by Jason Melby
"Jamie showed me the code," Samantha reassured him. She slid the key in the Baldwin cylinder. The lock turned freely, granting access to the furnished family room. Plastic sheets covered every piece of furniture but one. A broken grandfather clock stood prominently in the formal living room across from the gas fireplace. A faint ammonia smell hung in the air.
Samantha punched the four digit code in the security display to deactivate the silent alarm. The red LED turned green. "We're good. I'll check the bedrooms. You check the rest of the house."
Lloyd started in the kitchen and checked the adjacent pool bath. He checked the empty nursery and the guest bathroom.
Samantha searched the master bedroom and found Jamie's clothes in the closet. An open suitcase rested on the rumpled bed. She examined the empty bathroom and found a spotless sink with a dry hand-towel folded neatly through a brass ring holder by the mirror. "No one's been here for awhile," she hollered.
"I'll check the study," said Lloyd, who pounded his fist on the locked door. He jiggled the handle and pushed with his arm. Unsuccessful, he lowered his shoulder, bent his knees, and used his full body weight. This time his effort met with the loud crack of splintered wood.
Samantha followed Lloyd and stared at the vacant closet. "It's empty..." she said, dismayed by the missing evidence Jamie reassured her was there.
"He knows we're on to him," said Lloyd. "He's trying to cover his tracks."
"He killed her. I know he did."
"We don't know that. Just keep moving."
"Did you look at the pool area?" Samantha asked.
"Nothing," said Lloyd. "The other rooms are empty too. We should check the garage."
Samantha followed Lloyd to find the red Volvo parked in its designated spot. "That's her car."
Lloyd put his hand on the hood. It felt cool to the touch.
He popped the trunk and found a stash of empty grocery bags behind a cargo net.
Samantha looked over his shoulder. "This house gives me the creeps."
Lloyd eyed the ceiling and pulled down the folding ladder. He climbed inside the attic and tugged on the chain beneath the light socket to illuminate the space above the garage. Colored bins sat on sheets of plywood spanning the rafters stuffed with rolls of pink insulation.
He unzipped a large canvas bag to dismiss the unthinkable and found a dismantled Christmas tree stuffed inside.
"Do you see anything?" Samantha called out from below.
Lloyd pulled the chain and climbed down. He folded the ladder onto itself and raised the spring-assisted platform to the ceiling. "Nothing."
Samantha cupped her hand to her mouth. "He must have taken her somewhere."
"Where?"
"I have no idea," Samantha answered. "Jamie never travels. She never visits. She's been a prisoner in this house since the day she married Alan Blanchart. He never lets her out of his sight."
Chapter 70
Marsha sat in the rented Altima admiring the blue steel finish on her prized revolver. The gun gave her power and control in a world entirely out of control. She had fired more than a thousand rounds through the gun, making consistent head shots at twenty yards. Ambidextrous since birth, she felt as comfortable shooting right-handed as well as with her left. The million-dollar question wasn't whether she could hit her target—but whether she could point the gun at someone trained to shoot back.
She turned in her seat and leaned forward to check for movement in her mirror. A tingle traced the back of her neck.
She cocked the hammer and got out of the car. Her gut told her to pull the plug before a nosey neighbor spied someone in the sheriff's house and called the very cop they were desperate to avoid. Her good intentions not withstanding, she had no legal recourse if the cops caught wind of her search and rescue mission. Aside from the threat of jail time for breaking and entering, an arrest would hinder any chance of finding Jamie Blanchart—either dead or alive. What had started out as a routine extraction for a standard domestic abuse case, had devolved into a total clusterfuck.
A rodent scampered toward the pond with the clickity-clack of nails on pavement. A wind chime jingled on a neighbor's porch. What her broken eardrum failed to hear, her good ear compensated for with mixed results.
Marsha squeezed the pistol with her right hand and lowered her shoulders to relax her shooting posture.
