Key West Murders: Book One

By Robert Daines

In the middle of the night, Louise Jorgensen sees a bleeding naked boy running down the street in front of her house. She takes him in long enough to clothe him and find out his name and age, and then she calls the police for help. As Louise watches the Key West Police car leaving with 12-year-old Kim Lee in the backseat, she feels grateful that he’s now safe. What she doesn’t know is that the next time she sees the boy, all that will be left of him is his decapitated head.

Kim Lee’s death and dismemberment might have been the end of the story...but in Key West, the official city motto is: We Are One Human Family, and Louise Jorgensen and her friends take that statement literally. In spite of police cover-ups and deadly threats from the authorities, Louise and her friends are determined to get justice for Kim...but tragically, the price they pay will haunt their lives forever.

Based on a true event, it’s quite likely that Kim Lee’s fate will haunt you, too, and force you question everything you think you know about human behavior—the good, the bad, and the grotesquely depraved.

Adult language and situations.

A Story Ripped From the Headlines That Will Rip Out Your Heart

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Daines
• Release date: Nov 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9780964505520

Robert Daines

Nicole and Robert Daines are the co-authors of novels, mysteries and inspirational books. They live in Southern California and are the parents of three adult children and eight grandchildren. Their lectures have entertained and inspired audiences across the U.S. and Canada.

Book preview

KEY WEST MURDERS

BOOK ONE

A Novel by

NICOLE & ROBERT DAINES

H

EART TO HEART PUBLISHING

www.NicoleAndRobertDaines.com

Key West Murders

Book One

Nicole Daines and Robert Daines

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2013 by

Nicole Daines and Robert Daines

Published by Heart to Heart Publishing

P.O. Box 2606

Temecula, CA 92593

Smashwords Edition

140522sm

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the authors

Ebook ISBN 978-0-9645055-2-0

This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, to real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended only to give the fiction a setting in historical reality. Other names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations, or are used fictitiously and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

#Title_Page

#Start

#Chapter_1

#Chapter_2

#Chapter_3

#Chapter_4

#Chapter_5

#Chapter_6

#Chapter_7

#Chapter_8

#Chapter_9

#Chapter_10

#Chapter_11

#Chapter_12

#Chapter_13

#Chapter_14

#Chapter_15

#Chapter_16

#Chapter_17

#Chapter_18

#Chapter_19

#Chapter_20

#Chapter_21

#Chapter_22

#Chapter_23

#Chapter_24

#Chapter_25

#Chapter_26

#Chapter_27

#Chapter_28

#Chapter_29

#Chapter_30

#Chapter_31

#Chapter_32

#Chapter_33

#Chapter_34

#Chapter_35

#Chapter_36

#Chapter_37

#Chapter_38

#Chapter_39

#Chapter_40

#Chapter_41

#Chapter_42

#Chapter_43

#Chapter_44

#Chapter_45

#Chapter_46

#Chapter_47

#Chapter_48

#Chapter_49

#Chapter_50

#Chapter_51

#Chapter_52

#Chapter_53

#Chapter_54

#Chapter_55

#Chapter_56

#Chapter_57

#Chapter_58

#Chapter_59

#Chapter_60

#Chapter_61

#Chapter_62

#Chapter_63

#Chapter_64

#Chapter_65

#Chapter_66

#Chapter_67

#Chapter_68

#Chapter_69

#Chapter_70

#Chapter_71

#Chapter_72

#Chapter_73

#Chapter_74

#Chapter_75

#Chapter_76

#Dedication

#Acknowledgements

#About_the_Authors

Book Two - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

My name is Louise Jorgensen, and I’m a porch sitter. At age 70, it’s how I roll. Or more accurately, it’s how I rock.

Granted, it may not sound very thrilling, but that’s because you’re not factoring in the terrifying night when I was sitting on my porch and saw a naked boy running for his life—haulin’ ass down the middle of the street, somewhere round about 1:30 a.m. The moon was full, and as the boy passed under the streetlight, I was pretty sure I saw blood trickling down his legs from his…well from where waste products rightly leave a person’s body…yeah, that place. Now don’t go imagining a Tarantino-style spurting of blood. Twasn’t nothing like that. But still…it scared me spitless.

