by Tripp Ellis
I sipped my beer and watched a woman stroll down the dock, looking at the names of the boats. When she saw the Vivere, she yelled to the aft deck, “Is Tyson Wild on board?"
JD leaned in, whispering in my ear. "Don't answer. It's a trap."
6
I grimaced, not wanting to respond. For a moment, I thought it could have been the realtor, but this lady didn't fit the description Madison had given me. She was in her late 60s with short, auburn hair that had clearly been dyed. She wore white slacks, and a navy striped shirt. She certainly wasn't looking to party on the boat. She didn't strike me as a process server either.
I reluctantly admitted to being Tyson and strolled across the gangway to greet her. "What can I do for you?"
“My name is Darla Steel. I'm hoping you can help me. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I read in the paper that you were able to solve the Samantha Baxter case. I thought that if you could get to the truth of that crime, maybe you could get to the truth of the crime that involved my son?”
"What happened?"
“Colt is on death row for a murder he didn't commit."
I hesitated. "I'm really good at putting people behind bars. I don't have any experience getting people out."
“He didn't kill his wife. He would never have done anything to hurt her. I know it in my heart of hearts. Colt loved Alana."
"Sounds like this is a job for a skillful attorney,” I said.
"I've put everything I have into retaining one of the best for his appeal. But I need a good investigator. I need someone who's willing to uncover the truth, no matter where it may lead. In my experience, attorneys sit in their offices and find ways to bill. I need a man of action. Someone who's not afraid of a challenge."
My face crinkled with indecision.
"Please. I'm begging you. I'm willing to pay whatever you ask."
I exhaled. “Before I agree to anything, tell me more about his situation."
I invited her aboard the boat. We traversed the gangway, and I led her below deck to the master suite where we could talk in private. I pulled the hatch shut, muffling the noise from above.
"Tell me everything you know,” I said. “I’ll need all the state’s evidence and everything you’ve gathered that points to your son’s innocence.”
She nodded.
“Who is the attorney representing him?”
“Felicity Brock of Brock, Coburn, and Dean.”
I raised an impressed brow. "Heavy hitters. Don't they have their own investigators?"
"I want you. I told Mrs. Brock that, and she said it's my money, and I can have whatever I want. She wants to meet you to confirm that you would be a good fit."
"Understandable,” I said. I thought about it for a long moment. "Let's get one thing clear. I am not in the business of getting guilty people off the hook. If I discover something that leads me to believe your son killed his wife, I'll walk away."
"He didn't kill his wife."
"I think it's fair to say you're probably a little biased—a mom protecting her son."
"Do I love my son? Yes. Would I do anything for him? Yes. I raised my son to take responsibility for his actions. If he did the crime, I would expect him to do the time. He's been sitting in prison for six years for something he didn't do. Every day, that place chips away at his soul. And soon, if the state gets its way…" Her eyes welled with tears. She couldn't bear to finish the sentence.
I found a box of tissue on the nightstand and handed it to her.
She wiped her eyes.
"Tell me what happened," I said.
“Colt was a Special Operations Combat Medic with the Navy SEALs. From the time he was a child, all he wanted to do was serve his country. He felt the best way he could do that was through medicine. He has such a kind and giving heart. He would do anything for anybody. If you knew Colt, and how much he loved Alana, you’d know this whole scenario is preposterous."
Darla blotted her eyes again.
I still hadn’t decided if I was going to get involved.
Darla continued. “They were high school sweethearts, and they got married shortly after he enlisted. It was on his break during the holidays after recruit training when they tied the knot. He went to Navy Corpsmen A-school, then he made it through BUD/s. He went to jump school, then attended the Special Operations Combat Medic Course at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg. He ultimately planned on becoming a doctor, and the training and experience he received got him halfway there. He did several combat deployments in Afghanistan."
“That didn't leave much time to spend with a new wife," I said.
"I know. It was difficult."
"How was their relationship?"
Darla hesitated. "I think it was strained, honestly." She took a deep breath. "Colt suspected Alana was having an affair. She had gotten pregnant, but the timing was a little off, if you know what I mean."
"I would assume he was pretty upset about that?"
"Devastated."
"I would imagine so."
"He was sick over it."
"That would make you mad enough to kill somebody," I said.
Her eyes blazed into me. "He would never hurt Alana!”
"Tell me about the night of the murder."
"They were having an argument. I think the truth was coming out about her affair, and her miscarriage. Alana told him she wanted a divorce. Colt admittedly flew into a rage. They were yelling and screaming at each other. Colt punched holes in the walls, then he stormed out of the house, got into his truck and left."
"What happened next?"
"Colt said he needed to cool down. He said he drove around for a while. Stopped at a bar and had a drink, then returned home. He was going to beg her to stay and to give the marriage a second chance. When he came home, he found her on the floor in the bedroom. She was non-responsive. Alana had been shot twice. There were blood stains on the bed, the carpet, the walls. Colt called 911 and attempted CPR, but it was too late."
"Why do prosecutors think Colt was the shooter?"
