Holidays Are Murder

by Charlotte Douglas

  “Skerritt!” Shelton’s voice bellowed down the hall. “Get in here.”

  “Can’t let you have all the fun,” Adler said. “Want me to come, too?”

  I shook my head. “Call the CSU lab. See if they’ve had a hit on those prints from last night.”

  Adler nodded. “Anything else?”

  “If I’m not back in thirty minutes, call the mortuary.”

  Shelton sat at his desk and blew his nose into a handful of Kleenex. His eyes were red and bloodshot, his nose bulbous and shining. For a man who’d just returned from vacation, he looked as if he’d come off a three-day drunk.

  “Have a good holiday?” I asked.

  He scowled at me with bleary eyes. “Myra was sick with the flu the whole damn time.”

  Myra, his bleached-blond trophy wife, while curvaceous and attractive in a blatantly sexual way, had an IQ slightly above that of an amoeba.

  “Sorry to hear that. I hope she’s feeling better.”

  “I was stuck in a cabin in the wilderness for five whole days. Couldn’t go anywhere because I had to take care of her.”

  “At least you got some rest.”

  “Rest? There was only one TV, which, unfortunately, got some friggin’ soap opera channel that she watched incessantly. It was worse than water torture.” He tossed one wad of tissues into the wastebasket and grabbed another. “And if that wasn’t bad enough, this place has gone to hell in a handbasket while I’ve been gone.”

  Shelton was on a rant, and I knew better than to interfere. I might as well try to stop a volcano from erupting.

  “A murder, for chrissakes, and another robbery! All in less than a week. Doesn’t anyone do his job around here?”

  “We have prints from the latest robbery. We’re waiting for an ID.”

  He slapped the surface of his desk with the palm of his hand. “Not good enough! I want a suspect in the Lovelace murder behind bars. The press is all over this like ugly on a toad. You know the vulnerable position the department’s in.”

  “We also have a lead in the Lovelace case.”

  “Is an arrest imminent?”

  I mentally calculated how long Bill might take to locate Jackpot. “Possibly within the week.”

  “I want an arrest today.”

  “I can’t pull a suspect out of thin air.”

  “You won’t have to.” He picked up the folder that held the initial reports from the case. “You have a suspect with means, motive and opportunity. I want Samantha Lovelace arrested today, in time to make the six-o’clock news.”

  I’d been standing till that moment, but I sank into the chair in front of his desk. “But Samantha didn’t do it.”

  He tried to pierce me with a stare, but his rheumy eyes spoiled the effect. “And you know this how?”

  “I’ve interviewed her.”

  “That’s it?” His voice was heavy with congestion and sarcasm. “She told you she didn’t do it?”

  “Give me some credit, Chief. I’ve questioned hundreds of suspects in my career. Samantha Lovelace wasn’t lying.”

  “I understand she’s a friend of yours.”

  I shook my head. “Her mother and mine are best friends.”

  His grin was brutal. “So we have a little problem called conflict of interest.”

  My position looked bad and nothing I could say would improve it, so I kept quiet.

  “If we don’t make an arrest,” he said, “we’re giving our political opponents fodder for their cause. I don’t know about you, Skerritt, but I want to keep my job.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not going to happen.”

  “It damned well better happen. I’ve given you an order.”

  “I’m talking about keeping the department. Ulrich paid me a visit while you were gone.”

  “The councilman?”

  “He wanted to enlist my public endorsement of his plan to bring in the sheriff’s department. Offered me a promotion in the sheriff’s CID if I’d cooperate.”

  Shelton was gathering steam for another blowup, so I added quickly, “I turned him down. But how well our department performs is a moot point in this debate. It’s all politics and the fix is in. Ulrich has aspirations to higher office, and pushing this county one step closer to a metro government will earn him political capital with the big boys.”

  Shelton reeled back in his chair as if I’d slapped him. “You’re sure?”

  “I know you don’t like me, Chief, but have I ever lied to you?”

  His reddened face turned ashen. “If we keep on our toes, the people will support us. Even Ulrich and his political machine can’t fake a vote.”

