A Loose Knot

By Robert Coburn

Jack Hunter, in Miami on advertising business, learns that his ex-wife was found dead in Los Angeles. The next morning an LAPD detective shows up at his hotel with uncomfortable questions Jack can't satisfactorily answer. Thirty minutes later, Jack is a fugitive on the run for Key West. Broke, homeless, living by his wits and always looking over his shoulder, Jack gets help from an eclectic and eccentric group of characters, sweet of soul, that one can find only in a quirky place like Key West. But no help comes from a couple of twisted individuals. The action moves quickly between Key West and LA, with neither side knowing fully what the other is up to. And Jack discovers that, while Key West is a place of unforgettable charm and beauty, it can also be a loose knot ready to slip in a minute, sending all bets spinning away with the tide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AbsolutelyAmazingEbooks.com
• Release date: Jul 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310219726

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Jack Hunter was a hedgehog. He lived under a thick, ficus row on Caroline Street in Old Town Key West. Before he became a hedgehog, he’d become a fugitive in a homicide investigation.

And before that he’d been an adman in LA.

It all began with the phone call.

The police want to talk with you, Jack. Said it was urgent.

Jack jotted down the phone number his secretary gave him and hung up. He was now in his hotel room after having spent all morning with a client. What the hell was this about? he wondered. Probably just Leonard pimping his creepy movie script again. He was about fed up with the guy and his sick humor. Always hustling. He might look for a new secretary when he got back to LA. Girl this time, a looker. He dialed the number. Might as well play along.

West LA Homicide, Detective Hagen, a commanding voice answered.

Homicide, really? Jack smirked, after a pause.

Sir, you’ve reached the Los Angeles Police Department, West LA Homicide. Do you have business with us, sir? If so, please state the nature of it. If not, get off the phone!

That sounded real enough for Jack.

My name is Jack Hunter. My secretary gave me your number. Said it was urgent that I call right away. Probably a bad joke on his part. Sorry to have bothered you.

Mr. Hunter, thank you for calling. You must be back in town then. It’s no joke, sir. It has to do with Pamela Ridenour. I believe she’s your wife, is that true?

Christ, Jack thought. That little near-fracas between himself and Wardel at the Bel Air hotel the night before he left for Miami. Here he’d been having a drink alone when Pamela waltzes in with goddamn Bill Wardel, who he knew had to be fucking her. And on the very day his and Pamela’s divorce was final! Can you top that? Yeah, he’d created a little scene but now she’s saying there was more? He never even threw a punch! Pamela could be such a bitch when she wanted to.

My ex-wife most recently, Detective, Jack coolly corrected. She goes by her maiden name for business reasons. She’s in real estate. Just became president of the Beverly Hills Realtors’ Association, in fact. Did she complain about something? Wait, you said you’re with homicide? What the hell did she tell you?

About your divorce, Hagen continued, ignoring Jack’s questions. Was it amicable?

What business is that of yours? Jack shot back. It was a goddamn divorce. There were lawyers involved. Amicable? Depends on which side of the table you were sitting.

When was the last time you saw your wife? Hagen went on unabashed.

What’s this about? Did Pamela file a complaint? She must’ve, huh? That’s it.

Did she have reason to file a complaint, sir?

Now he saw where this was going. It did have to do with that confrontation with her and Wardel at the hotel. Well, he wasn’t going to admit to a goddamn thing.

That’s crazy, Jack scoffed. I’d like to know what this is all about.

The woman is dead, Hagen said quietly.

Everything inside Jack’s head slammed on the brakes. It took a long moment before he could collect himself.

Pamela is dead? Why? I mean, what happened? This is horrible.

I’m very sorry, Mr. Hunter. What we’re doing now is talking to everyone who might’ve seen the deceased earlier. Just routine, you understand. Wonder if you’d mind coming by the station today? Help us out here. By the way, when did you last see her?

Jack’s brain froze solid. Should he mention the hotel spat? It was nothing. Maybe he’d better keep his mouth shut.

