Cold Case Killer

by Dorothy Francis

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  For my family.

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Cold Case Killer

  By Dorothy Francis

  Copyright 2016 by Dorothy Francis

  Cover Copyright 2016 by Untreed Reads Publishing

  Cover Design by Ginny Glass

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  Previously published in print, 2007.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Also by Dorothy Francis and Untreed Reads Publishing

  Pier Pressure

  Conch Shell Murder

  www.untreedreads.com

  For my family.

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to the many people who helped make this book possible:

  Maureen Moran, my agent; Ed Gorman, every writer’s friend; John Helfers, my editor at Tekno; Mary P. Smith, Tiffany Schofield, my editors at Five Star; Dee Stuart, my first reader; Judith Pulse, my foot reflexologist; Jeremy Linsenmeyer, juvenile court officer of Tama County, Iowa; Richard Roth, Monroe County, Florida sheriff; Bill Crider, a gentleman from Texas.

  Any errors that may have slipped into this book are my own and not theirs.

  PROLOGUE

  1982

  Threatening rain clouds darkened Key West on this blustery afternoon. An eerie half-light honed the palm trees behind her apartment into dark skeletons that did a grotesque dance in the rising wind. Some Christmas Eve this was going to be! Heat from my excitement felt like a hot band binding my chest like a rope so I could hardly breathe. Why didn’t that warmth reach my hands? Dyanne Darby. The cold metal of the gun and the silencer in my jacket pocket chilled my fingers. Dyanne Darby.

  Today Dyanne Darby would regret giving me the brush-off. Today Dyanne Darby would regret her Christmas Eve date with Randy Jackson.

  Today Dyanne Darby would regret making me grovel for her affection.

  Today Dyanne Darby would be beyond all regretting. The stench of boiled cabbage hung in the air as I climbed the outside steps to Dyanne’s dingy apartment behind Sloppy Joe’s. Boiled cabbage on Christmas Eve! Dyanne Darby wasn’t the boiled cabbage type. I couldn’t imagine her eating anything so common. Maybe lobster. Maybe caviar. The odor must be coming from someone else’s kitchen. Maybe her friend, Nicole’s. Maybe from Sloppy Joe’s.

  At the top of the steps, I tugged a rope that rang an old-fashioned ship’s bell to announce guests. No response. I jerked the rope again.

  “Who’s there?” she called. “Randy? Is that you? You’re way early.”

  I yanked the rope again. This time she opened the door a narrow crack. A crack. That’s all I needed. Using an elbow, I pushed my way inside before she could slam the door in my face.

  “Good afternoon, Dyanne.” I let my voice grow soft. I undressed her with my eyes. “You’re looking well today.”

  “How dare you barge in here like this!” She stepped closer to me, trying to strong-arm me out the door.

  “Just stopped by to wish you a merry Christmas and make a date for tonight. How would you like dinner and an evening of dancing at the Rooftop Café?”

  She laughed at me. “Don’t try to play me for a fool. Surely you don’t think you can show up at the last minute and find me waiting for you. Besides, you can’t get reservations at the Rooftop at the last minute. I’ve had a Christmas Eve date with Randy for ages.”

  “A date you’ll never keep, Dyanne. I don’t like broads who play hard to get and laugh at me.”

  Fear flashed in her eyes and I felt the satin of her wine-colored negligee brush my hand as she tried to wedge her body around mine and escape down the stairs. I blocked that maneuver with my shoulders and hips, grabbed her arm, and flung her across the room onto the shabby couch.

  “You’re drunk!” she shouted. “Get out of here.”

  “You’re not going anywhere, Dyanne. Not for a long time. We’re going to have a cozy time together—a real holiday time.” I sat down beside her on the couch. She jumped up, screaming.

  “Help! Help! Nicole! Call the police!”

  She kept on screaming and it was my turn to laugh. “Who do you think’s going to hear you above all that wind and street noise?”

  When she stopped screaming and I stopped talking, we could hear the rattle of the Conch Train making its rounds, the amplified voice of the driver pointing out the historic must-return-to-see spots on the island. And right below her window a Salvation Army guy rang a hand bell and bellowed requests for donations. She screamed again, but the sound blended in with the din below.

  If she hadn’t looked at her phone before she made a grab for it, I might have missed seeing it sitting on an end table behind a vase holding a single hibiscus blossom. I beat her to the phone and snapped the cord from the wall.

  “Who you thinking of calling? Nicole? Police? Or maybe your loverboy, Randy. Where do you suppose he is now when you need him?”

  She made another break for the door, but I tripped her and she fell flat. Gentleman that I am, I helped her to her feet. She stood, trying to regain her balance when I pulled the gun from my pocket.

  “We’re going to have some fun, then one sure shot’s going to make you very sorry you ever heard of Randy Jackson.”

  “Stop!” she shouted. “Think what you’re doing, you idiot! Nicole’s just down the hall. She’s going to stop by any minute now to show me her new Christmas dress.”