  I almost felt sorry for him. “You’re grasping at straws. The turnout in a city election is minimal. All Ulrich has to do is mobilize the party volunteers to turn additional voters out. A few hundred extra votes are all they’ll need to turn the tide in their favor. Everything legal and above board. And we’re history.”

  Shelton sat very still as the implications sank in.

  “So,” I said gently, hoping to drive home the point, “arresting Samantha Lovelace isn’t necessary.”

  The chief said nothing and I began to relax, thinking that he’d seen the reason in what I’d told him. I rose from my chair and started for the door.

  “Skerritt.” His voice whipped across the room with its old authority. “From what you’ve told me, good PR is our only hope. Arrest the wife.”

  “But, Chief—”

  “If you don’t, I will.”

  I could picture the scene, Shelton and an entourage of reporters and cameraman descending on the Lovelace house, and Samantha in handcuffs splattered across the evening news and tomorrow’s headlines.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  “Do it now.”

  At my desk, I put in a call to Harvey Dykeman. “I have bad news,” I said when he came on the line.

  “I’m listening.”

  “The chief wants Samantha arrested.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Murder one. I’m giving you a heads-up.” I kept my voice low. Shelton would have my hide if he’d known what I was doing.

  “You want me to be at the house when you come for her?” the attorney asked.

  “No, I want you to bring her in. Very quietly, under the radar. I’ll arrange for an officer to sneak you in through the sally port. Shelton wants publicity. I can’t keep the arrest out of the papers, but I can give her some privacy. If you bring her in at three, you can push for an early arraignment, maybe get her released on her own recognizance so she doesn’t have to spend a night in jail. And if she’s released before the media get wind of the arrest, there’ll be no photographers, no embarrassing video.”

  “Thanks, Detective. I have some friends who are judges. Maybe I can pull a few strings of my own. We’ll be at the station at three.”

  Adler, whose desk was practically on top of mine, had heard every word. “You’re sticking your neck out.”

  “So Shelton fires me. The way I see it, we’ll all be out of a job after the February referendum anyway. Besides, Samantha didn’t kill her husband. She doesn’t need this extra grief.”

  The phone rang and Adler grabbed it. He scribbled on the pad on his desk, thanked the caller and hung up. “We got a hit on the prints from Al’s Attic.”

  “Anyone we know?”

  “Oh, yeah. Jason McLeod.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  Twelve-year-old Jason was the boy who’d stumbled over Peter Castleberry’s body on the Pinellas Trail several weeks ago. The boy had a rap sheet going back four years, and why he’d never been sent to juvenile detention was one of life’s mysteries. He lived with his alcoholic single mother who earned her booze money and their meager living on her back, leaving Jason essentially to fend for himself. But the kid had a sweet, angelic appearance, and whenever he’d appeared in court, his mother would accompany him and cry. Up until now, soft-hearted judges had always released him to her cust
ody. And he kept showing up like a bad penny after committing petty crimes all over town. His innocent demeanor and weeping mom wouldn’t wiggle him out of this one.

  “Call the middle school,” I said. “Ask the vice principal to detain him until we get there.”

  Adler dialed the school and spoke to the secretary. While he was on hold, I considered how to convince Jason to turn on his mentor, a predator who enlisted kids to steal for him. After a life spent primarily on the streets, Jason wasn’t afraid of anything, certainly not the police. He showed unwavering allegiance to the criminal code. And he wouldn’t snitch.

  Adler spoke to the vice principal, then hung up the receiver. “The kid skipped school today.”

  “Poor baby. He had a late night. He’s probably sleeping in.”

  “Want me to pick him up at home?”

  I checked my watch. “Dykeman will be bringing Samantha in soon. I want you to go with me to transport her to the county jail. The sooner she’s there, the quicker she’s arraigned and hopefully released. We can collar Jason on the way back.”

  Adler nodded, then took a flyer off his desk and handed it to me. “The department Christmas party is at our house next weekend.”