I’m still in Miami. Might be here a few more days. I, really don’t remember when I last saw her. Was it an accident? Why are the police involved?

The coroner will determine the cause of death. Our involvement is all routine. When will you be back in town?

Can’t say for sure. Look, I’m a little upset right now. I’ll call you and can arrange a meeting as soon as can, okay?

Jack ended the call. The enormity of what he’d just learned settled on him with a gravity that seemed bent on mashing him to the center of the earth. He simply could not imagine Pamela being dead. She’d been so alive, a person always on the go. Why, just the other night . . . right, he’d lied to the detective about that. There were witnesses. It’d be so easy for them to find out. Did they already know? He’d seen her several days earlier, too, when he’d gone to her condo to pick up his saxophone. But, wait! There was a reason for his going there. He hadn’t taken the horn when he moved out, see? And her goddamn lawyers wouldn’t let him remove anything until after the settlement, the pricks! Pamela had just said for him to come and get the thing. No, she wasn’t really a bitch. And now she’s dead.

Suddenly he felt drained. He lay back on the bed, his mind crossing the country in an instant. There he saw Pamela in better times. Before things between them took ill. Who let in the virus that brought down their marriage, he wondered?

≈≈≈

Panic elbowed its way into his thoughts. Why was the detective so anxious to see him that he was asked to come directly to the station? This was routine? Hardly. The detective didn’t say how Pamela had died. Punted that one to the coroner. He grabbed up his cell phone and dialed the manager of his apartment complex.

It’s been on TV and all! the manager whined. I didn’t give the cops a key, just that the maid was cleaning when they came and she went and let ‘em come in.

The police were there? In my apartment? Jack asked incredulously. Did they say what they were looking for?

Look, Mr. Hunter, I don’t need problems, you know what I’m saying?

Well, let me put your mind at ease then. I’ve spoken with the police and they said this is all routine. How long were they there, by the way?

For a right long time.

Jack thanked the manager and ended the call. Jesus, this thing had made the news? There had to be more to it than what the cops were telling him. Suppose he needed a lawyer? Jesus.

He called to confirm his flight to LAX for the next day. Told he’d been upgraded to first class, thank God for small favors. Decided he needed a drink, headed downstairs for the bar.

A terrible dream visited him that night. He and Pamela were at a dinner party. It was the time they’d first met. There were seated together. She was speaking to the person next to her. When she turned back to him, he was looking into the face of a rotting corpse.

The next morning Jack was up early. He’d dressed in a nice Armani black blazer, jeans cut perfectly, and a seriously expensive shirt in a rich inky blue. Jack had a good sense of fashion. He had style. A knock came at the door.

He opened it and was greeted by a lady with a disarming smile. She wore a light wool gray pantsuit set off by a maroon silky blouse with a bow at the neck. Nice, but the large purse slung over her shoulder wasn’t right. Jack pegged her for hotel staff. Assistant manager, maybe.

Good morning, Mr. Hunter, my name is Detective Laura Dalton with the Los Angeles Police Department. May I have a few words with you? Perhaps it would be better if I came in.

Jack, startled, stepped aside and motioned her toward the sofa. Dalton showed him her ID and sat down.

First, Mr. Hunter, I’m very sorry about your wife. Detective Hagen explained that there were some routine questions he needed to ask you. To expedite things, he suggested I speak with you since I’m in Miami on business.

≈≈≈

Detective Dalton didn’t reveal that she’d taken the red-eye from LA the night before. Nor did she say that Jack was her business.

Why are the police involved in this? Jack asked suspiciously. You know, I just found out about Pamela. I’m still kind of shocked.

Let me explain, Dalton smiled sympathetically. We were called when your wife’s body was discovered last Friday. At this point, we don’t know how she died. This is just routine until that can be determined. So we talk with everyone who might have had recent contact with her. You were divorced. Was it amicable?

Your friend asked the same question, Jack answered. Used the same word. Amicable. What’s the deal here? It was a divorce, that’s all. Sad for both of us, okay? Where was Pamela found?

In her condo. The maid found her when she came in to clean. Now, back to the divorce. What was the settlement?

