“Even assuming there is one, which is impossible,” Bumby said, “who would know about it and keep it secret?”
“Maybe it’s that half-wit caretaker.”
“He’s creepy enough, but why give us access in the first place?”
“Yeah, it don’t make sense.” Papa snapped his fingers. “What about that wealthy douchebag from France? The one who always pays us to do his birthday?”
“Jean-Paul? In the huge house a few doors down? He is one of the biggest donors to the museum.”
“And,” Papa said with a flash of insight, “if there’s something valuable in there, he probably wants to keep it for himself. Probably goes in there at night and wanks it while he looks at it.”
“Maybe he pays off the caretaker too. It could make sense—maybe he was in there the same night we were, and saw what we were doing.”
Ernie started to weep quietly, and Bumby put his hand over Ernie’s. “God, Ernie, I’m sorry. We’ve been acting like a bunch of horses’ asses.” He pulled out a flask and three tumblers, poured everyone a shot, and held up his glass. “To Champ, a good man, a great fisherman, and an even better Hemingway. May his soul rest in peace above the waters and pages he loved so dear.”
“Here here,” Ernie said, and even Papa felt empty.
They clinked glasses, downed their shots and sat in silence for the rest of the morning.
For lunch they had lobster rolls at Blue Heaven, an eclectic little spot where the Man used to referee boxing matches. They smacked their fat lips at the delicious food, had another couple of drinks to work up their courage, and piled into Papa’s rusty golf cart for the ride to the police station.
They parked and crossed Roosevelt, the Atlantic Ocean hovering in the background, palms rustling, a rare overcast sky the only blemish. They bunched together as they walked inside the station, not wanting to be singled out, a product of living on the outskirts of society.
The station was full of the usual drunks and deadbeats who stuffed the town like a rotten Thanksgiving turkey. They came to Key West in droves, those who couldn’t make it anywhere else and then pretended they were living it up in paradise, whooping and hollering down the packaged edginess of Duval and eking out a pathetic existence in the rat-infested dives and trailer parks outside Old Town.
The Hemingways grimaced as the cops stopped working to watch them, wondering who ordered the practical joke. Papa strode to the front desk and slapped his beefy forearms down. “We need to speak to a detective.”
The bald cop behind the desk looked up from his papers and pushed his glasses higher up on his Roman nose. “What’s that, pops?”
“I said we need to talk to a detective.”
“About what?”
“About the murders.”
The cop’s eyebrows rose and he picked up a phone. “Sarge, you’ve got some…people…in here say they want to talk about the murders.”
The cop nodded at the phone, hung up and then led them down a hallway to a tiny glass-walled office overlooking the ocean. The plate on the door read “Sergeant Cohn.” The cop opened the door and they filed inside.
Sergeant Cohn was an average-sized man with a round face and droopy eyes that gave him a hangdog look. He had sandy hair and sunspots on his forehead, and looked more like a dentist with a golfing habit than a cop.
Papa seemed to gain courage from Sergeant Cohn’s bland appearance. “We want to know why more isn’t being done—”
“Sit down,” Sergeant Cohn said.
They sat.
“I imagine you’re some of the most nervous people in town right now,” he said. His voice, though quiet, possessed an assumption of control that was far more intimidating than bluster. “We’re not going to discuss my job and how I’m doing it. All three of you were on my short list of people to see today, so I’m glad you came. Now, do any of you have anything to tell me about this investigation?”
They remained silent, and he smiled a most non-dentist smile. “If you do, I suggest you tell me right now, because I will find out.”
Papa wanted to blurt out that Bumby had no alibi, but he could hardly lead the Sergeant down that path.
“Nah,” Papa said, with a poor attempt at humility. “We’re afraid we’re next on the list, and wanted to know if you knew anything we should know about.”
Sergeant Cohn looked at them in turn, holding his gaze on each one until they looked away. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the Hemingway look-alike contest at the end of this month? The one with the five thousand dollar prize?” He looked at Papa, and cocked his head towards Bumby. “The one I believe your friend here has won three years in a row?”
Bumby was surprised that Sergeant Cohn had recognized him.
“Of course not,” Papa said. “I mean, yeah I’d love to win that, but five thou is hardly worth killing someone over.”
“What you meant to say, I’m sure, was that no contest, no amount of money, is worth killing anyone over.”
“Sure, yeah, of course,” Papa sat back in indignation. “I’m not so good with words sometimes.”
“You do realize you’re one of two Hemingways on the island with a criminal record, and the only regular Hemingway still alive who’s never placed in the money?”
“Don’t remind me,” Papa muttered. “But I ain’t killed no one.”
The Sergeant shifted his gaze to Bumby. “Congratulations on being the top Hemingway impersonator in the world.” He nodded in approval as he studied Bumby. “You’ve even got those knowing eyes, the strained look on your forehead, the creases next to the nose. A model of Hemingway perfection, and a writer to boot! You other two must be a little jealous.”
Bumby started to relax, and the Sergeant said, “Funny, though. I’ve been asking around, and it seems that on the night of the last murder you left the bar before these other two gents.”
Bumby opened his mouth to retort, but the Sergeant held up his hand. “You and I can chat another time, by ourselves, about your alibis and your prior with a knife.” Bumby’s face fell.
That was interesting; I didn’t know the old fartwad had it in him. He must have accidentally stabbed someone with his pen.
“Now let me ask you gents a question. I’m having a little trouble with a certain piece of evidence. The coroner tells me that with two of the victims, one of who was Champ, there was evidence of a struggle. Well, not so much a struggle, but more of a beating. It seems these two victims both had stomach bruising, as well as broken noses and bruised temples.” He looked at Ernie. “The coroner tells me that were he a betting man, he’d bet that someone with some boxing skill had a hand in at least these two murders.”
Ernie whispered, “It is him,” at the same time Papa’s mouth dropped and he turned to stare at Ernie.
“What was that?” the Sergeant said to Ernie.
“Nuttin’,” Ernie mumbled.
The Sergeant picked up a pen and started twirling it. “A funny statistic: do you realize that in the vast majority of murder raps, the victims are killed by someone they know?”
Ernie’s eyes narrowed. “Why’s everyone looking at me? Yeah I’m a fighter, so what. Champ was my best friend, so you can just kill that crazy thought right now.”
“I see. Your best friend who you beat up five years ago for sleeping with your now ex-wife?”
Ernie waved a hand, but his voice was weaker than before. “We settled that, and got past it. Bitch was sleepin’ with half the Hemingways, not just Champ, and Champ and me weren’t so close then anyway, you know?”
The Sergeant just smiled.
“Anyway, like you said, I was in the bar.”
“I wasn’t clear, and I apologize. According to the coroner, Champ’s time of death was approximately 4am, and all of you had already left Sloppy’s.”
“Hey,” Papa said. “We came in here for some answers and you’re here accusing us of killing our friend!”