by Hal Ross
“What is it?” Debbie asked.
Denise finally made the announcement, her voice somewhat shaken: “A news bulletin from the local CBS affiliate: Jill Derbyshire was found … bludgeoned to death with a golf club.”
16
Earlier the same day
It was mid-afternoon when I approached the Derbyshire house and parked. The sighting of a suspicious vehicle had been called in by a neighbor. I was tied up at an AA meeting, so I’d asked Brad Pederson to investigate. The minute he uncovered the murder he’d phoned me, and I was on my way.
I stepped up to the door only to find that Sara Churchill had beaten me to the crime scene. She greeted me without much enthusiasm, still displaying anger over my behavior last night.
“Been here long?” I asked.
“Not really.”
I indicated the orange crime scene tape, cordoning off the great room. “Nothing’s been touched, I take it?”
“Only the bare essentials—things my staff and your staff had to get to.”
I bent beneath the tape and approached the body. There were three wounds to the back of Jill Derbyshire’s head, each deep and severe. Massive blood spatter stained the wall beyond. The woman never stood a chance. She’d most likely turned away from her assailant when the first blow with the golf club had been struck. It would have killed her or at least knocked her unconscious. The second finished the job if she wasn’t already dead. The third, I figured, was insurance. The blood-stained golf club was lying by Mrs. Derbyshire’s feet. A partially obscured nametag high on the shaft indicated it belonged to her.
“I think this was less personal than the others,” I speculated. “Sinclair and Gladstone faced their killer and for an instant saw what was coming. But Derbyshire had no idea. If it’s the same guy, he might be feeling less sure of himself, might even be troubled by guilt.”
“Not guilt.” Sara became animated. “More a disassociation. Our killer might be losing control. Too anxious to kill to wait for his victim to turn and look at him.”
“What about the victims themselves? The fact that all lived in this one neighborhood of Augusta? We’ve spoken to neighbors, friends and relatives. Then I personally traced former residents going back five years. Nothing there. I expanded my search to the service men and women. I followed the theory that all three victims hurt someone in some way, perhaps complained to someone’s boss and had them fired.”
“And?”
“Not one suspect. At least not yet. There are a few hundred interviews yet to be done. Meanwhile, the murders are piling up … and I can’t seem to stop them.”
Sara turned toward me. “You sound defeated.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Don’t give up, Miles. You’ll catch whoever’s doing this.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh-oh. Sorry, I’ve got to go.”
As I watched her leave, I again wondered what had come between us.
* * *
Once Sara’s SUV was out of sight, I locked up the house with the spare key I had in my possession and headed next door.
Mrs. Harding was the one who’d called in the report about a suspicious car in the Derbyshire driveway. Close to ninety years old, she’d come to Florida to retire in anticipated safety. Instead, the spate of homicides had her living in abject fear for her life.
I knocked on the door. I could tell she was scrutinizing me through the peep hole. I held up my badge. She recognized me finally, opened the door and put the baseball bat she was holding back into the nearby umbrella canister.
Despite the warm temperature, she was wearing a wool dress that fell to her ankles. Her house had a closed-in feel to it, the air stale as if the windows and doors had not been opened for months. I followed her to the great room where we both took a seat across from each other on individual upholstered chairs. The furniture could have been as old as she was, mostly with faux-wood trim in dark shades of brown.
“Your fellow deputy told me what happened,” she said before I could ask anything. “I knew something was wrong. I should have called it in sooner. But I was worried about making a fool of myself. Mrs. Derbyshire was a wonderful neighbor. She was always doing nice things for me. Carrying in my groceries, helping me take out the garbage. I can’t imagine…” Tears flowed. She pulled out a tissue from her housedress pocket and blew her nose. “…what I’ll do without her.”
I gave her time to compose herself, then asked if she remembered anything else about the car.
“No. I don’t.”
“What kind was it?”
“A white one,” Mrs. Harding replied, proud of herself.
“Make? Model?” I prompted.
“I have no idea,” she said, momentarily stumped; then, “but it was one of those modern things you see these days, with fancy curves in the body.”
My hope deflated. White cars in Florida with fancy curves would number in the hundreds of thousands. “Is there anything else you can remember? The license plate, perhaps?”
“The license plate?”
“Yes. Please think, Mrs. Harding.”
“N…No.” She shook her head solemnly, then brightened. “One. It had the number one in the middle of the plate. Or … was it a seven? My eyesight isn’t too good, you know.”
“Can you be more specific, ma’am?”
The look she gave me was so regretful I felt sorry for her. “I don’t know if I can. I wish I could do more. I really do…”
“That’s okay,” I said, afraid she might start crying again. “You’ve been very helpful. Honestly.” I took out one of my cards, stood, and handed it to her. “I have to go now, Mrs. Harding. But if you remember anything else, especially a few of the other numbers in the license plate, please call me. “
* * *
I went home but couldn’t sleep, not after answering phone calls from Sheriff Norman as well as Mayors Hillier and Torbram. This most recent murder was sending everyone into a panic. Until now, the sheriff had given me as much leeway as he could afford, but there were zero results. Even after hundreds of interviews, no one knew anything. No one could provide a lead. Frustration lingered like a meal gone bad, constantly tracing a rancid path through my stomach.
