Chasing Suspect Three

by Rod Hoisington

  He knew what she meant. “I had all afternoon to think about you. I can’t access the official database for personal use, but hey, I can say you’re part of the case.”

  “Glad to hear I’m not wanted by any authorities.”

  “I didn’t say you’re not wanted.”

  She studied his face for a moment. “This isn’t a date, Jay.”

  “I know. I asked Mel Shapiro if you were taken.”

  With all agenda out of the way, the evening continued pleasantly for them both. At the end, he took her home and parked in front of her apartment. She didn’t doubt he’d go for a kiss. They sat in his car politely recounting the date, and he turned toward her. He put his right arm around her shoulders, and as he leaned closer and kissed her, he rested his other hand lightly on her bare knee. She was slightly confused at her own quiet acceptance. Even so, his hand had better not move any higher. To her surprise, she let herself get into the kiss, and after a moment turned halfway toward him and pressed in closer. He held the kiss and his hand stayed at her knee but his fingers moved under. He now cupped the soft underside of her knee in his hand. It gave her a tingle in a couple of places yet seemed acceptable as well. She placed her hand on the back of his neck, so he’d know to continue the kiss. As the kiss went on, he tightened his grip on her knee causing her leg to move slightly. His hand didn’t move above her knee, it didn’t need to. His slight movement of her leg, while they kissed did it all. Too much. His hand on her knee made her entire leg seem under his control. He wasn’t moving it with any rhythm, yet when it moved her body would respond. Too intense. She shuddered and broke away. The clench had gone on too long and was beginning to promise something more. After all, now that she thought clearly, his hand on her bare knee was his hand halfway up her bare leg. She moved away from him and instinctively smoothed out her skirt though it wasn’t at all out of place. She wondered if her face looked as hot as it felt. “Jay, I’m not into this.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  They both straightened.

  “I hope you enjoyed the evening, Sandy.”

  “Every minute. I’m impressed.”

  “I’ll gladly accept impressed. I’ll drive home singing she’s impressed with me.”

  “You have to drive back to Miami tonight?”

  “Just to my place in West Palm. I’ll make it. It’s not that late.”

  She put her hand on the door latch. “Maybe I’ll see you in court or something.” That was it, she wasn’t about to apologize for not being easier and going farther.

  He said, “I’d like to phone you sometime. Would you mind?”

  Not a good idea, and that’s the sort of look she gave him.

  He chuckled. “Shapiro told me I wouldn’t get any place with you.”

  “Mel said that? You two men were talking about me?” She turned back to face him. “Talking about making out with me? I’m fascinated by how the male mind works. I assume ‘getting some place’ means getting some.” She thought she’d pretend to be upset.

  “You’ve got it wrong. It wasn’t guy talk about girls or anything like that. When you left the Windward after lunch, he said he thought you were a nice person. I could tell it was an understatement. That guy is all yours, if you want to snap your fingers.”

  “Never mind that, go on about what was said.”

  “That’s all. I told him we’d made a date. That’s when he said I wouldn’t get any place with you. He said it as though he hoped I would fail. He meant it as a compliment.”

  “If you knew you couldn’t get any place, then what are you here for?” Now she was teasing. “You thought it was worth a shot anyway?”

  “That’s insulting. I thought you were interesting. I wanted to know you better.”

  “I’d call your hand on my knee taking a shot.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon. Was that your knee?”

  They shared a laugh and said goodnight. As she moved toward the open car door, he gently took her arm and pulled her back enough to softly kiss her one last time. “I did get someplace with you tonight didn’t I?”

  He certainly had. Something was there, if she had let herself go with her emotions. However to admit to that would be too personal, and she didn’t know how to express it anyway. She just said goodnight again.

  She walked to the front door of her apartment building and turned. He was still waiting. For a second she thought, “Ask him in, stupid. Ask him in.”

