Chasing Suspect Three

by Rod Hoisington

  “The guy must have a key. Remember, the victim was surprised in the shower. He didn’t walk dripping wet from the shower to his front door to let the murderer in. The guy must have let himself in.”

  Jaworski was silent.

  They went on into the apartment and looked around. They walked out onto the balcony and looked down at the pool. “You must have flat out pushed off from the railing to go out enough to miss the edge of that pool.”

  “Nice to get a power boost of adrenaline when you need it. I had an audience down there, but they weren’t paying attention to my performance. All that shooting, and no one noticed.”

  “You’re lucky he didn’t live two flights up.”

  The thought of jumping off the fourth floor gave her a chill.

  “I don’t like the idea of you getting shot at,” Jaworski said. “I’m personally going after the bastard.”

  As they walked on through the apartment, she picked up her handbag from the floor in the kitchen. Jaworski pointed to the bullet hole in the freezer door. “That could have been you, and right now I’d be looking down at your bloody body and telling everyone what a nice girl you were.”

  “Thanks for the image.”

  “I’m just saying you keep nosing around and stuff happens.”

  “I like to think I’m doing more than nosing around. Something significant was happening when I walked in here.”

  The place had been ransacked; some ceiling tiles were down, and one bedroom wall had a large plaster hole.

  “Did CSI tear this place up when they were here for the murder investigation?” she asked. “Someone is after something—no doubt drugs or money.”

  “It’s money. No drugs in this place as of a couple of days ago. CSI doesn’t need to tear up places. They had a drug dog sniffing all over this condo after Larena was found murdered.”

  “So it’s money. It could have been in the ice cube tray. I saw ice cubes scattered inside like someone was frantically searching.”

  “I read that in the CSI report. They think something other than food had been sitting in the bottom bin. They detected traces of wet leather like a bag or something. Most likely a money bag.”

  “What else can you tell me about the CSI report on the Larena murder?”

  “Nothing. You’re defending my suspect remember? Now here, I’m investigating a new case of attempted murder—yours. And I’ll be getting a written statement from you as the assaulted victim. We’ll look at some mug shots. Other than that, I’m not on your side in the Larena case.”

  “Don’t forget you have a new suspect now,” she said.

  Jaworski located the manager, and they were able to review the apartment surveillance tape. It scanned only the front entrance, and the quality was poor. The time on the video showed an intruder had entered about an hour earlier. It showed him running out. She couldn’t see his face clearly. All the time she was thinking it had to be Richie.

  Jaworski answered his phone, listened, and talked. He looked over at her. “A sheriff’s deputy just made what he thought was a routine vehicle stop across the city line about three miles from here. The driver jumped out shooting. They exchanged gunfire. The driver was killed, and the deputy injured. Do you like coincidences? A shooting here and minutes later another. Let’s get over there.”

  They hurried down the stairs and jumped into his unmarked vehicle. He flipped on the lights and siren. “It’s across the city line, out of my jurisdiction. Want to get there before the body is removed.”

  Within five minutes, they were at an intersection with the road blocked off. Jaworski was a city detective, and they were out of the city limits now and into the county. He held up his badge and a sheriff’s deputy waved them on through; they parked and walked among the flashing lights up to the crowd of uniforms around a body lying in the street.

  They walked up to a sergeant from the sheriff’s department who seemed to be in charge. Jaworski said, “Unless I’m mistaken I think the city and the county are going to be doing business together on this one. I think your officer just shot the bad guy I’m chasing for an attempted murder about a half-hour ago. How’s your man doing?”

  “He’s over there about to leave for the hospital with EMT. Tore up the flesh on his thigh pretty bad. They’ll take him to emergency.”

  “I hope he’ll be okay. And the guy lying there in the street is dead?”

  The sergeant nodded. “Apparently, he did a rolling stop at a stop sign, and the deputy routinely pulled him over. The guy came out of his vehicle shooting. The deputy put him down, no choice. He’s still unidentified.”