She was just there in the condo? Dead? How?

The medical examiner will determine the cause of death. Again, the settlement?

Did she get the house? Jack laughed sarcastically. It was already hers. No, she didn’t take me to the cleaners, if that’s what you’re wondering. We agreed to split our mutual savings and my investments that I’d begun before our marriage would stay mine. Okay?

Sounds civilized to me, Dalton nodded. What about her life insurance? Are you the beneficiary?

Really, Detective Dalton, Jack sighed. I guess you’re just doing your job. I named her on my company policy – that’s the only insurance I carry. I suppose she did the same for me. We never discussed it. I have no idea of the amount of coverage she had, if that’s what you’re asking.

Okay, Dalton nodded again. And you last saw her when?

Jack hesitated. Should he mention the hotel run-in? She hadn’t specifically mentioned it. Hell, she wasn’t even taking notes. He decided to let it slide.

I saw her at home a couple of weeks ago, he said. Went by to pick up my saxophone.

Two weeks ago, Dalton repeated, carefully studying Jack. To pick up a saxophone?

Yeah, I left it when I moved out, Jack explained. That wasn’t the best of times. Anyway, the horn is valuable and her lawyers made a big deal out of it. You know, they wanted a go-for -the-throat settlement. Pamela was cool. She said screw the lawyers.

So where is it?

Where’s what?

The valuable saxophone, Dalton replied, glancing around the room. I don’t see it.

I left it home, Jack said. I’m here on business. No time to play. Besides, wouldn’t want to risk leaving it in the room.

And that was the last time you saw your wife, Dalton confirmed, when you went to the condo to pick up your saxophone, right? Did she have to hunt for it? I mean, you probably knew exactly where you kept it.

Yeah, I kept it in the closet of the second bedroom, Jack answered. Why is that important?

It’s not, Dalton smiled, reminding herself not to push too hard. You would be familiar with everything in the condo. You’d even know where your wife kept her things, right?

Jack nodded yes to both questions, looking a little puzzled, and cleared his throat.

I must confess, Dalton said, reaching into her purse and removing a small notebook, I’m a little confused.

She flipped open the notebook and, against her own better judgment, continued. According to witnesses, you were seen with your wife and a Mr. William P. Wardel at the Bel Air Hotel just this past Thursday night.

Jack’s cheeks flushed.

There appeared to be some kind of argument between you and Mr. Wardel at the time.

Jack heaved a breath. It’s true. I was hoping no one had noticed. Silly, isn’t it? Our divorce was final on Thursday and I’d stopped by the hotel for a drink. Not to celebrate, just to have a drink. Pamela came in with Wardel. He works at the ad agency. I don’t know, it pissed me off to see the two of them together, that’s all. I made an ass of myself and went home.

You didn’t see your wife later that evening?

No, I went back to the office to finish some last-minute things. I left for Miami the next morning. My secretary was there. Leonard Hall. He’ll vouch for me. Then I went home. No, wait. I stopped at the Red Rover. That’s a bar. I had coffee. I’d had enough booze.

Dalton referred to her notes for a full minute before speaking. The room was getting stuffy. Jack felt uncomfortable.

And what time was that? she asked without looking up.

Maybe nine or so?

Why is this still so confusing to me? she asked, raising her eyes and looking straight at Jack. Let’s go back to the saxophone – you say it’s in your apartment. Yet Detective Hagen and I were both at your place and I don’t recall seeing any saxophone. We were very thorough.

No, you’re mistaken. The horn’s in the bookcase. It’s an old Martin alto sax and it fits perfectly on a shelf. I even played it after I got home that night. Like to keep up my chops.

I looked in that bookcase and the only thing there were books, Dalton countered. You see, I’m interested in what people read. It gives me a little insight into their personality.

A little case about yay long, Jack gestured with his hands. I can’t believe this. Charlie Parker once played that horn. It has a history. It has to be there.

Jack was clearly shaken. Dalton remained silent. Should she go further with this or cut the interview now. Why was she even asking herself that? She should never have taken it this far. Wait until they get back to LA. Must be the lack of sleep that’s screwing her up.

