The sheriff waved his detectives off. They stepped away but did not sit down. “I was elected,” rumbled Bill Jeffries, who had not moved back so much as an inch. “I didn’t shoot my way into the job.”
Brad leaned forward, palms flat on the sheriff’s desk. “You know damn well I didn’t leave my bride on my wedding night to go off and whack my ex-girlfriend. You’ve done your duty, now let’s get on with it. Diane may have been a pain in the ass, but I’m royally pissed that somebody’s killed her. Face facts, Bill. The woman must have slept with half the county. You ought to have a suspect list a mile long.”
“You’re still at the top,” Jeffries asserted. He shuffled some papers on his desk, waved Brad back into his chair. “Temper runs in the family, I hear, although Garrett hides it better than you do. Word is, he was pushing her pretty hard too. Warning her off. A nice little wedding present, maybe?”
Brad leaned back in his chair, keeping a firm grip on his temper. “Stop sniffing up the family tree, Bill. None of us is weak enough to have to kill Diane to get rid of her.”
As the truth of Brad’s words hung in the silence, the intercom buzzer sounded. Jeffries picked up the phone, frowned. “Okay, send them in.” His voice had an odd note as he replaced the receiver. “It would seem the cavalry has arrived. We are about to be treated to the big guns of the Whitlaw family. That wedding of yours must have smoothed a lot of troubled waters.”
The door opened, and Garrett Whitlaw held it back while his father strode into the room with all the momentum of an avenging angel.
Brad wondered if the officers at the front desk had had to take away his shotgun.
Chapter Twenty-two
For several minutes after the patrol car disappeared behind a stand of tall pines, Claire continued to stare out the model’s window. It couldn’t be happening again. History couldn’t repeat itself this cruelly.
No, this time things were different. Jim Langdon had been guilty. Brad was not. He had been at Amber Run all day until the wedding and by her side all night. Every minute. And now, at past five in the afternoon, she had the bleary sleep-deprived eyes to prove it.
How could she, even for a moment, wonder if he’d killed Diane Lake? No matter what Brad thought of Diane, he would never kill her. He could be dangerous, yes, but not out of control. Well . . . not really. And he had an absolute alibi. Herself.
Unless Diane died on Friday night.
The traditional bachelor party had been raucous indeed, or so Claire had been told. The entire construction crew plus a mix of Whitlaws, Tyrees, deputy sheriffs and detectives had made for a volatile combination. Claire had not seen Brad at all on Friday night.
He didn’t do it.
He’s a trained killer.
Of course he didn’t do it. Don’t be absurd.
Claire reached for the phone. Phil Tierney would have Garrett Whitlaw’s phone number.
Wade Whitlaw came through the door expressing his opinion of any low-life sheriff who could even suggest his grandson might be guilty of murder—even if the little piece of tail probably asked for it. Calusa County’s largest landowner then proceeded to take the battle to low-down and personal.
“Gave your father his first job,” he said to Bill Jeffries. “Snotty kid didn’t know how to find the hind end of a cow when I put him to work at the tick dip. Wouldn’t have amounted to shit if I hadn’t taken him out of that cracker shack where his ma . . .well, never mind that,” Wade wisely amended. “You just remember, boy, who put a word in the right ear when you wanted to make detective, and who backed your campaigns, every last damn one of ‘em. You just lift your eyes off my grandson here and set your sights on someone else, ’cause there’s no way in hell a Whitlaw would’ve done such a sloppy job of ridding the world of that woman, even if she was no better than she should be.”
“Watch it, grampa,” Brad deadpanned, “or you’ll be on the suspect list too.”
“Hell, at my age I would’ve shot her and been done with it. I’d be dead of old age before all the appeals got done.”
“Look, Bill,” Garrett Whitlaw interjected with practiced smoothness, “you know you’re barking up the wrong tree. How about we all go home and take a breather . . .”
The distinctive ring of a cell phone broke into Garrett’s diplomatic effort at conciliation. Startled, Brad unhooked the phone from his belt and answered it. As he listened, he rose slowly to his feet. “Make sure everything’s locked tight,” he said into the phone. “Hang on. I’m on my way.”
