J.D. sat quietly for a few moments, sipping her coffee. “Did you ever see a ghost, Matt?”
“No.”
“I did. This morning.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Twelve years ago, when I first made detective in Miami, I worked three murders that had taken place in about a six-week period. We called them the whale tail murders. Or at least, the press did. You know how they like to sensationalize everything. The cops picked it up.”
“Each of the women was middle aged or older, and they were found naked and bound to trees with ropes. Shot in the back of the head by the same twenty-two-caliber pistol. They were always found near water, once a lake, another time on the Miami River, and the third time in the Everglades in the western part of the county. We were dealing with a serial killer with big-time issues, and we put a lot of effort into finding the guy.”
“Did you get him?”
“No. The killings stopped. There were only those three women. The killer was very careful. He didn’t leave any evidence behind, and we even had a hard time identifying the women. Turned out that one was a maid at a high-rise office building, another was a prostitute, and the third was the wife of an accountant who lived in Miami Lakes. We never found any connection between the women. Except that they all had a similar appearance. Caucasian, fairly tall, between forty and fifty-five, shoulder-length hair dyed blonde.”
“Why the name, whale tail?”
“That was very strange. The killer pinned an identical small silver whale tail earring through the lobe of his victims’ left ears. The medical examiner said they were all done postmortem. We never figured out if the killer was trying to tell us something or if the whale tail had some deep meaning for him. Even the profilers couldn’t come up with anything that made any sense.”
“And the press got hold of that little detail?”
“Yeah. One of the reporters interviewed the husband of the first victim. He mentioned that she did not own any jewelry that looked like a whale tail.”
“Maybe the killer moved on. Started all over in another town.”
“We checked periodically and our murders were described in detail in a federal database so that if any similar murders cropped up, the investigators could get hold of us. There was never a similar murder. Anywhere.”
“What does this have to do with the ghost you saw this morning?”
“It was another woman about the same age and appearance and she had a whale tail earring in her left earlobe.”
“Copycat?”
“No. There was one item we never released to the press and didn’t put on the federal database. The killer had carved initials into the back of the neck of each of the victims. Again, postmortem. They were covered by the women’s hair and were picked up by the Miami-Dade medical examiner on the first autopsy. The same initials on all three women. KKK.”
“The Ku Klux Klan?” I asked.
“We didn’t think so. All the women were white and of European descent. No reason to think the guy was a Klansman.”
“What did the profiler think?”
“She didn’t have a clue. Thought it might just be something to distract us.”
“And you found the same initials on the woman this morning.”
“Yes. It was the first thing I looked for.”
“Where was the body?” I asked.
“Floating just off the channel that runs on the west side of Sister Key.”
“Didn’t you say that the whale tail killer tied them to a tree near the water?”
“Yes, and apparently he did this one that way. We found a rope tied around her torso. The end was frayed, so we assumed she had been tied up at some point, and the rope broke. It wasn’t cut. Maybe the tide came up and tugged her into the water, putting a strain on the line.”
“Has she been identified yet?” I asked.
“Not yet. The M.E. will take her fingerprints and we’ll see what they come up with. I’ll go through the missing person reports for Sarasota and Manatee counties and see if anything’s there. Sooner or later, we’ll know something.”
“Any thoughts?”
“She may have been a Longboater. She was nude, but she had recently had a manicure and a pedicure and she wore a diamond-encrusted wedding band on her ring finger. We don’t have any idea where she was killed or where her body was put in the water. The tide was going out this morning, so she could have been swept along from farther up the bay.”
“I doubt that,” I said.
“Doubt what?”
“That she was dumped farther up the bay. She would probably have caught on one of the shoals that are just south of the channel down where it turns east. That tidal current moves slowly. If she’d been put in the water farther out in the bay, say up around marker seventeen, the deep water would have kept her moving, but she would have probably been pushed into the shallows on the east side of Sister Key.”
“You know this water a lot better than I do. Where do you think she went in?”
“Probably no farther south than Emerald Harbor.” I was talking about an upscale subdivision that fronted on Sarasota Bay a couple of miles south of the village. “Did you check the tables to see when the tide turned this morning?”
“No. I’ll do that when I get back to the station.”
“I’ll check online,” I said.
Jock came into the room dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and pressed beige shorts, sandals on his feet. He stands six feet tall and has the wiry build of a distance runner. His mostly bald head is fringed with dark hair, a vestige of his youth. His skin is as tan as a beach bum’s, the result of the many hours he spends in tropical climes doing the work of his employer, a U.S government intelligence agency that is so secret it doesn’t even have a name. He smelled of expensive aftershave.
Jock Algren and I had met when we were children, growing up in a small town in the middle of the Florida peninsula. We’d become best friends, and over the many years since we’d graduated from high school, we’d maintained a close relationship. Our friendship had survived the years and the miles of separation, and we were closer than brothers. J.D. stood and hugged him.
“That’s what I came for,” said Jock. “How’re you doing, J.D.?”
“Not good.” She filled Jock in on what she’d told me.