  She fantasized about him for awhile that night before falling asleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sandy double-checked the address on the police report for John Larena’s condo. She was eager to check out the scene of the murder. The reconstruction of what happened there the night of the murder would be an important part of the trial. She parked her little red MX5 convertible at the curb and looked over at the Coral Palm Condominium.

  It was a four-story building with a white stucco façade just one block inside the Park Beach city limits. The street side wasn’t particularly interesting with a token amount of landscaping, but the place featured the ever-present swimming pool area at the back encircled by a high ficus hedge. Not a fashionable facility and far from the beach, yet perfectly acceptable housing, and South Florida was full of such places. Had it been located near the ocean its value would be triple. She’d move from her small studio apartment in a flash.

  Before getting out of her car, she phoned Martin to bring him up to date, and let him know what she was up to. “Just now, I’m at John’s condo on Eighth Street. I want to see the shower setup where he was shot and look around the place. Also, Margo told me where I might find some financial papers.”

  “Oh, in that regard, I looked up the deed on the condo.” Martin said. “He never owned the place. His mother in Miami owns it. She’ll never hand it over to the quarreling wife. My guess is she’ll give it to her daughter, Claudia.”

  “Well, Claudia doesn’t know that yet, and we’re going to keep it from her as long as possible. Here’s the big news. The feds are all over our little murder case, it seems it has international implications.” She gave him a quick take on the meeting with Shapiro and Jay Heppard.

  “And that’s good isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. It takes the focus off Margo. I’ll be in touch.”

  She fiddled in her purse for the key she took from Margo’s apartment. She double-checked the police report again for the apartment number—223. Ignoring the elevator, she hurried up the stairs. The unit was halfway down on the back side. Crumpled pieces of yellow crime-scene tape were strewn in the hallway. Maintenance must be lousy in the building; no one had cleaned up the hall yet.

  She had the key in her hand, but the door knob turned easily, and the door swung open. The Crime Scene unit should have made certain the door was locked before leaving. She heard nothing except the low hum of an air conditioner—the power must still be on. There was also a fresh whiff of cologne or after-shave lotion in the air. Not unusual for a man’s apartment, she supposed.

  She faced a long dining—living room area with sliding glass doors at the far end. The entry and dining room area were tiled. Carpet reached on out to the sliding doors of the balcony. Furnishings were adequate yet unremarkable. Beyond the dining room with its low-hanging chandelier, was the living room with a sectional sofa placed nicely in a conversational grouping. There were doors off the living room on each side leading to bedrooms, she assumed. A typical apartment layout. On her right was a small hall leading to bedrooms. To her left was a half-wall serving as a pass-thru counter to the kitchen.

  She walked straight ahead on the carpeted floor to the end of the living room and looked out through the sliding-glass doors. A small balcony was just large enough to sun oneself in one of the two white deck chairs. Looking down, she could see a few people, mostly white-haired, around the pool.

  She heard a creaking sound. She stopped dead. She listened but could hear only some people outside at the pool. She waited. Mus
t have been another apartment.

  She came back and walked into the kitchen, small but enough room for a charming breakfast nook at the end. Beyond the breakfast nook on the kitchen side, she could see a bathroom and on through to a large bedroom with double-windows at the pool end. A door at the far end of the bedroom opened onto the living room.

  She opened the freezer compartment—ice cube compartment above and slide—out baskets below. Nothing but two frozen dinners in the basket and they looked normal. As she put her hand into the tray to search through the ice cubes, she noticed scattered ice cubes had fallen into the baskets. It appeared she wasn’t the first to rummage around in the freezer. After closing the freezer door, she noticed a few clippings, appointment cards, and notes secured with smiley-face magnets. She quickly scrutinized each. None seemed significant except for a phone number scrawled on a small piece of notepaper torn from a motel writing pad. She pulled it loose, folded it, and stuffed it down in her jeans pocket.

