Cold Case Killer

by Dorothy Francis

  “Everything set for this afternoon?” he asked.

  “Right. Randy, Maxine, and I’ll be at your office around four. You have my note and Maxine’ll bring hers. We’re both grateful to you for agreeing to hear our pleas.”

  “Your plea, Keely. I’m hearing theirs, merely because you’re so involved. No more threats today?”

  “None. Were you able to get any fingerprints from my note?”

  “No. Too many smudges on the paper.”

  “Maybe Maxine’s note isn’t as smudged as mine. Punt, do you know Ace Grovello? One of Consuela’s many friends? I gave him a treatment this morning.”

  “I’ve heard of him. Runs a local B&B, I think. How’d you like him?”

  I shrugged. “He’s okay, I suppose, if you like braggers. To hear him tell it, he found the Atocha gold all by himself.”

  Punt laughed. “Don’t fault him for that. Sometimes Dad gets carried away with his own Mel Fisher stories. But they’re fascinating.”

  “Right. I enjoy the ones Beau writes about in his column for the Citizen.”

  I hated to see our lunch end. I always felt safer with Punt near. He walked me back to my office where I treated my next two patients and then waited for Maxine and Randy to arrive. I couldn’t help shuddering at the thought of meeting and associating with an ex-convict.

  THIRTEEN

  A little after four, a client called to reschedule an appointment and I was talking when I saw the Jackson car double-parked in front of my office. Randy ignored the honking and catcalls when traffic piled up. He unfolded his tall frame from behind the steering wheel, turned, and spat a stream of tobacco juice on the tire of the car behind his before he walked to my door. Cutting my phone call short, I rose to meet him. I felt impressed with his coming to the door instead of honking for me. But I felt irritated with his spitting, his arrogant disregard for the drivers behind him.

  Randy towered over me, and the tradewind whipped strands of coarse gray hair off his face, revealing the Z-shaped scar on his cheek, a scar so nasty-looking it made me want to glance away. The breeze also revealed gold studs in both earlobes. I wondered if they were Atocha gold souvenirs from his diving days. I forced a smile and looked up into eyes that smoldered like burning coals. He wore a shark’s tooth necklace and a Half Shell Raw Bar tee. A tin of Skoal inside his shirt pocket left a round impression on the thin fabric. He didn’t return my smile.

  “Move it along, buddy,” a man shouted from an RV camper that seemed wider than Duval Street.

  “Where are the cops when I need them?” a blonde-haired girl called as she flipped him the finger. If Randy heard or saw the complaints he ignored them.

  “Miss Moreno, I’m Randy Jackson.” He spoke as if I didn’t know, hadn’t guessed. He extended his hand and I shook it. It felt like holding a bagful of nails.

  “Just call me Keely, please.” I followed him as he sauntered to the Ford, waited while I settled onto the front passenger seat, and then continued his saunter to the driver’s side. I turned, expecting to see Maxine in the back seat. But no. Hairs rose along the back of my neck. I sat alone, trapped in a car with an ex-con.

  Once behind the wheel, Randy burned rubber as he floor-boarded the accelerator, leading the vehicles behind us like a surly Pied Piper.

  I corked a desire to jump from the moving car until I heard what Randy had to say. “Where’s Maxine? She promised to attend this meeting with Mr. Ashford.”

  Randy stared ahead. “Ma’s late getting off work. She’ll meet us at his office.”

  I almost believed him, wanted to believe him, until I heard a telltale rustling behind us. I turned, seeing nobody. Someone lay hidden on the floor! My mouth filled with more saliva than I could swallow. I wiped the drool onto the sleeve of my jumpsuit as I grabbed the door handle, ready to leap into traffic.

  “Hey, woman, relax.” Randy shot his arm in front of me, slammed me against the seatback and jerked my grip from the door handle.

  “Where are you taking me? Who’s hiding in the back seat?”

  He kept me pinned to the seat. “Chill out. You’re hearing Lavonna back there. No sweat. She’s caged and on the floor.”

  For an instant I couldn’t speak. I didn’t relax, but I gave up leaping from the car. When Randy put his hand back on the steering wheel, I felt ashamed. Randy Jackson probably hated being alone with a frightened woman as much as I hated being alone with him.

