by Stuart Woods
A few miles up A-1A she made a left, then a right onto Jungle Trail, a shortcut that would save her a mile or two. Anyway, she liked the dirt roadway and the trees and an occasional glimpse of a raccoon or a deer along the trail.
She had driven a mile or so when the car ran over something and began to pull to the left. She stopped the car and retrieved a small flashlight from the glove compartment, then got out of the car and walked around to the front.
Her right front tire was completely flat. Adele knew how to change a flat, but she hated doing it. Then she looked up and saw a car coming down the trail, behind hers. A flashing blue light on the dashboard came on, dimly illuminating a uniformed figure behind the wheel. Thank God, she thought, a man, and a cop into the bargain.
He got out of his car and turned a very bright flashlight on her. “Got a problem there, ma’am?” he asked, walking toward her.
“Yes, a flat tire.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” he said, coming closer.
“Oh, thank you so much. I’m so lucky you came along.”
He came closer, but the light blinded her. Then she felt a sting on the side of her neck.
“Just take it easy,” he said. “You’re going to get drowsy now.”
“Oh, God, no,” she whispered to herself as she sank to her knees.
22
Lauren Cade got out of her car and walked the forty yards to where the medical examiner’s wagon and an unmarked police car were parked. Detective Jimmy Weathers stood, wearing latex gloves, looking at the front of a Tahoe SUV parked in the middle of the Jungle Trail.
“Morning, Jimmy,” she said. “Thanks for the call.”
“Morning, Lauren.”
“What have you got?”
“Another woman, dead, probably raped. This time, she’s been posed naked behind the wheel.”
Lauren looked through the passenger window and saw the corpse, a middle-aged woman. Her handbag was lying on the floor next to her.
“Looks like she had a flat,” Jimmy said. “Right front wheel, but there’s no nail in the tire and, walking back down the trail, there’s nothing there that would cause the flat. Slow leak, maybe.”
“Spike strip?” Lauren asked. A spike strip was something that the police could throw in front of a car being pursued to blow out its tires.
“Good thought,” Jimmy said. “Another cop thing to add to the rest.”
“Have you been through her bag?”
“I just got here myself,” Jimmy said.
“Mind if we do it together?”
“That’s good.”
Lauren donned her latex gloves, lifted the large leather bag from the car and emptied it on the hood.
“Lots of stuff,” Jimmy said.
“She’s a woman,” Lauren replied, picking up a big diary with a card stapled to the front. “Adele Mason, Beachfront Realty, Vero Beach,” she read.
“Yeah, they’re across from the Holiday Inn,” Jimmy said, picking up the woman’s wallet. “Here’s her driver’s license. She lives not far from here, if the address is current.”
Lauren opened the diary to where it had been marked with a rubber band and read the last entry of the day. “Dinner, Jack Smithson.” She flipped open her cell phone, called information and asked for the number, then closed it. “No such listing,” she said. She began going backward in the diary. “Here’s another dinner with Jack, three nights ago. He’s also down for two that afternoon at SunJet. What’s that? And the words ‘Bingo, the Wald property!’ are entered for that afternoon.”
Jimmy went back to the rear of the car and came back with a plastic-covered book. “Looks like her listings,” he said, then began flipping through the book. “Here we go: J. M. Wald, 2202 Ocean Close, Vero.”
“She sold the Wald house, then. To Jack, maybe?”
“Let’s go find out,” Jimmy said.
Teddy Fay was surfing the Internet, looking for a local source of outdoor furniture, when there was a rap on the front door. Teddy started, alarmed that someone could approach the house without his noticing. Relax, he told himself. He took a deep breath or two, then got up and went to the front door.
An attractive blond young woman stood on the other side of the screen door, a bag slung over one shoulder, a badge in the other hand. “Good morning,” she said. “I’m Lauren Cade, with the Florida State Police. Mr. Smithson, is it?”
Teddy’s mind was working a mile a minute: something to do with the new license, maybe? “Good morning. Yes, I’m Jack Smithson.”
“May I come in and speak to you for a moment, Mr. Smithson?”
“Of course,” Teddy said, opening the door for her. As he turned, he found a young man standing behind him in the living room. He had come in the back door, and Teddy had heard nothing. He was slipping. Brazen it out, he thought. Be cooperative. “I’m sorry, you startled me,” Teddy said.
“I’m Detective Weathers, Orchid Beach Police Department,” the young man said.
“Won’t you sit down?” Teddy asked, indicating the living room sofa.
They sat down, and Teddy took a chair on the other side of the coffee table.
“How can I help you?” he asked.
“Mr. Smithson,” Lauren said, “are you acquainted with Ms. Adele Mason?”
“Yes, I am; she’s the real estate agent who found this house for me.”
“You bought this house?”
“Rented. The Walds, who own the property, don’t have many guests, so they rent the guesthouse. They’re not in Florida at the moment.”
“I see,” Lauren said. “And when did you rent it?”
“Three days ago. It was the first property she showed me, and I thought it was ideal.”
“Where are you from, Mr. Smithson?”