On that particular warm and muggy night, I was porch-sitting up on my second story insomnia-porch—the one outside my bedroom. I called out to the frightened boy, told him to wait up a minute, that I’d come on down and help him.

I hobbled downstairs as fast as my arthritic legs would go. The boy was waiting at the front door, wailing and babbling in a language I couldn’t rightly understand. He was hysterical, and obviously scared outta his skin, which as I mentioned before, was all that he was wearing at the time. He looked exotic…maybe Asian? Definitely not home grown.

I took him inside, and tried to calm him down. Gave him one of my sister’s adult diapers to put on—to absorb the blood and cover his private parts. When I looked into his eyes, I felt a strong bond—something akin to a mother’s love. It’s a well-known fact around these parts that I’ve got an extra-large dose of maternal love. Ever since the death of my thirteen-year-old son back in 1980, I’ve been pretty much obsessed with doing whatever I can to help the young folks.

I called 911 and asked the Key West Police to come and help the boy. The dispatcher told me it might take awhile, it being the Conch Republic Anniversary and all.

I gave the boy one of my old sweatshirts to put on, hoping it would help stop his trembling. Even though it was a warm night, he shook like he was out in a winter blizzard.

While we were waiting, I tried as best I could to find out who he was running from. Clearly he was terrified. Beyond terrified, if that’s possible. He couldn’t speak much English—hardly a lick. But he definitely understood what I was saying to him. I eventually found out his name—Kim Lee—and that he was 12 years old…but that was the extent of it. He tried hard to pantomime what’d happened to him, but I couldn’t rightly figure it out, try though I might.

When the police came, I explained what I’d witnessed, plus gave them the boy’s name and age, and informed ‘em that he couldn’t speak English.

I told Kim to keep the sweatshirt, and wished him well; he thanked me with his eyes.

One of the cops told me not to worry, that they would take good care of him. And also get him medial help, if it was necessary. As I watched Kim being driven away in the squad car, I felt good inside, knowing that the boy was safe in their custody.

After he left, I experienced severe after-shocks. I guess I’d been so intent on helping him that the full extent of his terror didn’t register with me until after he’d gone. Then it earthquaked through me—bone deep. In all my years of living, I’d never seen anyone so frightened. It unnerved me. Turned my world upside down. I tossed and turned the rest of the night.

The next morning, when I straggled downstairs for breakfast—somewhere in the vicinity of 10 a.m.—my sister greeted me with her usual smug smile. Sunrise was at 6:49 today. Not that you care.

And good morning to you, too, I croaked out. And no, I truly don’t give a flyin’ fuck what time the sun came up.

No need to swear, Louise. It denotes poor breeding and a lack of education.

As usual, I ignored her. In our house, she’s the Profanity Gestapo. Forced me under protest, to take down the poster I’d put on our kitchen wall: I’m sorry, you seem to have mistaken me for someone who will take your shit.

As is typical at breakfast time, I was a disheveled mess, and Nicole was groomed to a T—her short black hair styled to perfection and her false eyelashes fluttering. We are only one year apart in age, but a study in contrasts, that’s for sure.

Every morning—except for when it’s raining—Nicole takes our Golden Retriever for a walk down to Ft. Zachary Taylor Park. She joins with a group of like-minded fools to practice yoga and make sure that the sun comes up for the rest of us slackers who are wise enough to still be comfy in our beds.

She keeps nagging me about not being able to touch my toes while standing upright. I’ve informed her that if God had wanted me to touch my toes, he would’ve put them on my knees.

Morning is not my favorite time of day…I think it’s highly overrated. I’ve been told I’m not very sociable first thing in the morning. Taciturn is the word Nicole uses to describe me. I admit it usually takes me awhile to get my brain in gear and my juices flowing, but on that particular morning, I was all excited about the big Kim Lee drama, and wanted to tell my sister all about it.

I expounded about the happenings over breakfast.

Thankfully, my sister takes charge of breakfast in our house. On her way home from the park, she makes a habit of stopping in at the French bakery, and buying us decadent pastries. It’s thinking about those mouth-watering pastries that motivates me to get my ass out of bed in the morning.

