Alive After Friday (Sandy Reid Mystery Series)

by Rod Hoisington

  For the last twenty years, it had been his job to observe people in their homes, on the street and across the interrogation table, and to look into their faces and read their minds. Now that he was close up with this woman, he could see she was stressed and not yet over the abduction. Enough trauma for a lifetime. Looking at her, he guessed that trouble didn’t usually bother her all that much. She’d get over it; she appeared too tough to let it take over her life. She wasn’t lost; in fact, she seemed intensely focused. Yet, frustrated by not finding the answers she desperately wanted. He also detected fear; she remained threatened by something or someone; probably the mysterious Jane she talked about who was a killer and was still out there. So for now, she was still hurting.

  “It seems to me you’re doing great and have come a long way with all this. My guess is you’ll soon get it all sorted out with no more surprises.” He moved his chair closer. “You know what I think, Miss Reid? I think those two people who decided to choose you as their extortion target made the biggest mistake of their lives.” His throat was getting tight. He spread his strong hands along the edge of the table in front of him, gripped it tightly and leaned toward her. “I want you to know that West Palm is yours. Whatever you need.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  At his arraignment that morning at the West Palm Beach courthouse, Ryan Cramer, stood awkwardly wishing he were somewhere else. Next to him was his newly found attorney, Angela James, trying to look as though she belonged in a courtroom. Sandy was seated at the side and guessed that Ryan was the young woman’s first criminal defendant.

  In a low voice, he pleaded not guilty, and in a low voice, Angela requested release without bail. The judge rapped his gavel and Ryan was remanded to the custody of the West Palm Beach police and taken back to jail.

  Thirty minutes later, Sandy and Angela were in the middle of exchanging introductions and explanations, when an officer brought Ryan into the interview room at the jail.

  Angela explained she was the wife of the lawyer Ryan used for his business. They realized that her business-lawyer husband wasn’t qualified to take on a criminal case. She confessed her uncertainty that criminal law had been the right choice for her. According to her, stage fright was her problem in front of the judge that morning. Sandy bluntly told her that it was more than just stage fright—she should have been better prepared for the arraignment; she looked as though she didn’t know courtroom procedure. Sandy then smiled and said it reminded her of her own faltering beginning.

  First off, Sandy expressed to Ryan how sorry she was about him losing his wife. She was certain he still held love for her. After he’d composed himself, she asked if Detective Dominic had read him his rights. Did she mean that spiel about the right to keep silent? Yes, but he wondered at the time why that was necessary, since he didn’t know about his wife’s murder.

  “Tell me what happened that evening...the night you drove to your timeshare at Disney World. I need to know the times.”

  Myra had texted him earlier, he explained, then phoned him later while he was at Gail’s. What time? Oh, around seven-thirty. She said the police were after her and didn’t know what to do. She needed his support, needed him to stand beside her. He told her he’d suffered months and months of her blatantly screwing around with Boyd and now this—a major crime. He’d had enough. She was on her own.

  Then she came over to Gail’s condo to beg him to help. The three of them talked. Gail wanted to keep out of it and didn’t offer to help. He was upset and angry. Myra gave up trying to bring him around and left crying around ten. He and Gail talked for a while and then she went to bed. The embezzlement on top of her cheating was just too much. That’s when he decided to take off, drive up to their timeshare near Orlando and get away from it all. What time? Maybe eleven.

  Next Sandy asked what he had told Dominic in the interrogation room. He admitted that again and again he had been deceptive and didn’t give straightforward answers because at that point he still believed that somehow he was in trouble because of his wife’s embezzlement and didn’t know she had been murdered.

  Dominic kept asking if he was angry with his wife. Sure, he’d replied. She was ruining his life and his business. Should have done something earlier. Should have erased her like a bad dream. Had he said those words? Yes, that’s what he blurted out. He wouldn’t have phrased it like that had he known someone had killed her.

  They listened with dismay. It sounded bad. Caught in one lie after another. Dominic had cleverly not told Ryan what was going on until after he’d incriminated himself.

  Angela James had asked few questions through all of the questioning. She followed Sandy’s lead. When Sandy made a note, she’d make a note. Now Ryan’s version of what happened was clear. Sandy hadn’t decided personally whether he was guilty. She had to stop and consider how to handle it.

  She reasoned that Ryan wouldn’t have killed Myra for money; still he did seem emotional and might have harbored the hate necessary to kill her. If he were to be believed, he had assumed they picked him up because his wife was being investigated. Knowing he was innocent and couldn’t be tied to the theft, he cooperated and obligingly incriminated himself in the murder. It all worked out nicely for the clever detective. Ryan had been sucker-punched. Except, what if he knew all along that his wife was dead and had neatly fooled the detective into believing he was a harmless wimp?

  She checked watch. “This is all in your hands now, Angela. You have to take over now. I’m going back up to Park Beach later today and will be up there a couple of days.”

  “But what’ll I do?”

  “You need to come up with a good argument with some evidence to back it up. Then request a bond hearing and go back before the judge and request bail for Ryan. Your client has plenty of motive and no alibi for the time of the murder. Get your hands on the police report now and the M.E. report when available. Then inspect the crime scene immediately. Take your own photos. Don’t be surprised if you find evidence the police have overlooked or not mentioned.”

