“It must have been rough. I’m sorry for your loss.”
She bit her lip and whispered, “It was devastating. It still is. I think of him every single day.”
Emotion was good in an interview but not the direction this was going. I cleared my throat.
“It could be someone from the past who has it in for you. It may have nothing to do with your son. Why don’t you think some more about this, and let me know if you recall anything?”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“Now, the church recently took a large loan out—a million dollars.” I let it hang for a second. “Could something be going on? Maybe a theft or embezzlement of some kind?”
“We took the loan out to expand our mission and outreach. There were a few, myself included, who disagreed over it, but Minister Booth has the final say and went ahead with it.”
“Why were you opposed to borrowing the money?”
“I felt we were adding too much risk, and by expanding we could be stretching ourselves too thin. My husband works nonstop, and we barely have time together.”
“He does seem committed. More like he’s married to the church, right?”
She nodded silently.
“You’re home alone a lot, then.”
“Most nights, but Sundays, after services, we’re always home together.”
“That’s a lot of time alone.”
“We work together. It’s not like I don’t see him.”
I lowered my voice. “Hannah, you got to be completely honest with me. I don’t care what anyone’s marriage is like. Lord knows, mine was no picnic, and it was my fault. You can count on me to keep it quiet, but I need to know if you had any involvement, other than work, with Chapman or Cornwall.”
Her believability sank as she hesitated, meekly saying, “I didn’t do it.”
Chapter 31
It was hot. I kicked my feet out from under the sheet, sending a flash of pain to my lower back. Who will go for us? kept looping in my mind. I couldn’t fall back asleep. Every time I checked the clock, its red numbers only advanced a couple of minutes.
Closing my eyes, I couldn’t shake the voice. I knew it wasn’t a dream; it was God speaking. He knew I was afraid and had stopped doing his work. The police were putting a lot of resources into finding me, and I had to keep a low profile to avoid being taken off the battlefield.
His words were crystal clear: “Who shall I send? Who will go for us?” I replayed his call for help over and over. It was dangerous work, but the rewards eternal. In Romans 2, verses 6-7, it said, ‘God renders to every man according to his deeds. Those who persevere and do his work, receive honor and eternal life.’
How could I say no? Who would ever say no? I threw the covers off, and before my feet hit the tile I said, “Here am I, Lord. Send me.” There was evil to stamp out, and I was going to resume the battle, starting with one of the wickedest serpents to slither on God’s earth.
I’d been careful to avoid evening the score. I knew I couldn’t hide my motivations from God. He knew everything, so I waited, disposing of other sinful, immoral felons before going after this depraved punk, Bobby.
Piece of shit was no better than his evil father, Paul. What a farce, Paul, the devil incarnate, was named after an apostle. The bastard was gifted with at least three so-called second chances. If Paul would’ve remained behind bars as he should have, my mom would be alive.
My head began pounding, and my vision blurred. I extended my arm and felt my way to the bathroom. I kept the light off and grabbed my meds. Twisting the top off, I stuck a finger in, rolled three pills up, and hit the faucet to wash them down. Gently lowering myself onto the toilet, I waited for the razor-sharp pain to ease. As the pain ebbed, the memory of my mother’s death seeped in.
On that day she was late coming home, which happened from time to time when the grocery store was busy toward the end of her shift. But an hour later it felt different. I went outside and sat on the front steps to wait.
Dusk turned to night, and I was crying when my next-door neighbor, Mrs. Hawley, came home. She took me in, heated up a bowl of soup and made some calls. Slurping soup, I heard her say, “She’s missing. She left work two hours ago.” Mrs. Hawley put a hand on her hip. “No, she wouldn’t. her eight-year-old kid is home alone, sitting on the steps waiting for her.”
I listened, my concern elevating when she said, “I’m telling you, something’s happened to her. She’s a responsible woman. I don’t care about any of your protocol. You’ve got to do something.”
When Mr. Hawley came home, we went to the police station. It was scary. The policemen were real nice to me, but they said I had to stay and wait for a lady to get me. I sat on a wooden bench as Mr. Hawley told me everything would be all right. As he disappeared down a corridor, I began crying. No one was helping to find my mother.
It felt like a long time until a lady came and sat next to me. She smelled like an orange and had clogs on with a long skirt. I had to go with her until my mom came home, she said. It was the law and that there was nothing to be afraid of. Her mouth was moving but I couldn’t hear anything she said. Then I remember she placed my hand in her sweaty hand and led me to a van.
There was another kid in the van who was younger and sobbing badly. I broke down and started calling for my mom as we rolled away. They took us to a place that looked like a school but had bars on the windows. There was a smell, I later realized was bleach, that I can still feel in the back of my throat almost thirty years later. They told me I’d see my mother in the morning, but I knew I’d never see her again.
After being forced to shower with a soap that smelled like spoiled milk, they gave me itchy pajamas and brought me to a room with two rows of beds. I curled up on a hard mattress, staring at the wall until I fell asleep.