“Here, now. I more recently lived in north Georgia, but I retired and moved down here.”
“When was the last time you saw Ms. Mason?”
“Why, last night. She came for dinner here; I cooked for us.”
“And what time did she leave?”
“Shortly after midnight, I believe.”
“Mr. Smithson, would you submit to a DNA test?” She removed a plastic tube from her purse. “It’s just a swab of the inside of your cheek.”
“Wait just a minute,” Teddy said. “DNA test? For what purpose?”
“For a comparison.”
Teddy’s face fell, and he wasn’t acting. “Has something happened to Adele?”
“I’m afraid so,” Lauren said. “She was murdered some time last night and possibly raped. That’s why we need a DNA sample, to eliminate you as a suspect.”
“My God, she was here only last night. Is this to do with those murders I read about in the local paper?”
“It seems likely.”
“Well,” Teddy said, “we made love last night, so you might very well find my DNA on her . . . person.”
“Thank you for that information, but what we need to learn is if someone else’s DNA is present, and we’ll need your sample for differentiation.”
“Of course,” Teddy said. “I mean, I watch those forensics shows all the time. I understand. Go ahead and take your swab.”
Lauren uncapped the tube, removed the swab, ran it around the inside of his cheek and replaced it in the tube.
“When did you move in here?” Jimmy asked.
“Three days ago. I had found Adele’s name on the Internet, and we had had a phone conversation about what I was looking for. She met me at the airport on Wednesday afternoon and drove me here.”
“Which airport, sir?”
“Vero Beach. I fly a small airplane.”
“Where is it parked at the airport?”
“At SunJet Center; I arranged in advance for tie-down space there.”
“Is that your Toyota parked outside?”
“Yes, I bought it the same day from the local dealer.”
The detective was writing in his notebook. “Name of the salesman?”
&nbs
p; “Ah, Meadows. Leonard Meadows.”
“What sort of work do you do, Mr. Smithson?” Lauren asked.
“I’m retired. I’m sort of an engineer. I invent small gadgets, the kind of thing you see on infomercials late at night.”
They asked a few more questions, then thanked him and left.
Before they drove away, Jimmy called the airport and the Toyota dealer. “His story holds up,” he said.
“He certainly looked shocked when we told him she was dead, and our perp’s MO doesn’t include having dinner with his victims before he kills them. I don’t think Smithson is our guy.”
“Neither do I,” Jimmy said.
Teddy lay down on his bed and rested. He was disturbed that Adele seemed to be the latest victim of a local criminal. And he was deeply angry.
23
Holly had just finished lunch when the phone rang. “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Lauren Cade.”
“Hi, Lauren. What’s up?”
“We’ve got another victim, a real estate agent named Adele Mason, last night, Jungle Trail.”
“Oh, shit. Well, I’ve been expecting another one.”
“So have I.”
“Was there anything at the scene that would tell us something different about the perp?”
“Not really. She was apparently dragged into the woods and raped there; the ME found sand on her body. Then she was posed, naked, behind the wheel of her car. One thing was different: her right front tire was flat. We think, maybe, a spike strip was used.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Holly said.
“Why not?”
“You’re saying he would lay a spike strip on Jungle Trail in advance of the crime? How would he know a woman alone would hit it?”
“Well . . .”
“I think it’s more likely that he got lucky on the flat tire.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I think you ought to close Jungle Trail to car traffic until this guy is apprehended. This is the second attack, if you include me.”
“We’ve already done that. We thought we might have gotten lucky when we found a man’s name in Mason’s diary, a Jack Smithson. We talked to him, but he says that he arrived in Vero on Wednesday afternoon, and she met him at the airport and showed him a house, which he promptly rented. All that was in her diary.”
“Doesn’t sound right; all the other victims have apparently been strangers to our perp.”
“That’s what we figured. Smithson was cooperative, gave us a DNA swab.”
“There was no semen from the other victims, though.”
“Right.”
“What time did the attack occur?”
“Some time after midnight.”
“Tell Jimmy Weathers he ought to have Orchid patrols stop any male who is driving what looks like an unmarked patrol car driving after dark.”
“That could be a lot of cars.”
“Well, at least take the tag numbers and run them.”
“I’m sure they could do that.”
“One thing you don’t want to do, Lauren.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t drive around alone at night looking for this guy; you might find him under unfavorable circumstances.”
“You have a point.”
“If you want to be a decoy, make sure you have plenty of backup.”
“All right. I just thought I’d let you know about the new attack.”
“I appreciate that, Lauren. If I have any ideas, I’ll call you. Bye-bye.” She hung up, and the phone rang again almost immediately.
“Hello?”
“It’s Josh.”
“Hi, there.”
“Dinner tonight?”
“We seem to be making a habit of that.”
“I’ll take you to the Yellow Dog Café, up near Melbourne.”
“I like that place.”
“Seven o’clock?”
“You’re on.”
Josh was on time, and they got into his car for the thirty-minute drive.
“I think I know where your rapist/murderer got the injection gun,” he said.