A grim frown tugged at Darla’s face. "Neighbors heard the fight. And Colt's pistol was found hidden in a flowerpot outside. It had recently been fired. Two cartridges were missing from the magazine. Spent shell casings found in the bedroom were the same brand and had the same markings as casings fired from the weapon. The ballistics on the slugs from the body matched the gun as well. Colt's fingerprints were the only ones found on the gun. The prosecution had a pretty strong circumstantial case."
"Sounds like it. What about the guy Alana was having an affair with?"
"Damien Silver. Police looked into him, but he was cleared. He had a pretty strong alibi."
"What does your attorney think about all this?" I asked.
Darla shrugged. “She's looking over the case file, combing it for procedural errors, mishandling of evidence, and ineffective assistance of counsel. She's arguing that the first attorney was incompetent."
"I gotta be honest, it doesn't look good for your son."
7
"I'll meet with the attorney," I said. "I don't want to make any promises. I may not be a fit."
"Thank you for your consideration," Darla said. "I know you'll be able to help."
We exchanged information, and I escorted her off the boat.
Music pumped, and a swarm of toned bodies mingled about the yacht.
JD asked what that was about, and I caught him up to speed. He looked skeptical. "Sounds open and shut to me. The guy is guilty. He did it."
I shrugged. "I don't know what to think."
"You're not really going to get involved, are you?"
"I'll look into it. He was in the Teams.“
“Doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”
I noted a plastic drink cup that dangled from JD's hand. "I thought you were moderating your consumption of all things detrimental to your fitness goal."
His face crinkled. "I am moderating my consumption. This is whiskey and di
et soda. Gotta have a little fun.”
Denise called again. "We've got an ID on the victim from the marina."
"I'm all ears,” I said.
"Grace Livingston. She's from Fort Lauderdale. She was reported missing yesterday by her friends. Apparently they came to Coconut Key for spring break."
"Where can I find them?" I asked.
"They’re at the coroner’s office now, identifying the remains.”
I thanked Denise and ended the call. Then I nudged JD. "We gotta roll."
Jack frowned. "The party is just getting started. He glanced around the deck. "Look at all these honeys!”
The boat was filled with delightful sights—skimpy fabric hugging supple curves.
I let out a resigned sigh. "Fine. I will go interview the victim's friends myself.”
JD smiled. "I'll hold down the fort and make sure the party doesn't get out of hand."
I scoffed and left JD to have his fun.
With my helmet and gloves in hand, I strolled down the dock to the sport-bike. I cranked it up and braved the traffic, weaving my way to the Medical Examiner's Office as fast as I could.
Brenda greeted me in the lobby and escorted me to a conference room where Grace's friends waited. Brenda made the introductions, and I took a seat at the table.
The distressed faces of three teenagers stared back at me. Their eyes and noses were red and puffy. Owen and Isaac tried to remain stoic. Kaylee wept.
Owen was a slender kid with a close cropped haircut and somewhat angular features. His brown hair couldn't have been more than an inch on top. Isaac was a little shorter. He had shaggy dark hair that hung into his brown eyes. He constantly flipped his head, brushing the bangs from his lashes. Kaylee had raven hair and crystal eyes. She wore a white bikini top and jean shorts.
They all looked dazed.
“They’ve positively identified the victim as Grace Livingston," Brenda said.
“Are you all from Fort Lauderdale?" I asked.
They nodded.
"Where are you staying?"
"The marina at Pirates’ Cove," Owen said.
"Are you renting a boat, or did you bring your own?"
"We brought my boat," Owen said. "Isaac drove his van down with the girls. We thought it would be a good idea to have a car while we were here."
"When was the last time you saw Grace?"
Owen exchanged a glance with Isaac for confirmation. "Two days ago."
"And you didn't report her missing until the following day?"
"That's correct," Owen replied.
"So tell me about the last time you saw her."
Owen hesitated. He was clearly the spokesperson for the group. "It was Tuesday afternoon. We got into a fight."
“About what?”
"You know, typical relationship bullshit. Sorry," Owen excused himself. "Am I allowed to cuss?"
"Say whatever you want."
"Grace got mad because I checked out another girl’s ass,” Owen said. "Hey, I'm human, I'm going to look at other girls. Grace was really jealous and insecure. It was a challenge in our relationship. She always accused me of screwing around."
"Were you?" I asked.
"No!” Owen protested with a scowl. "I mean, nothing major."
"Define major?"
"What does this have to do with Grace getting murdered?" Owen asked.
I shrugged. "I don't know. Just trying to get an idea of your relationship."
"I watch cop shows. I know I'm a suspect. The boyfriend, or the husband, is always a suspect. I get it.”
I stared at him, flatly, and said nothing. The uncomfortable silence prompted him to ramble. I was more than happy to let him talk.
“Look, we got into a stupid fight. She left and said she was going to find someone else to party with. She was just doing it to piss me off."
"Had you two gotten into these kinds of fights before?" I asked.
"All the time."
"So you had a tumultuous relationship?"
"What does that mean?" Owen asked.
“It means you fought a lot."
