by Ralph Zeta
“When was the last time you saw your sister?” I asked.
“Two days ago.”
“Tell me about that day.”
“Lisel’s car had been acting up for weeks.” She drew a deep breath. “Her car had been in the shop several times. Some sort of electrical problem. She was afraid it would leave her stranded. That day, she had an appointment with a Realtor in Aventura. We’re thinking of expanding there. Not trusting her car, she borrowed mine. That was the last time I saw her.”
“What do you drive?”
“A small SUV. Lisel has a Mercedes sedan.”
“Pardon my bluntness, but why is Mrs. Lowry convinced you and her husband were lovers if that’s wasn’t the case?”
She cast her glance away as if struggling with the answer. She moved toward the windows and stood there for some time, almost a silhouette in the backlight of the sun.
“It was Milt’s idea,” she finally said. “He wanted to convince everyone that he was okay, that there was nothing wrong with him. He wanted to regain control over his affairs more than anything. When I met Milton, he was very frail and, to be honest, depressed. But over time he improved. Physically and mentally. What he really wanted was to live out the rest of his days on his own terms and free himself of his wife’s control and influence. He thought, however misguided, that if he could convince others he was well enough to be ‘old Milt Lowry’ again—even if it was only an act—it would help convince the court he was capable of handling his affairs.” She paused and smiled as if recalling a fond memory. “He is such a nice man. Incredibly kind and generous and a great friend. My sister and I owe him a great deal. So when he asked for my help, I didn’t hesitate. Maybe I should have. Maybe none of this would have happened if I had said no.”
Lola sank into the couch and gazed at the ceiling. I allowed her a moment with her thoughts. When she looked at me again, her eyes were glistening with moisture.
“I thought of something,” she said, and stood up. She started toward the staircase. “Please wait. I’ll only be a moment.”
She went upstairs, and I could hear the faint sounds of opening and closing drawers. Then silence, followed by the click of sandals on wood. When Lola reappeared, she leaned against the wall, looking defeated.
I stood up and closed the distance.
“What’s wrong?”
“My suitcases and my passport,” she said. “They’re gone. I can’t believe it,” She gazed at me, eyes wide with dread. “Someone was in this house.”
“Do you have an alarm?”
She nodded.
“No alerts or faults?”
She shook her head. “None. Why would someone take my things?”
“To further the illusion. To make it seem more plausible that your absence can be explained as a simple lover’s escapade.”
“But if that’s true, they made a mistake. They took the wrong person.”
“Yes, a pretty big mistake.”
A look of dread overtook her. “This is all my fault. It was me who agreed to help Milt. Not Lisel. She has nothing to do with this. And now she’s missing. Because of me.”
I stood next to her, then said, “I don’t wish to alarm you, but there’s something you should know. Try not to make any inferences until we know more. Is that okay?”
She fired an anxious glare. “What is it?”
“Yesterday afternoon, I went to see Milton. He asked me to meet him at his farmhouse. I arrived early. When I arrived, there was a blue BMW sedan with disabled plates.”
“Milton drives a blue BMW,” she said.
“Inside the house, I came upon a man straddling an older man. The older man looked like Milton Lowry. The guy had a length of rope around the older man’s neck.”
She gasped, her eyes filled with horror.
“When I tried to help, someone knocked me unconscious. When I came to, Lowry was gone, and so was the BMW. The place had been cleaned up—I mean completely. Professionally.”
I paused and studied her. Her mouth had parted slightly, and her eyes were squarely on me, frozen in disbelief.
“I called the local sheriff,” I said. “They came to the farmhouse. With no body, the sheriff naturally was reluctant to accept my story. This morning, the sheriff paid me a visit. He didn’t come alone. Mrs. Lowry was with him. It’s fair to say they have doubts about my story. The fact that Milton’s car and yours were found in the same airport parking lot cast more doubt on my story. I wouldn’t be surprised if they suspect I’m involved in whatever this is.”
