Rising Tides: Second of the warm world mysteries

By Jerry Blanton

The body of Noel Chapman, the manager of the Blue Parrot Apartments, is found floating face down in the king tide flood waters that have flooded the basement laundry. The police call the death an accidental drowning. The next day, Charles Sturgis, whose family owns the apa

• Language: English
• Publisher: Authors Press
• Release date: Sep 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781643146584

Jerry Blanton

Jerry C. Blanton has taught high school English, managed a bookstore, served as an academic dean, and worked as a copywriter, proofreader, English professor, and writer. He has written more than thirty books that include mysteries, short story collections, sci-fi novels, and poetry. Jerry has three children and currently resides in Homestead, Florida. For more about Jerry and his writing, visit him at www.jerrycblanton.com

Book preview

1

During a summer king tide, a body had been found floating face down in the Blue Flamingo Apartments. I didn’t realize that circumstance would cause a disagreement among my partners at the agency, with fifty percent thinking I was an idiot.

In South Florida, the king tides had become a serious problem for real estate along the waterways. The beachfront properties were not in danger yet, for the sand sloped downward for fifty feet from the priciest hotels to the ocean and federal funds brought in truckloads of sand to buffer those tourist-rich zones. Those suffering from sloshing saltwater were the lower residential areas on the bayside. Every Biscayne Bay king tide now rose above the seawalls and washed ashore, submerging lawns and garden soils, turning streets and apartment parking lots from skateboard arenas into water board arenas, creating refugees of soggy neighborhood cats and dogs, and chasing non-native, invasive species of lizards into trees and bushes. Knee-high rubber boots had become necessities for navigating from homes to cars.

Landlords and managers of bayside apartment buildings despaired because they had had to lower rents and leases to attract customers for shorter terms. It had become almost impossible to rent ground level apartments, for no one wanted to wake and step down from a bed into dark water, or to slosh through a flooded living room and kitchen whose appliances were useless without power—turned off for the safety of all.

According to the morning news, the Blue Flamingo Apartments were owned by the wealthy Sturgis family and run by Suncoast Management Operations (SMO), a corporation whose Blue Flamingo apartment manager, Noel Chapman, had been found dead floating in king tide waters abetted by a rainstorm. No one had witnessed his demise, and although the medical examiner had found a serious welt on the back of Chapman’s head, the police had concluded that Chapman’s death had been an accident: they surmised that as he pushed through the flooded basement laundry room, he had stumbled, bumped his head, knocked himself out, fell facedown into the king tide water, and drowned.

After reading about the death in the newspaper, I had questions: Why wasn’t the custodian down in the water? Managers don’t usually do that kind of work. Hadn’t any of the residents been queried about the manager’s strange behavior? Was there something odd going on at the Blue Flamingo? I questioned because it was my habit as Buck Jaspers, private investigator.

The next day over a morning colada at the front desk, I compulsively posed these questions to my partners at the agency. My founding partner Ruben Marquez, always practical, asked, Do we have a contract to investigate the death?

Not yet, I said.

He huffed as chief investigator Shevonne Derling added, Why worry about it then?

Our office manager Caridad Puente and Santeria priestess enjoined, If he drowned, he may have been pulled down by an orisha at someone else’s behest.

How could we prove that? Shevonne queried skeptically.

Through belief, an orisha could tell you. Caridad defiantly swallowed the last of her Cuban coffee said, You believe in the saints, don’t you? They help you, don’t they?

Shevonne said, I’m not Catholic. I’m protestant.

Wait a minute, I broke in. Let’s not turn this into a religious argument.

At that moment, the office phone rang, and Caridad answered it on the third ring and said, Good Morning, Jaspers, Marquez, Derling and Puente Investigative Agency. How can I help you?

She listened for a moment and said, Let me see if he is in. . . . Yes, he is, Mr. Sturgis. I will transfer you to his office phone. Hold on a minute.

I swallowed my shot of coffee, hurried into my office, sat in my desk chair overlooked by a portrait of Benjamin Franklin behind me and picked up the receiver. Buck Jaspers speaking.

Good morning, said a male voice on the other end of the line, my name is Robert Sturgis, and I need you to investigate a death.

That’s what we do here. Can you come here for a confidential consultation?

Yes, I could. I could come this morning. What time?

Well, we’re just opening now, so how is 9 a.m. for you?

I’ll be there. See you in a while.

After replacing the receiver with a triumphant smile on my face, I rose and returned to the front desk.