  “What do you mean unidentified. No billfold, no license? How about papers in the glove compartment.”

  “Nothing we can find so far. We’ll get the drug dog over here and search his vehicle. That’s his Buick over there—Dade County plates. We’re running a tag check now.” He gave Sandy the once over.

  “You’re going to find that car was stolen. No identification sounds like a gang car. Let’s take a look.”

  A deputy uncovered part of the body. She and Jaworski leaned over.

  “Where’s his gun?” she asked.

  The sergeant looked her up and down as though questioning her ability to make an intelligent inquiry. “What’s this? Looks like you just pulled her out of a canal.”

  “She’s okay. She was shot at and might ID this guy.”

  She ignored the sergeant’s canal comment. “What kind of gun did this guy use?”

  “You’re Sandy Reid, aren’t you? I’ve heard of you. Mind if I take your picture?”

  That was enough. She gave the sergeant a frozen look. “Is Lieutenant Triney your superior?”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  “You mean, ‘Yes, he is, ma’am.’ If you see Harold before I do, please tell him that Sandy says hello.” She read his name tag, “And, Sergeant Brewer, if I see him first, I’ll mention we met. Now, about the gun?”

  “We’ve got it, ma’am. It's a .38 automatic,” he said quietly.

  Jaworski frowned. “Sorry Sandy. Larena was shot with a .45 caliber.”

  “So, he can’t own two guns? He uses this one on weekends. He left his .45 in his other pants.” She leaned down at the body. She noticed his boot-cut jeans and burnished ankle high boots. The leather jacket was soaked in blood. Tough to look at the disgusting sight of death. Even so, if the bastard had his way, she’d be the one lying in a pool of blood. “This character looks positively mean. Not that I would ever speak ill of the dead, be he’s ugly as hell,” She had to look away. “Justice for the bastard who tried to kill me didn’t take long, even if John’s murderer is still out there.”

  “I know all the local drug baddies,” Jaworski said. “This guy isn’t local. He doesn’t even dress like a local. He has Miami drug gang written all over him.”

  After a moment of thought, she said, “Okay, first we have the FBI up here checking into John Larena carrying drugs and money back and forth instead of diplomatic papers. Now a Miami hood is up here searching the condo for missing money.”

  “I wasn’t aware of any FBI up here on my murder case,” the detective said.

  “I met the agent yesterday. Shapiro will be clueing you in I’m sure. Anyway, now I’m thinking John took off with the cartel’s money and got himself blown away as a result. If that isn’t Larena’s murderer lying there before you, then maybe some other Miami goon shot him. You can take that back to your boss.”

  “Shapiro is aware that you and I are kind of buddies, but just the same we never discussed all this, okay?”

  “Of course not, just get the point across to Shapiro somehow. This is the guy who shot at me in the condo I’m certain of that. There couldn’t be two men who look so repulsive.” She leaned closer over the body. “Look at that white powder on his shirt.”

  “That’s not cocaine, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m thinking ceiling plaster.”

  Chapter Sixteen

 
Sandy followed Jaworski to the police station. He took her statement, and she helped him with some details of the necessary reports concerning the attempt on her life and the fatal shooting of the condo intruder. The routine traffic stop that resulted in the exchange of gunfire was outside the Park Beach city limits, but the sheriff’s department phoned and reported that a fingerprint search on the offender was negative, and the Buick had been stolen in Dade County.

  Chip had heard the reports on his radio and rushed to the station to be certain she was unharmed. They talked for a half hour before she headed back to her studio apartment to shower and change clothes.

  She hadn’t intended to crash, but a minute after taking a loving look at her twin-sized bed, she had the covers up around her neck and was out. An ugly man in a beautiful jacket haunted her dreams, and she woke up an hour later. She got up, took a sedative left over from last year’s trip to the dentist, and slept through until morning the next day. She wasn’t in the office facing Martin until noon.

