Third Chances

by Dan Petrosini

  Vargas jumped in. “What Detective Luca is saying is that this killer seems to be targeting white males in their thirties.”

  “And what is his or her motivation? We don’t have a shred of evidence to support that, making solving this case more difficult than it needs to be.” He slammed a palm on the desk. “And you know who I blame for that? The two of you. Now, I want concrete progress, and I want it fast or you’re off this case. Do I make myself clear?”

  Instead of telling Chester to fuck himself, I nodded.

  ***

  We were sitting at a table in Rosedale. It was empty and closing in twenty minutes. I don’t think they would have let us in if they hadn’t known me.

  A pimply kid delivered our pizza, and I reached for a slice. Folding a slice, I blew on it and took a bite. It was hot as hell but good. Mary Ann was still cutting her piece up as I took another bite. Mouth full, I said, “I can’t believe my career is hanging on two pieces of hair.”

  Mary Ann swallowed and put her fork down. “You’re being a bit dramatic, Frank.”

  “You think so? I don’t come up with something fast, Chester’s gonna take me off the case.”

  Mary Ann sipped a cheap Chianti. “We’ll come up with something.”

  “Where we gonna get something fast?”

  “The sheriff directed forensics to drop what they were doing to concentrate on the Parker crime scene.”

  “They’re not gonna get lucky, I can—”

  “Someone’s always saying: ‘We keep our heads down, do the grunt work, interview away, and presto, our luck changes.’”

  She didn’t know it, but I hated it when she threw a saying of mine back at me. I took another piece of pizza.

  “Easy for you to say. it ain’t your career on the line.”

  “Geez, Frank. It’s one case and a tough one. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and eat your damn pizza.”

  “Don’t it bother you? I feel like I’m in quicksand.”

  “Look, I’m as frustrated as you are, but you gotta keep things in perspective, Frank. You can’t define yourself by what goes on day to day.”

  “What the heck does that mean?”

  “First off, your job is just your job, it’s not who you are.”

  “But I like my job. it’s a big part of me and who I am.”

  Mary Ann sighed. “Let me put it another way. When you do well, don’t let it get to your head, and when you do poorly, don’t let it get to your heart.”

  Nodding slowly, I had to admit it was a damn good saying, even if I didn’t come up with it.

  “Does that make sense, Frank?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to look like a fool in front of the entire force. If Chester relieves me of this case, it’d be embarrassing as all hell.”

  “Chester’s got a job to do, and he’s got to be seen as taking action. We can’t control that.”

  “We damn well can. You see, that’s where you’re wrong, Mary Ann. If we make progress he’s got to keep us on it.”

  “Who cares who solves this, as long as it’s solved?”

  I drained my wine glass and grabbed the last slice before I could say something stupid.

  “So that’s it, isn’t it? Detective Frank Luca wants to be the hero. Give me a break.”

  “I—I—that’s not true.” Even though it was.

  “Let’s go. I’m tired.”

  Chapter 15

  The following morning I was studying a wall of pictures from the four crime scenes. Usually my internal voice would whisper something. But nothing this time—complete silence. The phone rang, and I tripped rushing to get it.

  “Take it easy, Frank.”

  It was human resources reminding me to sign a document acknowledging receipt of the new employee handbook.

  “Every day, more bureaucratic bullshit to deal with.”

  “You complaining again?”

  “It just gets me, all this politically correct crap instead of focusing on the bad guys.”

  “You just woke up to the fact the lawyers are in charge?”

  “It’s a wonder we get anything done.” The phone rang again.

  After listening to the caller, I slammed the receiver down.

  Vargas said, “Guess that wasn’t good.”

  “No match on the hair or ballistics against the database. The gun’s a 9mm, probably a Glock.”

  “It was a long shot.”

  “Now what?”

  “Come on, Frank. all of a sudden you don’t know what to do? Maybe Chester is right; we shouldn’t be on this case.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it! Clean up what you’re doing. We’re outta here in ten.” I grabbed the Parker file to read while coaxing a pee out.

  ***

  The sign said Sunny Meadows, but there wasn’t a meadow in sight in the mobile home park on Radio Road. It was less than a mile from where Tinder had his apartment. Was there a connection?

  Shaun Parker’s brother lived in unit 62, a faded blue, single-wide trailer. The place was way past its mobile expiration date. The only way the heap would move was with a crane.

  A warm drizzle began as I rapped on the door. A stocky guy, barefoot and in shorts, opened the door, holding a giant-sized soda from Burger King.

  “Billy Parker?”

  “Yeah, that’s me. What do you want?”

  I introduced ourselves, telling him we needed background information on his brother. Vargas followed with her condolences, and he moved aside to let us in.

  Billy said he only had ten minutes, as he was getting ready to get to work. We went into what functioned as the kitchen. I’d seen platters bigger than this guy’s kitchen table, but what caught my attention was what was on it.

  The table was laden with wrappers from two burgers, three containers of fries, a milk shake, and a chocolate fudge sundae. I looked around for a note. This guy wasn’t going to work; he was committing suicide.