The others had awaited my return.

Ruben said, Unbelievable.

Shevonne said, How do you do that?

Caridad said, "Que suerte, Jefe. An orisha would listen to you. You would be a good Santeria."

After Robert Sturgis—an attractive, svelte young man accustomed to money and its concomitant responsibilities, and dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, and gold tie that complemented his gray eyes and blond hair—arrived a little after 9 a.m., I took him to my office, offered him coffee, which he declined, and we sat to discuss the situation he was concerned about.

He began by saying, Have you heard about the death at the Blue Flamingo Apartments?

Yes, I have.

I and other family members don’t agree with the police.

But why should that concern you? Your manager is dead; you have to replace him, but I’m sure Suncoast has someone ready to step in.

It’s a matter of insurance.

How’s that?

Since the Sturgis family owns the property, we would be liable for damages if the death was caused by structural or ambient conditions.

Oh, I see. How much money are we talking about?

Millions of dollars; our attorney says perhaps $50 million.

Ouch, that would hurt. But isn’t Suncoast responsible for such?

No, they would be liable only if the death is the result of some standard operating system or procedure. Besides, we are major shareholders in Suncoast Operations, so we would also be hurt if that were the case.

I tried to relieve a little of his anxiety by stating, However, the manager seemed to have deviated from standard procedures by not sending the maintenance man down and instead going himself.

That’s probably true, thank you.

But, if the police are wrong, if Chapman was murdered or assaulted, then you would have reduced liability.

We would have no liability because Suncoast hires guards and watchmen. The Blue Flamingo has one guard on station at the front desk and one patrolling the circumference of the building and the halls of the building.

Does the laundry room have an outside entrance?

Yes, but the guards rarely go there, supposing that thieves would have little interest in laundry. The outside door is unlocked during daylight hours but is locked at sundown.

Why do you think the custodian did not check the laundry room?

I don’t know, but that is something you could find out, couldn’t you?

I could.

Will you take the case?

I will. I buzzed Caridad and told her to prepare a standard contract for Robert Sturgis. Then I turned back to him and said, Write a memo giving me or any of my operatives the right to question anyone who lives or works at the Blue Flamingo. My consultation fee is a hundred dollars, and the initial contract retainer is $10,000. In addition, I will earn a thousand dollars a week and any operatives used will earn the same. All expenses and salaries will be added to the contract retainer and paid monthly. Since you stand to save $50 million if we can prove murder, then the final fee for murder being proven will be $500,000. You can pay by check or credit card.

You’re not cheap, are you?

But a hundred times cheaper than losing a lawsuit.

You got me there.

He signed the contract and wrote us a check for $10,100.

2

I organized things and planned our first steps, and the next day I had operatives Laura, Nemo, Chandler, Bella, Belkis, and Max meet me at the Blue Flamingo. Their job was to canvas all the residents to see if anyone had any information that could help us. The building had twelve floors and sixteen apartments on each floor, so I assigned two floors to each operative and gave the top floors to Max and Chandler, the youngest operatives; the next four floors to Laura and Nemo; the next two to Belkis; and the bottom floors to Bella, our only senior citizen operative. I told all our operatives to take a smart phone photo of everyone they interviewed, and I would do the same. The photos would be downloaded into a database of the case that any of us could access if a need arose.

I would be interviewing all the staff: four guards, the custodian and his assistant, twelve maids, two receptionists, two managerial secretaries, and one assistant manager whose primary responsibilities had been maid service and custodial service.

First, I interviewed the guards all dressed in their slate gray uniforms and black ties, which revealed a couple interesting things. One, during the time (12:25 p.m.) when Chapman left his top floor office and before he was found dead in the laundry room (1: 16 p.m.), surveillance cameras had picked up a couple unknown men in hooded jackets and sunglasses entering through the outside entrance to the laundry room. They were carrying sacks both entering and exiting. The guard who had been on duty at the front desk thought they resembled residents when he saw them on the screen but couldn’t name them. Two, the patrolling guard had offered to accompany Chapman to the basement, but Chapman had waived him off. (another violation of operational procedure?)

I asked if Chapman had a fondness for alcohol or any other substance. The guards concurred that they had never seen him tipsy, carrying bottles of booze, or smelled alcohol on his breath. They had never smelled marijuana on his clothing and had had no clues that he was doing any other drugs. Inebriants had had no appeal to him.

How about women? Did he like women?

No, they all said. He was happily married with children.

Then one of the guards who worked the