“But I feel like I’ve known you forever.”
His tired line might have worked on other women, but it made me want to gag. “I’m in a hurry. Some of us have to work for a living.”
He ignored my barb. Or it went over his head. “Actually, I did stop you for a reason.”
He was grinning like an idiot, and I’d moved as far away from him as my seat belt allowed. In the presence of Keating and his ego, I always felt crowded.
“I wanted to ask you to have dinner with me,” he said.
I sighed. “We’ve been through this before. I’m engaged, Keating. You’re wasting your time.”
“Oh.” Disappointment registered on his Magnum-look-alike face. “I thought that had changed.”
“You thought what had changed?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders, and the movement produced a corresponding ripple in his impressive biceps. “I saw Malcolm last night going into Sophia’s with a good-looking redhead, so I assumed—”
“You assumed wrong.” So Bill had taken Trish to Sophia’s, the most la-di-da restaurant in Pelican Bay? The green-eyed monster nipped at me, and I didn’t mean the ex-wife. “We have a friend visiting from out of town. I’d have been with Bill and her, but we’re working a 24-7 security detail and I drew duty last night.”
My excuse sounded flimsy, even to me, but the problems of Bill’s ex-wife were none of Keating’s business. I was having a hard enough time avoiding the determined deputy without giving him the slightest whiff of hope that my relationship with Bill was rocky.
His grin widened, as if he’d guessed there was trouble in paradise. “Then maybe you’ll have dinner with me when it’s Malcolm’s turn to work.”
“Why would I do that?” I asked with feigned innocence.
“Because a pretty woman like you shouldn’t eat alone,” Keating said in a voice hot enough to melt wax.
“Sorry, got to run. I’m late for an appointment.” I rolled up my window, forcing him to move his arms or have them pinched by the glass.
Leaving Keating standing in the street, watching me with his hands on his hips, I pulled away from the curb.
CHAPTER 7
When I arrived at the Clearwater Police Department, the parking lot was almost full, and more people than usual were coming and going from the downtown station. After showing my ID, I was admitted to the building and took the elevator to the criminal investigation department on the second floor. The room was packed with detectives, and I wondered if the city was experiencing a crime spree.
“What’s going on?” I asked Adler.
“They just activated the Emergency Operations Center fifteen minutes ago.” He waved me to a chair beside his desk and polished off what looked like the last of a Danish pastry. “You haven’t seen this morning’s weather forecast?”
I shook my head.
“Tropical Storm Harriet’s been upgraded to a Category Two hurricane. It’s gaining strength and forward speed and headed this way. The EOC is gearing up for evacuations. We’ll all be pulling overtime until this blows over.”
The county’s Emergency Operations Center would have its hands full. Evacuating tens of thousands from the barrier islands over a handful of bridges, several of which were undergoing repairs and construction, was a daunting and probably impossible task. I thought immediately of Kimberly Ross in her high-rise.
“Can I use a phone?” I asked.
Adler pointed to the only empty desk in the room. I hurried to it, picked up the handset and dialed the penthouse. Mackley answered.
“We’ve got hurricane warnings,” I said. “If you and Kimberly don’t get off the beach now, you could be stuck in traffic before this thing hits.”
“You want me to take her to my house?” he asked.
“Has FedEx delivered the letters from her Omaha office?”
“They arrived a few minutes ago.”
“Pack them with Kimberly’s things and move her to my condo. You can get the key from Darcy at the office.”
“Your place is in an evacuation zone, too.”
“I’ll take her somewhere from there later,” I said. “At least you’ll both be off the beach.”
The somewhere later I had in mind was the house Bill and I had bought that was farther inland than my condo and fitted with impact-resistant windows and shutters. But I didn’t relish the idea of being cooped up with Trish. Bill’s ex-wife was disaster enough without adding a natural one.
“Just get out of there as quickly as you can,” I told Mackley. “I’ll give you a call after you’ve reached my place.”
