Death in Her Eyes (A Mac Everett Mystery Book 1)

by Nick Vellis

  When Stan sat down across from my desk that evening, he came as a friend.

  He caught me up on his family, stuff at work, and his latest fishing expeditions. I told him about….well nothing. He was successful and I wished for a world of peace, harmony, and nakedness. I don’t really do anything except spend a couple nights a week at the Drunk Monk, but lately I’d been drinking club soda.

  Stan scowled at me and told me I was welcome for dinner or a fishing trip any time, which I thanked him for, but doubted I’d go. My arrest had disappointed him. I was actually innocent. I beat the rap, quit the Sheriff’s Office, sued them, and won. We didn’t have much contact after that and we both liked it that way. “You’re really on the wagon?” he asked.

  “I’m giving it a try,” I sputtered.

  “I’m glad,” he replied. “Maybe we can…” he let the thought hang in the air. “Have you talked to Roscoe?”

  “Yeah, I’ve talked to him, just not lately. You interested in anything in particular?” I asked.

  A few, quite a few in fact, of Roscoe’s large family were deep in the local dope trade. I didn’t think Roscoe was involved, but if it’s family, you’re involved. I thought Stan was going to have me ask Roscoe for some Intel or worse, Intel on Roscoe. What he said surprised me.

  “Well, he’s in AA and I thought…”

  “He is?” I replied.

  “You should talk to him about it. You want me to call him for you?” he asked.

  “No. I’ll be talking to him soon, but thanks for letting me know,” I said.

  “Call him,” he said.

  “So what’s the deal with the Hunt case?” I asked. “You have motive and opportunity, I assume. I understood he was on a business trip.”

  Stan frowned, took a deep breath, and said, “The motive is an affair.”

  “When isn’t it,” I asked.

  He chuckled and continued. “His credit card records show local hotel charges and he used a timeshare down off International Drive too. Witness saw him check in with someone other than his wife, and there are a ton of explicit texts on his phone that aren’t to his wife.”

  “They hadn’t been married all that long. Do you have any idea who the other woman is?” I asked. I already knew this stuff from my own investigation, but hoped the cops had found out more. He would have told me if he’d known, but I asked, just the same. I didn’t tell him about my investigation for Cary’s father.

  “Married three years, but no idea who the other woman could be and he ain’t talkin’. The cell number is a prepaid burn phone,” Stan said, the frustration evident in his voice.

  “Are his inconsistent statements about the honey on the side?” I asked.

  “Yeah that, and when he’d left for his trip, that sort of thing,” he replied. “The time of death can’t be narrowed beyond a specific day. She’d been dead at least a week. The department had calls from her friends when she didn’t show for appointments and such, but the deputies who went out didn’t find anything wrong. I’m guessing they didn’t look in the kitchen window. Mr. Hunt says he left for the airport about 6:00 that morning. We have a neighbor who saw him leave much later. It doesn’t add up.”

  “Did the ME find anything unusual in the post mortem?” I asked.

  “Doc Wilson handled it himself,” Stan countered. “Stephanie Hunt was stabbed and slashed repeatedly. At least six of the wounds could have been fatal, but nothing unusual except the extreme violence.”

  I stared out the window wishing I had a shot of rye. I tried to take in the gravity of what Stan had said. Someone hated Stephanie Hunt, hated her a lot. “That’s a bad way to go,” I said. “You think Hunt hated her enough to do that?”

  “I don’t know Mac,” he mused. “He’s the only suspect we’ve got, but there’s nothing to show he had that kind of animosity.”

  “How about the mistress, she could have done it?” I offered.

  “Could have, but we don’t know who she is. Hunt denies he had an affair. He’s holding back to protect her. It could be because he killed her and he doesn’t want his side piece to rat on him or he knows the mistress did it,” he said. “I’m glad you’re looking into this. We have to be sure we have the right man.”

  “Yeah,” I responded. “I see your problem. Is there going to be any issue with my getting access to the scene? I’d like to go over your reports and evidence then take a look. Oh, and can you get me the ME’s report too?”