  Vargas asked, “Is there anyone you know who’d have any reason, no matter how deranged, to do this to Shaun?”

  “Can’t say I do. You know me and Shaun, we ain’t so close. After Mom died, he started getting into all kinds of trouble, and I had no time for that bullshit. I mean, how many times you got to get thrown in jail to learn a lesson?”

  She asked, “Who’s older?”

  “Me, by four years.”

  “Any other siblings.”

  “Nah, just the two of us, but like I say, we didn’t keep in touch much.”

  I said, “When was the last time you saw him?”

  He hesitated. “Probably Christmas.”

  “And you don’t remember that?”

  “Hey, man, look. like I said, we weren’t close.”

  The place was feeling claustrophobic to me. “Where’d you see him at Christmas?”

  “My girl, Mary, she’s really a good person. we went to her place the last couple of Christmases. She’s Italian, so family’s a big thing, and she makes me invite him. He never came before, but this year he did. Maybe it was because he was going to church or something.”

  “Did he come alone?”

  “He brought a girl with him.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I think it was Katy or something.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “No, but she was a waitress at Blueberry over on 41.”

  “Do you know Brett Tinder? He lives less than a mile away.”

  “Tinder? Nah, I don’t think so.”

  I held up pictures. “How about Joe Chapman or Dick Cornwall?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you know if your brother was gay?”

  “Gay? What are you talking about? What are you gonna tell me, besides being a crook, he was queer?”

  “It’s only a question about his orientation. We’re trying to check connections between the killings we’re investigating.”

  We fini
shed up and left to follow-up on the only piece he gave that was worth following—a waitress at a diner.

  ***

  Not big on going out for breakfast, I’d never been to Blueberry. Like its name, the exterior was cute, but the inside, with its pine walls and knickknacks, screamed a place in upstate New York forty years past its prime. It didn’t seem to matter, though. the place was nearly full.

  I asked the hostess about Katy, assuring her it wasn’t her we were interested in. Waiting on the porch, the smell of pancakes made my stomach growl. Two minutes later, the screen door swung open and a woman, not quite overweight or out of shape, but on the verge of both, came out. I tried to match the color from the hairs found on the victim to her hair.

  “Hi. I’m Katy. You here about Shaun?”

  “Yes. We understand you two were together.”

  “We were, but it ended a couple of months ago.”

  That was a good sign. I wasn’t passing judgment on the fact she dated a criminal, but I was just glad it wasn’t her hair. We still had a shot at finding if it belonged to the killer.

  “You haven’t seen him in a long while?”

  “He came around a couple of times, saying that he’d changed and was straight. He even said he was involved at a church. But I’d heard that from him a dozen times before. I couldn’t waste any more time with him. He was sweet, but as you know, he had a dark side. Maybe it was losing his mother early or something.”

  She came up for air, and I said, “He said he was going to church?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “What church was that?”

  “The Spirit, or something like that. It’s all the way up Immokalee, out by Oil Well Road.”

  I asked, “The Spirit of Fellowship Church?”

  “Maybe. I don’t remember anything but the Spirit part, you know, the Holy Ghost?”

  “Any mention of who the minister was? Was it Gabriel Booth?”

  “I donno. I’m sorry.”

  Vargas asked, “Did he ever mention anything about being in danger? Or having enemies?”

  She sighed. “Like I said, Shaun had a real sweet side to him, but he could only be good so long. I’m from a good family. My uncle is a cop up in Indiana, and, well, I knew he was up to no good. He’d hide out sometimes for days. It wasn’t good. He probably had lots of enemies.”

  “How long were you together?”

  “Less than six months.”

  I handed her my card, asking her to call with anything she thought could be helpful.

  As soon as we got back in the car, I told Vargas to find out what other churches were out by Oil Well Road. As Vargas tapped on her phone, I said, “This could be the break we need to keep Chester off the top step of the dugout.”

  “Maybe, but there’s two other churches out there, and one of them is The Holy Spirit Episcopalian Church, right on Oil Well.”

  ***

  Tony Kelp’s apartment took up half the floor. I thought it was cool that the elevator opened right into his apartment, but the view was crazy. Squinting, I walked toward a bank of sliders that looked out on the shimmering Gulf. The fencing on the deck was done right—see-through—some sort of plexiglass.

  “This is some view, Mr. Kelp.”

  “Every time I bitch about having to park underneath and take an elevator up with my stuff, I remind myself about the view.”

  I turned around, and as my eyes adjusted, said, “Seems like a good trade-off to me. How are you feeling?”

  “Pretty good. it was a scare, but I’m lucky it was only the appendix. At my age, you feel pain, and your mind tells you this is it.”

  I didn’t want to go down that path with him. “Well, you look good. Now, I’d like to ask you about the body found out there.” It was my first time interviewing someone with the crime scene laid out below. “Tell me what you heard and saw that night.”

  “Sure, let’s sit. You want something to drink?”

  “You know what, I could use a water.”

