by Nick Vellis
Returning from the bathroom I asked, “Anything interesting in these drawers or the wine bottle?”
“You saw where they found a wine bottle and two glasses,” Stan pointed out. “The chemical analysis of the contents of both was nothing but wine. They tell me it’s an expensive Malbec. The same one as on the label,” Stan smiled knowing he’d read my mind.
“I think I read there were some sex toys and lubricant in there,” I said pointing at the open drawer. And the victim had sex a few hours before death.”
“Yes and we got the DNA back. She had showered, but she definitely had sex with her husband.” Stan said.
“They got it on, showered, and then he tortured and killed her? That doesn’t make any sense. What was it, ablutaphopia?” I said.
“What the hell is ablutaphopia?” Stan growled.
“It’s a fear of bathing caused by some traumatic event. What, you didn’t know that?” I chuckled. “Seriously, the facts don’t support the husband doing it. Evidence of sex, the wine, bathing afterwards, the crime scene report says an outfit of women’s athletic clothing was laid out.”
My mind was churning like a chili cook-off judge’s stomach. It didn’t make sense. “Let’s look at the alleged fake point of entry,” I said.
As we walked through the master bedroom’s French doors to the sun porch over the garage a new scenario came to mind. What if someone knew the household’s routine, knew the Hunt’s turned the alarm off when they woke up? They could wait until Cary left then…
The sun porch was an unremarkable wood deck over the attached garage. A large gas grill stood against the wall. A table and four chairs overlooked a small, enclosed patio below. The patio had a couple tiki torches and a portable spa. A dark patch on the spa’s top caught my eye. It looked like a greasy smudge. I walked to the far edge of the deck and looked over the side. A trellis covered with bougainvillea climbing up the side covered the wall below, but something was wrong, quite what, didn’t register. As I turned to leave, I notice one end of the grill pulled away from the wall.
“Did you check this thing?” I said pointing at the grill.
“Check what? It’s the mother of all grills,” Stan grunted.
The vinyl cover was scorched and only partly covering the grill. I looked behind the cooker and saw a thick wet stain on the deck. Grease had spilled from the trap onto the deck. There, in an irregular shaped splotch was the outline of a shoe fully behind the grill.
“I don’t suppose you had this photographed, did you?” I asked Stan, leaning over the top of the grill. “I didn’t see any in what you brought me.”
“Photograph what?” Stan was interested now. I took a couple steps over to the jimmied window. There was a partial tread print on the sill in the same material as the spill on the deck. I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight. Shining it into the cluttered room, I noticed small dark spots on the carpet, including one by the door.
“Come on,” I said as I lead Stan back into the house. The spot appeared to be the same material as the one on the deck and after checking more closely, there was another one in the master bedroom’s walk-in closet.
Once we were back out on the deck, I looked over the rail again and snapped my fingers. “That’s it,” I said.
“What now?” Stan moaned.
“I saw this earlier, but didn’t recognize it,” I said. “Look at this. The plant’s beaten down and broken. Someone climbed this trellis,” I took a couple of steps toward the grill and said, “then hid behind here, stepping in the grease. He pried the window open, slipped in, and jumped the victim in the bedroom.”
“Why stab her in the kitchen if the ambush happened upstairs?” Stan had me with that one, but there was more going on than he and his detectives had uncovered. Then another thought hit me. I went back to the gas grill. I pulled the burned cover off and opened the top. What I saw sealed the deal.
“Stan take a look at this,” I called.
Stan joined me at the grill and in a puzzled look as we stared down at several pieces of partially burned material. I poked at it with my pen and saw the larger piece was lacy, but obviously cut and torn.
“What the hell is this?” Stan asked.
I smiled and shrugged. “I suspect it was what our victim was wearing when she was attacked. See how this sounds, Stan. She was ambushed in the bedroom, maybe in the walk in closet.
“Yeah,” Stan grunted.