  I pointed the gun at her head and she broke into a run, zig-zagging around the room. I didn’t try to catch her—just followed her with my eyes and my gun. Then she fooled me and dashed into her bedroom, slammed the door. I felt the vibration of the sturdy pine through the soles of my shoes and heard the click of the lock. Ha! Did she think a door could stop me! Even though I had a silencer on the gun, I waited until the Salvation Army guy was ringing at high speed before I shot and shattered the door lock, kicked the door open.

  Empty room. I rushed to the op
en window. Must be fifteen feet to the ground. I expected to see her sprawled on the concrete below. But no. She hadn’t jumped. I looked around the room for a moment. The closet. The only place she could be. I eased the closet door open inch by inch to heighten her suspense and fear.

  A furry creature skittered across the room. Sensing her rising terror, I took my time poking my gun along the rod of hanging clothes—waitress uniforms, dresses, robes. No Dyanne. Kicking a row of shoes aside, I stepped into the closet for a better look. That’s when I heard her. Whirling around, I saw her sliding from under the bed.

  “Thought you could fool me? Give up, Dyanne. Nothing can save you now.”

  I prodded her to her feet with the gun barrel. Even then, she didn’t give up. She ran back to the living room and headed for the door before I grabbed her arm and swung her around to face me. “I never shoot people in the back, Dyanne. Choose the spot where you want to die.”

  “You mean you’ve shot other people?”

  “So now you’re going to try the old keep-him-talking ploy?” I laughed at her. “Be real, Dyanne. You’ve had your chance to please me. I can’t count the number of times you’ve refused my calls. So now you’re going to pay for making me play the fool. You’re going to pay big. Do you think a few dates with Randy Jackson are worth your life? Think about it. Tell me you’re sorry. I want to hear it from your own lips.”

  She said nothing. Fear leaked from her eyes. Or maybe it was anger. Or hatred. “I want to hear you talk, Dyanne. I want to hear you beg me for mercy.”

  She jerked her arm free from my grip and dropped onto the couch. “You coward!” She lifted her chin and said it again. “You rotten coward.”

  I squeezed the trigger. One bullet shattered her neck. The next two sent blood spewing down her chest. After that, I didn’t need to check for a pulse. Her body slumped to the floor and I knew she lay dead. The cabbage odor disappeared into the stench of blood and death.

  I knelt beside her and readied myself before I jerked her negligee aside. What she had denied me in life, I took in death.

  After I finished, I was too smart to retreat down the outdoor steps where I had entered. Still breathing hard, I forced myself to calm down and ease across the room. I opened the door to the inner hallway. Walking along a carpeted runner and then down the inside stairs, I paused before I let myself out onto the street.

  Smiling, I dropped a buck into the Salvation Army kettle.

  ONE

  My name is Keely Moreno and I’m proud of being the only professional foot reflexologist in Key West—maybe the only one in the Florida Keys. I’m not so proud of my reputation as an amateur detective. One important lesson my foot reflexology courses didn’t teach me was how to deal with a corpse. Last year I’d learned that lesson on my own.

  And it changed my life. Now I realize life is fragile and should be handled with care and respect. Last year I worked seven days a week. This year, I’ve eased up. I close my office on weekends and Wednesday afternoons. My new work schedule allows me to relax and spend more time with Punt Ashford, my long-time friend, the man who saved my life.

  No more mystery solving for me! I’m aware of Randy Jackson’s problem, and even though his mother, Maxine, is my cleaning lady, a woman I respect, I’m turning a deaf ear to her request that I try to help her son. Detective work can get a woman in big trouble.

  This Wednesday morning I felt well and rested. Last night around midnight I’d managed to wake from a fitful sleep and throw off a recurring nightmare. I called it my Jude Cardell special. Even in death, my ex still managed to terrorize me in my dreams. But this morning I felt eager to meet the new day. I’d showered, given my hair its casual blow-and-go do, and dressed in my workaday khaki jumpsuit. I’d unlocked my office and stepped outside into the sunshine, when I saw a folded paper tucked under a corner of my business sign bolted to the door. Who’d left that? I’d heard no knock. Maybe Maxine, my first client of the day, decided to cancel her initial appointment and felt too embarrassed to give me the news face to face.

  I opened the note printed in blood-red ink on a half sheet of notebook paper. After I read the words, my heart pounded. I stood frozen.

  UNLESS YOU WANT TO DIE, DON’T STICK YOUR NOSE INTO THE RANDY JACKSON CASE. MOUSE-MILK.

  I read the note twice, letting the words soak into my brain. Then the taste of fear, sharp and rusty, coated my tongue. I stepped forward to glance up and down the street, but I saw nobody near. My hands grew icy and the letters on my business sign wavered. I blinked, then blinked again until the words came into sharp focus.

  ALTERNATIVE HEALING. KEELY MORENO. FOOT REFLEXOLOGIST.