  Stan handed me an expandable folder. “Here are copies of the crime scene reports, the summary you asked for, photocopies of the crime scene photos and a witness list. I made the copies from my drafts. I had to slip everything out on the down low. Your old buddy Raven is my Lieutenant now, remember.”

  “Crap,” I muttered. Lieutenant Anwar Raven hated me more than a priest hates the devil.

  “I can’t get you the incident report,” Stan continued. “I’d have to sign it out to you,” he replied sheepishly.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. More hassle thanks to that prick Raven.

  “Just make a public records request. You can do it online. You’ll get a redacted copy, but you’ll have it in a couple days,

  “I can get it from my client’s mouth piece,” I replied.

  “Can you call Doc Wilson at the ME’s office? I’d like to talk with him, but he won’t do it unless he…”

  “Unless he hears from me, yeah, I know, I’ll call him. Do you want me to go over to the scene with you? I can meet you in the morning.”

  “Sure, that would be great. That won’t get you in hot water with Raven, will it?

  “Naw, least I don’t think so,” he replied with a sheepish grin. “What he don’t know won’t hurt us.”

  “What time tomorrow?” I said.

  “Let’s meet at nine,” Stan replied. “That’ll give me time to check in, and then get over to Baldwin Park.” He handed me a slip of paper with the address.

  “That’ll be great Stan. Thanks.”

  “We made a good team, didn’t we?” he asked.

  “Yeah we did,” I said. “Maybe we can again.”

  Chapter 4

  I tried to wrap my head around everything Stan had said. He was a good man who clearly had doubts and if he did, there was a problem waiting to rear its head. I spent the evening thinking about booze, chain smoking, and going over the photos and the crime scene reports. Don’t bother me. I’m living happily ever after.

  When the sun crept through the blinds about 7:30, I woke with my head on the desk, a kink in my neck, and the conclusion Cary Hunt was in a one hell of a jam. I was jonesing for a drink. My hands shook, Keith Moon was beating a driving rhythm in my head, and I was drenched in sweat. This clean and sober bit was a bitch.

  Instead of grabbing the rye out of the desk drawer, I shook out a Camel, lit up, and went to the sink to shave. My hands had quit shaking, but I felt rough. I found a clean shirt, changed and headed out the door. This case was driving me like a deranged drill sergeant. I had to find something, anything.

  As I headed down the stairs, I dialed Roscoe’s number. Stan’s comment got me thinking. The VA shrink was always yapping about AA, so maybe Roscoe could give me the straight dope. The call went straight to voicemail so I didn’t leave a message.

  I cranked up my Honda, set the GPS, and slipped out into morning rush hour. Most weekday mornings, Orlando traffic is more or less gridlocked and today was no exception. I was sitting in the turn lane to get on Rosalind Avenue when my phone rang. It was Roscoe.

  “Hey Roscoe, thanks for calling me back,” I fretted. “I’ve left you a couple messages.”

  “Hey man, sorry. My crackberry was dead and I couldn’t find the charger. You know how it is. Watcha want?”

  “Well, first I’m on a case and I have some questions for you,” I confided.

  “And second?”

  “Stan called you didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, last night,” he admitted.

  “How about getting tog
ether tonight, we can grab some dinner,” I suggested.

  “Sure thing,” Roscoe said. “I’ll be by your place about seven. I know this chicken place that will turn you into a soul brother.”

  “OK Roscoe, whatever you say. Seven is fine.”

  “Now what kinda case you got and whatcha you need me to check out?”

  I gave Roscoe a rundown on what I knew and asked him to see what word was on the street. Even with a rich guy like Hunt, the street telegraph would be full of news; some of it might be useful.

  “OK Captain, I’ll check things out. If there’s anything hot, I’ll call you, otherwise I’ll fill you in tonight.”

  “What’s the second thing?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “You said first thing you wanted was about your case. What’s the second thing?”

  Roscoe knew I wanted to know about AA, but he was going to make me ask.

  “Let’s talk about it tonight,” I muttered.

  “Have it your way. See you at seven,” he snapped. “You be careful. This could be a rough road. Rich folks always got somethin’ to hide.”

