Cold Case Killer

by Dorothy Francis

  “Neat church,” I said as we approached the stucco building with a bell tower and a bell that pealed “Amazing Grace” into the warm morning.

  Inside the door, an usher gave us bulletins and then led us to one of the few empty pews near the back of the sanctuary. I guessed the church might hold three hundred souls and it was obvious that the faithful arrived early to get a good seat down front. The scent of candle wax hung in the air. Uneasy, I glanced over my shoulder. Surely killers didn’t attend church. My nervousness rubbed off on Punt. He glanced back, too.

  “Relax,” he whispered and took my hand. “This’s a safe zone.”

  Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, and a blue-robed choir sat in a loft behind the minister’s pulpit. Announcements. Prayer. Hymn (all six verses). Scripture reading. Choir anthem. Collection plate. And at last the sermon.

  The Reverend Soto stood in the pulpit wearing a high-collared white robe that reached almost to his shoe tops. A green stole hung around his neck and a braided green belt cinched the robe at the waist. I’d seen his garb before—the day he emceed the TV show in New York. Today he spoke on the Ten Commandments and I had to elbow-prod Punt to keep him alert. At the end of the service, everyone paraded forward to receive communion, and my watch hands pointed to noon before the service ended. After the benediction, Soto approached and welcomed us, referring to our meeting at Margaux Ashford’s funeral. It amazed me that he remembered us. Maybe he’d taken Memory 101 at Seminary.

  “Sir,” Punt said. “We’d like the pleasure of taking you to lunch. Would your schedule allow that?”

  “Nothing I like better than an invitation to lunch, unless it’s an invitation to breakfast or dinner.”

  “Good,” I said. “We’ve enjoyed your service very much.”

  “Thank you.” He looked down at his robe. “Give me a few moments to change, okay?”

  “Certainly,” Punt said. “We’ve parked a short distance from the church. I’ll go get my car and we’ll pick you up at the door.”

  “Fine,” Soto agreed, and my heart sank. What if he refused to get into that car?

  But most of the stuff I worry about never happens. When we pulled up at the church, he stood waiting, dressed in chinos and a golf shirt. He looked at the car, smiled, and shook his head.

  “I’ll be using this for a few days,” Punt said, “until some new tires come in for my convertible.”

  “The Karmann Ghia, if I remember correctly.”

  “Right.” Punt grinned as he pulled onto Flagler, pleased that Soto had remembered his car. “Reverend Soto, would you and Keely like to lunch at Pier House?”

  “It’s one of my favorite places,” Soto said.

  I nodded my agreement and Punt drove us to Old Town. The parking attendant at the Pier House gated lot rolled his eyes, but he found us an empty slot. Once Punt had locked the car, he led the way past an aviary of tropical parrots and on past a growth of sea grape, elephant ears, and bird-of-paradise that thrived along the path leading to the restaurant. The fragrance of grilled fish and steaks reminded me of my scant breakfast.

  “Shall we dine on the deck?” Punt asked.

  We both nodded. The waiters wore shorts and identical hibiscus-flowered shirts that matched the fabric of the umbrellas shading each round table. Our waiter found us a spot near the deck railing where we had an unobstructed view of the beach and the sea. Gulls perched on the railing in defiance of the sign: Please do not feed the birds.

  We studied the menu for a few moments before ordering. I chose the seafood salad special, but Punt and Soto chose heartier fare—the surf and turf special that included steak, broiled yellowtail, and red-skinned new potatoes. We were more than halfway through our meal before Punt drove to the point of our meeting.

  “We know you’re acquainted with Randy Jackson,” Punt said. “He’s having a hard time finding a job and adjusting to life on the outside. Thinks the only way he’ll find work is to prove someone else killed Dyanne Darby. He’s come to my detective agency, and at Keely’s request, I’m trying to help him.”

  “And you think I can be of assistance?” Soto asked.

  “It’s a long shot—a very long shot,” Punt said, “but maybe you can. This’s a bit touchy—perhaps more than a bit. We’re not here to hurt feelings or to point fingers of accusation.”

  “Punt, get to the point,” Soto said. “If I can help you, help Randy, I’m more than willing to try.”