“The assailant knocks her out or incapacitates her, strips her and takes her to the kitchen to do her in.”
“Why strip her?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Don’t interrupt.”
“Why take her to the kitchen if he jumped her in the bedroom?”
“Cause that’s where the knife was,” I replied. “Our guy tossed her clothes, whatever this is, in here,” I pointed to the grill, “lights it and splits.”
“Why didn’t it burn up?”
“The thing ran out of gas. It’s still on," I said pointing to the control knobs. "Someone put on the cover when the thing was still lit.”
“I’ll be damned. You’re right, it is. Maybe we can get some prints off this,” Stan said, warming to my theory.
“Can you get some techs back out here without pissing everybody off?” I asked. “You should look to see if that’s grease on the spa top too.”
“Yeah, I can do that,” Stan said wearily. “This sort of makes finding the mistress even more important, doesn’t it?”
“I guess it does,” I said.
It had taken me ninety minutes, more or less, to destroy the Sheriff’s Office’s case against Cary Hunt based on the crime scene evidence, but it remained an open question if reasonable doubt and a good alternate theory would be enough to have Cary released.
I put in a call to Warden Barber Esq. from my car, but found he was out of the office for the day. It was a Thursday. He was probably playing golf with the governor or someone equally important. His goons were still behind me so I decided to lead them home.
My next call was to Ashton. I wasn’t going to get her hopes up just yet, but I wanted to get more on her brother and question her about his mistress before I went to see him. She answered her cell phone on the second ring.
“Mr. Everett, have you found something?” she said.
“It’s Mac, remember,” I interjected “Maybe. I found evidence someone was on your brother’s sun deck and tracked something inside. It could be helpful or it could be nothing. I’ve let the Sheriff’s Office know about it and they’re following up.”
“How is that important?”
“I don’t know that it is, but the Sheriff’s Office missed it in their initial investigation. It could turn out to be an important clue or something your brother’s lawyer uses to raise reasonable doubt. Listen, I’m going to see your brother this afternoon. I wondered if I could come by and see you first. I want to get some background information on him and his wife.”
“I’m in town. Why don’t we meet someplace and talk over lunch?” she asked.
That was fine with me. Time spent with a beautiful woman is time well spent.
“There’s a nice tapas place on International Drive. It’s called Tapas Fantastico. Shall we meet there?” she asked.
I’m more a meat and potatoes sort of guy. The froufrou stuff doesn’t interest me much, but I agreed anyway. “I’ll meet you there at 11:30, if that’s OK. I have one more thing to do,” I suggested.
“That’ll be fine. I’ll get us a table. See you then,” she said and was gone. I looked at the phone for a moment and realized I needed to be careful. I liked Ashton. I liked her a lot and I was forgetting she was a client.
My last call was to the Orange County Corrections Department. I found out Cary Hunt was at the main facility. I had to tell a white lie or two about who I was and why I needed to see him, but was able to make an appointment to see Cary at two forty-five.
My appointment arranged, I coaxed the Honda into gear and headed sout
h. The white Explorer wasn’t far behind.
Ward Barber’s office wasn’t hard to find. It was in a seven story high rise on North Orange near Garland with Ward’s name in thirty-foot high letters on the side of the building. You could see it from I-4. As I pulled up to the valet parking at the Barber Building an eager surfer dude with spiky blond hair jogged toward me. He opened my door and as he handed me a ticket I said, “Can you leave it right there, son? I’m only picking up some papers upstairs.”
Spiky’s face went cold, but he managed to mumble, “Sure buddy, but don’t be long.”
A quick elevator ride to the top floor brought me to an expansive, richly furnished reception lobby where classical piano music filled the air. A shapely blond twenty something with a face full of smile said, “Good morning, sir, how may we help you?” Her greeting dripped southern charm. It must have taken her two months to learn to say that line.