A meeting had been called for first thing in the morning. Sheriff Norman had given me a heads-up, but I still hadn’t figured out the best way to handle the situation. Should I show my irritation or not? Be diplomatic or go on the offensive?
They marched into my office; first the sheriff, tall and broad-shouldered, his stature seldom wavering, followed by my two least favorite mayors. Then last, a man I’d never met but who needed no introduction: Hank Broderick, my predecessor. Early-fifties, hazel eyes, average height and weight, brown hair turning to gray.
Once they were seated the sheriff cut to the chase: “Miles, lucky for us the Tampa Sheriff’s Department has a light caseload at the moment. Until our murders have been solved, I’ve brought in Hank Broderick, on loan, to help out. He has extensive knowledge of Bonita Springs and the wherewithal to probe into places you may not be familiar with.”
The man reached out to shake my hand. I immediately disliked him. The look on his face was smug, and he held my gaze longer than normal, as if waiting for me to blink first. It was childish, but I refused to give him the satisfaction, even after he leaned back in his seat.
I’d suspected this was coming. Mayor Hillier wanted his friend back onboard and had gotten his way. Chalk up one for the asshole. The last thing I needed was a gunslinger interfering with my investigation.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “no offense, but my men have this. They’ve been working around the clock and are getting close to an arrest. It will take too long to bring an outsider up to speed. Particularly a phony like this guy, I held back adding.
It was my pride talking, of course. We weren’t getting closer. While it was true that my t
eam had been working around the clock, we’d come up empty. More importantly, we still couldn’t establish a clear motive for the murders.
“Hold on here!” Mayor Hillier flew into a rage. “Are you that egotistical you’d deny professional help when it’s offered to you?”
I ignored the man’s comments and turned to Broderick. “Hank—you’ve been away from this office for what? Eight years? Surely you don’t expect to step back in and carry on where you left off, do you?”
“Of course, he does,” Mayor Torbram butted in. “You’re not the only one with expertise around here. Hank’s earned his reputation.”
“What reputa—” I started to say when Broderick stood and glared at me.
“Don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’m no rookie around these parts. Seems to me you’ve had enough time to solve these murders, yet you’ve got nothing to show for it. Nada. While all it should take is good police work. Something you may not be familiar with.” Instead of taking his seat again, he remained standing, letting the challenge hang in the air.
This a-hole wants a dual? I scoffed inwardly. That’s his game?
I was a nanosecond away from calling Hank’s bluff when Sheriff Norman spoke up. “Miles—Broderick’s been brought in to be of assistance to you. I need you to give him a chance. He knows the ropes. It’s not like he might corrupt the evidence.”
I opened my mouth to speak, then decided against it. The sheriff had his own agenda, and I realized that Broderick—for whatever reason— had Mayor Hillier as well as the sheriff in his corner as an ally. Okay. Let’s just see how this interesting drama plays out.
17
February 5
At 8:00 p.m. Frank Sinclair, dressed in a dark green shirt and navy shorts, bellied up to the bar and ordered a Manhattan. The sound system played unobtrusive jazz in the background; something by Winston Marsalis. The lighting was exceptionally dim. Frank could barely see who was seated on either side of him.
The Zanzibar was a private club located on the outskirts of Naples and fronted a manmade lake. The exterior of the one-story building was purposely nondescript: dark red-bricked with a slate-shingle roof and windows that remained shuttered at all times. Few neighbors were aware of what went on inside. The parking lot was fenced-in and required a keycard to gain access. Dense foliage camouflaged the entranceway.
Frank counted only two other gentleman and three women. But it was still early. All were middle-aged or older. Private, leather-furnished booths lining the walls were currently empty. Frank knew that most of the club’s members were married or recently widowed or divorced. Their motivation for joining was more the need for sex than companionship.
He smiled to himself. Years ago, this place would have been known as a “swingers club” or “key club.” Today, there was little point in stereotyping. It was what it was. The fact that many spouses of the members were left in the dark was beside the point. The thought of their mental anguish—should they discover the club’s existence—didn’t enter the picture. Like an itch that had to be scratched, some urges had to be fulfilled.
Frank flashed a look at the woman on his right, two stools over. Barbara? he almost said aloud. He took a closer look. The resemblance to Barbara Miller was remarkable. He was reminded of the last time he’d been with Barbara, and the reason for not wanting to see her again.
They’d just made love, of a sort, and Frank couldn’t quite figure out what had happened. There was no denying he’d been turned on by her. But he’d also felt left out, as if this had been Barbara’s erotic experience solely for herself. She’d marginalized him, turned him into a bit player, employed to perform a service and nothing more.
Frank lost interest after that, stopped taking her calls, simply froze her out. Next?
* * *
“I haven’t seen you here before.” The woman’s smile was flirtatious.
“I don’t come here often.” Primarily when I’m horny and desperate.
She extended her hand. “Melanie.”