  Punt leaned close to Soto and spoke softly as he explained Randy’s list of murder suspects and his need for DNA samples from them.

  “In his mind, Randy believes the guilty person must be one of the Atocha divers he worked with at the time of Dyanne’s death. Keely and I believe that you should be cut from that list because you did so much to help free him from prison, but in this case we want to humor Randy.”

  Punt explained about Randy’s temper, about our getting him a temporary job off-island while we tried to do some of the DNA collecting.

  “So what do you want from me?” Soto asked. “Perhaps something simple like a tuft of hair, a saliva sample?”

  “The hair would be good,” Punt agreed, then he blushed when he noticed Soto’s bald head.

  “Oh, I can spare some hair. My head hair tends to grow over my collar, and don’t forget my beard. You bring along scissors? An envelope?”

  “I have manicure scissors in my purse,” I said while Punt fumbled in his pockets until he produced a small envelope. I hoped Soto didn’t notice that the envelope had come from his church, one that Punt had failed to drop into the collection plate.

  “Let’s finish our meal,” Punt said. “Food has high priority over DNA samples today.”

  So we finished eating and topped the meal with pieces of Key lime pie before we returned to our car. Pausing beside the cruiser, Soto raised his chin.

  “Why not take the sample from the underside of my beard? How big a sample will you need?”

  “Just a small snip,” Punt said.

  Soto leaned against the whale door, raised his chin, and pulled a tuft of hair from the underside of his beard. I found my manicure scissors and snipped. Punt opened the envelope, I dropped the hair inside, and Punt pulled a roll of tape from his pocket and sealed the envelope.

  “Thank you very much, sir:” Punt said as he wrote Soto’s name and the date on the envelope.

  Only then I noticed the parking attendant watching us with mirthful curiosity. I raised my eyebrows at him and his rudeness before he rolled his eyes at me in disdain.

  We drove Soto back to his parsonage near the church and in a flutter of thank yous for the church service, the lunch, the hair sample, we left him.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  After seeing the Reverend Soto back to his church and parsonage, Punt drove to the school where we’d parked before the worship service and stopped the car so we could talk in privacy. “What now?” I asked.

  “That’s always the question. What now? Getting the tuft of hair from Soto was easy enough. Who shall we approach next? Arnold Soto. Gus Helmer. We’ve covered two suspects out of five—if you count Beau as a suspect.”

  “I think we’d better count him. If for no other reason, it’ll appease Randy. So we still have to talk to Slone Pierce and Ace Grovello. There are other things I’d rather do on a Sunday afternoon. One of those two may be the person who’s after me, Punt—me and Maxine.”

  “I think you can scratch Dad from the suspect list, but don’t write Gus Helmer off. We may have his DNA in a baggie, but what do we really know about him? That he’s worked for years as a shrimper. That’s he’s your foot reflexology client. That he’s a married man who cheats on his wife with Consuela.”

  “You think a guy who’d cheat on his wife might also commit murder?”

  “Let’s just say Helmer’s not a straight-forward guy when it comes to women and it’s a woman’s murder we’re investigating. You can’t deny that Helmer’s strong enough to slash tires.”

>   “That’s for sure.”

  Punt pounded on the steering wheel. “And I don’t think we can dismiss Arnold Soto too quickly either. In his youth he must have been a strong diver to hold a job with Fisher, yet today he seems frail, maybe not muscular enough to slash a tire, but he’s smooth—a very smooth operator.”

  “Right. Most ministers are smooth operators. And yes, I know he worked hard in Randy’s behalf—perhaps now he’s working just as hard to cover up his own long-ago sin.”

  “Any minister could easily use his robe, sash, and stole along with his position of trust in his community to cover up a darker reality.”

  “But I like Arnold Soto,” I insisted.

  “Yeah. So do I.”

  “If he were guilty, don’t you’d think we’d have a gut feeling, a strong hunch that would warn us? I don’t have such feelings about the man.”

  “Nor do I, Keely. But…”

  “Yeah, but. Okay, let’s move forward. If we count Beau out for the time being, that leaves Slone Pierce and Ace Grovello. Do you think either of those men will give us a DNA sample?”