  “They’ll let me do that?”

  “The police must permit the defense attorney to inspect the crime scene. The M.E. estimated the time of death at midnight. That’s about when Ryan left for the timeshare—he took the turnpike, so if he used a SunPass, there’ll be a record of when he got on and off. At midnight, Gail was home alone already in bed—supposedly. So she is also a suspect and that gives you reasonable doubt.”

  Ryan was listening. “Gail wouldn’t have shot Myra.”

  “You have all that, counselor?” Sandy asked.

  Angela hesitantly nodded her head.

  “Now, you can do what you want, but I’d say here’s your defense. The shooting and the ransacked house are connected, of course. The shooter obviously was there searching for money and was interrupted by Myra. If it were Ryan searching for the money, he could have done it anytime Myra was out, it didn’t have to be at midnight. In any case, it would have been dumb for her to hide something in the bedroom her husband was using.”

  Angela excitedly jumped in, “If he was ransacking his own house, he wouldn’t have wasted time tearing apart his own bedroom looking for it! And if you’re searching for something in your own house you don’t turn the place upside down.”

  “And if your wife walks in while you’re trashing the place, you don’t shoot her—you have a big argument.” She gave Angela a thumbs up. “Now you’ve got the idea. Except, what if the prosecution maintains—” Sandy glanced over at Ryan. “—that he shot her and then messed up the place to make it look like a burglary?”

  “Oh, damn. What do I do then?”

  “That’s when you start earning your fee.”

  During the session between Sandy and Angela, Ryan had sat nearly catatonic with eyes and head down and shoulders drooped. If he kept on in that mood, he’d soon be a good candidate for a suicide watch. Sandy was straining to think of something therapeutic and deeply philosophical, “You’re going to be okay and
we’re going to get you out of this, Ryan.”

  She remembered Angela and glanced over at her, “Aren’t we, Angela?”

  Sandy went on, “You’ve suffered a double shock. Your wife was violently murdered. She lost her life and you haven’t had time to think about her. You’ve been preoccupied with this damn accusation and jail. Yet your own life hasn’t been destroyed, in spite of what you’re feeling. This will pass. You’ll get it all together again. You’ll move on. Eventually, there’ll be someone new in your life. You’re too good to be passed up. Okay, you’ve been beaten up pretty badly. Nothing says you’re going to lose again.”

  “At the very least, I’m going to lose my business.” He forced a smile. “I’m glad we crossed paths.”

  “You’re a good man who has experienced pain, but you’re going to find the strength to fight back. Let me ask, are you glad Myra’s dead?”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to miss her?”

  “I haven’t as yet. It’s not like she’s gone.”

  “That’s exactly what I meant. You haven’t had time to grieve for her. You’re going to be fine. Angela will get you out on bail. Where are you going to stay? The yellow tape will be up around your house for a while.

  “I’ll stay over at Gail’s. She has two bedrooms.”

  “Ryan, I really need to speak with your sister. Can you arrange that for me?”

  “I know she won’t do it. She told me if anyone asks her any more questions, she’ll get a lawyer.”

  That just wouldn’t do. Sandy would find some other way to get to Gail.

  He continued, “I’ll have to look for a job somewhere. My business is in the trash can now.”

  “You mean because of the publicity? It might not be that bad.”

  “Oh it’s that bad. I do a lot of condo landscaping and have to satisfy the condominium directors. They will certainly stop doing business with someone who can’t control his cheating, embezzling wife and might even have killed her. Even if not convicted the questions will always be there. After all those years of hard work building it up, my business will have died with her.”

  She was trying to think of something encouraging to say, when her cell buzzed. She turned her back on them to answer. Probably Chip. No, it was Martin. That was fine, although she hadn’t expected him to call. “Everything is going to hell down here, Martin. I hope it’s better up there.”

  Martin’s voice was wavering and with a noticeable shortness of breath, he said, “Sandy, Chip is in the hospital...he was in a shoot out.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  As Sandy approached the wide, sweeping driveway that curved up to the emergency entrance at the Rosewood Regional Hospital, just south of Park Beach, she could see that the steps on the entry way were jammed with friends and associates, many in the uniform of various city, county and state law enforcement entities. The sun was low in the sky putting the steps in the shade. The overflow spilled down to the adjacent parking area where people talked with one another in small groups. Vehicles kept arriving. After a quick circle of the clogged parking, Sandy pulled onto the grass by the entrance between two police vehicles.

  Eddy Jaworski spotted her and walked with her up the steps. “They ran us out of the waiting room. How are you doing?”

  “How is he?” She looked into his face hopefully. He made a slight shake of his head. Once inside, she was surprised to find the waiting room was quiet and only half filled. Martin and Mel were at the side talking. They both hurried over looking solemn.

  “Well...tell me.” She looked from one to the other.

  “Not good, Sandy,” Mel said.

  Martin nodded in agreement. “Are you okay?”

  Mel frowned. “They haven’t told us much, other than he’s still in ICU.”

