Free fiction! A Florida PI tackles a mysterious oil spill on the Emerald Coast.
In my business you hear a lot of sultry female voices. Just ask Mike Hammer, Easy Rawlins and the rest, both the literary lions and the flesh-and-blood PIs like me. My female counterparts, the real-life Stephanie Plums and Kinsey Millhones, probably get deep, melodious dudes on the line, too. The lady who jangled me out of dreamsville at 7:17 a.m. kicked off another unbelievable caper in the life of L.G. (Long Gone) Green, the toughest, savviest environmental detective on the Emerald Coast of Florida. In fact, the only one.
“Mr. Green? My name is Lacey Bancroft,” I heard through my morning fog. “I’m sorry to call at this hour. I’ve literally got an environmental catastrophe in my back yard. I’ve notified the police but I need some expert assistance. Can you take the case?”
One of my well-honed investigative skills is identifying Southern accents, which don’t sound alike no matter what people think Up North. Ms. Bancroft’s gentle, rolling tone had Alabama all over it, not as sugary as Mobile, probably Birmingham or thereabouts. All I cared about was “take the case,” my bank balance being flatter than the coaster under the Jim Beam bottle by the bed. “I’ll be glad to help,” I replied in my best reassuring voice. “Tell me about your catastrophe.”
“I woke up and found this hideous oil slick all over our beach!” she wailed. “It just appeared overnight. And my daughter’s getting married out there in a week.”
*****
An hour later I understood her panic. Behind Lacey’s house, the centerpiece of a new development called Gulf Heaven Pointe, the sparkling white sand that gave the Coast its name was covered in foul sludge. The slick stretched a good forty yards, the tide pushing it higher on shore while tourists stared and took photos. I heard one woman tell her male companion, “It smells like the south side of Bayonne out here. I told you we shouldn’t have come to the Redneck Riviera.”
As I documented the damage with my refurbished iPhone, Ms. B came down the stairs in a beach robe and sandals, her chestnut-brown hair blowing in the breeze. “Isn’t it awful?” she said. “Where could it have come from?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll find out,” I said. “I’ll take a sample and have it analyzed and check with the Coast Guard for other spills.”
She frowned. “Do you mean it could’ve been some sort of accident?”
“It’s possible. Could’ve leaked or been dumped from a ship.”
“But why is it only on our beach?” she said, pointing at the greasy sand. “The worst of it is right behind the house. An oil spill doesn’t have a GPS, Mr. Green. This was done on purpose.”
Before I could answer, an unwelcome voice called loudly, “Hey tinkle man! What the hell are you doing here?” It was my nemesis, Detective Buck Horton of the sheriff’s department, a PI-hating ex-jock whose biceps are bigger than his brains. “Tinkle man” refers to my real name, which happens to be Howard Tutwiler-Tinkelman. (I was born a Tutwiler and picked up Tinkelman when Mom tied the knot with her second ball and chain, a philosophy professor who also plays in a klezmer band. But I digress.)
Behind Horton was a fleshy, middle-aged guy in a Gators t-shirt, evidently Mr. Bancroft. “Honey, who is this?” he demanded.
“Bob, Mr. Green is a private investigator who specializes in environmental crimes,” she said. “I’ve engaged him to help.” Spotting Horton’s badge, she added, “I just want to clean up this mess before our daughter’s wedding. No offense to our police.”
“None taken, ma’am,” Horton said. “But this clown couldn’t find an endangered whale in a bathtub. Matter of fact, he used to work for the people who probably did this.”
Damn. Ms. Bancroft arched her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“The Gulf Coast Environmental Council,” Horton sneered, making each word sound like something from the bottom of a dumpster. “They’re a bunch of Commie tree-huggers. And they’ve got a record of vandalism.”
Bob’s pink mug shifted into the red zone. Ms. Bancroft looked at me, the brows still riding high. “Mr. Green, what do you have to say?”