She aimed the gun toward the Nissan's rear quarter panel and made her way around the car. She stared at the wide retention pond, sensing the low frequency vibrations from interstate traffic. Another false alarm brought on by her own handicap and the ghosts of her distant past.
Content with her surroundings, she eased the revolver's hammer against the back of the firing pin and retreated inside the car. For a second, her brain dismissed what her eyes were telling her when she noticed the unmarked cruiser in the sheriff's driveway.
"We're locked in!" Lloyd's voice blared from the walkie-talkie on the passenger seat.
Startled by the cry for help, Marsha keyed the mike and warned, "Blanchart's car's in the driveway!"
"We can't get out!" Lloyd's voice replied. "The doors must be locked from the outside!"
"Then break a window," Marsha barked in the walkie-talkie. "Just get the hell out of there!" She waited for Lloyd's reply. "Do you copy?"
She started the car and turned her head as shattered glass pelted the side of her face. A deflected bullet grazed her temple; another pierced her carotid artery, bathing the front of her shirt in O-negative.
She pressed her hand to her neck and dropped the .357 between her legs. Her eyes darted wildly. Her pulse roared in her ears. Neurons fired sporadically through her chemical synapses, the delicate circuitry in her brain discombobulated from the shock to her central nervous system. Then a third round penetrated her skull behind the ear.
Blanchart reached through the door and nudged the transmission in reverse. He turned the blood-stained wheel and stepped back to watch the car roll toward the retention pond and dip into a watery grave.
Chapter 71
Blanchart pressed his face to the sliding glass door, giving access to his dark living room. He noticed nothing unusual. No lights. No movement. No sign of anyone but his own reflection in the glass. Everything remained the way he'd left it before a bogus 911 call prompted a late-night change of plans.
He slipped his hand in the pocket of his polyester uniform slacks and pressed the key fob to unlock the house. He entered quietly and slipped his shoes off. His shadow followed his movements with the silenced .22 in his hand.
"Your friend is dead," he said out loud.
He pointed the gun at the living room, flanking the sofa and love seat combination. He moved softly, yet swiftly through the house.
"The bible says thou shall not covet another man's wife. It also mentions an eye for an eye—if you believe in that sort of thing."
His intuition brought him to the coat closet by the foyer. "I believe I have something you want, Mr. Sullivan. I know what you're thinking. And I promise, I'm not here to arrest you."
He searched the guest room and his study. "My condolences to your brother. I understand you two had issues. How did killing him make you feel?"
He stood still and waited patiently for the faint sound of movement—or fear. "I saw your mother the other night. She didn't make it."
He checked the peephole in the front door and turned on the porch lights. "You're a cockroach, Sullivan. A fucking insect without a conscience. I see men like you all the time. Most end up dead or in prison. Some wind up working for me. But none of them put their hands on my wife. That's where you crossed the line. I have a high tolerance for a lot of things. Adultery isn't one of them."
He searched the kitchen and fired two rounds through the pantry door, exploding a jar of grape jelly on the wire rack behind it. Spent casings clanged off the tile floor.
He inspected the sticky mess of purple Smucker's and continued his search. No one but himself would leave the house alive. H
is report would reflect a home invasion to justify the use of deadly force against Lloyd Sullivan. The crime scene weenies would handle the details and dispose of the corpse.
He moved toward the pool bathroom that opened to the kidney-shaped pool inside the screened lanai.
He pointed the gun at the empty glass block shower beside the commode and stared out the window at the pool. He flipped the switch to activate the outdoor lights and heard the in-ground sprinklers come alive with the steady hiss of pressurized water.
When the doorbell rang, he killed the pool lights and returned to the kitchen. A second ring prompted him to collect his spent shell casings and arrange his shirttail over the silenced .22 he concealed in the back of his pants.
Dismayed by the unprecedented midnight intrusion, he peeled the blinds at the front of the house to see a Florida State Police car in his driveway. "If you so much as sneeze," he called out to his unwanted guest lurking somewhere inside his house, "I will kill her." He checked the peephole and unlocked the deadbolt to greet the two suits approaching from the driveway.