“George,” Frank lied, figuring she’d done the same. He briefly shook her hand and let go.
She slid over to the adjacent stool and leaned toward him.
Frank observed that she not only had Barbara Miller’s looks, she was approximately the same age—late forties, early fifties. Too good-looking and young to be hanging around a place like this. Most likely’s a story here, Frank figured.
“You live close by?” she asked.
“Close enough. Yourself?”
“Near Pelican Bay.”
“I’m somewhat north of you,” he lied again. “In West Bay Club.”
“Ah. Too far to go.”
“Is it?”
“I think so. Why drive all that distance when there are alternatives?”
“You’re almost empty,” he said, indicating her glass. “Can I get you another?”
She nodded. “Sure.”
“What’s your pleasure?”
“Gin rocks. With a twist.”
Frank placed the order with the female bartender, plus another Manhattan for himself.
Melanie was wearing a low-cut burgundy blouse and black pants that were so tight they appeared to pinch her skin. Her dark hair was done up in a double-tiered bun. Frank was already imagining undoing it, watching the hair cascade down her neck and onto her ample breasts.
“What do you do?” he asked to keep the conversation moving. “Or what did you do—in your previous life?”
“How do you know I’ve had one?”
Frank smiled. “Everyone’s had one.”
“What do you do?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Previously?”
“Nothing at all.”
She playfully slapped his arm.
“What?” Frank said, feigning surprise. “Isn’t everyone in Florida living a life of fantasy?”
Melanie shrugged. “Not everyone, I’m sure.”
“Husband?” Frank tossed out casually.
“Wife?” Melanie countered.
Both smiled demurely and the stage was set. Neither was going to tell the truth about anything.
* * *
Frank followed Melanie to her house in his car.
There was a circular driveway. And a FOR SALE sign on the front lawn. Melanie led the way, opening an oversized wood door with stained-glass panels and ushering him inside.
Frank found the foyer magnificent. Cathedral ceiling, brass chandelier, with statues and pop art paintings lining both walls, and a view that led to a lanai with a multi-colored spotlight that illuminated a waterfall splashing into a pool.
“One Manhattan, coming up,” Melanie said, pointing toward the corridor on his right. “Go into the den and make yourself comfortable. I’ll only be a minute.”
Frank followed her directions, ending up in a mahogany-paneled room with a bookcase, television set, and leather couch. He kicked off his sandals before walking on the carpeted floor and took a seat.
In no time at all she was standing in front of him, proffering his drink while holding her own in her other hand. She’d changed into a frilly nightgown; so transparent she might as well have been naked.
Frank tapped the couch and she sat down next to him. In between sips of their drinks they necked like teenagers on a first date. Words seemed superfluous. Melanie was in no hurry and Frank didn’t mind. Soon after he’d drained his glass, Frank felt the call of nature, and he asked to use the bathroom.
She pointed it out to him.
Inside, he observed the gold-plate, almost used to excess, on the frame of the mirrored vanity, the taps in the sink, the trim on the towel rack.
Frank relieved himself, then washed down his precautionary Viagra with a gulp of tap water.
The lights had been dimmed in the den when he returned, but Frank cou
ld see that the couch had been pulled into a bed. Melanie was leaning against one of the pillows, nightgown partially open, exposing more than her thighs.
Frank stripped and slipped in beside her, his cock now at full mast. But something odd was happening in his head; thoughts became scrambled. It wasn’t the booze itself. Frank could hold his liquor; always had. A dizziness gave way to the sense of falling. He was losing his balance even though he was lying in bed.
“My … drink,” he managed to say, realizing too late that he’d been roofied. “What did you…”
* * *
A flash of Melanie’s breasts. A tangle of arms and legs. Frank was positioned inside her, that much he knew, when a man’s voice came to him, catching him off guard. He wanted to comment; his tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth.
“You are with friends,” Melanie was saying just as an engorged penis entered him from behind.
Shock gave way to dismay. Frank didn’t want this. But he’d been drugged, and it was working. Leaving him defenseless and unable to resist, his body accepting the unimaginable.
Through it all, he heard the sound of a camera clicking away.
18
February 7
Late afternoon, a corkboard sat on an easel against the near wall of my office. Present were the only men I trusted, Brad Pederson and Scott Wellington; both in uniform but with their hats removed. Hank Broderick hadn’t been invited. The clock was ticking. If something didn’t break soon, I’d be out of a job.
“Let’s review the facts.” I pointed toward the upper left-hand corner of the board, then paused. The eight-by-ten color crime scene photograph of Cathy Sinclair emphasized the brutal nature of her murder.
“DOD—January 4th,” Brad Pederson said, reading the date of death stamped beneath the woman’s picture. “Blunt-force trauma to the head. Before nightfall. No forced entry. She was alone at the time.”
“And?” I pushed.
“Her husband was out of town.”
“That’s right,” I confirmed. “Or so he said. Our investigation couldn’t prove otherwise. But he isn’t off the hook. At least, not yet. The suspicion of adultery still hangs over his head. What better reason to get rid of a wife than that?”