“Will do. I’ll check the weather. If this thing’s moving fast, I’ll have to cut my shift short so I can get home and put up shutters.”
“No problem.”
If Mackley had to return to Tampa before the bridges and causeways into Hillsborough County closed due to winds and flooding, I’d take over guarding Kimberly so he’d have time to reach home safely. If the Big One hit Pinellas County with high storm surge, forecasters had predicted that the entire peninsula would become two small islands, cut off from the rest of the state, with its roads and causeways underwater, its bridges destroyed.
I didn’t have to warn Mackley to be careful leaving the building with Kimberly. If she had been the intended target, the shooter knew from the morning news that he’d missed her and had hit Sister Mary Theresa instead. He could be lying in wait outside the building. But Abe knew his job. He’d create a diversion or give Kimberly a disguise. Or both.
After hanging up with Mackley, I called Darcy and asked her to make sure Bill knew about the storm. Under normal circumstances, he stayed on top of the weather, but with Trish to deal with, his situation was far from ordinary. I wanted to make certain he had time to secure the Ten-Ninety-Eight against the coming blow.
“Shut down the office now if you need to go home and make preparations,” I told her.
I returned to the chair by Adler’s desk. He looked harried and distracted, and his tousled sandy hair made him appear more boyish than ever.
“We’re all on duty here till the storm passes,” he said.
I understood the drill. The Emergency Operations Center called in all county and municipal employees to deal with the event, including evacuation, the storm’s duration and its aftermath. Unlike the city of New Orleans prior to Katrina, our county had a well-thought-out plan and the means to implement it and deal with the disaster. Transportation, shelters and evacuation procedures were in place, and residents had been repeatedly warned since the first of April to have at least three days of supplies ready, because they might be on their own at least that long if a hurricane swept our part of the state.
“I need a favor, Maggie,” Adler said.
“You’ve got it,” I replied without hesitation. Adler had provided invaluable help in many of my investigations. I owed him. And I loved him like the son I’d never had. All he had to do was ask.
“I don’t want Sharon and Jessica alone during the storm. There’s a shelter for employees’ families, but it will be crowded with people who live in evacuation zones. My girls will be more comfortable at home, as long as someone’s with them.”
I’d been planning to take Kimberly with me to Bill’s and my house, a few blocks from the Adlers, but Adler’s request gave me an out from having to endure the hurricane confined with Trish. The original drama queen, who fainted over a hangnail, she’d be a raging lunatic during a real emergency.
“Any problem with my bringing Kimberly Ross to your house, too?” I asked.
Adler shook his head. “Sharon will appreciate the company and moral support.”
Sharon, six months pregnant with their second child, and almost-two-year-old Jessica, were the lights of Adler’s life. “I’ll take good care of her and Jessica,” I promised.
“Hey, Maggie.” Ralph Porter left the fax machine on the other side of the room and joined us with a fistful of papers. Tall and skinny with an Elvis-style pompadour, jeans, short sleeves, string ti
e and drawling Southern twang to his speech, Ralph’s hayseed look often misled people into underestimating his abilities. I called it the Columbo syndrome. But, like Alder, Ralph was a first-rate detective. “What brings you here?”
“Our agency’s protecting Kimberly Ross. She’s convinced she was supposed to be the target in the Sand Key shooting yesterday. Much as I appreciate the billable hours, I’m hoping you can prove she’s wrong.”
Porter and Adler exchanged glances.
“You know she’s Wynona Wisdom?” Porter asked.
I nodded.
Adler picked up a large plastic evidence bag that contained a section of newspaper and handed it to me. “We found this in the hotel room used by the shooter.”
“No other evidence was left behind,” Porter said, “so we believe the shooter placed it there on purpose.”
“In the trash?” I asked.
Adler shook his head. “It was lying on top of the spread in the middle of a bed that hadn’t been slept in.”
“Any prints?”
“None on the newspaper.”
“In the room?”