Got to be the maid’s damn kid, Jack exclaimed angrily. He tags along with his mom sometimes when she comes to clean. I’ve suspected him of poking around in my things before, now this! Look, if the kid took that horn, then he’s going to hock it. Well, we’ll surprise his little ass. I’ve got the serial number right here.

Jack whipped out his billfold and fingered a slip of paper from behind his drivers license.

Ha, there it is. Write this down and check with the pawnshops. Martin alto saxophone. Brass finish. Serial number 297054. That’ll show that kid!

Dalton obediently wrote everything down. Then she returned her attention to Jack, a stony expression on her face. Quiet desperation filled Jack as an old distrust began to caution.

There’s one other thing,, Dalton sighed, she couldn’t help where she was going. You say you stopped at the Red Rover...left there around nine or so...went straight home. Yet the security camera at the entrance of your wife’s building has an excellent picture of a person bearing a striking resemblance to you that same night. In fact, wearing a blazer just like the one you now have on. Could you comment on that?

Jack’s eyes widened. She had to be bluffing, he thought. Must be an old videotape she’d seen.

He suddenly felt a tremendous need to use the bathroom.

Everything I’ve said is the truth, he said, an uncontrollable smile turning up the corners of his mouth. I don’t know what else I can tell you. Look, I’ve got to go to the bathroom. Okay?

Dalton didn’t like letting Jack out of her sight but figured the bathroom was safe enough. His being in there would give her a chance to make a quick call to Hagen.

Sure, she smiled. We’re finished here.

Nothing would come. He started to turn on the faucet, hoping the sound of running water would relax his own plumbing, when suddenly he heard Dalton’s voice.

He’s been lying about everything she was saying. Puts on this goofy grin every time I catch him in one. Bags all packed, so he’s not staying extra like he told you. See, I was right in suggesting I come here. And get this, he is the guy on the security tape. Oh, the Miami cops were a no-show for backup. Good idea about the upgrades. Glad the airline cooperated. He’ll probably shit when he finds out I’m his seat mate. Okay, gotta go.

She thumbed off her phone. She could hear water running inside the bathroom. He was taking an awfully long time in there, she thought.

Jack estimated the alley to be around fifteen feet below the window. His old distrust of authority was in full control now. He flushed the toilet to create more noise and clambered over the window sill, grabbing hold of a down spout next to the opening. The pipe creaked at the disturbance but held. He shimmied down and hit the pavement on the run.

Dalton banged on the bathroom door. Are you okay? she yelled.

Jack exited the alley and ran head-on into opportunity – the airport shuttle was about to pull away. He waved for the driver to stop and jumped aboard.

Dalton rattled the doorknob. It was locked. She stepped back and delivered a forceful kick to the door. The lock yielded. An empty room and an open window greeted her. She ran to the window and stared down at the alley below. Hurrying out of the hotel room and down the staircase, she raced through the lobby and outside to where the doorman stood.

A hotel guest, she gasped out of breath. Man wearing a black jacket. You see him?

Nobody come through here, ma’am, as far as I know, the doorman smiled. Did see the airport shuttle bus stop at the sidewalk for a passenger. Can’t say what he was wearing.

Jack hopped off the shuttle at its first stop and fled into the terminal. He spotted an airport policeman and considered surrendering. But once again, distrust held him in check.

In his early teens, Jack had fire-crackered a mailbox. Big fun for some older boys and Jack decided have a little for himself. But somebody saw Jack on his maiden run and reported him. He wound up charged with vandalism and facing a tough juvee judge. When the judge asked what he had to say for himself, Jack’s involuntary habit of smiling at the wrong time put him in hotter water.

The judge eyed the smirk, figured him for a serial mailbox bomber, and sentenced him to thirty days in juvee hall. It made a lasting impression. From then on, Jack knew the law could be unfair.