  “Lavonna?” I asked once I found my voice again. “Maxine’s taking Lavonna with her, with us, to see Punt?”

  “Since the day’s cooling down, Lavonna’ll wait in the car while we talk.” Randy remained stony-faced. “When we’re through with the talking, Ma’ll go directly to Mallory.” He peered at the sky. “Good picture-taking time. Sun’s out. No clouds.”

  Only when we reached the Fotopolus and Ashford office, left the car, and started inside did I see Maxine approaching on foot and in full regalia. Gone were the polka dot bloomers and white T-shirt. This afternoon, Maxine and her work partner would look like a matched set. Maxine wore green Capri pants and matching sandals with a gray golf shirt. A black do-rag knotted around her head completed her costume. I suppose I should have warned Punt, yet no words could fully prepare a person to meet Maxine.

  Punt met us at the door and our footsteps grated on the terrazzo floor. Randy eyed the austere office. Desk. Chairs. File cabinets. Telephones. The shallow Waterford bowl on Punt’s desk that I had given him was the only art object in the room.

  I said nothing about my fright. After I introduced Maxine and Randy, Punt offered us straight-backed chairs, pulling a third one from Nikko’s side of the office. Once seated at his desk, he studied Maxine and Randy for a moment before he spoke.

  “Keely tells me that each of you has a problem. Correct me if I’m wrong. Keely and Maxine have received threats. And Randy, you want to investigate Dyanne Darby’s murder—a very cold case. Right?”

  We all nodded.

  “Let’s talk about the threats first.” Punt removed my note from the baggie in his desk drawer. “Maxine, have you brought your note?”

  “Yes.” Maxine pulled the threat from her purse.

  “Let’s spread them on my desk and study them. I want to be sure, as sure as is possible, that the handwriting on the notes is identical.”

  Punt stood while the three of us approached his desk. Maxine laid her note beside mine on Punt’s blotter. The four of us studied the notes as if they might have been signed and we stupidheads had missed seeing the signature.

  “What’s mousemilk mean?” I pointed to the word with my fingernail. “I’ve never heard it before.”

  “Maybe it’s the guy’s signature,” Maxine said. “A nickname. That’s the only way it makes any sense to me.”

  “Could be, I suppose,” I said. “Mousemilk. A very strange nickname.”

  Punt smiled. “Mousemilk’s a coined word—fairly new, a buzzword you might hear from would-be hotshots in the business world. I think it refers to an activity or business plan that, if implemented, would prove to be more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “Maybe it’s a warning that I’ll be wasting both my time and my life if I begin investigating anything for Randy,” I said.

  Randy shrugged. “Looks to me like the same guy wrote both the notes.” His voice boomed into the room. “Paper and ink the same. Look at the words, the slant of the letters. Same downhill slant on both pages.”

  “No mention of mousemilk in my note,” Maxine said.

  “That could be significant, Maxine,” Punt said. “And you’re very observant, Randy. But we can’t be sure a man wrote the notes. It could have been a woman. We can’t rule out that possibility.”

  “What woman would want to prevent an investigation?” I asked. “What woman would have motive?”

  “The woman who may have lied at Randy’s trial,” Punt said. “Nicole Nichols.”

  Randy and Maxine glanced at each other in surprise. I looked at Punt, knowing
for the first time that this case had grabbed his attention. He had to have done some research, looked into some facts, maybe read a transcript of the trial, to have known the name of the female witness who had lied.

  “Did you know Nicole Nichols, Randy?” Punt asked.

  “Yes. She was a close friend of Dyanne’s. Lived in the same apartment house.”

  “Did you like her?” Punt asked.

  Randy shrugged. He began to remind me of Gus Helmer with all his shrugging. Maybe a guy had to be an expert shrugger to get Consuela’s attention. Maybe that mannerism was the part of Randy’s charm that turned her on.

  “I suppose the note writer could have been a broad.” Randy paused, looking thoughtful. “But more likely the man who murdered Dyanne wrote the note. A killer would have more motive for protecting himself than a…liar. And maybe Nicole Nichols lied to protect some man, a friend, a lover.”