As Goldie sat close to my bare feet, waiting for possible pastry droppings, I filled Nicole in on Kim’s story.

Bottom line? She was irritated as hell with me. (Which has been her set-point ever since she’s gone through The Change.)

Dang nabbit, Louise , why the heck didn’t you wake me up? You know I could’ve helped. I’m certified in CPR.

CPR? Okay, first of all, the kid was bleeding from his bunghole—not having a heart attack. Second, it was 1:30 and you were in Ambien Land with your earplugs in and your sleeping mask on. I didn’t exactly have the time to try and rouse you to a state where you could be of any use.

But still!

She narrowed her eyes and gave me her familiar look that could peel the paint off a wall. Oh, how I hate that look. It’s whipped me into line for like near all my life. But I stood my ground.

Look, Nicole, I did the very best I could. And now he’s safe with the police.

That’s an oxymoron, ya numbskull!

Nicole has police issues, and to be truthful, so do I.

I said, Look, it’s too early in the day for one of your lectures. Just focus on eating your croissant while I check the newspaper to find out what happened with the boy.

I tried to ignore her giving me the skunk eye, and instead started reading the Key West Citizen newspaper, looking for information regarding Kim. I also checked the daily online KeyNews.com. on our desktop computer. Not one measly word was written about Kim Lee or his fate. I told Nicole that I was suspicious, ‘cause it didn’t pass the smell test.

So I called the police department to find out what they’d done with Kim…but all I got was a big run-around. They asked me for the names of the two officers who’d taken Kim away, but when I couldn’t remember either one them, I was dumped into On-Hold-Hell. I’ve never been good at remembering names, and with each passing year, it’s getting worse.

And I’ve got to be honest with you, I’m not the most patient person on Earth. So after 39 frustrating minutes on hold, instead of persevering like I should’ve, I said, Fuck this shit! and hung up. Be forewarned, I can be a potty-mouth when the occasion calls for it.

Yeah, I’m feisty. My parents labeled me stubborn as a mule, and my school teachers called me determined, but I have to admit my former husband rightly nailed it on the head when he said I had an extra dose of The Bitch Gene…you get the picture.

Since I couldn’t get any straight answers from the police, Nicole and I decided to take matters into our own hands and find out what’d happened to Kim. She and I each took opposite sides of our street and knocked on all the doors, asking if anyone had witnessed the boy either running down the middle of the street, or being taken away in a police car. Apparently we live in a neighborhood of sound sleepers, because no one had seen or heard anything. Or so they said.

So, anyway, The Kim Lee Event happened one week and one day ago. I still haven’t been able to find out what happened to him. It’s made me extra-grumpy, and I’m sleeping even worse than usual. My mind keeps chewing on the what the hell happened to him part of it.

But today things took a turn for the better—I finally found mention of Kim Lee in the Key West Citizen. There on page 2 was a photo of the boy, making my heart leap up into my mouth. A short article said that his older brother, Jamie Lee, who lives in Ft. Lauderdale, was worried that he hadn’t heard from Kim. He made a plea for help from the Key West community, and listed a telephone number to call with any information about Kim Lee’s whereabouts.

When I showed the photo to my sister, she put her hand over her heart and said, Oh, Louise! He’s adorable! Think about it…he’s about the same age that Sammy was when he died.

I know. That fact has crossed my mind…several times.

When I finished reading the article out-loud to her, we both felt so relieved that at least someone else was looking for Kim. Things were looking up.

I called the number posted in the article…and had a strong premonition that my life was going to be changed forever.

Chapter 2

So that’s how it came to pass that right now Nicole and I are sitting here in our rocking chairs, waiting on our front porch for Jamie Lee to arrive. My watch says it’s 3:32 p.m. A gentle breeze is blowing in off the Atlantic; it’s another beautiful day in paradise. Goldie is sitting on the floor between us, making sure that her tail isn’t in the flight path of our rockers. She’s learned her lessons the hard way—just like the rest of us.