Leaving the airport cop, Jack took the escalator to the baggage area. Like prey flushed from hiding he was frantically covering ground as the seconds counted down. He exited the building and into a din of noise and oppressive heat. Taxi cabs queued at the curb. Should he grab one and ride as far as his money would take him? he wondered. He continued toward the end of the terminal and came upon a man standing by a white van, a sign on its side reading Florida Keys Express.

You must be Mr. Mackall, the man grinned broadly at Jack. Been waiting for you, sir. My name’s Sparrow Lovewell and I’ll be driving you and the rest of the folks down the Keys.

Before Jack could say a word, the man slid open the door and motioned for him to get aboard.

Dispatcher said you’d be along ‘bout now, Sparrow continued as Jack piled in. Said you’d be a gentleman wearing a black sports coat. Guess that must be you, ha, ha. Going on down to Key West, already paid in advance with plastic. Nice way to do business, yes, sir!

The airport police were helpless without a picture of Jack. Dalton worked on getting one from the DMV in Sacramento. She made the rounds of car rental offices without luck. Ticket counters and boarding gates had put Jack’s name on their detain list. The Miami Police Department was notified that Jack was wanted for questioning as a person of interest in a suspicious death. Good luck on anything happening with that Dalton thought. She spent the remainder of the day and well into the night staring at airport security tapes on a TV monitor, trying to pick Jack’s face out of thousands.

Meanwhile, a man wearing a black sports coat had been arrested and booked in Miami earlier that morning for using a stolen credit card belonging to a Robert Mackall.

CHAPTER 2

Key West. A candle flame beckoning in the tropical night. A place where dreams pile up. Ever a loose knot ready to slip in a moment, sending all bets spinning away with the tide.

Jack couldn’t spend another night under the hedge. A psycho had crawled in. Muttered to himself until daybreak. Jack had to find a real place to live. Real places cost money. He had money in the bank back in LA. Back on Pluto it might as well be. He couldn’t chance using the ATM – that could be traced. He knew he was being paranoid, but still. What he needed was a safe and steady source of income. Like a job. But how would he go about getting one? There would be forms to fill out, questions to answer. He had to stay under the radar. And the damn psycho was going to bring the cops down on the both of them.

There was one other thing he could try. His music.

Jack pushed toward the Gulf of Mexico along Duval Street, shopping bag in hand. Behind him the Atlantic Ocean blackened beneath the falling night. Duval Street stretched across the lower thick of the island from ocean to gulf with a conceit that only it prevented the two bodies of water from clapping together and settling Key West’s hash once and for all. A song blasted from the doorway up ahead where a street musician had set up shop for the evening. Jack had noticed him before.

Just a passable voice, Jack thought. The guitar was masterful, though. He’d seen the guy around. Put him in mind of Kris Kristofferson. Maybe it was. Kris Kristofferson on the run like him. He wouldn’t be surprised at anything. He spotted a dog lying on the sidewalk near the man’s guitar case. Red-brown mutt with eyes to match.

Jack had a tin whistle in his pocket that he’d earlier bought with the few remaining cents left in his pocket. He pulled out the little flute and grinned at the guitar player.

Whatcha got there, bro? the man asked.

Ah, just a toy, Jack answered, then with a wink said, You wanna do a duet?

I dunno about that, the musician scoffed. Besides, Sienna and I kinda got this gig to ourselves. Ain’t that right, girl? He reached down and scratched the dog behind the ears.

You hip to ‘Blue Bossa’? Jack persisted, a wise choice he figured since the song had no lyrics.

Oh, why the hell not? the man laughed and began strumming a bossa nova rhythm.

Jack piped a light riff of happy notes. Then he improvised with a short solo before coming back for the last section. When the song ended, the guitar player slapped him a high-five.

Man, that was awesome! he shouted. By the way, my name’s Brownie.

Jack here. Guess I’ve always had a knack for music, he admitted modestly, then added, got a good ear. Easy for me to pick up on most anything.

Here’s one for you, Brownie challenged and began fingering a Mozart piece which Jack recognized and quickly began playing the melody in a round.

Brownie chuckled and then got down and dirty with Mozart, fingers flying. Passerby's stopped to listen and