictable.” Martin’s eyes were moist, and when he spoke again, his lips were trembling. “What tripped us up? We thought it was a perfect plan.”

“I was suspicious from the start,” he said. “The autopsy report said that you shot yourself with an antique World War II revolver, yet there were no firearms in your home. Where did the gun come from? And why did you choose one from World War II? When Dr. Matoff explained that the body was actually a World War II veteran who’d used his favorite gun to kill himself, it all made sense.”

Martin shook his head sadly. “I actually thought the same thing, at the time. But we were in a rush. Sykes wanted me to disappear. He said it would solve a lot of problems. So I agreed. Was that the only clue?”

“Sykes’s apparent suicide was also suspicious,” he said. “The autopsy report claimed he’d set his house on fire, then shot himself. That seemed like overkill. It made me wonder if the body was Sykes, or if it had been burned to hide its true identity.”

“Another screwup. You must think we’re real amateurs.”

“Not really. You fooled a lot of people.”

Martin looked despondent. The gravity of what he’d done — and what was about to happen to him — had settled in. “I considered suicide. It would have been easier.”

“Maybe not. Everything happens for a reason, Martin. Want another beer?”

Martin stared at the ground and mumbled, “No thanks.”

“Dr. Matoff told us that Sykes was running the show. He said Sykes was getting a cut from every hooker in town, until Sheriff Soares ran the hookers out. Sykes needed a new scam, so he connected with the Sokolov brothers, and they started extorting you and your friends. Is that how it was?”

“Yes. Sykes was the mastermind. Although none of us knew it at first,” Martin said. “We thought he was just another victim, like us. It was the perfect cover.”

“When did you find out otherwise?”

“Sykes came to my house a few weeks ago, and told me to pay the Sokolovs off. That’s when it dawned on me what was going on.”

“He went to the homes of the other victims as well. Didn’t he?”

“Yes. He told them to pay, or else.”

“Dr. Matoff showed us a text where Sykes threatened him. Were you threatened?”

Martin was drawing into himself, and no longer making eye contact. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and did not reply.

“Please answer the question. Did he threaten you? We found bloody tissues in the house.”

“Yes. He became violent, and hit me in the face and bloodied my nose, so I threw him out,” Martin said. “That night, he texted me, and said that if I didn’t play ball, he’d drive down to Fort Lauderdale and kidnap my granddaughter. I believed him. I told him I’d pay, but I wanted something in return.”

“Which was to disappear.”

“That’s right. I couldn’t live with myself anymore.”

“So you took off, and Sykes staged your suicide. Do you know where Sykes went?”

“He has a place outside of Cabo San Lucas. Probably there.”

The sun came out from behind the clouds, and the air turned hot. Martin closed his eyes and shuddered as if he’d caught a chill. Tears were running down his cheeks, his conscience tearing him apart. “Do you know what the worst kind of lie is, Jon? It’s the one that we tell ourselves. That was what my relationship with Katya was. A bright, shining lie. She was young enough to be my granddaughter, yet I allowed myself to fall in love with her, and let my feelings poison my thinking. I didn’t care if my behavior hurt my family, or my friends. Or if it would destroy my reputation. All that I cared about was being with her. I even kept seeing her when the extortion started. That’s how far gone I was.”