“J.D.,” I said, “the tide crested this morning at three a.m. I can’t do the math, but I’d think that would have given the body time to drift from the area of Emerald Harbor. The flats in front of your condo would have been covered with plenty of water at high tide so that she wouldn’t have gotten snagged on the shoals. But I don’t think she could have been put in the water much farther south. She wouldn’t have drifted this far north in the amount of time after the tide started out.”
“That’s helpful,” she said. “I’ll have some people start canvassing Emerald Harbor to see if anybody knows anything.”
“I guess dinner is off for tonight,” I said.
“Do you mind?”
I shook my head. I knew she’d be busy. The first few hours of a murder investigation were crucial. J.D. would work through the day and evening, running down any leads she could find. The medical examiner would put this one at the head of the line, and evidence would trickle into the detective’s office. By nightfall, she would hopefully have the beginnings of a solution, or at least the outlines of one.
“I’ll make it up to you guys,” she said. “Soon.”
“Anything we can do to help?” I asked.
J.D. smiled, shook her head, drank down the last of her coffee, and left.
CHAPTER FOUR
I poured more coffee, and Jock and I moved out to the patio. It was quiet at mid-morning as we sat and sipped and watched the pelicans dive for breakfast in the bay.
Jock grinned. “You’re not getting any closer to her, are you, podna?”
“We’re just friends.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“It’s n
ot like I have a choice. But, yeah, I’m okay with it.”
“I thought you had put everything out on the table for her.”
“I did. Sort of. We had a conversation one night at Mar Vista, but it was kind of vague. I think she has some feelings for me, but not like I do for her. She’s never brought it up again, and, frankly, I’m afraid to mention it. I don’t want to scare her off.”
“Are we going fishing?” he asked.
“Finish your coffee and let’s go.”
A T-dock jutted from my backyard into the bay. My boat, Recess, a twenty-eight-foot Grady-White walk-around fishing machine with a small cabin and twin 250-horsepower Yamaha outboard engines, rested against the pilings at the end of the pier.
We loaded the gear on Recess and pulled away from the dock. We went to Annie’s at the foot of the Cortez Bridge, bought bait and beer, and headed for a man-made reef about seven miles off shore. The seas were flat and we made good time. We fished for a couple of hours and didn’t catch anything worth keeping. We gave up and ran back to the Mar Vista Pub for lunch.
We decided to try fishing the bay in the afternoon, but were no more successful than we’d been in the morning. We were about to give it up for the day when my cell phone sounded the first few bars of The Girl from Ipanema, the special ringtone I’d assigned to J.D.
“Isn’t Gene Alexander a friend of yours?” she asked.
“Sure is. Why?”
“The lady we found this morning was his wife, Nell.”
“Shit.”
“It looks as if your tidal calculations might be right. He lives in Emerald Harbor, but he’s not at home. Any idea where he might be?”
“He and Les Fulcher went to Alaska on a fishing trip last week. I think they’re due in tonight.”
“Thanks, Matt. I guess I’ll have to wait to notify him.”
“I’ve got his cell phone number if you want it.”
“I’ll wait. That’s not the kind of news you give somebody over the phone. Besides, if he’s already on his way home, he’s probably on a plane. I’ll meet him at the airport tonight.”
“Any other developments?” I asked.
“Nothing much. The cause of death was a gunshot to the back of the head. Small caliber. The slug was still in her brain. She never knew what hit her.”
“That’s the good news, I guess.”
“I guess. We’ll see if ballistics can match this slug to any other murders in the state. The lab is working on that now.”
“You want some dinner?” I asked.
“Afraid not. I’ve got a lot of work to do tonight.”
“You’ve got to eat sometime.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Meet us at Moore’s. We’re in Palma Sola Bay, fishing. It’s almost five now. We can be there by six.”
“Okay. A quick grouper sandwich and I’m back to work.”
Moore’s Stone Crab Restaurant has clung to the edge of Sarasota Bay for more than forty years, serving up large helpings of seafood, much of it caught earlier that day by the restaurant’s own boats. The stone crabs had just come into season, and the place was packed. Jock and I took seats at the U-shaped bar that was separated by a wall from the restaurant proper. A large stuffed tarpon dominated the west wall of the bar, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black Label stuck spout first into its mouth. The north wall was mirrored and TV sets perched in their brackets in each corner, both tuned to a sports channel. Large windows were set into the south wall, giving a view twelve miles down the bay to the city of Sarasota.
My friend Debbie no longer worked there, and I missed her every time I came into the place. She’d gotten married at the end of the summer to a man who owned a small chain of movie theaters in the Midwest.
They’d moved to Lakewood Ranch out east of I-75, and Debbie was managing a high-end restaurant in the small village that catered to the wealthy retirees who had bought the homes that bordered the golf courses. I’d had dinner with the happy couple the week before and kept up with her through regular e-mails.
Barbara had taken Debbie’s place behind the bar and was fast making friends of all the regulars. She put a Miller Lite in front of me, and I introduced her to Jock. He ordered and she went for his O’Doul’s.