My gaze and voice were rock-steady. “The Council hasn’t been my client in years. I had nothing to do with their tactics. When L.G. Green takes a case, he runs a thorough, impartial investigation.” (I talk about myself in the third person sometimes. Never hurts to sound like Hammer and Sam Spade.) “I’ll deliver the facts no matter who’s behind this.”
Ms. B turned to Bob. “We need help fast. I think we can trust him.” Hubby looked like he wanted to boot me into the gunk. “All right,” he grumbled. “But I built this house. All of them,” gesturing at the others nearby. “I’ve got a lot of money tied up here. He better not interfere with the official investigation.”
“Oh, he won’t, sir,” Horton said. “Because if he does, he’ll be picking up trash on Highway 98 and his PI license will be history. Let’s all three of us go inside and talk. You,” he snapped in my direction, “be gone when I come out.”
*****
I collected some oil for the lab and took stock of the house. It was typical for the new class of beach bums: three stories, private pool, fancy appliances and tech, would sell for a couple mil. For a jaded PI and native-born Florida man like me, it was too much. Still, folks like the Bancrofts had given the Coast a shot of fresh cabbage, some of which Lacey Venmo’d me that morning, putting me in a temporary state of grace (solvency).
My next move was to call on Billie Rae Monroe at the Council. The last time I worked for her, she sent me on a wild pelican chase, claiming the local flock had been poisoned. After I cracked the case, our relationship went beyond the professional—and I mean pack your bags, hold the mail, way over the horizon beyond—but now we’re just friends. (Sorry. Gotta work on those digressions.)
I found Billie at Council HQ in the basement of her cottage, her unruly red hair hanging almost to her waist. “You look good,” I said. “Your hair’s getting long, though.”
She snorted. “Last time I went for a cut the salon was full of dumbass tourists. So what’s going on?”
I told her about the spill and Horton. “Sorry, Howie, we’re through with the crazy stuff,” she said. “I’m too old for the slammer and too broke to keep paying fines.”
Not exactly a denial. “Well, it reminds me of things you used to do. Like FedExing a box of dead crabs to the planning board.”
She laughed. “Hoo boy, that was fun. But back then, we were trying to stop a development before it started. Bob Bancroft already ruined that beach with his McMansions. If I’m gonna get arrested again it won’t be on account of him.”
“Okay, but if you didn’t drop the oil, who did?”
“No idea. Seriously,” she said. “But good luck. I’ll let you know if Horton comes sniffing around.”
*****
On the way back to my office the phone buzzed and I heard Lacey’s torrid tones. “I have some information, L.G. Bob told me there’s a sunken Nazi submarine from World War II out there. He thinks it might still be leaking oil, you know, like the battleship at Pearl Harbor.”
I hoped she couldn’t hear my teeth gnash. On top of a shifty ex and a noxious cop, I had to deal with this ridiculous legend: A U-boat went down off the Emerald Coast on a secret mission to carry Hitler’s gold stash to South America. True, the U.S. Navy bumped off a few Unterseebootes in the Gulf, but nowhere nearby. Besides, the historical types say the gold didn’t exist, and any sub driver who tried to reach Argentina via Florida would’ve been nuttier than the Fuhrer himself.
I explained this to Lacey. “Do we have any other leads?” she replied, a tad sharply. I admitted nothing else was perking. “Then I think we should pursue this one, especially since Bob is paying your fee,” she said, gentility gone with the Gulf wind. “Don’t you agree?”
*****
I’d reached one of the pivotal forks in the gritty road of a PI’s career: Trust your instincts or play along with the client? My instinct told me I’d end up broker than a campaign promise if I didn’t keep Mrs. and Mr. B happy. An easy call.
So I borrowed a skiff and motored a couple of miles out. An ancient mariner I’m not; luckily, the weather was balmy. I putt-putted around taking pics and water samples to prove there was no German crude a-bubblin’ and was about to head home when I heard another boat, followed by a shot and a bullet going crack! over my head.