In the morning, I said I didn’t deserve to be in jail and that I wanted to go home, but they told me to be quiet and follow the rules. It was right after I threw up my lunch that I was taken to an office. I was afraid, telling them I was sorry for throwing up, but I couldn’t help it. it wasn’t my fault.
A bald man, wearing John Lennon glasses, was sitting behind a desk. His Adam’s apple bobbed before he said, “I have some difficult news about your mother. She was killed by a very bad man.”
That very bad man was Paul Hagan. I was counting on what his son Bobby said about the two of them being close, even though Paul was behind bars. It wasn’t until I was twenty-five that I learned the details of what happened to my mother. Tied up like an animal in the basement of an abandoned house, she was violently raped by Hagan. While she was still alive this monster disfigured her genitals. The ghastly news made me physically ill for weeks, and when I learned Hagan had been released from prison only three weeks earlier, I fell into a depression that lasted for two years.
His son Bobby, another irredeemable bastard, was going to pay the price, and I was hoping his father would suffer as I had.
Idiots who think evil can be reformed don’t get it. These people are in the devil’s camp. This is war; they must be slayed.
Chapter 32
Fifteen minutes into his daily swim, Jay McDaniel found his rhythm. He took four long strokes with his head down and turning his head left, took a deep breath. He repeated the routine, making his way from Pelican Bay’s South Beach toward Clam Pass.
McDaniel was considering where to take his new girlfriend to lunch when his hand bumped into something. Concerned the wakeboard he towed along in case of an emergency had come untethered, he popped his head up.
Heart racing, McDaniel pushed his goggles up and gasped. It was a body. McDaniel shoved the body away and grabbed his board. He shouted toward the shoreline, but the beach walkers kept parading.
McDaniel positioned the wakeboard under his chest and paddled for the beach.
***
I always liked the setup at Pelican Bay. The community had a combination of beachfront high-rises and tw
enty different communities stretched along the shore from Vanderbilt Beach Road to Pine Ridge. There were price points from four hundred thousand to ten million, but all of them carried a premium attributed to their location and beach access.
Most of their homes weren’t by the beach. There was a wide bay separating most homes from the sand, but Pelican Bay ran continuous golf cart shuttles, ferrying its residents to its north and south beaches. Each beach had restaurant facilities with amazing views. Mary Ann had a friend who lived there, and we had dinner with them twice.
The click-clacking sound our cart made slowed as we came to the end of the mile-long boardwalk. The cart deposited us by a stairway where yellow police tape sliced the stairs in half. Descending the steps, I wondered whether this was a blameless drowning or part of the killing spree that threatened my career.
The Gulf shimmered in the morning sun without the glare. Groups of beachgoers and busybodies were clustered near a line of tape that ran from the mangroves to a stake at the water’s edge.
I showed my credentials to the officer acting as the gatekeeper.
“Detective, the man who found the body is over there.”
He pointed to a covered deck where morning yoga classes and evening music shows were held. A pair of officers were talking to a fit, sixty-something man in a bathing suit.
“Thanks. Maybe later.”
I wanted to see the body first. I couldn’t imagine the towel-draped swimmer could tell me anything helpful. I ducked under the tape, realizing this was the first time I was working on the beach.
When I’d first gotten down here, I had a trace of envy for the officers who patrolled the beach. Riding up and down the beach on an ATV was not only an easy gig, but it seemed like a crafty way to meet women.
Realizing that each step I took in the sand could bring me closer to losing my career, I paused, covering my concerns with a slow scan of the area. Inhaling deeply, I headed toward the body.
An officer on an ATV parked to shield the body got off his machine. My heart sank when I saw the corpse was a thirty-something-year-old male.
“Hiya doing, Luca.”
“All good.” I couldn’t remember this guy’s name. His tag said Brewster, but his first name wasn’t even close to the tip of my tongue. I knelt by the body, swallowing the bile that ran up my throat. There were two bullet wounds in the chest.
The head was lolled back, and the mouth formed a perfect O. Was that a look of surprise?
“What’s the time line here?”
“I was down by the Ritz when the call came in around eight twenty a.m. I called for a boat to grab the body, but by the time I got here fifteen minutes later, the body was on the beach.”
“Who retrieved the body?”
“The guy who found the body is up at the club. This guy goes out every morning, and he ran into it swimming. He hightailed it back to shore, and a couple of the beach kids from the club went out with their boards and dragged the body in.”
“You got gloves?”
“Yeah.” He lifted the ATV’s seat and grabbed gloves from the compartment.
“Roll him over a little. I want to check his back pockets.”
The only thing in his pockets were grains of sand—no wallet, no phone, no nothing. I was trying to convince myself that this difference would be enough to cast doubt it was the same killer.
“Crazy, huh? out swimming and run into a corpse—that’d freak out anyone.”
Studying the redheaded body, I tried to envision whether this was another thug whose criminal hourglass had run out. Jeans and a tee shirt seemed to be their dress code. This stiff was solidly built, but not strong enough to repel a bullet.
The killer was winning; the evidence lay at my feet. I’d have to change tactics completely to catch him or her, that is if Chester didn’t pull it from me. Taking my phone out to check when the coroner was coming, I saw another text from Kayla. Cupping my hand to block the sun, I read it:
“Hey Frank. Hope everything is all right. Maybe you missed my text, but I’ll be in town next week."