  In spite of this warm March morning, I shivered.

  Returning to my office-apartment, I closed the door before my grandmother in her shop next door saw me and hurried over to wish me a good morning. Gram had a weak heart and I tried to avoid stressing it with my problems. Who wanted me dead? And why? Could the note be some weirdo’s sick idea of a joke? Sitting on the edge of my bed, I jammed the message under my pillow as if hiding it from sight might make it go away, might keep its words from threatening my life and my world. Unless you want to die. Unless you want to die. The words kept zinging through my mind.

  Following my divorce four years ago, I’d stopped playing the doormat role of abused wife. With help from the Ashford family, I’d taken charge of my life and earned my professional certificate from St. Petersburg’s International Institute of Reflexology. I’ve worked hard to set up my private practice on Duval Street. Many people are searching for new and promising concepts of disease prevention and healthful living. I have a thriving business in spite of the media and the police having hounded me about my involvement in the Margaux Ashford murder and the accidental death of my ex. But those things happened last year. Someone was after me now and I had no idea why.

  My hands shook as I reread the warning then pushed it out of sight again. Someone knew I’d been thinking about the Randy Jackson case. Snippets of last week’s conversation between me and Maxine Jackson replayed through my mind.

  “Impossible, Maxine,” I’d said. “It wouldn’t help you or Randy for me to try to investigate a cold-case murder that happened two decades ago. I wouldn’t know where to begin. I was only a child then.”

  I didn’t tell Maxine that I found the idea of getting involved in the life of an ex-con repugnant. Criminals—the underbelly of society. No way did I want to be associated with people of that ilk. I considered Maxine a straight arrow, hardworking and honest as they come. I didn’t fault her for Randy’s problems, but neither did I want to get sucked into them.

  “I need your help, Keely. You’ve solved one murder. You have detective experience. I think you can help me and my Randy now if you’ll only give it a shot.”

  I like Maxine and I tried to ignore her pleading. “Believe me. I want no part of playing detective. Too dangerous. Too time-consuming. It would intrude into my professional work. Why don’t you talk to Punt Ashford at the Fotopolus and Ashford Agency?”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  “Right. Punt and I are close friends, but more important to you, he and Nikko Fotopolus have opened a private detective agency here in Key West. They might be able to help you—and Randy.”

  “Keely, be real. No way can I afford to hire no private detective, and Randy, he don’t have the purse for that high-falutin kind of thing either. So far, nobody on this island’s been willing to give an ex-con a job. I can only afford your reflexology stuff because you’ll let me pay you with my cleaning services.”

  The conversation that had been replaying in my mind stopped when Gram knocked and I glanced at my watch. I do three treatments on Wednesday mornings—eight, ten, and noon. Maxine was due for her first treatment and I needed to make sure my office looked its best. Right now I had trouble keeping my mind on such everyday matters as reflexology treatments…

  “Keely, you be up? Keely?”

  “One minute, Gram. I’m comin
g.”

  I stuffed the note farther under my pillow. No. That would never do. I pulled it out again. I couldn’t risk leaving it there. I folded the note and slipped it into the pocket of my jumpsuit, then finger-combed my dark hair before hurrying to open my office door and giving Gram a hug.

  At seven in the morning, Key West throbbed with life. In the distance a cruise ship hooted a blast of sound into the day. I inhaled the scent of night-blooming jasmine that wafted on the tradewind. Looking down Duval, I saw some of the ship’s passengers spreading across the island like a colony of fire ants following the scent of honey.

  “I thought Wednesdays were ‘no ship’ days,” I muttered in Gram’s ear, enjoying the fragrance of freshly ground coffee beans that travels with her.

  “The Royal Sea, Keely. She dock early this morning. Is a good thing. She carry many passengers—customers with deep pockets.”

  We locals consider cruise ship passengers a mixed blessing. They sometimes crowd us off our sidewalks and they jaywalk until the traffic snarls and stops, but they make our cash registers ring. For the most part, our smiles of greeting are genuine.

  Closer by, I heard the clang of the Conch Train and the voice of the driver spouting island history and trivia to his passengers. The train rattled down Simonton Street one block from Duval, and I caught snatches of information about the old post office. I could imagine him pointing out the pink and purple bougainvillea blossoms trailing from vines twining in the palms or caught on the balconies of Old Town’s Conch houses. Conch train drivers had a knack for keeping tourists looking up—away from the broken sidewalks that allow banyan roots to break through the concrete and make walking a hazard.

  CELIA HERNANDEZ SUNDRIES. That’s what the sign above Gram’s doorway says. Since she arrived here from Cuba over forty years ago she’s operated her hole-in-the-wall coffee bar where she offers specialty coffees, teas, and hard-to-find gourmet items to caffeine lovers, food hounds, and the local restaurants.

  “What’s up, Gram?” Her dour expression warned me of a problem.

  “Is a sad morning that forces my begging.”