  “Under the circumstances, you think anyone will feel like partying?”

  He shrugged. “It might be the last Christmas together for us as a department. I’m hoping it’ll be special.”

  “More like a wake.”

  “Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

  “Just call me Ebenezer.”

  “The party’s potluck.”

  “You know I don’t cook.”

  “So get takeout. Better yet, bring Malcolm and let him cook. If we’re lucky, he’ll make his famous bread pudding I’ve heard about.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. Bill had found this outrageous recipe for a bread pudding on the Food Network. It started with a dozen Krispy Kreme glazed donuts. To the crumbled pastries, he added raisins, a custard mixture of eggs and cream, and a generous cup of Jack Daniel’s. Amazingly, that concoction baked up into one of the most sinfully delectable desserts I’d ever tasted. And, because it was made with donuts, Bill alternately dubbed it Police Pudding or Cop Custard, depending on his mood. It was a major artery-clogger, but also a crowd-pleaser.

  “I’ll ask him,” I said. “He likes parties.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “About as much as a pig does a barbecue.”

  Adler grinned. “Guess that qualifies you as a party animal.”

  “Yeah, if I get too wild, I’ll count on you to hold me back.” I checked the clock. “Let’s head for the sally port. Dykeman will be arriving soon, and I want us to handle this. If we’re lucky, we’ll get Samantha in and out before anyone else sees her.”

  Two hours later we were stuck in going-home traffic on the Bayside Bridge, edging north on McMullen-Booth Road. Between our efforts at stealth and the strings Dykeman had pulled, Samantha had been booked, arraigned and released in record time. In the back seat of Dykeman’s Lexus with tinted windows, she had been driven away from the county judicial complex before the media had gotten wind of the arrest. The charges would still make the six-o’clock news and the morning headlines, but by then, Samantha would be sequestered in the privacy of her home.

  We were headed back to Pelican Bay to pick up Jason McLeod. A hundred feet in front of us the road narrowed to two lanes where bulldozers and dump trucks worked on an overpass.

  “Ever wonder,” Adler said, “why the DOT waits until the height of tourist season to begin road projects? Every north-south artery in the county is under construction.”

  “Murphy’s Law?” I said, but my thoughts were on Jason McLeod. I’d witnessed his four-year slide into a life of crime, but I’d been powerless to stop it. I felt the same frustration over the plight of Tiffany Harlow, who remained at the mercy of her negligent mother. The state’s Department of Children and Families did their best, but, like most large and unwieldy government agencies, DCF often operated with the same twisted logic and inefficiency as DOT. What these kids needed was immediate intervention and mentors who could keep them on the right track. Such help might come too late for Jason, but there were dozens like him in Pelican Bay who might profit from a nudge in the right direction. In the back of my mind, a plan was formulating, but I’d need help to implement it.

  “We’re moving,” Adler said. “Maybe we’ll get to McLeod’s before dark after all.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Adler had been too optimistic. Between road construction and a lane-blocking traffic accident, we took another hour to reach Pelican Bay. Adler turned east into a subdivision of homes built in the sixties in what had once been an orange grove. Aging citrus trees, sickly survivors, dotted the front yards of many of the austere houses built from concrete blocks. Unlike the more affluent neighborhoods where lush green lawns and tropical landscaping were the norm, barren stretches of gray, sandy soil and patches of sandspurs and weeds surrounded these houses.

  Tourists like to think of Florida as a verdant paradise. The truth is, without tons of fertilizer, gallons of reclaimed water and hours of constant vigilance against pests and diseases, little grows in most parts of the state except saw palmettos, scrub oaks and pines. The residents of this neighborhood obviously had neither the time nor money to spend on horticulture.

  The McLeod house was even more derelict than its sad neighbors. Paint faded and peeled from its cinder-block walls, torn screens hung from the windows and a thick coat of mildew blackened what had once been a white tile roof. Adler turned into the driveway and parked behind a rusting blue Chevy Cavalier in the carport. In the gathering twilight, the dark house exuded an atmosphere of unhappiness and neglect.