***
Entering my office waving a report, I said, “We got a ballistics match with Parker.”
Vargas said, “And we got a name for victim five. Bobby Hagan, thirty-five years old and another habitual offender. Lived in Golden Gate.”
“We’ve either got two killers, or someone looking to throw us off.”
“Also, hate to tell you, but Chester decided against a search.”
“What? Why?”
“Probably the pressure. You see the Daily News?”
Vargas held the paper up. A picture on the front page of the protest sat under a headline: "Religious Freedom Under Attack?"
“What total bullshit! No wonder nobody trusts the media.”
“They put the sheriff’s statement at the end of the article, on page nine.”
“I still can’t believe he backed off. Something isn’t right. We’ve got solid evidence. He has to follow it.”
“Maybe he’ll wait till things die down.”
“What? Wait until we find another body floating somewhere?”
“Sit down, Frank. Let’s focus on this guy Hagan.”
Vargas had put together a file with Hagan’s rap sheet and family contacts. His mother lived in Estero and had been notified of her son’s demise. She was the natural place to start.
***
Tahiti Mobile Village was just past Koreshan Park off of Broadway. The collection of trailer homes wouldn’t inspire anyone to visit Tahiti, and I’d bet the Tahitian Tourist Commission would object if they knew this place existed.
Lynn Hagan lived in a pink trailer on Polynesian Loop. As far as I knew, there weren’t any flamingos in Tahiti, but there were half a dozen flamingos peppering her entrance area. Vargas led the way, climbing three steps to knock on a glass-louvered door.
A pair of glasses were dangling around her sixty-something year-old neck. With lipstick three shades too red, Lynn Hagan looked like someone who worked in a Jersey diner. Vargas told her why we were here, and she stepped to the side.
Before I got to the top step I could smell cigarette smoke. I turned my head, took a gulp of fresh air, and stepped into the mobile home. It was bigger than I expected. A worn leather couch anchored the living space, and an oak table with four chairs filled the dining area.
“Mrs. Hagan, we’d like to extend our condolences for your loss.” Vargas winced and rubbed her abdomen.
Hagan reached for a pack of Lucky Strikes. “I lost Bobby a long time ago.” She took a cigarette out, stuck it in her mouth, and lit it with a blue lighter.
“Can you tell us anything that would help make sense of who did this to your son?”
The tip of her cigarette turned bright orange. Exhaling, she said, “It started early, it did. Bobby had problems with his eyes, something called Uveal Coloboma. Kid had to wear these special glasses. I felt bad for him. He got teased to no end about it. Couldn’t play sports and such. His father, the no-good bastard he was, tried to toughen him up—went too goddamn far, is what he did.”
“We’re aware of your son’s trouble with the law.”
She laughed. “Nice way of putting it, but his father turned him into a delinquent before he could drive. And when the no-good bastard got sent away for good, Bobby got worse—kept getting arrested. I thought moving would help, and when I heard about a church that helped people like him, we came down. I tried, but . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she took a draw on her smoke.
“Was that The Spirit of Fellowship Church?”
I moved away from the smoke she blew my way as she nodded.
I said, “What about his friends? Is there anyone you know that was close to him, that we should speak to?”
She shook her head. “We didn’t see each other much. Last time I seen him was like a year ago, maybe more.”
“You can’t think of anyone?”
S
he shook her head.
As soon as we got outside, I said, “What’s the matter? Your stomach bothering you again?”
“No, my side. maybe it’s the kidney.”
Chapter 33
The rainy season was dumping the last of its deluge, slowing traffic to a crawl on Airport Polling Road. Worried about Mary Ann, I cut down Orange Blossom and made a right onto Goodlette Frank and headed to NCH. The weather and traffic mirrored my day; it started out sunny, then body number five showed up, and everything went to shit.
Traffic was backed up at the Immokalee intersection, and trying to see around a pickup truck, I saw it: a Honda Accord with one of its backup lights on while it was stopped at a traffic light. The same car that Kelp, who lived in Aqua, mentioned.
Inching to the car in front of me, I tried to recall if Kelp mentioned what side of the car had a backup light on. This one was on the left. The light changed, and the clown in front of me was looking at his damn phone. The Honda was out of sight when we finally started moving. I put my strobes on and hit the siren.
Cars parted. I snaked through, getting behind the Honda, which slowed and pulled over. Yanking the steering wheel, I passed the Accord, realizing it wasn’t a backup light but a reflection. Approaching Airport Polling, I shut the siren and lights and made a U-turn.
There were ten people on the line for visitors. I flashed my badge and went around the barrier. I get the attempt at hospital security, but having some volunteer ask to see your driver’s license before admitting you is zero security.
Mary Ann stirred, smiling when I entered her room. She looked pale and small in the bed. There was an IV in her arm, leading to a clear bag on a pole.
“Nice. You're lying here resting and leaving it to me to bag all the bad guys?”
She propped herself up. “Hi Frank. it’s so good to see you.”
Third Chances Page 13