“Oh, yeah. Tons of prints and DNA.” Porter made a face. “You know how it is with a hotel or motel room, in spite of the fact that this is a high-class joint that’s cleaned thoroughly every day. It’ll take the crime lab weeks to sort through and identify the evidence.”
I could read the newspaper print through the clear plastic. The section was from the Washington Post a few weeks ago and was folded back to reveal that edition’s “Ask Wynona Wisdom” column, which contained three letters and Wynona’s answers.
“This can’t be coincidence,” I said with a sigh. “Looks as if Kimberly’s right. She was the target.”
Adler shook his head. “Not necessarily. Read the second letter.”
I scanned the text. The letter writer described how her teenage daughter had committed suicide after being barred from a women’s health center by protesters. The eighteen-year-old had attempted, but failed, to cross the picket lines to receive counseling concerning an unexpected and unwanted pregnancy. The mother was asking Wynona’s advice on how to deal with her anger and grief. Wynona’s answer was compassionate and practical, suggesting grief therapy and support groups.
“What’s your point?” I asked Adler when I’d finished reading. “Isn’t Wynona still the obvious target?”
“We did a background investigation on Sister Mary Theresa,” he said.
“She wasn’t a member of a contemplative order,” Porter explained. “She was an activist who spent most of her time organizing peaceful pro-life demonstrations at women’s clinics around the country.”
“So you think Wynona, aka Kimberly, wasn’t the intended victim,” I asked, “but someone out for revenge against the nun for their daughter’s suicide?”
“It’s possible,” Adler said. “We can’t be certain that the nun protested at whichever clinic was referred to in the letter on that particular day. We’ll have to do some more digging. Wynona’s staff is trying to run down the original letter to see if it’s postmarked or gives some other indication of what city the writer lived in.”
“Like Sleepless in Seattle,” I said, “only Grief-stricken in Galveston?”
“If we’re lucky,” Adler continued. “Often the letters are edited for length and clarity, so the original may provide more clues than what’s in the paper.”
“The D.C. paper left in the hotel could point to the shooter’s city of origin,” Ralph said.
“Or be a red herring to throw us off track,” I said. “With her high public profile, Sister Mary Theresa could have attracted the attention—and animosity—of any number of nutcases around the country.”
“Maybe,” Adler said. “Read the third letter in the column.”
I read. The writer was another distraught woman, this one the wife of a physically abusive husband who was currently serving time for crimes unrelated to spouse abuse. He was due for release soon, and the woman, who had no means to support herself and her small children, had asked Wynona what she should do. Wynona had replied emphatically that the woman should contact the nearest shelter and arrange to relocate and to change her name, if necessary, before her husband was released.
I glanced up at Adler when I’d finished reading. “So Kimberly could have been right after all, if the shooter was the ex-con, who blamed Wynona for the disappearance of his wife and children and was itching to settle a score.”
“Kimberly’s staff is searching for the original of this woman’s letter, too,” Adler said.
“What’s your guess?” Porter asked me.
I glanced at the third letter in the column left by the shooter. It was a request for Wynona’s meat loaf recipe, which she’d provided. Even if the meat loaf wasn’t to everyone’s taste, I doubted it was grounds for murder.
The more I knew, the less I knew. “It’s a toss-up. Until we do a lot more investigating, we won’t know whether the shooter was after Wynona or the nun.”
My job for now was to keep Kimberly Ross alive until we could find whether the answer lay behind Door Number One or Door Number Two.
CHAPTER 8
“These might help.” Porter waved the sheaf of papers still clutched in his fist. “Ballistics report on the bullet that killed the nun. Mick Rafferty just faxed it from the crime lab.”
Adler took the report and scanned it. “The rifling from the bullet indicates it was fired from a Model 70 Winchester bolt-action rifle, .308 caliber.”
I sighed. “A gun commonly used for hunting. Sheer numbers will make it harder to trace. The shot was fired from a good distance. That means our shooter needed some expertise. A former military or law-enforcement sniper, maybe?”