  “Sheesh,” Adler muttered. “No wonder the kid never stays home.”

  “Let’s hope he’s home now.” I opened the car door, climbed out, picked my way along the broken sidewalk and tried not to stumble in the dark.

  I pushed the doorbell and heard no corresponding ring through the open jalousie windows, so I pounded on the door. Inside, someone grunted in surprise, as if awakened from sleep, and made fumbling sounds in the darkness. In seconds, a light shone through the front windows, footsteps approached and the low-wattage bare bulb above the front porch clicked on with a sickly yellow glare.

  “Who is it?” a gravelly voice asked.

  “Mrs. McLeod?”

  “Yeah?” she answered hesitantly.

  “It’s Detective Skerritt with the Pelican Bay Police.”

  The jalousie door swung inward and, jaundiced by the porch light, a young woman with ratted hair, bleary eyes, and wearing faded shorts and a T-shirt, glared at me. The smell of booze oozed from her pores. “What’s the little shit done now?”

  “Is Jason home?” I asked.

  She turned toward the inside of the house and bellowed, “Jason, get your butt out here!”

  Adler, I noted, had slipped from the car and headed around back, in case Jason decided to make a run for it out a rear door.

  No sound emanated from the darkened remainder of the house.

  “Guess he ain’t here,” Mrs. McLeod said.

  “Do you mind if I check?”

  “Is his bike in the carport?”

  “I didn’t see it.”

  “Then he’s out with his buddies.”

  “Do you know where?”

  She shrugged. “Wherever it is boys go. You’re welcome to look around if you like, but he ain’t here.”

  I walked through the tiny living room with its L-shaped dining area, glanced into the kitchen, its counters piled high with dirty dishes, then entered a hallway. Soiled clothes and clutter littered the furniture and floors, and just walking through the house was like crossing a minefield. The place should have had a warning sign: Do Not Enter Without Proper Vaccinations!

  Jason was nowhere to be found, but in the disaster area Mrs. McLeod identified as his room, I discovered in plain sight a group of action figures, n
ew and in the box, with Al’s Attic price stickers on them. By now, Adler had joined me and I had him bag the toys and take them to the car.

  “Your son’s in a lot of trouble, Mrs. McLeod,” I told her. “For his sake, you’d better tell me where he is before he gets hurt.”

  “He hangs out on the Trail with his pals. That’s the only place I know to look when I can’t find him.” She reached to her throat and fingered a gold dolphin with a diamond eye attached to a heavy gold chain. The necklace matched the description of one stolen from Bloomberg’s jewelry store.

  I pointed to her throat. “I’ll have to take your necklace.”

  Her fist tightened around the bauble. “Jason gave it to me for my birthday.”

  “It was stolen from Bloomberg’s during a break-in last week.”

  She shook her head stubbornly. “It’s mine. I ain’t never had anything so purty.”

  I took a deep breath. “Look, Mrs. McLeod, you either hand over the necklace or I arrest you for receiving stolen property and take you in. It’s your call.”

  She took a moment to consider her options, then unclasped the chain and handed the jewelry to me. “I don’t know why you cops keep picking on me and my boy.”

  Obviously the poor woman didn’t have a clue. And having been raised by an idiot, Jason hadn’t had a chance.

  “If Jason comes home before we find him, you’ll be doing him a favor if you bring him in yourself.”

  She shook her head and laughed. “What? Do you think I’m stupid?”

  Some questions required no answers. I let myself out the front door and joined Adler in the car.

  Fifteen minutes later we were parked at the intersection of the Trail and Windward Lane. The Pinellas Trail, a former railroad bed turned into a thirty-eight-mile-long linear park, was a favorite haunt of joggers, cyclists, pedestrians and criminals who wanted a quick and unobserved getaway. Adler killed the lights.

  “Do we wait for them to come to us,” he asked, “or go find the little buggers?”

  “Let’s search,” I said. “We need to grab Jason before his mother tips him off that we’re on to him and he disappears into the woodwork.”