  “Good point, Randy,” Punt said. “But we still don’t know if we’re looking for a man or a woman. The notes give us few clues. Let’s consider those telephone threats. What can either of you tell me about the call you received? Wording? Tone of voice? Either caller use the word mousemilk?”

  I let Maxine speak first.

  “Surprise left my mind blank. Can’t remember the exact words the caller used. Heard no mention of mousemilk. I’d remember a word like that.”

  “Could you tell if the caller was a man or a woman?” Punt asked.

  “Can’t be sure. I get lots of calls from ladies wanting my cleaning services. Sometimes calls from men, but mostly from women. But this person, he talk slick as spit—smooth, quick, but the voice had a phony sound to it—like maybe someone trying to speak in disguise.”

  “He talk?” Punt asked. “There we go again, assuming a male made the calls. Maybe a woman was trying to disguise her voice.”

  Maxine shrugged. “His voice. Her voice. Don’t know which. Couldn’t tell if it be man or woman.” She looked into space, curling her tongue over her gold tooth.

  “What about you, Keely?” Punt asked. “Man or woman on the line?”

  “I don’t know. Now, when I look back on it, I think the caller was trying to disguise his/her voice. And doing a good job of it, too.”

  “Very good job of it,” Maxine added.

  I picked up my note. “Punt, I want you to investigate, to see what you can learn.”

  “I’ve already learned that there are no clear fingerprints on your note and probably none on Maxine’s note either. I’ll check later to be sure.”

  “Then what do investigators do next?” I asked.

  Punt sat down and motioned us back to our chairs. A good sign, I thought. He could have motioned us out the door.

  “Randy, who do you think had motive to murder Dyanne Darby? You must have some strong feelings about this case, about the killer.”

  Randy nodded. “Very strong. I want to know more about Nicole Nichols. She lied under oath, but I don’t think she murdered Dyanne. I think a man did it—a jealous man with strong motive.”

  “What man?” Punt asked.

  “Could be one of several,” Randy said. “Maybe one of Fisher’s divers. We all hung out together. Several of them had the hots for Dyanne, but she chose to date me. I don’t think she went out with anyone else.”

  “Hold it one minute,” Punt said. “Why wouldn’t such a killer have murdered you rather than Dyanne if he wanted to date Dyanne?”

  “Don’t rightly know,” Randy said. “Some people like a thing and if they can’t have it, they don’t want anyone else to have it either. Only way to be sure that doesn’t happen is to get rid of the thing. Follow me?”

  Punt nodded and I guessed he remembered that I’d told him Consuela had suggested almost the same reasoning. “That’s one way of looking at it, I guess. So who are some of the men, the divers, you suspect?”

  Randy scowled and his whole face darkened while he began ticking names off on his fingers, the same names Consuela had mentioned. “Gus Helmer. Slone Pierce. Arnold Soto. Ace Grovello.”

  “The Reverend Soto?” Punt asked. “The man who helped get you released from prison? Don’t you think he’s an unlikely suspect?”

  “You never know what goes through another person’s mind. Maybe he killed her, regretted it later, and tried to make amends by helping me.”

  “That’s right, Randy.” Punt smiled and nodded. “One never knows. But I know the other divers you mentioned. They’re all businesspeople. No white-shirt-and-tie types, but they all make honest livings. Gus does dry-dock boat repairing and he’s captain of his own shrimp boat. Granted, he’s a tough character. Wouldn’t want to anger him in a dark alley. Slone Pierce owns and operates a salvage boat. Ace Grovello runs a B&B. I’m not saying any one of these men is innocent. I’m just saying the odds are against any one of them being a murderer.”

  “You asked my opinion.” Randy rose and began pacing. “Those are my top picks, but there are others. Your father, Beau, for instance. I’ve had a long time to think about these people and they all still live in Key West.”

  “My dad, Beau, isn’t a killer. Known him all my life. He’s a straight arrow. As for the other divers, yes, they do still live in the Keys, but I’d think a killer might move away and never return. If the Darby girl’s murderer has left the area, we could be faced with a wild chase that could lead almost anywhere—or nowhere.”