  “We can ask. If they consider our question an insult and say no, then that’s it. If we’d take DNA from an unwilling person, it could cause trouble later.”

  “I suppose the person could complain to the court.”

  “Yeah. Might cause a mistrial if the case came to trial. Maybe our DNA request would seem less insulting if we pointed out that a DNA mismatch could put a person in the clear. That’s what happened to Randy.”

  “I think anyone might feel insulted at being considered a murder suspect.”

  “Okay.” I sighed. “So we’re going to offend both guys. Which one do you think we should we offend first?”

  “We’re within a few blocks of Slone Pierce’s house. Why not stop and ask if he’ll talk to us? We can park around the corner from his place so we won’t attract attention from his neighbors and so we won’t give him much lead time in coming up with a reason to refuse our request.”

  “Slone Pierce scares me, Punt. He’s not my client, but I see him around town. There’s something about his eyes. They’re like marbles of black ice that reflect no warmth.”

  “He’ll know we’ve been here to talk to his wife about her testimony at Randy’s trial. No doubt the two of them have discussed that visit.”

  “Maybe she kept our visit top secret. She impressed me as the type who majored in keeping things to herself, especially things that might upset her husband. I have a hunch the Slone-Nicole marriage wasn’t made in heaven.”

  “Would you rather talk to Ace Grovello first?” Punt looked at his watch. “The afternoon’s slipping by. Personally, I’d feel more comfortable talking to Slone Pierce in broad daylight.”

  I sighed. “Okay. Let’s go for it. Let’s roll.”

  Punt turned the Conch cruiser onto Flagler and we drove the few blocks to the Pierce address, parking around the corner. Two guys on skateboards spotted our cruiser and approached us in a whir of wheels. One gave our rear fender a resounding slap that made us both jump in surprise.

  “Neat chassis, Mama-o,” the first guy called, whacking the fender again with the flat of his hand, winking, and looking at me while blowing kisses into the air.

  “Party tonight at Hog’s Breath, man,” the other guy called to Punt. “Bring the broad along. We’d like to meet her.”

  Punt bounded from the car, but before he could say or do anything both boys whirred on down the street, hitching up cutoffs that were riding precariously low on their hips. For a moment I smiled at Punt’s dark scowl.

  When we walked toward the Pierce home, the coral rock fence around the property reminded me of a fortress wall. I took care to keep the gate in my peripheral vision while Punt stepped onto the porch and knocked.

  At first nobody answered and Punt rapped again—louder and longer. In a few moments Nicole appeared in the doorway clutching her robe at the waist. I wondered if that was her only at-home garment and I suspected that we had wakened the Pierces from an afternoon nap.

  “We meet again.” Her lips formed a sullen pout. “How may I help you?”

  “We’d like to talk to Slone for a few minutes,” Punt said. “Would that be possible?”

  “He’s not home,” Nicole said. “Want to leave a message?”

  “No,” Punt replied. “Can you tell us when he’ll return? We’d like to talk to him today if it’s possible. Need to talk to him before he gets involved in the work week.”

  “He’s not home.” She clicked the lock on the screen door that separated us as if we might try to barge in. “And I don’t know when he’ll be back. Probably not anytime this afternoon.”

  “What the hell’s going on out there?” The voice growled from deep inside the house. “Get back in here, Nicole. Now.”

  Before Nicole could obey or refuse, Slone stepped into the living room doorway and stared at us from a distance. He wore nothing but a towel secured around his waist, and his heavy body reminded me of a sleek seal—oily, damp.

  “So it’s Punt Ashford—and friend.” Slone glared at us, looking me up and down at the same time he hitched his towel tighter. I knew then we might as well leave, that he wasn’t going to be helpful in any way, but Punt faced Slone’s hostile attitude head-on.

  “Slone, we’d like to talk to you on behalf of Randy Jackson. We have…”

  “I’ve read all about Randy Jackson,” Slone stepped closer to us. “Know more about him than I want to know.”

  “Then maybe you already know that he’s a free man now, a free man who’s trying to find the person who should have been in that prison cell instead of him.”