He snapped off the phone, turned to the sheriff. “You got a chopper? Claire’s still at the model, afraid to leave. Says she’s being stalked.”
After speaking with Garrett Whitlaw, Claire kept telling herself she’d done all she could for Brad at the moment. Slim comfort. Automatically, she latched the last window, finished turning out the interior lights, flicked on the outside spotlights. Brad must be almost to Manatee Bay by now. That was where the sheriff’s office was, wasn’t it? Twenty, twenty-five miles. It might as well have been the moon.
Fearing her nerves might have short-circuited her brain, Claire checked her wallet for the three-digit security code for the alarm system. On her third day at Amber Run she had punched in a wrong number when she entered the model in the morning. The raucous sound of the klaxon had brought every workman running, scattered the birds, and nearly given Claire a heart attack. The deputy sheriff who shortly skidded to a halt in the parking area below had not been sympathetic, warning that a second false alarm would cost Brad a fifty dollar fine.
Heart in her mouth, Claire punched the three numbers and scurried to the front door while the forty-five second buzzer mocked her. She popped through the front door, shut it, and paused for a sigh of relief. With the door shut, she now had all the time in the world to turn the key.
The Toyota was stifling hot, even though she’d parked it in the shade of the live oak that towered above the model. She turned the ignition, slid the fan to high. The initial blast of hot air was swiftly followed by waves of soothing coolness. Taking deep breaths, Claire closed her eyes, willing herself to be calm—cool as the air blowing onto her face.
They would let Brad go. They had no reason to hold him. He’d be calling, asking her to pick him up. Being held for questioning wasn’t all that bad. She ought to know.
Claire choked back a sob. Oh, dear lord, yes . . . she knew all about being questioned.
Her eyes flew open. A shadow, a darkness had just passed between her eyelids and the light. Not the flicker of a swaying branch but something large and solid.
Yet there was nothing there. Only the giant oak, several tall pines, two newly planted palms and a leafy border of oleander. Nerves. Imagination. A cloud passing across the sun, that’s all. She shifted into reverse, started the half turn that would take her out of the parking lot. The engine died.
She turned the key, the battery whirred, a cough and a sputter the only results. Gradually, Claire’s eyes focused on the fuel gauge that hovered at rock bottom, somewhere below E. Not possible. She hadn’t driven twenty miles since she’d filled the tank on Friday.
Okay . . . she could be mistaken. Friday was the day before the wedding. Maybe she only thought she filled the tank. And there was no shiny blue pickup, even if she knew how to drive it. She and Brad had driven out together in the Toyota. She was alone. There wasn’t a human being, let alone a gas station for miles.
Which was why Brad had gotten her a cell phone.
Claire rummaged frantically through her large leather carryall. The cell phone had to be there. As she checked every compartment, the pile on the passenger seat grew—wallet, checkbook, tissues, calculator, pens, pencils, keys to the model, keys to the house, more tissues, three lipsticks, compact, comb, shopping lists, receipts. But no phone.
It was, of course, sitting on her desk where, nerves ajar, she had left it when she made her determined sprint to outrun the security system buzzer.
Oh, God . . .
Wearily, appalled by her stupidity, Claire picked up the keys to the model. She’d have to outrun the damn alarm again. And call a garage. In Golden Beach at six o’clock on a Sunday night? Claire groaned.
Shadows were lengthening, reaching out to touch the car, the parking area, the broad expanse of steps, the model itself. The distance between the Toyota and the model’s front door seemed to have doubled. The stairs loomed like some endless gateway to a House of Escher.
Claire was so tense the keys were biting into her hand. She opened the car door, determined she was going to walk, not run. There was no one out there. Nothing to fear.
Thirty seconds later, panting heavily, she slammed the front door of the model behind her, turned the deadbolt and sprinted for the security alarm buttons. She punched in the code. The buzzer came to an abrupt halt. Claire flopped into her chair, rested her elbows on her desk and buried her face in her hands. She was definitely certifiable, her imagination running amok. She’d just sit here until she caught her breath. Until she decided if she should call a taxi or wait to hear from Brad. She couldn’t ask Ginny to rescue her. No sense in worrying either her or Jamie. And they certainly weren’t expecting to hear from her. This was her honeymoon, for heaven’s sake!