“Where?”
“At our hospital. There was a routine inventory of medical equipment this afternoon, and an injection gun was missing.”
“Wouldn’t someone have noticed that before?”
“No. It’s not the sort of equipment that’s used every day; it’s pretty much limited to flu-shot clinics and school vaccinations, that sort of thing. You wouldn’t pull it out and load it for a single injection.”
“That’s interesting information. I’ll pass it on. There was another murder last night, on the Jungle Trail.”
“Jesus, where is this going to end?”
“Either they’ll catch him, or he’ll stop.”
“Stop? Why would he do that?”
“It happens with serial criminals. Sometimes they get arrested and convicted on other charges. Years can go by. Sometimes they get nervous about getting caught and just back off for a while. Sometimes they hit a new locale, and hope new killings won’t get paired up with old ones. There are more uncaught serial killers in this country than you’d imagine. Sometimes they move to another state, in midcareer; sometimes they go on for years, like Ted Bundy.”
“That’s a depressing thought.”
“Yes, it is. Cops get depressed a lot.”
“Do the police have any advantages against this guy?”
“Sure. There are more cops than murderers; they have good forensic tools. What usually happens is that the killer finally makes a mistake, and the cops pounce.”
“Would a reward help?”
“Probably not in this case. Nobody who knows this guy knows he’s doing this. He works alone; he’s probably unmarried and living alone or with his elderly parents, usually a mother. He probably doesn’t have a regular girlfriend, so he’s not getting sex in a normal way. And he’s smart and careful. He’s been using condoms, so there’s no sperm sample for DNA testing.”
“I wish there were something I could do to help,” Josh said.
“You’ve already helped by telling me about the missing vaccination gun. You might keep an eye out for a man who comes in with scratches on his face or arms. Sooner or later, some woman will fight back.”
“He seems to render them unconscious almost immediately,” Josh pointed out.
“Yes, but he’s got to make a mistake sometime; every criminal does.”
“Is somebody checking up on police officers?”
“Yes, the local detective in charge of the case has already canvassed his department and all the neighboring departments, and he’s come up dry.”
“Do you have a gun?” Josh asked.
“I’m carrying one right now,” Holly replied.
“Dare I ask where?”
“Ankle holster.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Excuse me a second.” Holly called Lauren Cade and told her about the missing injection gun.
“That’s very interesting,” Lauren said.
“And it expands your field of possible suspects,” Holly said. “It could be an orderly or a male nurse.” She glanced at Josh. “Or even a doctor.”
“Gee, thanks,” Josh said.
24
Teddy Fay awoke, still worried about how the two police officers had approached his house without his knowledge. He couldn’t have that. He checked the Internet, then drove to a nearby electronics shop where he bought a driveway alert and half a dozen motion detectors, all operated by lithium batteries. Back at home, he installed the driveway alert just inside the entrance to the Walds’ drive, then he planted the motion detectors around the guesthouse. Inside, he plugged in the control unit, ran a test and got a confirmation on all the sensors. The next time somebody turned into the driveway or approached the house on foot, he’d know about it.
He opened the safe and took out the briefcase that held the Czech sniper’s rifle that he
had stolen from the Agency before he retired. He assembled it and screwed on the silencer, then he opened a box of paper cups and took a stack of them out onto the beach. He looked up and down the strand for foot traffic and found no one near, so he pressed the cups upside down into the wet sand at the edge of the water, checked again for foot traffic, then walked back to the house.
He opened the kitchen window and the screen, then stood, cradling the rifle, and took careful aim at the first cup on the left. The bullet kicked up sand two inches to the right of the cup, so he made a minute adjustment to the telescopic sight and fired again. Bingo. In rapid succession he fired at the other cups and hit each one. He had not lost his touch.
He disassembled the rifle, cleaned it and returned it to its case, then he inspected his other weapons and relocked everything in the safe. He felt better now.
He picked up volume two of Winston Churchill’s The Second World War, which he was rereading, settled into a comfortable chair and began to read, but he could not concentrate. His mind kept wandering to Adele Mason and her untimely death.
Teddy was accustomed to righting what he considered to be wrongs, and without any help from law enforcement. He would have liked very much to deal with Adele’s murderer, he thought, but he was not by nature an investigator, and he had no access to what the police knew. This was a new kind of frustration for him, and he did not like being frustrated.
He put down the book and picked up the local newspaper instead. There was an article about the latest murder and a brief obituary. The funeral was the following day, and Teddy decided to be there.
A few miles up the beach, Holly Barker was restive, too. The silence of her newly fortified home made her feel that she was a flower in a hothouse, so she opened the sliding doors to the beach and sacrificed air-conditioning for the sound of the light surf lapping against her beach.
Bored, she unlocked her little office, logged on to the Agency computer and began to read cable traffic to Lance’s office. It was a remarkably quiet day out in the stations around the world, and she found nothing worthy of her interest, so she logged off, locked the office and looked for a decent movie on television. A couple of hours with The Maltese Falcon, which she had seen at least a dozen times, made her feel better.