And speaking of flight paths, all of us Key West folks are so accustomed to the Navy’s fighter jets zooming overhead, that we hardly notice the noise. Any more than we notice the every-present crowing of our feral roosters. For us Conchs—those sounds are just the usual backdrop of the place we love to call home.

In case you’re not from around these parts, Conch is the term used for native-borns. Technically, Nicole and I are Fresh Water Conchs, meaning we’ve lived here for seven or more years. It’s easy to spot the newcomers, because they mispronounce the name of the marine mollusk, conch—ending it with a ch sound, instead of the correct pronunciation of conk.

On a map, the Keys look as though the southeastern tip of Florida has sprouted a curved tail of islands. The Chamber of Commerce describes their appearance As though a string of pearls was trailing off the bottom of Florida. But I’ve always thought the map of the Keys looked more like what would happen if you spun yourself around, holding a fistful of mud and then splattered it against a wall.

Florida is the flattest state in the U.S., so it’s not surprising that the Keys are also flat as pancakes. And if you want to cause an argument down here, just ask any two or more Conchs exactly how many Keys there are. The answers will range anywhere from 10 to 56—depending on who’s doing the counting. But however many islands there are, the important ones are all connected together by Highway 1.

As I’m imagining the map in my mind, Nicole is flapping her jaws, and doubling down on her favorite subject.

Louise, if I’ve said it once—I’ve said it a hundred times—you need to start painting again. You have way too much time on your hands. I’m worried about you—the light’s gone out of your eyes.

Look, darlin’…I appreciate your concern—really I do. Maybe I’ll pick up a brush again…maybe not. I have to feel inspired to paint, and I’m not going to force it. Plus, let’s be honest—there are still too many of my unsold paintings gathering dust in galleries around town…so what’s the point?

She shakes her head and gives me her usual come-back, Well, it’s either you start painting, again, or you go back to nude dancing! HA! I crack myself up!

Not to interrupt your comedy routine, but I’m worried that Jamie might be speeding and not driving safely—due to wanting to get here fast.

Her irritated sigh lets me know she’s aware I’m trying to change the subject.

I say, Jamie was real excited to learn I’d actually seen his brother. Asked me if he could drive right on down from Ft. Lauderdale to tell me Kim’s story.

She frowns, You know you’re repeating yourself—right? You already told me the exact same thing right after you finished talking on the phone with him. And then one more time when we were cleaning up the kitchen. Enough, already!

I ignore her and in my mind go over the directions I gave him. Now pay attention ‘cause Orange Blossom Lane is only two blocks long, and it takes some meandering to find it. We’re the third house in, on the northeast side. As a landmark, look for a turquoise house with purple shutters, and our two-story white house is on the right side of it. White picket fence. Corner lot. It’ll take you the better part of four hours to get down here, depending on traffic.

But now that I’ve had some time to mull it over, I’m wondering just what the hell I’ll actually be able to do to help Jamie find his brother. I’m not exactly politically-connected. Not a’tall.

However, on the plus side, I do have the tenacity of a pit bull. Plus, my sister and I make a mighty fine team when it comes to solving problems. Nicole’s extremely left-brained, and well—I’m the poster gal for right-brained folks. And then there’s the help of our dear friend Kemba—a force of nature without parallel. She’s the woman who saved my life, and also the matriarch of our twenty-member Family of Choice.

However, on the downside…if we need help from the police with this situation, well that’s going to be a bit of a speed bump. I’ll be honest with you—under this old wrinkly skin, I’m still a feisty, counter-culture gal at heart. I’ve got myself a bit of a bad reputation with the local cops. I’m thinking that may’ve been the reason why they put me on hold when I was trying to find out what happened to Kim Lee.

Oh, baby, let me tell ya that back when I was in my prime, those asshat cops would’ve paid attention to me…been drooling with desire, and hanging onto my every word! During my prime, I was an exotic dancer, and built like a brick shithouse, as the old saying goes. Even at my present age, my breasts are still my defining feature. My friend Kemba teases me, Louise your bazookas enter the room before you do.