“Could be,” Porter said with a nod. “But a Bushnell scope with automatic ranging could have compensated for lack of skill.”
“Under normal circumstances,” Adler said, “if this storm wasn’t bearing down, we’d start canvassing area gun shops to check for recent sales of that model rifle.”
“If the shooter’s from out of the area,” I said, “he could have brought it with him. And if he’s our ex-con, he had to get it on the black market, since it’s illegal for him to own a firearm.”
“Or he could have bought it from an individual instead of a dealer,” Porter said, “so a background check wouldn’t have been required and there’s no paperwork in the system.”
“Or our shooter could have faked his identity to buy the gun,” Adler added. “We know he checked into the hotel under a false name and address.”
“License number?” I asked.
“A Florida tag, also faked when he registered,” Adler said. “Nothing like it listed with DMV. And we’re fairly certain he wasn’t foolish enough to give the real make and model of his car on the room registration. A hotel with that many rooms doesn’t have time to verify all information.”
“So the only thing we know for sure is that the shooter was male?” I asked.
“Even that’s not certain.” Adler tugged at his earlobe, a familiar gesture. “Tomorrow’s Friday, the beginning of Labor Day weekend. The hotel was already jammed when the shooter checked in. None of the staff remembers that particular guest with any clarity, so we have no physical description. He registered as James Johnson, but ‘he’ could have been a woman in a clever disguise.”
“A rifle isn’t usually a woman’s weapon of choice,” Porter said.
“Unless you’re Annie Oakley,” I said.
The murder investigation was grinding to a halt as much from lack of solid information as the distractions and demands of the approaching hurricane, and my arms and face were itching like mad. A glance in a mirror would probably confirm that my antihomicidal hives had returned with a vengeance.
“If Kimberly actually was the intended victim,” I added, “living in a gated community twenty stories up, she’d be hard to hit any way other than a long-range shot.”
Adler combed his fingers through
his hair. “We’re getting nowhere, and with Harriet barreling toward us, we may have to put our investigation on hold until the storm passes.”
“Kimberly’s staff FedExed boxes of death threats she’s received,” I said. “Mackley’s bringing them to my place when he and Kimberly evacuate the beach. Kimberly and I can sort through them while we wait out the storm at your house, Adler.”
He nodded. “Sharon can help. Maybe you’ll come up with something.”
“Did Kimberly tell you about her ex-fiancé?” I asked.
Porter and Adler exchanged glances, then shook their heads.
“He came up in conversation last night. Seems he was so controlling Kimberly moved from Omaha to Florida to escape.”
“Name?” Adler asked.
“Simon Anderson, an investment counselor in Omaha.”
Adler made a note in the file. “We’ll check him out.”
“I’d better go,” I said, “and let you guys get to work.”
“Stay safe,” Adler said.
“You, too.” I glanced toward the ceiling-mounted television set in the far corner of the room. A satellite picture of Harriet, with a visible eye and swirling bands of cloud cover that spread from Mexico across Cuba, was lumbering through the Yucatan straits on a projected course toward Tampa Bay.
Staying safe had suddenly become a whole lot harder.
ON MY WAY BACK to my office, I stopped once again at the Lassiter house, only two blocks from the waterfront and in an evacuation zone.
J.D. was nowhere in sight. I parked in the driveway and knocked at the front door. Violet answered.
Behind her, Bessie was gathering pillows, blankets and collapsible lawn chairs and placing them beside a canvas carryall that appeared filled with canned goods and file folders. Just inside the front entrance stood two small, square overnight bags, circa 1950.
“Do you need a lift to a shelter?” I asked.
“That’s very kind of you,” Violet said, “but Mr. Moore next door is driving us to JFK Middle School in Clearwater. It’s the nearest shelter. We’re leaving soon to be sure they’ll have space for us. His family will be staying with friends who live near the school.”
Storm Season Page 5