  Roscoe’s warning got me thinking, what if the murder was a frame up. Who would want to get Cary out of the way? I had a lot to ponder. I’d been on the road about twenty minutes when I noticed a white Explorer about three cars behind me. The bastard was tailing me! I hadn’t paid attention while I’d been on the phone, but the feeling was unmistakable. I made a couple of quick rights then a left. Even in the heavy traffic, the Explorer hung in my mirror, matching me turn for turn. Ward Barber had his people on me pretty damn fast. Yet another high point of my day.

  I wasn’t going to shake a tail in this traffic so I got back on the GPS’ track and knew I was going to be late. When I finally turned onto Orange Road., it was 9:20. The address was in Dover Shores, a recent development of apartments, townhomes, and rowhouses. The pristine trees and flowers lining the narrow lanes looked artificial. I drove past the address, but didn’t see Stan. I ducked down a service alley to find a mix of concrete parking pads and rear facing garages outlined by various types of privacy fence. I spotted a grey car parked half way down the block. Stan was sitting on the trunk. I watched as the Explorer continued by, squeeze past Stan and rolled out of sight.

  “Morning,” Stan snapped as I approached. “Drink too much last night or did the Tom Tom take you around your ass to get to your elbow?”

  “Answer B,” I said. “Sometimes this damn thing…”

  “Never mind, let’s get started.” Stan was always one for a joke, but when it was time to work, he wanted to get down to it. That’s why he would go places. Besides, he didn’t want the brass to find out he was working with me.

  “Before we do, I have a couple questions for you,” I said.

  “Oh, what’s that?”

  “The stuff in the paper describes an awful scene.

  “Yeah, so…”

  “I went over the photos with a magnifier. The tech had documented all the stab wounds in the report, but none of them seemed deep enough to kill. Also, there’s one clear picture of a puncture wound on the right side of her neck. It’s not documented and it looks different from the other marks.”

  “Really, you’re a wound analysis expert now too? Who can see things in photocopies? Can we get on with this?”

  “The other thing is the photos show her face was covered.”

  “There was a dish towel covering the victim’s face,” Stan replied.

  “You realize what that means?”

  “Yeah, her killer was probably someone close to her,” he snapped. “We arrested the husband remember? I said I’d show you the place, but I’m not staying here all day.” Stan led the way around to the front door opened it and waited for me.

  The townhouse was a simple two-story rectangle with a one-story flat roof garage supporting a deck off the alley. The door, in the middle of one of the long sides, was blocked by yellow crime scene tape. Once inside the front door to the left was a spacious living room. I suspected no one actually sat in this room based on the white sheets covering the couches and chairs. There were no blinds or drapes and nothing on any of the walls.

  “Have they been here long,” I asked looking at the barren room. This was the home of one of the wealthiest couples in Central Florida?

  “I think about a year,” Stan grunted. “They’re renting.”

  “Really?” I said. “Seem strange to you?”

  “I could care less, come on,” Stan snorted. “Maybe they’re building.”

  A cluttered card table and four folding chairs straight ahead marked the dining room. I noticed a stack of Vogue magazines on the floor. I picked one up and found several pages missing or cut up. I had another clue. The galley kitchen just beyond was as expected except for the patches of brown on the floor. The blood had flowed along the tile floor seeping into the channels made by the grout lines.

  “Where’d you find the knife?” I asked.

  “In the dishwasher,” Stan replied. “It’s part of a set.

  “Positive ID on the shiv?”

  “Well no, only general characteristics, none of the stab wounds were deep enough to get a good read on the blade’s size,” Stan replied.

  “So the knife was in the dish washer … with other things or by itself?”

  “The dishwasher was full. The knife was in the top rack.” Stan was looking at me sheepishly. He realized that without a positive ID on the weapon and absent traces of blood, there was no conceivable way to connect the knife the Sheriff’s Office was saying was the murder weapon, to the crime.

  “Find any blood on the knife?” I knew the answer but asked anyway.

  “What do you think?” Stan snapped.

  I knew that meant they hadn’t found any blood and of course no fingerprints either.