  The three of them settled into the waiting room. Mel explained that Chip had been temporarily assigned to assist an FBI joint task force on a drug bust in nearby Fort Pierce.

  “Was he wearing his bullet-proof vest?” she asked

  “In spite of his vest. Something went wrong.”

  “Obviously,” she snapped.

  After a forty-five minute wait, a doctor came out and reported that Detective Goddard was in critical condition. Sandy hunched her shoulders in frustration. “Well, we know that.”

  The doctor turned and left, Mel hurried after him. They exchanged a few words in the corridor. Mel came back and reported the doctor had removed a bullet from Chip’s chest. He was not responsive and hadn’t regained consciousness since being shot. It didn’t look good.

  After another lengthy wait, Mel got up and walked down the hall to the ICU. He came back with a nurse who told Sandy to follow her; she could go to Chip’s room. Except for ICU personnel coming in and out, she was alone with Chip. She gave up trying to get information out of any of them.

  After sitting bedside and staring at him for some time with all the tubes and paraphernalia, she leaned down toward his face, and said, “I love you, I love you. Please come back, Chip.” She sat bedside listening to the cadence of the vital signs monitor and then started shaking. A nurse noticed and wrapped a heated blanket around her shoulders. She wasn’t certain just what she was feeling and didn’t care. She sat looking straight ahead. This wasn’t happening.

  Personnel occasionally would come and check whatever. After an hour, her jumble of thoughts of concern for Chip began to focus. She shook the blanket from her shoulders, stood and walked around the room while looking back at Chip’s comatose body. He’d never give up, she was certain of that, but was he there? Being in a coma meant his mental processes had shut down. Still, she wanted his mind to be there to rally his body to fight on. His body lying there was strong; it wouldn’t give in easily, even if his mind wasn’t in control. She reached out and gently clasped her hand around his arm. “Good, you’re nice and warm. Stay nice and warm, Chip. And know that I love you.”

  She had a feeling of extreme vulnerability and now the additional feeling of loneliness. She walked back out to the waiting room. Mel, Martin and Eddy Jaworski were there. They all focused on her expectantly thinking she had news. “This can’t be happening,” she said in too loud of a voice. “Chip can’t be dying.” She slowly shook her head.

  Martin, uncertain of how to comfort her, asked once again how she was doing.

  She answered, “Hoping for the best and expecting the worst doesn’t do a thing for me. How about you?” Without answering, he gave her arm a squeeze.

  She began to feel dizzy; maybe from a pill the nurse had given her, just a Tylenol she thought. She needed to sit. A sudden outrage against Dick and Jane overtook her. She stood back up. The pair had slipped from her mind. Why had she stopped thinking about them? Weren’t they responsible for all this? Her immediate thought was that they didn’t get the money after all. She couldn’t concentrate. Her thoughts were a blur, but she knew something had gone wrong. Had the bastards carried out their deadly threat even though she gave them the money?

  She should have warned him and put him on guard. Should have called the police and the FBI. What a horrible miscalculation she’d made. He was in intensive care at that very moment because of her. “I’ll never forgive myself,” she said loudly, looking down, rubbing her hands together.

  Mel stood up beside her. “What are you talking about? You’ve nothing to do with this.”

  “Dick and Jane shot him,” she said.

  “Who? Oh, those two. No, that’s crazy. I already explained to you, Chip was miles away on a joint drug bust operation with the FBI and Fort Pierce police. Caught a bullet in the gunfire. We don’t know everything yet. But no way is it connected to your episode.”

  She looked up at him questioning. “That’s right, that’s right.” Her shoulders sagged with the relief of guilt. “I knew that. I knew that.”

  “I’m sorry you were thinking that, Sandy. We should have given you more details. I thought you understood. Are you okay now?”

  “Yes. I forg
ot. I was confused.”

  Martin told her the police had a squad running down leads on the hood that had exchanged gunfire with Chip. “They believe they know who did it.”

  She couldn’t endure all the whispering and walked back down the hospital corridor to Chip’s room. Periodically, the staff would come in to do their tasks, and then it would grow quiet again except for the beeping of the monitor.

  “Can I get you a coffee or something, Mrs. Goddard?” one nurse asked.

  “He isn’t married.”

  “Oh, we thought you were his wife.” The nurse quickly understood. “We’re all hoping along with you.”

  “Never has been...as far as I know...,” she couldn’t finish. She put her head down.

  “Call us if there’s any change in his breathing.” The nurse left her alone.

  She sat there for almost an hour, whispering to him about how much she loved him and how wonderful their future would be. Their short time together seemed so precious, so valuable and now suddenly so fragile.

  They had met a mere two years earlier, when as a brash law student, she was defending her errant brother and Chip was on the job in the murder case. Their friendship spawned a relationship, which would have been exclusive except for a couple of regrettable lapses on her part. But for some time the relationship was unquestionably exclusive. The sleepovers had increased from occasional to frequent. Yet, she didn’t want to move in with him. How could she possibly give up her own apartment and have no place to slip away? She loved the thought that she could put her shoes under his bed whenever she wanted; however, hanging all of her clothes in his closet was a far different metaphor.