"Sheriff Blanchart?" the first man inquired. He flashed a state police badge. "My name is Agent Donavan, with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement." He nodded to his colleague. "My partner, Agent Niles."
"What can I do for you?" Blanchart asked point-blank, hoping to steer the agents away as soon as possible.
Agent Donavan slipped his badge in his jacket pocket. An intrepid ex-Marine from the 41st Infantry, he walked with a kink in his step from the IED shrapnel still embedded in his knee. He spied Blanchart's duty weapon in his holster. "We'd like to ask you a few questions."
"What about?"
"May we come inside?"
Blanchart gave a wooden smile. "I'm on the ass end of a double shift. If you could come back tomorrow morning—"
"This won't take long," Agent Niles interrupted. A Skoal man since high school and a father of three girls, he spoke with a Carolina drawl that set most suspects at ease, and at times, betrayed his true intellect. He stood a head shorter than his senior partner but owned a strong upper body from grueling workouts on the Smith Machine. His shirt-sleeve covered an Army Ranger tattoo.
Blanchart stepped aside and allowed both men to enter. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"No thanks," the agents replied in unison, glancing at each other—they'd recognized the smell of cordite instantly.
Agent Niles followed his partner and Sheriff Blanchart toward the back of the house. "Is there anyone home besides yourself, Sheriff?"
Blanchart shook his head. "My wife's been tied up out of town for a while. I'm flying solo until she gets back."
Agent Donavan watched his partner as Agent Niles took a notepad from his coat pocket and scratched the bald pattern on his head with a pen. He knew Niles was suspicious by nature, and the pair of them had bloodhound noses for dirty cops. Regardless of the cursory background check that raised more flags on Blanchart than a crash at Daytona Speedway, the sheriff reeked of guilt.
Niles said, "I noticed your wife's car in the garage."
"Her car?"
"I peeked in the side window. The Volvo's registered in her name."
"She took a cab," said Blanchart.
"Out of town?"
"To the airport."
"Business or pleasure?" Agent Niles pushed back.
"Excuse me?"
"You said your wife was tied up for a while out of town. On business or vacation?"
"She went to stay with relatives."
"For how long?"
"A few days."
"Whereabouts?"
Blanchart put his hands on his hips. "You guys must be really bored to come all the way out here and ask about my wife's affairs."
Agent Donavan unwrapped a stick of spearmint gum and offered one to Blanchart, who declined. "Nice house. How much would a place like this set me back?"
"Not much in today's market," said Blanchart. He opened the laundry room and started the washing machine.
Agent Donavan chewed his gum, wondering why Blanchart felt the need to wash clothes immediately after a double shift. He's still in uniform, for Christ sakes. The sheriff's body language and tone of voice portrayed a man who didn't rattle easily. "We're investigating a recent auto accident that involved a state employee named Leslie Dancroft. We understand you responded to the scene."
Blanchart looked incredulous. He poured liquid detergent in the washing machine.
"Did you know her, Sheriff?"
"I knew her by reputation."
"What can you tell us about the accident?"
"I haven't finished my final report," said Blanchart. He came out of the laundry room and followed the agents around the house, careful to keep his back turned away from both men at all times.
"We'd like to hear it from you in person," said Agent Niles.
Agent Donavan snapped his gum in his mouth. "Routine procedure. We came across some... inconsistencies in your initial statement, and we were hoping you could help us clarify a few things."
"I don't follow you."
Agent Niles scribbled on his pocket notepad. "Then let me draw you a map."
"We're all on the same team here," Agent Donavan said empathetically, to diffuse the escalating tension between his junior partner and the sheriff. He needed Blanchart to open up and disclose more than he intended without getting angry and stonewalling with his department's legal advocate. "In your initial statement to the highway patrol you indicated that you responded to the scene before the call was dispatched."
"Right place, right time," said Blanchart. "I responded to an earlier call near that vicinity when I came upon the accident."
"And what happened when you first arrived?"
"I called emergency medical services and secured the area."