“I’m Mac Everett. Mr. Barber was going to leave some reports for me. On Cary Hunt…”
“Yes, sir. Please have a seat.” I recognize the honey drawl from my call earlier. “Alan will be with you in a moment.” The window dressing could say two prerecorded lines or maybe she wasn’t as dumb as she looked. Naw, it had to be good coaching. I tried to imagine her with a personality. It wasn’t working.
I had thumbed through two copies of SI and Yachting Magazine and was about to leave when Alan appeared.
“Sorry to keep you waiting Mr. Everett,” he said as he crept across the carpeted waiting area.
Alan looked like an effeminate dickhead. His oval face had a slightly pointed chin and a jaw line that seemed unnaturally soft. His dark eyes were small, close together and sat below thin eyebrows that merged above his rounded nose. His mouth was a thin, straight line and seemed to say he was anything but sorry. He combed light brown hair forward until he looked like a sheep dog. The pewter buttons on his navy jacket were polished; his khaki slacks had a razor sharp crease. He was perfectly dressed and wore some fruity aftershave that would gag a maggot. I didn’t trust him. He walked straight, his head held forward. He extended his hand and I accepted his clammy, limp handshake. This man was dangerous. I’d have to be careful.
“I’m Alan, Mr. Barber’s assistant. We spoke on the telephone.” The voice was as cold as the individual behind it was. Mr. Barber regrets he could not be here to meet you. Would you care to step into my office?” Alan’s tone was brusk with a touch of a clipped New Jersey accent. His words stank of disdain.
“Hey pal, nice aftershave,” I said. “Did you have to marinate in it?”
He just looked at me.
“No thanks on that appointment,” I replied firmly. He gave me a frown as he let go of my hand. “I came for some reports Mr. Barber promised. I have another meeting across town.”
“Certainly, Mr. Everett, we can make arrangements for another time. I’ll get your documents.” Alan turned on his heel and disappeared as quickly as he had arrived. He returned in a minute and handed me two typewritten sheets stapled together. I took them, flipped to the second page, and saw it was simple list of names and addresses.
“Glad you didn’t knock yourself out getting this ready,” I said. “Thanks for nothing. Where’s the Sheriff’s Office report?”
“As I told you on the telephone we have our own…”
“Yeah, I know you have your own staff of investigators. Well, I gotta tell you I’m not impressed with your team. I spotted then inside of fifteen minutes. They need to turn in their decoder rings and go back to correspondence school.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he replied.
“I’m sure you do. Listen and listen good,” I growled, “you tell your investigators to stay out of my way.” I raised my voice for effect then threw the two sheets of paper in Alan’s face. The startled look on his face was worth the price of admission.
“Mr. Everett, I assure …”
“Save your assurances pal,” I growled. “I’ve seen your people tailing me this morning.”
“Mr. Everett…”
“Call ‘em off. Call ‘em off now. If I so much as think someone’s following me, I’ll kill ‘em. I’ll kill ‘em, you hear! Then I’ll come back for you.”
I punched the air with my index finger directly in Alan’s face with each threat then fixed my eyes on his. He wasn’t afraid, but he wasn’t as cock sure as he’d been a minute ago. As I turned for the elevator, I ‘accidently’ shouldered Alan. He stumbled backward against a leather love seat, moved it a foot, and fell on his ass. “I want copies of the Sheriff’s Office reports by the end of the day. Don’t forget,” I shouted.
I picked up the two-page list and stomped out. I hit the elevator button and turned to the wide-eyed plastic doll at the reception desk, gave her a wink and a wave then said, “Have a nice day,” in my best fake southern accent.
I caught my breath and smoothed down my hair when the elevator doors closed. I hoped my little act had the desired effect. I hit the front door at a moderate jog, tossed the valet three bucks, and was gone before Alan could call 911.