Claire gasped as movement caught her eye. A shadow moved out from the depths beneath the courtyard deck. Nightmare time, yet there was no mistaking its human shape. Two legs, two arms, a grostesquerie for a head. Impossible! Her imagination had gone into meltdown. Brad had not been taken away for questioning about Diane Lake’s murder. The Toyota had not died. She was not locked inside this house of glass with a monster stalking her outside.
The shadow wasn’t moving now, but simply standing there, the odd excuse for a head tilted back. Looking up . . . straight at her.
Oh God, dear God . . .
It was a stocking mask. Nothing but a stocking mask. Hiding a serial killer? The nut case from the mall? Were they one and the same? Whatever it was, she knew the shadowed figure was dangerous. Evil.
Claire dove beneath her desk, dragging the landline phone with her. With shaking fingers she punched in the numbers for Brad’s cell phone.
The chopper was on its pad outside the sheriff’s department. The pilot, unfortunately, was coaching Pop Warner football forty-five minutes away. No one was surprised when Brad volunteered. The sheriff and his two detectives plunged into the helicopter right behind Brad, leaving the Whitlaws on the run to Garrett’s Lincoln. En route to Amber Run, Brad sent out a call to the FBI. Claire’s stalker might, or might not, be the serial killer. If merely a stalker, they might be in time. If he was their killer, not the Task Force, the FBI, the county cops, or the Florida Highway Patrol were going to make one damn bit of difference. It might already be too late.
When Sheriff Jeffries called the model, there was no response.
Claire winced as her leg muscles protested her cramped stance beneath her desk. Not a sound anywhere. Not even birds or the sighing of the evening breeze. No footsteps. Yet all the man behind the mask had to do was walk around the deck, peer through the plate glass windows overlooking the pool area . . . and there she was, plain as day.
Was he the man from the mall? The Realtor killer?
Maybe both?
Brad was twenty-five miles away. The only person who could save her was herself.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! Small children knew enough to call 911. Claire punched in the numbers. Nothing. When she pressed the phone to her ear, the line was dead. Fear rose in her throat, threatening to choke her.
Think. Don’t let him win. Think!
Her cell phone had to be on the desk somewhere. With so little furniture in the model, where else would it be? But if she reached for it, he might see the movement. And if she didn’t, she’d be stuck here with him until Brad arrived. Which might be too late.
Claire inched her way toward the front of the kneehole. Her hand crept out, up, sliding, patting . . . Got it!
Darkness obliterated the light. Claire stifled a shriek. A monstrous face of tan mesh, shadowed by the last rays of the sun behind the trees to the west, was pressed to the glass right outside the tall window. Malevolent features squashed against the window pane, eyes unwavering, staring right at her. Oh, dear God, this was Florida, the glass a single layer thick. Easily broken.
Claire longed to stay put, surrounded by the cold comfort of her desk, but she had no choice. She scrambled out, awkward, terrified, repeating the three-digit security code like a mantra as she ran. If he had a gun, she was dead. She reached the alcove that housed the security system, punched in the code. Heard the beautiful, insistent sound of the warning buzzer. One-two-three . . . She punched in a random set of numbers. Forty-five seconds to enough noise to wake the dead.
Glass splintered, shards tinkling onto the tile, as the monster pounded out an opening with the aid of a leftover length of two by four. A foot, raised high to avoid the jagged glass, stepped through broken window.
He was inside! The horror of that amorphous face, the aura of evil singed her soul.
Move, idiot, move! Claire dashed for the master bedroom, slammed and locked the door. Thirty seconds.
She kept going, straight into the ballroom-sized bathroom with its high narrow windows, locking that door as well. Twenty seconds.
Claire’s knees buckled, plunging her onto the cold tile floor. Ten seconds. The South County Sheriff’s Department was three or four miles away. Unless the noise frightened him away, help was going to come too late.