I hit the deck as two more rounds winged across the water. I reached up and managed to start the motor, but a wave caught the boat and dumped me in the drink. I came up coughing and spitting, my life jacket keeping me afloat. The sound of the shooter’s boat faded while the skiff made lazy circles around me, too fast to grab hold. My phone, which would’ve brought the Coast Guard to the rescue, was on the tripod I’d set up on the bow.
I don’t know how long I bobbed around before a sheriff’s department boat chugged up, with Horton by the rail. “I might’ve known,” he growled. “I ought to leave you for the fish. Your obit would say, ‘Howard Tinkle Man, professional pain in the ass, ended his days as shark shit.’ Ain’t that poetic?”
*****
I’d been shot at, soaked, humiliated, and gotten nowhere in solving the case. A typical day. At home I sat down with my friend Jim B, soon forgot my brush with a bullet, and pondered the brass tacks. I know every environmental group from Apalach to Gulf Shores, and even the wild and crazy Council never tried to blast holes in their opponents. Yet Billie lied to me before. Was she playing games again? If not her, who?
Between bourbon and deep analytical thought, I realized I didn’t know much about my clients. Firing up the laptop, I learned Lacey came from the old, moneyed Cutter family, graduated from the University of Alabama, and was a regular at society parties. Bob on the other hand hailed from a wide place in the road in Georgia and “attended” Valdosta State.
Then an email popped up: ACHTUNG DUMMKOPF! KEEP YOUR MITTS OFF OUR GOLD OR U WILL JOIN OUR COMRADES IN THE DEEP! The message ended with a string of German words and was signed, “Walton County Aryan-American League.” As I boggled at that, Billie’s number flashed on my phone.
“Horton just left. I told him you’re not on our payroll and we didn’t go near that beach.” She chuckled. “I don’t think he believed me. He said if I was lying he’d shut us down for good.”
“How much do you know about Bancroft?” I asked.
“Greedy and dumb. He sank a bundle into Gulf Heaven Pointe and it’s not selling. He’s liable to lose his ass.”
I thanked her and said good night. A couple of random thoughts had been circling in my brain: now they were edging close together like horny barflies at last call. One was a hunch that the grease job and gunplay weren’t what they seemed. The other was a saying I heard from my old man, or maybe a Damon Runyon story: “Son, always try to rub up against money. If you do it long enough, some of it may rub off on you.”
*****
Next morning I brought in my junior investigator, a young man I’ll call Andrew. (That’s his name.) I wired him a piece of the Bancrofts’ dough to poke around a few corners of cyberspace where L.G. Green’s fingerprints shouldn’t be found.
As soon as I got his results, I texted Lacey to set up a meeting. When I arrived at the house, a small army of cleaners was scooping muck off the sand while the sun shimmered across the water and a warm breeze wafted through the windows. “Sorry to give you the ugly truth on such a beautiful day, Mrs. Bancroft,” I said, opening my briefcase on the kitchen table. “There isn’t any submarine leaking oil. Whoever shot at me yesterday was no Nazi sympathizer. And not a tree-hugger either.”
“Someone tried to shoot you?” she gasped. “My God, why?”
“To throw me off track,” I said, handing her the lab report on the oil from the beach. “That’s 21st-century petroleum. The Coast Guard tells me it couldn’t have washed ashore from a ship without leaving traces farther out.
“It was dumped deliberately,” I continued slowly and deliberately. “By someone with a reason to cause an ecological disaster.” Fixing my steeliest gaze on Bob, I said—not for the first time in a situation like this—“Are you going to tell her, or shall I?”
His jaw almost hit the imported floor tile. “Are you suggesting I had something to do with it?” he snarled. He glared at Lacey, then me. “I knew he was up to no good. Mister, you’d best get out of here right now.”