  “I can’t pay.” Randy lowered his voice to a growl as he continued to pace. “Got no money. Got no job. Got no friends—except Ma. She’s the only one stuck by me all these years.” He paced faster, arms hanging like steel gaffs at his sides, hands clenched into fists. As his anger grew, his facial scar brightened.

  “I’ll work pro bono,” Punt said.

  “Jacksons won’t accept no more pro bono charity.” Maxine rose, went to Randy, and pulled him back toward his chair, but he jerked away from her and picked up the chair as if he might throw it.

  “Easy, Randy.” Punt approached him and when he reached for the chair, Randy glared at him, then spit a stream of tobacco juice into the shallow bowl on Punt’s desk.

  For a moment nobody spoke, then I jumped up and faced Randy. “How dare you spit that disgusting stuff in here! How dare you!” Randy lowered the chair. Punt stepped forward, trying to pull me back, but I jerked away, picked up the Waterford and thrust it at Randy. I was on a roll and I forced my voice to a deadly calm. “Apologize to Punt, then clean the bowl.” I pointed to the lavatory down the hall. “You wash this bowl. Return it to the desk where you found it. Now!”

  What had I done! My face flushed. I stepped back surprised at my outburst and expecting Randy to aim his next quid at me. Instead, he took the bowl. In moments we heard running water, and then he returned to the office and set the clean bowl on Punt’s desk.

  “Thank you.” My stomach felt like a knotted rope.

  “You’re welcome.” Randy scowled and sat down.

  Maxine spoke to Punt in the ensuing silence as if nothing unusual had happened. “If we accept your pro bono investigating, then I expect you to trade it for my pro bono cleaning. Your home. Your office. Either one you prefer, or maybe both. I come once a week. I clean Keely’s place on Saturday mornings. Maybe I could do your office on Saturday afternoons. My Randy will help if’n there’s heavy-duty stuff needs doin’.”

  Randy began pacing again, more rapidly this time. I knew Punt would want an ex-convict around his apartment or office about as much as I would. The air was thick with too many ultimatums.

  “Maxine, I appreciate your offer, but I have a cleaning service. I can’t dismiss those workers without reason. They’ve done excellent work for me both here at the office as well as at my home.”

  Maxine looked crestfallen, then she jutted her chin toward the ceiling. “Then if you won’t let us pay in some way, we’ll do our own investigating. We won’t accept charity. Randy has several ideas. We’ll follow them on our own.”

  I could tell from Punt’s expression
that he wanted no part of being responsible for Randy’s proceeding with the investigation on his own.

  “Maxine, I want to level with you and your son. I’m taking on this case because I want to protect Keely. Keely’s safety means a lot to me. After hearing your story, Keely’s story, and after doing some nosing around at the courthouse, you’ll have a hard time calling me off this case anytime soon. All bills will go to Keely Moreno.”

  “Thank you, Punt,” I said. “Of course I’ll be responsible for the cost of your investigation.”

  FOURTEEN

  Randy stopped pacing and the redness gradually drained from his scar when he and Maxine started to leave Punt’s office. I followed them to the door.

  “You have a way home?” Randy turned and looked at me. “Be glad to drive you once I get Ma and Lavonna settled at Mallory.”

  My stomach got the knotted-rope feeling again when I thought of being alone in a car with Randy—especially after the tobacco juice scene.

  “Thank you, Randy,” Punt said, “but it’ll be my pleasure to see that Keely gets home. I thank you both for bringing this case to me. I look forward to meeting with you again in the near future as my investigation in Keely’s behalf continues.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ashford,” Maxine said, heading for her car.

  Neither of us spoke until we heard the Jacksons leave.

  “Punt! What have I snared you into? Exonerated or not, Randy Jackson makes me want to run in the other direction.”

  “He doesn’t scare me. And you know how to make him back down. I can empathize with him and his plight. Don’t think you snared me into anything. Let’s say I’m taking the case because someone I love has been threatened. Let’s say I’m taking the case for the experience it’ll give me as a fledgling PI. Let’s say I’m taking the case because our justice system forced a rotten deal on Randy and he needs all the help he can get.”

  “There’s no way I can ever thank you enough, Punt.”

  “We both know that isn’t so.” Punt drew me to him in a warm embrace, and we pulled apart reluctantly.