The klaxon went off in all its glory. A wonderful, horrible, ear-splitting noise. Maybe . . . just maybe . . .
In the momentary pauses between the blaring wails of the horn, Claire heard nothing. No footsteps, no rattling doorknobs. Nothing. She sat, heart pounding, on the floor, ready to wrestle with the door knob if it so much as twitched. It didn’t move. Finally—after what seemed like an eon—the wail of a siren sounded through the klaxon, followed shortly after by the distinctive whirr of helicopter blades.
The monster was gone. Intellectually, she knew that. But she was still sitting, hugging the floor, when Brad pounded on the bathroom door, calling her name.
Real Estate brokers were supposed to enjoy peaceful Sunday afternoons while their agents answered the phone, showed property or held Open Houses. Brokers were supposed to play golf or tennis, take a picnic to the beach, visit friends, catch up on a good book. They were not, Phil Tierney kept telling herself, supposed to be tearing long red nails to the quick wondering why an ex-husband’s new wife wanted her current lover’s cell phone number or why Garrett answered her call to his cell phone with a curt, “Sorry, Phil, not now!” And hung up.
She’d tried to call Claire at home. No answer. She’d tried the model; the phone rang endlessly busy.
Phil’s imagination was off and running. Why had Claire needed Garrett’s number? Where was Brad? Phil dialed his cell phone; his response was as curt as Garrett’s: “Can’t talk now, Phil. Call you later.” Phone off.
What was she expected to do . . . sit around like some Victorian ninny waiting for the big strong males to come home and tell her what happened? Phil jumped into her Lexus and headed east toward the river. As she approached the model, she counted six county patrol cars, two black and tan Florida Highway Patrol cars, an ambulance, and a variety of other vehicles including Garrett’s Lincoln Continental . . . and a helicopter. Fortunately, before she could assume the worst, she saw Brad coming down the front steps, holding Claire tight to his side. Phil parked the Lexus between Garrett’s Lincoln and an oddly skewed abandoned deputy’s car and threaded her way through the maze of vehicles. Standing at the foot of the stairs, waiting for Brad and Claire, was as impressive an array of powerful men as Phil had seen since she left Washington, D.C., to return to Florida. Garrett and Wade Whitlaw, Sheriff Bill Jeffries, two men she recognized as Calusa County homicide detectives, and two others her experienced eye immediately pegged as FBI. There was only one uniformed deputy. All the others were
fanned out, guns drawn, in a massive search of the area.
When Brad and Claire reached the ground, the phalanx of VIPs drew together, forming a circle around them. Brad kept right on walking, propelling Claire along with him. “I’m taking her home,” he announced grimly.
“You know damn well we have to question her,” the sheriff protested.
“You want to talk her, come to the house. Any and all of you, but right now she’s going home. So get the hell out of my way.”
“Does that invitation include the FBI?” Doug Chalmers called to Brad’s retreating back.
“Hell, yes, even Phil,” said Brad coldly. “We’ll have a party.”
Phil hadn’t thought he’d seen her; she should have known better. Though far from the most gracious invitation she’d ever had, there was no way she was going home without finding out what was going on.
But what would Claire think?
Phil looked at the cluster of men preparing to follow Brad to Palm Court. Claire was the only female in the bunch. Maybe, just maybe, under those circumstances Claire could use the support of another woman. Even if it was her husband’s ex-wife.
Phil joined the procession back to town.
As they drove home, outwardly Brad was calm, solicitous, even gentle. Inwardly, he raged. He’d left her alone. Unprotected. Because of who and what he was, Claire had nearly died. Because the sheriff knew his work history . . . because Brad Blue had a reputation for hot women as well as dangerous living, he’d been forced to abandon Claire to her fate. One day married, and he’d failed her. He was still swearing to himself as he settled Claire on the oversize sofa in the courtyard room, poured a snifter of B&B, and handed it to her.
After taking two hefty swallows, Claire managed to raise her eyes to the rather amazing group of people who had followed them into the room. Oddly, Doug Chalmers seemed an old friend set down in the midst of those who should have been friends and suddenly weren’t.
Shadowed Paradise Page 27