  They needed to talk and pull together what they had learned so far. He insisted she recount yesterday’s escapade before discussing anything else.

  She described the scenario ending with her standing in wet clothes next to Detective Jaworski looking down at a dead body in the street. Martin sat silent, slowly shaking his head, and shuddering at each part. He put his head in his hands at the part where she flew off a second floor balcony with bullets flying over her head.

  “I was lucky. It could have been the fourth floor.”

  “Yes, yesterday certainly was your lucky day,” he said with a grim smile.”

  She went on to explain the FBI’s interest in John Larena as a possible drug courier. She didn’t bring up Agent Heppard’s personal interest in her. She also skipped mentioning his good looks, the dinner together, and the clench in his car. She did mention lunching with him, however.

  “So, he gets to interview pretty women over lunch. I knew I should have gone into government work. They have such great benefits.” All of this action truthfully wasn’t his thing. But he did regret being totally out of the excitement. Perhaps he should get more involved. “So, at any particular time, John Larena would be carrying either money or drugs. The money goes out and the drugs come in.”

  “Exactly. He must have taken off with the money. Jaworski thinks the dead guy’s a hood from Miami looking for the money in Johns’ condo.”

  Thinking aloud he said, “So, someone from big bad Miami comes up here to little old Park Beach and rips up an apartment. Obviously, they haven’t found the money yet, because they’re still looking for it. So, where’s the money now?”

  “So, where’s the money now?” she repeated. “Until that money is found and turned in, Miami thugs are going to be up here killing people looking for it.”

  “I don’t see why the FBI investigating John Larena for being a courier is to our advantage,” he said. “The prosecution will suggest to the jury Margo was also involved in drugs, How do you keep her out of it? I suppose you could claim she was suspicious of his activities, and that’s why she separated and wanted a divorce.”

  “I don’t think Shapiro will take that angle. One, I’d make him prove she was connected to the drug trade. Two, I’d make him prove what that connection had to do with her murder charge. He can’t prove all that stuff. He’ll stick with domestic violence, and the story that she shot him because that’s what angry wives do. Jurors can relate to that. Nevertheless, I can overcome that argument, because now I can talk about Miami bad guys running around.”

  “And it’s perfect for reasonable doubt.”

  “So I think we’re okay. You know, when I first saw the guy in the condo pointing the gun at me, I was thinking it might be Richie. My feeling was who else would be in the apartment? Geez Louise, I didn’t want it to be Margo’s boyfriend who was looking for money in her husband’s condo. That would look like she killed John to get the money.” A slight chill went up her spine. “The dead guy couldn’t be Richie...could he?”

  He said, “Well, if it was Richie in the condo, he’s dead now. We can assume he won’t be dropping by our office today. Sorry, I was no help in tracing him.”

  “Not to worry. I told Shapiro about him. If he’s alive maybe they can find him. If dead I hope they can identify him.”

  “Richie is to show up in this office today before five. I gave Margo an ultimatum.”

  “Or else what?”

  “Or else I’ll give her another ultimatum. I don’t know, Martin. What do I do if he doesn’t show? I don’t want to drop her. I want to win this case.” She took out her phone. “I’m putting in a call for Margo at the jail. Let’s see what she has to say.” She talked for a moment and then covered the phone. “They’re calling her to the phone.”

  After a few minutes, Sandy said, “How you doing?—Yes, I know you want out of jail.”

  “How’s Richie?—Fine as far as you know.”

  “When did you last speak with him?—This morning, good.”

  “You told him to come here today, right?”

  She threw up her hands. “But you promised!”

  “What is he, an illegal?”

  She listened for a few more minutes.

  “Okay, I’ll phone you when I know more.” She hung up. “It wasn’t Richie who was shot. She spoke with him this morning.”

  “Did she admit he was illegal?”