Back during my younger days, my nickname was Spitfire, but now people call me Old Lady Jorgensen. Feh! Don’t much care for the Old part, but you can only fight against gravity for so many years. There isn’t enough spandex in the world to make the parts of my body that’ve gone south come back to where they were originally located. Plus, my hair is gray, and I hobble around due to my damn arthritis.

Even though my sister is a year older than I am, no one ever thinks of her as old. Nicole still cares about her looks. She dyes her hair and has had cosmetic surgery…three times. By no means is she beautiful—not even in the same neighborhood—but she looks a good ten years younger than I do.

Out of sheer nervousness, I’m rocking faster than usual as I chat with my sister and keep my eyes pealed for Jamie’s car. I watch the usual parade of tourist’s cars slowly driving by, taking photos of our homes—especially our neighbor’s purple and turquoise one. Got to admit that the traditional houses in Old Town are quaint and unique; it’s one of the reasons we chose to live in this part of Key West.

Eventually we see an old, beat-up Ford Coupe drive up in front of our house. Dusty beige with a few dents in it…just like me, it’s seen its better days. The car stops in the middle of the street; there are two teenage boys in the front seat. The passenger waves at me.

I wave back. Then I struggle up out of my rocking chair, and hobble down the porch steps and out to talk to him. Goldie stays with Nicole on the porch, guarding her territory.

The passenger extends his hand out the open car window, and says, Hello. My name Jamie Lee. Happy to meet you.

As I introduce myself, I give him the once-over. Asian. Faint scar on his face from cheekbone to jaw, but otherwise beautiful enough to be a girl. Friendly smile. No facial hair. Haunted dark eyes that go on forever, back through the centuries of whatever country his people are from.

He turns to the driver. Thanks, Alex. This is right place, so you please drop me off. Drive safe.

I tell Jamie to follow me. He’s wearing the American teenage uniform of a baggy T-shirt over jeans. I notice a duffle bag slung over his shoulder; I guess he’s planning to stay awhile.

We walk up the steps to join Nicole and Goldie on the porch.

This is my sister, Nicole Jorgensen. Nicole, this is Jamie Lee.

After they shake hands, and Goldie has thoroughly sniffed around Jamie’s backside, I motion to our front door. Let’s go inside and have a bite to eat. I bet you’re hungry after your long drive.

Yes, please. Very hungry.

Then tears start welling in his eyes. So sorry to cry. Very grateful for your help. No one else helps me.

When we walk through the doorway, Jamie admires our living room. Oh! So beautiful! Very happy room!

Nicole beams, thrilled that Jamie likes her interior decorating. The furniture is over-stuffed and slip-covered in floral patterned chintz. Several of my oil paintings of Key West are hanging on the walls. The overall feeling is cheerful and comfortable. She calls the style Quaint Cottage Chic. For me, personally, there are too many chotskies and knick-knacks, but Nicole prides herself on being a collector, so who am I to complain?

While Jamie is using the powder room, Nicole says, Except for the scar on his cheek, he’s beautiful…and gay from a hundred feet away.

Ya think? I wink at her

After he joins us, we all sit down at our kitchen table to share a late lunch. I insisted on decorating the kitchen, and for me it’s the most homey room in our house. The dominant colors are navy blue and white: a blue tablecloth is centered with a white wicker basket heaped with white coral and seashells. Our china pattern is Blue Willow, and it’s displayed not only on our table, but also in the huge pine hutch. Blue cafe curtains frame the big window over the sink and the mullioned window in the back door. I love this room.

Eating is a big part of our life. As I already mentioned, Nicole’s in charge of breakfast, so I’m responsible for our lunches. For dinner we both take turns making a potluck dish to share with our friends at their place.

I watch Jamie enjoying his food. Between bites of chilled shrimp cocktail and slurps of cold mango soup, he pours out his story to us.

Kim is my only family in whole world. Three years ago, our parents die in bad accident. We become orphans. A bad man force us to be ‘Rent Boys.’ Very scary times. We run away. We hide on steamer ship from Ho Chi Minh City.

I say, Ah…so you’re Vietnamese.

Yes.

And then?

"We land in California. Long Beach Harbor. We start looking for our dream job. We have big fantasies of working on cruise ships. In Vietnam we watch every episode of Love Boat. But no cruise ship will hire us. We both too young."