"Yeah, that's what I just said." His face twisted, annoyed.
"So, she left to go party with someone else. Do you know who?" I asked.
Owen shook his head. "No. I saw her stop and talk to some guys on a boat in the marina. I blew it off. I was pissed and went back into the salon. Then I went to check on her 20 minutes later, and she was gone. They didn't know where she went. When she didn't come back to the boat that night, I figured she had met somebody else and… I don't know.” He paused. “She was trying to get back at me. I figured, maybe, she hooked up with some other guy? I texted her a few times, but never heard back. We started getting worried when she didn't come back in the morning. I kept texting her with no response. By the evening I called the Sheriff's Office and made a report. And today, I get a call from you guys telling me she's dead."
His eyes welled with tears and he began to sob. His cool exterior faded away.
“I guess you missed all the commotion this morning when the body was found?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Owen said. “I guess we slept through it. We were up late.”
“Do you know the guys Grace was talking to when you last saw her?”
“No.”
“Are they still docked in the marina?“
“Yeah, I think so.“
“Do you happen to know the name of their boat?“
Owen thought about it. “No. I can find out when I return to the marina and let you know.”
“Did Grace know anyone else here?” I asked.
Owen shrugged. “I don’t think so. I mean, there are a lot of people here right now. It’s possible she ran into someone she knew."
"Did she have any enemies?" I asked.
Owen thought about it for a moment. "I don't think so."
Kaylee said, “There were some girls in high school that we didn't like. But we haven't seen them in two years."
"Do you know where those girls are now?" I asked.
"One of them joined the Army, and I think she's overseas. And the other one moved to New York."
"Can you tell me their names?"
I wrote them down as Kaylee told me.
"What about that other girl that was raped and murdered?" Kaylee asked with concerned eyes.
"Reese Jordan. We don't know if these incidents are related,” I said.
"Seems pretty fucking related to me," Owen said.
I gave him a sharp look.
"Sorry. I’m upset. And you’re grilling me, looking at me like I'm some kind of criminal. Grace and I fought a lot, but I loved her. It was just one of those relationships, you know? When it was great, it was great. When it was bad, it sucked. But you don't give up on something just because it sucks a little bit here and there."
"Can I get you something to drink?" I asked. "Water, soda?"
The trio exchanged a glance.
"I'll take a diet soda," Kaylee said.
"Yeah, me too," Isaac added.
Owen shook his head. "I'm fine."
I nodded to Brenda. She knew exactly what I was up to. She left the room and returned a few moments later with three diet sodas and passed them out. The three of them twisted the tops off the miniature bottles, and air hissed. Even though Owen didn’t request a bottle, he drank anyway.
Now we had DNA samples to test on all three of them, provided they left the soda bottles behind.
“Do you have any pictures of Grace?”
“Yeah,” Owen said.
He texted me a few, and gave me her social media accounts.
I asked a few more questions, stalling for time, allowing them to finish the mini-sized drinks.
"Does anyone have anything else to add?" I asked.
They all exchanged a glance, then shook their heads.
"How long are you planning on staying in town?" I asked.
Owen shrugged. "I don't know. We were planning on staying for the Chloe-C concert.
That's really why we came down here. Now, I'm not sure. I mean, doesn't matter where we go, the pain is going to stay with us." Owen looked at his comrades. "I think we will stay here and do what we set out to do. I think that's what Grace would have wanted.”
Owen finished the drink and looked around for a trashcan. "Where can I throw this?"
"Don't worry about it," I said. "I'll get it. Just leave them on the table."
I thanked them for their cooperation and expressed my condolences again. I held the door for them as they left the conference room and filtered into the lobby.
Brenda left the room and returned momentarily, wearing a pair of purple nitrile gloves. She put each bottle into a separate evidence bag and labeled them. She flashed a mischievous smile at me. "You're smooth, Tyson. Very smooth."
8
I was looking for an excuse not to take on the Steel case.
When we spoke on the phone, Felicity Brock said she was expecting my call and was happy to meet for a few minutes. Brock, Coburn, and Dean, LLP was a prominent firm that handled mostly criminal defense cases with a little personal injury and family law as additional areas of practice. Felicity Brock had racked up some impressive, high-profile cases, garnering acquittals for infamous defendants.
I stopped by the firm after I left the Medical Examiner's Office. I parked the bike and strolled into the posh lobby of the professional building. My eyes scanned the directory, then I took the elevators up to the ninth floor.
The firm occupied the entire level.
It was an old school office with lots of cherry-wood and oil paintings of the partners hanging from the walls. There was a leather Chesterfield sofa, and a glass coffee table with a big book of classical art. Leather bound law books lined an inset bookshelf. The place screamed class and expensive hourly fees.
A middle-aged receptionist greeted me with a smile and offered to give me a bottle of water. She had short, curly, brown hair and wore glasses. She had a friendly face and reminded me of a schoolteacher. She pulled out a miniature bottle from a small fridge behind the desk and handed it to me. The receptionist told me to take a seat on the leather sofa and that Mrs. Brock would be with me shortly.