  “Let’s keep looking,” I said.

  “The bedrooms are up here,” Stan urged as he led the way up the stairs.

  Framed snapshots lined the wall of the stairway. There was a group of skiers, a group of tennis players, and still another group in New Orleans at Mardi Gras. There were pictures of the Great Wall and some other far off foreign destinations I recognized, but didn’t know. There were only women in the pictures. This woman had a strong personality, I thought.

  “She’s this one,” Stan said as he pointed to a tall brunette I was able to identify in each of the other pictures. She had been a beautiful woman. She seemed to shine when she was having fun. Along with the pictures were plaques, to Stephanie Norse for outstanding contributions to… There were a ton of them, all for Stephanie Norse or Stephanie Hunt.

  “Stan, don't you think it’s odd they haven’t furnished the place and there are, what, twenty-five or thirty pictures and plaques of hers all over the wall but nothing for the husband?”

  “Now that you mention it yeah, it is a little odd,” Stan fretted as he rubbing his chin.

  “Also, it strikes me this place is a bit small for a filthy rich power couple, don’t you think?” I asked. “They were renting?”

  “Yeah, they’re renting, so what?” Stan said. I could hear the tension in his voice. My questions were annoying him.

  We climbed the stairs and at the top, Stan pointed out a bedroom on the right. “Perp pried open a window in there,” he said.

  “The alarm didn’t go off? I saw a panel down stairs,” I asked.

  “Hunt says they turn it off when they wake up,” Stan offered “and last one out sets it again.”

  “Was it set when she was discovered?” I asked.

  “No. That was the first thing that bothered me,” Stan replied. “If Hunt killed his wife, why didn’t he turn the alarm on when he left?”

  “I don’t understand, Stan. There’s an identifiable point of entry, the alarm was off, and your only suspect is the husband? What have you found out about the guy who found her?” I asked.

  “He’s a pest control guy doing a regular treatment. He calls the day before and th
e tenant leaves the alarm off or waits for him. No one answered when he called. The message was still on the machine.”

  “So he used his pass key and found her in the kitchen?” I asked. “Could have been him.”

  “We’ve eliminated him. She was dead at least a week and his route takes him…”

  “You eliminated him. That’s good enough for me,” I said. “On second thought, could I get his name?”

  “OK,” Stan replied.

  “So your theory is the husband killed his wife, faked a break in with the pried window, left for an out of town trip and hoped no one would find her for a while?” I asked.

  It was a good working theory. I needed some information to break it and I needed to find it fast.

  “That’s it,” Stan sighed.

  “This isn’t your theory, is it?” I speculated. “It smells like Logan or Deeds.”

  “No, it’s not my theory, but the Lieutenant signed off on it and the State’s Attorney felt there was enough probable cause for an arrest warrant,” Stan replied. “The grand jury indicted him.”

  A grand jury can indict on slim evidence. The trial is where the standard is highest, probable cause. I hoped Cary’s case wouldn’t come to that.

  “Come on, there’s more to see.”

  There were two bedrooms at the end of the hall. The one to the right was long, narrow, and completely empty. The master suite was modest, maybe 20 x 25, tastefully decorated and obscenely neat. A king size bed filled one side of the room. When I went around to the side of the bed, I saw an open drawer was empty. There were also two white tile coasters with brown cork liners like my mother used.

  “You didn’t collect the sheets, Stan? How come?”

  “We still have the scene secure. We can come back if we need to,” he answered.

  “Sure, sure,” I replied skeptically. Ward Barber was going to love this.

  I poked my head into the master bath. It had double sinks and a huge shower with showerheads on each of three walls and the ceiling. The fantasy shower didn’t interest me, but I did want to know if anyone used the shower on the morning of the murder, as the crime scene report suggested. Black fingerprint power covered the glass doors and the shower walls. The report took pains to document the lack of fingerprints and several areas of wipe marks. There should be prints somewhere on all that glass and there wasn’t one. The other thing that bothered me was the empty wine bottle and glasses found in the bathroom. It was a hell of a place to have a drink.