Nicole says, Jamie, let’s skip ahead to the part where you first noticed that Kim was missing.

"One week, two days ago. When everyone get back on board ship from port of call here in Key West, Kim no return. I very, very worried! Run around ship, looking for him. He no there. But I can not report him missing. Because Kim not supposed to be on board. See, I hide him in my cabin. And when he go ashore, he wear my cabin boy uniform, so I am in big-time trouble."

His face suddenly flushes; he lowers his eyes and looks embarrassed.

He says, barely above a whisper, "So…whole complete truth…I provide extra benefits for passengers."

Nicole and I exchange a meaningful look.

I ask, For men passengers?

He nods. Massages and blow jobs. Nothing else. No penetration.

"And Kim, too? He provides these extra benefits?"

Yes. Jamie looks relieved that I understand. It’s how we survived on streets in Vietnam. Sometimes we work as team. We—

And I quickly interrupt any further explanation. Please give me a minute, here. I need time to digest this.

I need a timeout, because I know from experience that if I don’t ask for a timeout at this point, and if Jamie goes on talking, that I won’t be listening. My imagination will take me off somewhere else, thinking about Kim and Jamie providing those extra benefits as a team. I have a touch of ADD, and sometimes my mind meanders off on tangents. The older I get, the more it wanders.

I clear off our lunch dishes, and offer a big slice of key lime pie to Jamie. I cut a slice for myself, and savor the creamy, citrus-tartness of each bite. Heavenly.

After I’ve finished eating my pie, I take a tablet and pen out of a drawer, and say, My short-term memory isn’t the greatest, so I need to write important things down. To keep everything straight in my mind. Is that okay with you?

He smiles. Yes.

Chapter 3

I put on my reading glasses and poise my pen, ready to write. So let’s just deal with the broad brushstrokes.

Jamie looks confused. Brushstrokes?

Let’s just focus on the basic facts that can help us find out what happened to Kim.

He nods.

Tell me the year that you and Kim entered the US.

Three years ago.

I write down 2010.

And eventually you ended up in Ft. Lauderdale, yes?

He nods.

Do you both live together?

Yes. Efficiency apartment. Sleep in same bed. Sofa becomes bed. Pretty slick, man. But my wages do not cover rent and food. That’s why Kim and I have to…you know…

And you work on the cruise ships coming out of that port?

Well…yes and no. Up to today, I am work for Atlantic-Gulf Cruise Line. But no more.

You got fired?

No. Boss man refuse me time off so I can come down here. So I quit.

I smile. You’re a good brother, Jamie Lee.

Nicole says, So Kim was stowing-away in your cabin. And he got off the cruise ship here in Key West, but didn’t get back on?

Yes.

I write down the date of the evening I saw Kim running down the street in front of our house.

Tell me the exact date when Kim disappeared.

April 23.

Okay…so we know that when I saw him, he hadn’t been in Key West but for a few hours. How come you waited a whole week to put his photo in our paper?

That idea not occur to me until friend suggest it. See, right away, when Kim first missing I make anonymous phone call to Key West Police. But they not hear of Kim. So I give up. Wait for him to call me. But as soon as friend suggest newspaper idea, I call newspaper, and they help me put in photo and request help from public to find him.

Nicole asks, Jamie, to your knowledge, did your brother know anyone here in Key West?

No. This first time he come here.

She appears embarrassed. Do you think that perhaps…that maybe… She clears her throat and looks at me for help.

I say, Jamie, is it possible that one of Kim’s customers…that maybe one of them hurt him?

"You mean a john?"

Exactly.

Jamie thinks a minute. It possible.

I think of Kim bleeding from his rectum, and my mind gets all spun-up with this new information, and I try to blot out the visuals.

I tell Jamie, When I first saw Kim, he was running down the street from a northeast direction down toward Duval. That information should help the police.

"Nuh-nuh-no police! Please no! Kim not have a Green Card."

I look him in the eyes. And do you?

He squirms in his chair. Well…yes and no.

"And the no would be?"

"Fake Green Card. Forgery. It say my age