"About what time?"
"As soon as I arrived."
"Your report stated you arrived on scene at 2:35 AM," Agent Niles pointed out. "Is that accurate?"
"I believe so."
"And Wuestoff Medical Center dispatched an ambulance at 2:37."
"If that's what my report said, then that's what happened."
"Pretty quick turnaround time, don't you think?"
Blanchart smiled wryly. "Every second counts."
"Did you perform any emergency medical assistance when you arrived?" asked Agent Donavan.
"What do you mean?"
Agent Niles lifted the pen from his notepad. "Did you try to extricate Ms. Dancroft from her vehicle?"
"The car was engulfed in flames," said Blanchart. "There was no way I could get to her without burning myself to death in the process."
"So you never approached the vehicle?"
"I kept my distance until fire rescue arrived."
Agent Niles kept writing. "If you were at a distance from the burning vehicle, how did you recognize Ms. Dancroft as the driver?"
"I didn't. Not at first."
"How long were you at the scene?" Agent Niles continued.
"Like I said in my statement. I was there until emergency services arrived."
"About what time did they arrive?"
"I can't recall exactly. A few minutes after I put the call out."
Agent Donavan strolled around the house while he talked. "We have a witness who claims they saw a man at the scene before Ms. Dancroft's vehicle caught fire."
"Then perhaps you should be questioning him," said Blanchart.
"The witness claims he saw a man in uniform," Agent Donavan explained.
"Witnesses portend to see a lot of things," said Blanchart. "That doesn't make them true."
"Point taken," said Agent Donavan. "But this guy is one of those retired Space Coast engineers with nothing better to do than set his watch to beep every hour. I hate the anal retentive type. Who gives a shit when the hour rolls around? If I need to know what time it is, I look at my watch." He exchanged glances with his partner and posed the follow-up question to Blanchart. "Is there anything more you
'd like to share?"
Blanchart reached behind his back, pretending to scratch an itch. His fingers touched the semi-auto .22. "Not really..."
Agent Niles removed a wedding photo from the fireplace mantel. "You have a beautiful wife," he said with his Carolina drawl.
"She's a keeper," said Blanchart.
Agent Niles put the photo back. "Your department's had a tough year. Four murders in three months, including one of your own deputies killed in the line of duty. Any leads so far?"
Blanchart followed the men into the kitchen. "You know I can't discuss an open investigation."
Agent Donavan stared out at the pool. "We're not looking to jam up one of our own."
"I appreciate your concern," said Blanchart.
Agent Donavan noted the shed in the back yard. "A couple weeks ago, Ms. Dancroft approached the FBI with some disturbing accusations about your department. The feds weren't eager to get involved so they punted back to us."
"What type of accusations?"
"Does the name 'Manny Morallen' ring a bell?" asked Agent Niles. He poked his head inside the pantry.
"He killed my deputy."
"I'm sure you're also aware Manny Morallen turned up dead in a motel room three days ago," said Agent Donavan. He chewed vigorously on his flavorless wad of gum. "Ms. Dancroft was his attorney."
"Morallen was a drug addict," said Blanchart. "It happens."
Agent Niles poked his finger at the bullet holes in the pantry door. "According to her written statement, Ms. Dancroft seemed convinced you were directly involved in Morallen's murder. She also claimed in her statement you tried to kill her."
Blanchart forced a laugh. "Me?"
"Did I say something funny?"
"She was defending a cop killer. She was desperate to draw attention away from my primary suspect. You can't take her accusations seriously."
"We take everything seriously," said Agent Niles. He reached inside his jacket, ostensibly to scratch his armpit, and discretely unsnapped his holster. "We traced a cell phone call from Ms. Dancroft's phone to an FBI field office around the time of her accident."
"So?"
Agent Donavan stopped chewing and stared at Blanchart. "Why would a woman trapped inside a burning car bother to dial the FBI and not 911 instead? For that matter, how would she have the presence of mind to dial anything when she's choking on all that smoke?"