  She was startled when she heard a toilet flush off somewhere down the hall on the right side. Was it in this apartment? She waited a half-minute for it to quiet and then called out, “Hello, you’ve got company.”

  That was a mistake. There was a loud bang. A slamming door. And the sound of footsteps pounding on the other side running toward her. Looking out through the kitchen pass-through, she saw a man in brown leather jacket step out of the hall near the front door. She froze. He didn’t spot her at first. Then he saw her through the pass-through. When she saw him point the gun, she intuitively thrust her palms out in front of her as though to shield herself and ward off any bullets from hitting her. “Wait! Don’t do anything.”

  He fired immediately. The sound in the small room was ungodly loud. She had no idea where the bullet went. She scrambled to open the freezer door. She jumped behind it just as a second bullet slammed into the freezer door. Now his steps sounded on the tiled entry way. He was coming around into the kitchen. She ran through the breakfast nook. For an instant, when she saw the bathroom, she considered locking herself in, but instantly decided it would be a death trap—the last door she’d ever lock.

  From the kitchen, she ran on into the bedroom and locked the door behind her—any man could kick it in, still it was something. On across the bedroom was a second door out to the living room. No rear door. Getting to the front door seemed her only hope. She needed to go out the bedroom door into the living room and run back passed the kitchen to the front door.

  She slowly opened the bedroom door leading to the living room. She peeked out. That’s where he was, near the front door. He saw her. He came running through the living room. She slammed and locked the bedroom door. She hoped he would kick it in, then she could run back to the kitchen and out the front door. He didn’t. Instead, he fired through the door. When the sound died down, she couldn’t hear him. She guessed he was staying in the living room where he could keep an eye on the kitchen and the front door, but she wasn’t certain.

  They were at a stalemate. She could run back and forth in the bedroom and bath, but he wasn’t going to let her out of that side of the apartment to reach the front door.

  She waited listening. If he tried to come through either door, she’d run out the other. She noticed a phone by the bed and quietly picked it up. Dead dammit. She thought she heard him walking in the kitchen and listened carefully. Then she was startled when a TV began blaring in the next apartment. Now she could hear nothing. Geez, there’s shooting going on in the building is everyone deaf?

  Was he still near the front door guarding it? She wasn’t certain. She had an idea. Take a chance. She flushed the toilet just to divert his attention back to the front of the apartment. Then she ran through the bedroom and out into the living room. He had moved back toward the kitchen when he heard the toilet. Now he saw her. He fired, hitting the bedroom door next to her. She couldn’t run back in. He had trapped her in the living room in plain sight. She lunged toward the balcony sliding doors. She pushed hard. They wouldn’t slide. Locked. He stepped out of the kitchen and aimed at her again. Another loud bang. The glass door shattered near her hand. She fumbled and was able to turn the lever on the door. It started to slide, but now broken pieces of glass jammed the track. She smashed into the already cracked pane of glass with her shoulder. It gave way spilling her onto the balcony. He fired again as he ran toward her. His next shot wasn’t at all close to her as she had already jumped over the railing and off the balcony.

  She struggled in the water for a moment before she realized she was near the edge in water shallow enough to stand up. Her head and her heart were both pounding not just from the jump but also from the echo of the gunfire. She looked up expecting to see the bad guy pointing the gun down at her. The balcony was empty. She looked around in the water for blood. Nothing.

  She shouted for someone to call 911 as she made her way to the side of the pool. An older man, who had been stretched out on a chaise, rushed to help her out of the pool and over to a chair.

  “That was a dangerous thing you did, honey. Next time jump farther out. You just missed the edge.” He handed her his towel. “And you didn’t scream. Most people start screaming as they fall. You’ve got a lot of guts.”

  “You’ve no idea,” she replied.

  Two women at the far end of the pool kept on conversing. The only other people in sight were two elderly men, sitting with their iced drinks playing Chess at a poolside table. They seemed unaffected.

  She called out, “Anyone call 911?”