  “I’m totally uninterested in Randy Jackson’s past life or present goals, and I don’t want you or him nosing around my house again while I’m away, bothering my missus. Got that clear?”

  “We’ve come to help you prove you had nothing at all to do with the death of Dyanne Darby. You could easily give us undisputable evidence right this minute that’d prove without a doubt that the police need to search elsewhere for the guilty person.”

  Slone cocked his head and looked at us through half-closed eyelids. “How you going to do that, gumshoe?”

  “All we need’s a DNA specimen from you. If your DNA doesn’t match the DNA found at the Darby crime scene, nobody will ask you anything about that murder.”

  Now that Slone stood more willing to listen, Punt poured out the story concerning Randy’s suspicions of the divers.

  “You mean you intend to take any DNA sample I might let you have directly to the cops?”

  “Yes,” Punt said.

  “Ha!” Slone said. “Don’t try to con me. Don’t try to tell me the cops are going to listen to a gumshoe. I don’t know what you’re up to, but I think you’re trying to get me involved in a murder investigation. Well, no way am I going to allow that. Me and Beau are pals, right. But there’s no way I’m going to let Beau’s no-good son cause me to get the police on my tail.”

  “But…”

  “No buts.” Slone clicked the lock on the screen, opened the door, and stepped onto the porch steps. “Get off my property. Now.”

  I was already off the porch and halfway to the gate when Punt spoke.

  “Thank you for your time and trouble, Mr. Pierce. We won’t be bothering you again anytime soon.”

  Punt didn’t give Slone the pleasure of seeing him hurry away. We walked at a normal pace back to our car, then we drove toward Punt’s office.

  “What now?” I asked. “Punt, I don’t like Slone Pierce. He might be the one we’re after—a murderer.”

  “That’s a possibility. Maybe he’s afraid Nicole might remember he’s the one.”

  “She could be blackmailing him with the threat of telling, right?”

  “If she remembers, Keely. It’s all speculation on our part.”

  “If he’s innocent, why’s he carrying such a chip on his shoulder? Why wouldn’t he talk to us about a DNA sample?
And he’s strong enough to slash tires.”

  “Good questions. Good point. No sure answers.” Punt pulled the cruiser into his parking slot and we went inside. His office had a closed smell, but Punt shut the door and didn’t open any windows. We both sat in the chairs in front of his desk.

  “Punt, I’ve got an idea.”

  “So let’s hear it. I’m ready for an idea, a good workable idea.”

  “It’s about saliva. You mentioned saliva on a sealed envelope. You were careful to tape closed the envelope containing Arnold Soto’s hair. Well, why not trick Slone Pierce into licking an envelope and mailing it to us? Then we’d have his DNA.”

  “Sounds good so far. How are we going to get him to mail us an envelope?”

  “Everyone likes free things. Maybe we can send him an ad—an ad for something he needs and uses. Something expensive that he’d really like to own. Maybe a piece of diving equipment. A dive mask? A scuba tank? Or maybe a free dinner and cocktails for two for anyone who’ll sign up for a demonstration of some piece of diving equipment. Sign up, with no obligation to buy. I get lots of those kinds of ads, don’t you?”

  “Keely, I think you’re on to something.” Punt turned to his book shelf and pulled down a catalog, began thumbing through the pages. He looked at ads for scuba tanks, snorkels, motors. “Look at this!” He held the catalog toward me and pointed to an ad for a No-Fail Depth Finder. “We could offer dinner for two to anyone stopping by to examine this. An offer like that would attract almost any diver, fisherman, boat captain.”

  “Hold on a minute. Would the police frown on tricking him into supplying us some DNA?”

  Punt thought for a moment. “They might. That DNA might not be admissible in court, but I think the police would be curious enough to check it out. If it was a match, then they’d find a legal way of getting the specimen they needed.”

  “How we going to make an ad?”

  Punt pointed to his computer and printer. “I’ve been sending out flyers for our PI business and I’ve learned to create graphics. Let’s give it a try. Let’s name our make-believe place of business Seaman’s Paradise and say it’s opening next month at a Key West location soon to be announced. We’ll call this offer a Grand Opening Special.”