  “In so many words, and he won’t come in here to talk without her by his side. She said just get her out, she and Richie will straighten out everything for us. I think I’ll take a shot at getting her bonded out today. Now seems the right time to go for it.”

  “It’s all quite favorable,” he said. “You can argue this isn’t a simple spousal dispute after all. We now have our reasonable doubt. You can argue someone in Miami most likely had more to do with his death than Margo.”

  “Nevertheless, we don’t know what evidence the prosecution is sitting on. At this point, Margo is their prime suspect and Shapiro no doubt feels there’s too much incriminating evidence to just give her a pass. I’m going over and talk to him about reducing the charge. At present, they’re claiming it was John who fired at her at the Community Center and made her so angry she went to his place and shot him. My argument is they don’t have the .45 caliber murder weapon. They can’t connect my client to any gun of any size. And they have to convince a jury she would lug around a small cannon. Even if she did go to his place, there’s no proof she was carrying a gun along.”

  “If she went to his place without a weapon, how could it be premeditated murder?” he added.

  “And without premeditation the state can’t go for first degree,” she said with a smile. “You know, I’m going to see Shapiro right now. If I can’t get him to change his mind, then I’m going to appeal to the court for a reduction of the charge.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Whether I’m successful with Shapiro today or not, we need to dig in and find exculpatory evidence and arguments for a solid defense. For one thing, the police report on the condo murder sounds vague regarding just when the witnesses heard the shots. Will you go over there and interview all the neighbors? Who heard the shots, and when. Who over there reported seeing Margo leave in her car and what time?”

  “I’m on it.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sandy came out of the courthouse elevator feeling like skipping instead of walking across the lobby. Her meeting with Shapiro had exceeded her expectations. She had given Shapiro a headache. She argued her client was a first time criminal offender, there was no premeditation, plus the FBI talk about a drug gang provided reasonable doubt. They both knew it would sound great in front of a judge. She had Shapiro in her fist.

  When he started to go back over his primary arguments for Margo’s arrest, she interrupted him. She wanted the charge reduced to manslaughter. He admitted the court might agree with some of her arguments. After additional discussion, he offered to reduce the charge against
her client to second-degree.

  Geez, he agreed, not bad. A reduction from first degree all the way down to manslaughter wasn’t going to happen anyway. Just a ploy, to ask for more than she expected to get. Second degree murder gave her a meaningful victory. Easier to defend, and would take the death penalty off the table.

  In spite of all that, she pressed her luck. With arms folded across her chest, she shook her head. “Manslaughter.”

  “Sober up.”

  “Manslaughter,” she said it again.

  Shapiro had his face all screwed up. “Either you’re bluffing or you’re daffy. Which is it, Sandy?”

  “Okay, so I’m bluffing. I’ll take second-degree on one condition.”

  “You want bond.”

  “I want bond. Personal Recognizance.”

  “No way! Two hundred thousand.”

  “Fifty. She’s local, no priors.”

  After a long pause. “Okay. Free on fifty.” Shapiro agreed without further argument. They talked for another few minutes about how she should proceed with the bonding out procedure.

  She kept a straight face and held off throwing her fists in the air coming down in the crowded elevator.

  As she entered the lobby, she was surprised to see Chip near the entrance talking with a sheriff’s deputy. He noticed her at the same time. She hadn‘t seen him in three days and he looked insanely delicious even wearing his favorite sport coat that could use a pressing. Standing straight and tall came naturally to the ex-Marine officer.

  He shot her one of his light-up-the-room smiles, and her knees went soft. She felt a reckless urge to rush over and throw her arms around his neck. He’d better cancel any plans he had for tonight, because a lengthy repertoire of lustful thoughts was racing through her mind.

  She realized keeping her distance from him for the last few days had been foolish. As soon as she stopped turning into mush, she hurried over to him.

  He said, “Haven’t seen you smiling like that since you took delivery on your new Miata. I know it’s not because you saw me.”