  The Chess players shrugged and spoke without turning to look at her.

  “Why call? Not illegal to jump.”

  “What’s that, Fred?”

  “College kids do it all the time.”

  “Do what, Fred?”

  “Damn kids. Usually bare-ass naked. Who’s doing all that shooting up there?”

  “My move yet?”

  “It’s been your move.”

  “Since when?”

  She turned away from them and called out again, “A cell phone...maybe a mobile phone...anyone?”

  No response.

  “Hello,” she said louder, “anyone ever hear about telephones?”

  She looked down at herself. Her lightweight cotton pullover was sticking to her bra and her jeans were sticking to her legs. Her sneakers had stayed on. Not a bad outfit, if you’re going to get totally soaked. Could have been her good suit.

  She heard the comforting sound of sirens; someone must have heard the shots and phoned. She shook herself like a wet dog and rushed out the side gate, around the building, and up to a patrol car just as it pulled to a stop in front.

  The officer took a look at her. “You’re all wet.”

  “Thank you.” Her head felt better, but she was still short of breath. “The shooting’s in 223. Keep people out of there.”

  “Apartment 223? Christ, I just took the tape down from there yesterday. Who are you?”

  “Same case. It’s all connected. Call Detective Jaworski. Get him over here.”

  “What I’m doing is calling my sergeant for instructions.”

  “Well, call from upstairs. Move it!”

  “Report said shots were fired up there. I’m staying right here until I find out what’s going on.”

  “The shooter is long gone by now.” She squished across to her car in her soaked shoes. She didn’t want to get in and get the seats wet. She slipped her hand down into the pocket of her wet jeans and brought wet dollar bills out of one front pocket and a sopping wet piece of notepad paper out of the other. She remembered the small square of paper with a phone number tacked to the refrigerator door with a magnet. She tried to unfold the wet wad of notepaper without tearing it. The Groveside Motel printing remained readable across the top, but most of the phone number handwritten below in ballpoint was hopelessly smeared. She reached across into her car and laid the note on her dashboard to dry. Perhaps Mr. Fabulous Kisser could decipher the phone number in the FBI lab. Then again, it mi
ght turn out to be the number for pizza delivery. The area code was readable, 305. She hadn’t noticed before, but the area code printed at the top of the note for the motel also started with 305. This was no pizza number.

  She frowned at herself in the side rear view mirror. She brushed her cheeks with her hands. Fortunately, she hadn’t worn much makeup, so her face didn’t look all that bad, but her hair was plastered down around her face and neck. She had to look away. She sat on the curb and watched as more police units arrived and parked at all angles with radios crackling and rack lights flashing.

  Within five minutes, Jaworski screeched to a stop and switched off his lights and siren. She was still barefoot draining the water out of her sneakers, and squeezing her socks. She threw her wet socks on the floor of her car and was putting on her sneakers, when Jaworski rushed over.

  He wanted to know if she was okay, or needed an ambulance. She talked excitedly about the intruder. The gunfire had happened so fast, she explained, all she remembered was a thin guy with a fat gun and wearing gorgeous leather jacket. “Like that Versace jacket Shapiro has.”

  “Never paid attention.”

  “The jacket was nice, the guy was creepy. I’m certain I saw him running away from Claudia’s. He drove a silver Buick, late model.” She gave the detective a further description as best she could, and he put out a BOLO.

  “Hey, Eddy, this guy could be your murderer. I bet he’s the one who shot John Larena. He returned to the scene of the crime.”

  “That possibility already occurred to me.”

  “Well, you guys must find him. My client is innocent.”

  “Let’s just keep that thought in mind.”

  She followed him as he clinked up the steps with the clamor of his phone, handcuffs, guns, and god-knows-what-else hanging from his belt. Officers were waiting at the apartment door. He gave them instructions and put in a call for CSI. He inspected the door jam. “Wonder how he entered, no sign of forced entry.”