The white Explorer followed for a few miles then disappeared. Guess he got the word. It only took me forty minutes to get out to the south side of town. Traffic headed toward Disney and Universal on I-4 normally wasn’t too bad mid morning. I took the Sand Lake Road exit and headed north on I-Drive. I spotted Tapas Fantastico tucked between a mini golf course and a tee shirt shop on the east side of the street. I knew from the location, the pastel exterior, and the weird art on the walls this was going to be expensive. The place served tapas style food, appetizer sized portions that cost the same as a full meal. What was the world coming to?
Ashton was waiting for me just inside the door. Her painted on jeans, designer blouse and heels looked fantastic. Any good-looking woman can look hot, but rich ones do it effortlessly. Even casually dressed, she was a stunner. We went to a table in the center of the crowded restaurant. I had a club soda, Cuban sliders, and a pork belly Reuben. Ashton had duck confit quesadilla and some sangria, food for foodies, not real people.
We chatted amiably like two old friends. We talked about what it was like to have a twin brother, and to be wealthy. She got used to the money, but said it was weird routinely knowing what her brother was thinking.
“My parents were comfortable, but with the Disney land sale, well they never expected to get filthy rich. Cary and I were both sort of embarrassed about all the money,” she said, taking a sip of Cuban coffee.
“I wish I had your problem,” I shot back, “with money that is.”
“Cary and I both make a good living, but no one will ever believe our success is our own. It’s hard to accept.” She looked off wistfully lost in thoughts.
“How did it all start? Your dad apparently owns a lot of land,” I asked. I already had the answers from my research. It was more a conversational question than work related. I was enjoying being close to Ashton. She looked up and to the right, recalling facts.
“Sam and Bridget Hunt, my great grandparents, set up a cattle operation in Central Florida in the early 1890s,” she explained. “Their three sons expanded into phosphate mining and timber. They bought up thousands of acres before the Florida land boom, but two of the brothers lost everything when the bubble burst in 1925. One committed suicide and the other was killed in a sawmill accident.
Jeb Hunt, the surviving brother eked out a subsistence living on the family’s original cattle ranch. Despite hanging on by his fingernails at first, by the 1930s he’d amassed a considerable fortune and held thousands of acres. He was a true hardscrabble pioneer. His first large land sale was to the U.S. government in the late 1930s. They built an Army post, and then an air field in what is today the heart of Orlando,” Ashton said.
“The Orlando Naval Training Center the government closed a few years ago?” I asked.
“Yeah, the Navy didn’t take it over until the 1960s. Before that it was an Army flight school, a hospital and lots of other thi
ngs, but that was just the beginning.” She smiled and continued. “Jeb had two children, Emily and Martin. While Emily married into the politically savvy Broward family, as in Broward County Florida, Martin married a local girl, kept the family business going, and had three children, my brother John, who died of diphtheria as an infant, Cary, and me. Daddy joined the Army and fought in Viet Nam. My mother kept the ranch going.”
“So with his Army pay and income from the ranch, your folks were pretty well set,” I interjected.
“Daddy and Mamma never rivaled the giants like Flagler, Plant, or Broward, but the family helped established citrus as a major industry, was involved in railroads, and like his father and grandfather my daddy held large tracts of land. He sold thousands of swampy undeveloped acres that became Disney World. Despite being one of the wealthiest men in the state, daddy still works his cattle ranch.”
“What happened to you mother?” I asked.
Ashton sucked her lip in and got a faraway look as her eyes became moist. She looked up and to the right retrieving memories then said, “She died in a car crash when daddy was stationed in the Manila. Mamma went out there to visit him and…she never came back.”
“How old were you?” I asked.
“I was in college. I’d rather not talk about my mother, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure, have it your way. What’s your father like?” I asked.
“Daddy? You met him. Why do you ask?”
“I met the famous man. I wondered what your father is like,” I said.
“He’s down to earth, kind, but won’t stand for any nonsense, yet he’s been bailing Cary out for years. He’s not religious, but he quotes the Bible all the time, particularly Proverbs and Psalms.”