  Kelp slipped around a black marble island to a stainless-steel fridge, and I glanced around. I was sure he was a widower based on the photos and furnishings, which had been dragged from his previous home. The heavy, Tuscan-inspired furnishings clashed with the Miami vibe of the high-rise. This place was worth a couple of million, and calling it an apartment or condo was a disservice.

  I wasn’t expecting a Pellegrino, and Kelp didn’t disappoint, putting a bottle of Poland Springs on a Tommy Bahama coaster.

  Twisting the cap, I said, “Thanks. so tell me what you remember.”

  “I get up a lot during the night to piss. You’re too young yet, but you’ll see.”

  He should only know my pee-pee problems.

  “Anyway, I took a piss and climbed back into bed when I heard this noise. I was sure it a gunshot. It was a like a crack.”

  “It was late, and you’d been sleeping. I’m not doubting what you heard, but are you sure?”

  “I served in the Korean War, and I know the sound of a firearm.”

  “I’m sure you do. I’m just trying to be certain. Would you know the difference in the sound between a rifle and handgun?”

  “Years ago, when I was on the Korean Peninsula, I could tell you the difference between an M-16 and an M-19. I probably couldn’t today, but I’ve got no doubt it was a handgun. The rest of me may be falling apart, but my hearing never fails me.”

  “Good, that’s helpful. What did you do after hearing the gun fire?”

  “When I heard the shot, I got up and looked out the window. There was a car—come here, I’ll show you.”

  Kelp grabbed the cocktail table, pulling himself off the couch. He slid open a door to the deck, and we were engulfed by a humid, salt-laced breeze.

  “I came out the bedroom door. It’s one big deck. And there was this car.” Kelp pointed to where Vanderbilt Drive crossed Wiggins Pass. “sitting right there.”

  “Did you see anybody?”

  “No, but the car was one of those Japanese types, and it had like strange lights on the back.”

  “What do you mean, strange?”

  “It started moving, going north, but one side of the taillights looked like the reverse lights were on. You know, the white ones that come on when you back up?”

  I nodded. “You sure about that?”

  “That’s what it looked like to me.”

  “You said the car was Japanese. How’d you know that?”

  Kelp tugged an earlobe. “Japanese cars all make that whiny sound, really different from the sound American or European cars make. Jap cars make a burring sound, not aggressive sounding at all.”

  “Any idea on the make?”

  “I’m really not sure; most of them look the same. You ever see the logos for Mazda, Infinity, and Lexus? They all look the same.”

  I had to agree. “You mind if we look through a couple of pictures, see if you can recognize the make of the car you saw?”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  We cycled through most models, and though he leaned toward a Honda Accord, he wasn’t certain.

  Chapter 16

  Opening the car door, I heard my name called out. Vargas and I turned around. It was a secretary from the second floor.

  “Sheriff wants to see both of you.”

  I said, “Tell him we’re on the way to see a suspect.”

  “He said he wants to see you now.”

  “But—”

  “Come on, Frank. Let’s get this over with.”

  As we headed back in, I said, “It may be over for good.”

  “Stop with the end of the world stuff, okay?”

  There were four coffee cups on Chester’s desk and a stack of newspapers. The sheriff was on the phone. We stood behind the chairs in front of his desk as he finished the call. He motioned to sit but didn’t get up.

  “Take a seat.”

  Chester silently thumbed throug
h a file marked FBI. I felt like a reliever who’d walked with the bases loaded and was waiting for the hook.

  He flipped the file closed and tapped his forefinger on the stack of newspapers.

  “I’d like you to tell me how we’re going to regain the public’s trust. It took years to build the relationships we have with the communities in our county, and this case threatens to destroy that sacred trust.”

  Vargas said, “It’s been a difficult case, sir. This bad guy or girl has been careful, but we have several leads we’re working.”

  “They better be strong ones.”

  Vargas said, “In fact, we were on our way to talk to our first real suspect when you called us in.”

  “What do you have on him?”

  She said, “A friend of two of the victims said a man, Mike Moler, had made threats to both men. Moler has two priors—assault, and arrest for carrying a firearm.”

  Chester nodded. “He sounds interesting.”

  I said, “And we’re working a line that this may be a hate crime. Two of the victims were gay.”

  “What about the others?”

  “Not openly, sir. But we’re probing.”

  “I assume both of you realize the pressure on my office is growing.”

  We nodded.

  “Don’t misunderstand this as a threat, but the clock is ticking.”

  ***

  We let the Lee County Police know we were going to Moler’s, turning down their offer of help. The captain wasn’t happy and said he’d have a squad car patrol in the East Terry Street area if we needed help.

  I hesitated to say Mike Moler lived in a cinder-block cube, because with plywood covering both front windows, it looked more like a place you would squat in. The gravel walkway led to a door without a bell. I pounded a palm on the door several times before a runt of a man, with several days’ worth of beard growth, opened the door.

  “What the fuck you want?”

  Vargas said, “We’re with the Collier Sheriff’s Office.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”

  Moler was no more than five feet one and a hundred and thirty pounds. He was considerably smaller than all the victims. I’d run into a lot of small men who tried to supplement their stature with a gun.

  “We’re here to question you about some friends of yours.”