“I gathered from your phone call with J.D. that you knew the lady they found in the bay,” Jock said.
“I’ve only met her a time or two, but I know her husband, Gene Alexander. He’s a friend of Les Fulcher.”
“Shit.” Jock pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and punched a button, waited, then, “Dave, did Gene Alexander retire to Longboat Key, Florida?” Silence. “Yeah. I think his wife’s been killed. I’ll call you back when I know more.” He hung up.
“What is it, Jock?” I asked.
“Alexander was one of ours.”
“He worked for your agency?”
“Yes. Can’t be two Gene Alexanders on this island. Does the guy you know have just one leg?”
“Yeah. He lost a battle with a land mine in Vietnam. He wears a prosthesis though, and if he has on long pants, you’d never know it.”
“Gene was one of our analysts. A damn good one, too. Worked for us for thirty years and retired. I heard that he’d moved here last year. I was planning to look him up for a beer this trip.”
“Did you know his wife?” I asked.
“I’ve known her for years, but it was more of an office wife sort of thing. We never socialized. It just wasn’t the kind of thing you do in an agency like ours. I worked a lot with Gene. He had an eye for the unusual blips in all the intel that came across his desk. He saved my ass more than once by keeping me a step ahead of the opposition. Did you say Gene was in Alaska?”
“Yeah. He and Les Fulcher went out there on a fly-fishing trip. Due back this evening.”
“Some homecoming. I wonder if J.D. would let me go with her to notify Gene.”
“Ask her.”
J.D. was walking through the door that separated the bar from the restaurant. She looked tired and a little sad. Murder was a rarity in our island world, but she’d seen a lot of it in the years she’d worked homicide for the Miami-Dade Police Department. It wasn’t something anybody ever got used to. She took a seat on the stool between us, the one we’d saved for her.
Barb came over with a glass of white wine. “Hey, J.D.,” she said. “I heard about the murder over near Sister Key. I guess you’ve been busy today.”
J.D. gave her a sad smile. “Unfortunately, yes. And my day isn’t over, so I’ll have to make do with this one glass. Can we move over to that table?” She pointed to a four top by the windows.
“Sure.”
We took our drinks to the table. J.D. said, “I wanted to talk about today, but I didn’t want the whole bar to hear about it. Lord knows, news travels fast enough on this island as it is.”
“J.D.,” Jock said, “I know Gene Alexander.” He explained the relationship to his agency and told her that they’d worked together a number of times over the years. “I’d like to go with you to make the notification.”
“I don’t see why not,” J.D. said. “He and Les are due into Sarasota-Bradenton at ten thirty tonight.”
“Do you know any more than you did this morning?” I asked.
“Not much. Other than the identification. The autopsy confirmed that she died from a gunshot to the head. The bullet was still there, a twenty-two-caliber, light load. It was meant to kill, but not exit the body. The ballistics guy called me a few minutes ago. Said the bullet came from the same gun that killed the three women in Miami twelve years ago.”
“Are you thinking the same killer?” I asked.
“I don’t know. The killings in Miami had a ritual feel to them. This one looks more like a crime of opportunity. Same gun, same signature, but it’s the only one in twelve years. It might be a copycat, but I can’t explain the initials on the back of Nell’s neck.”
“What does Miami-Dade think?” I asked.
; “Not much. They’re stumped. The twelve-year gap is the puzzler. They’re going back through cases and trying to see if anybody we looked at then might have been in prison for the past twelve years and just got out. They’re also checking on people I put away for other crimes. See if anybody who might hold a grudge is out now.”
“But you don’t think it’s the same guy,” I said.
“Who knows? But, this killing fits the pattern of the ones in Miami. The victim’s appearance generally matched the whale tail victims. Lots of circular thinking here.”
“Maybe you just don’t want to see the pattern.” I said. “If it’s the same murderer, why place a body where you were sure to be involved in the investigation?”
She just looked at me. Like I’d said what she’d been thinking, but didn’t want to acknowledge.
“Were you involved in those cases in Miami?” I asked.
“Mostly on the periphery of the investigation. I was a rookie detective and did some of the legwork, but that was all.”
Jock said, “Could there be a connection to you?”
“Maybe. We finally found the other end of the rope tied to a tree on Sister Key.”
“So the body didn’t drift up from Emerald Harbor,” I said.
“No. She’d been tied to a tree right across from my condo. If the rope hadn’t broken, I would have been able to see the body from my place.”
“You worked the case in Miami,” said Jock, “even if you were only involved a little. What if Nell’s murder was a signal to you? The killer would have known that the ballistics lab would connect the gun to the killings in Miami.”
“I guess that’s a possibility, but it seems a little far-fetched,” she said.
“Even so,” said Jock, “if the body today was meant for you for some reason, I’d think the people you ought to be looking at are ones you put away.”
“Do you think it’s a coincidence that the body was left near your condo?” I asked.
“That’d be one hell of a coincidence,” said Jock.
Fatal Decree Page 2