Time to pull the first ace out of my sleeve. “Did you study German at Valdosta State, Bob?” I asked casually. “If so, you should get a refund.” I took out a print of the threateningemail with the German part highlighted. “I don’t know what you meant to say but this translates as, “You are a big kissy-face and your chicken has bad breath.”
Lacy looked gobsmacked. Bob didn’t flinch. “And why exactly would I dump a load of oil on my own beach?”
“It’s not yours, is it?” I said, sliding Andrew’s findings across the table. “According to these records, the biggest investor in Beach Heaven Pointe is one A. Wilson Cutter. As Hall and Oates said, you can rely on the old man’s money. Which you did.”
“That’s crazy!” Lacey shouted. “My grandfather is ninety and lives in a memory care facility. He couldn’t possibly—” and the wind went out of her sails. “Oh, Bob,” she said in a broken voice. “Tell me it’s not true.”
“Okay, I borrowed from Wilson,” he said. “But I’m going to repay him out of my profits!”
“What profits? Those houses are sitting on the market like snowbirds at a seafood buffet. You were going to unload them and pocket the cash but a sale like that would look funny. You launched your own Exxon Valdez to give yourself an excuse.”
Bob looked deflated. “A guy on my crew has a pontoon boat,” he muttered. “I got hold of some old oil. That’s about it.”
“Not quite. That was no pontoon boat shooting at me. I saw your Chris Craft on Instagram. Fifty horsepower, right?”
“Wrong,” Bob said. “Thirty-eight caliber,” as he pulled a pistol from under the table, a sinister grin creeping over his face. “I was just trying to scare you yesterday. You’re not worth a murder charge. But today you tried to extort us and attacked my wife. Right, Lacey?” He rose to his feet and aimed the .38 at my ticker. “This’ll be self-defense.”
L.G. Green doesn’t scare easily. Howie Tutwiler-Tinkelman was shaking like a wet dog when Lacey leaped up and nailed her husband with a right hook that knocked him flat. The gat went flying and fired when it hit the floor, shattering a window and scattering the cleaning squad. Snapping out of my tremors, I leaped on Bob and pinned his arms while Lacey held the gun on him. “You lied to me and stole from my family,” she said in a slow fury. “And you nearly ruined your daughter’s wedding!”
“That was part of the plan!” he yelled. “Weddings are for men and women. I’ll be goddamned if I’ll let Julie marry Miss Lesbian Mississippi or whoever she is.”
Just then Horton charged through the back door, weapon in hand. “We had a report of a gunshot. What’s going on?” he demanded. “What did you do now, tinkle man?”
“Nothing, detective. Your perpetrator is right there,” Lacey said, pointing down at Bob. “I’d appreciate it if you would kindly remove him from my grandfather’s house.”
*****
The next weekend I watched as Julie and Cynthia, a Miss Mississippi runner-up, said their vows on the clean white sand while the not-so-proud papa sweated in a county cell. “I’m so glad you could come,” Lacey said as we sipped champagne. “And I’m sorry I almost got you killed chasing after the submarine.”
“All in a day’s work,” I said. “A good PI follows up on every lead.”
“Oh, I know you’re a fine investigator,” she said, smiling at me in a way I hadn’t seen before. “I’m not making excuses for myself, but I’d heard about the sub from a few people besides Bob. Supposedly a local girl over on Dolphin Lane rescued one of the sailors and had his baby.”
As I tried to scrub the shock off my face, Lacey continued, “I never thought the case would end like this,” fixing her deep blue eyes on mine. “This house feels so empty now,” she said in a low, husky register. “So big and soooo lonely.”
*****
That night I stared out the bedroom window as Lacey slept. A PI deals in cold hard facts, yet her wild tale of a Nazi love child had lodged itself in my head. Right next to Mom telling me my grandmother lived around here in WW2. Maybe, just possibly, on Dolphin Lane.
But that’s another story.
Love it, nothing like a good PI story