A look of consternation crossed her face. “Do you think Milton is dead?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
“If he is, then my sister is . . .” Her words trailed off.
“Listen to me,” I said. “Don’t do this—torture yourself. There is much we don’t know. There’s a chance Milton Lowry is still alive and your sister as well. So don’t assume anything yet.”
She stared back at me with those pale eyes the color of lemonade. They had lost their steely resolve.
“What are you thinking, Mr. Justice?”
“Jason, please.”
She nodded at the suggestion but said nothing.
“A fair amount of planning was invested. But they made a significant mistake. They took the wrong twin.”
Lola closed her eyes, and her head sank to her chest. Then, she suddenly started for the kitchen.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
She blew her nose on a tissue before picking up her cell phone from the counter.
“I’m calling the police.”
I cringed. “Before you do, ask yourself something,” I said, and crossed over to the kitchen. “The police—do they know it was your sister driving your car?”
“I told them.”
“Then anything you have to say to them is already known.”
“What about what you told me? About Milton’s murder? It’s likely the same people that attacked Milton took my sister, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I said.
I stood a foot away from her. She was taller than I had realized, maybe five eleven.
“But before you call, consider this. By now, given Milton Lowry’s high profile, the sheriff has alerted every law enforcement agency in the state. Maybe even the Feds. That’s the reason Mrs. Lowry came to see me. She doubts my version of events. She believes Milton is with you. But you and I know better. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to set this up. To what end?” I shrugged. “Probably to convince anyone that asks that nothing is wrong.”
She nodded. Then she said, “Why did they let you go?”
And that was at the root of what bothered me the most. It was also the crux interpretum. Difficult to interpret, even harder to understand. And no explanation I could imagine seemed adequate to explain why I was still breathing.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe because I never saw their faces. It is possible killing me would have presented an unwanted complication. They had no way of knowing if others knew about my meeting with Lowry. My disappearance would have brought on added scrutiny that could have derailed their plan. So they improvised. They cleaned the scene, left no evidence, and left me there.”
“Be honest,” Lola said, her voice cracking a bit. “Do you think my sister could be alive?”
“Anything is possible,” I said.
She considered me with an inscrutable look for a moment then said, “Something else. A sheriff from some inland town came here yesterday,” she said. “A Miami detective came with him.”
“What time was that?”
“Late,” she said, and tilted her head. “About midnight. They called first. Told me my car had been found. But no sign of Lisel. They wanted to know how my car came to be in Naples. They asked if Milton and I we were planning a trip.” She drifted off for a moment, then said, “It all makes sense now.”
“What does?”
She snickered and shook her head. “I don’t think they bel
ieved a word I said. The detective seemed amused when I told them I hadn’t been to Naples in months. He even got a little condescending when I told them I wasn’t driving my car, my sister was. I guess maybe they think you, Milton, and I are involved in some sort of scheme.”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“But why would anyone believe something like that?”
“Money,” I said. “The Lowrys are worth billions.”
She nodded but said nothing. Suddenly, her face acquired a weary, sad frown.
I placed a hand on her wrist and said, “You need to stay positive, Lola.”
She regarded me, her brow scrunched as if she had suddenly become aware of something wrong but wasn’t sure what. She cast her eyes at my hand on her smaller, slender hand. I felt her hand tense under my fingers. She withdrew her hand. And I did the same. I got the message. Physical contact was unwelcome.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Justice,” she said averting her eyes. “I just . . .”
I had to smile at the cold formality with which she had framed her words. We were back to square one.
“Not at all,” I said. “My apologies.”
The conversation trailed off.
I wondered what terrible deed had been done to this woman. Her aloof detachment, her palpable fear of physical contact, I surmised, had to be the result of some horrible ordeal, of someone who had been terribly victimized. And immediately, I felt for her, for the harm done to her.
“How long have you known Milton Lowry?” I asked.
“About three years,” she said. She allowed herself a small smile. “He was referred by a client. Dr. Rive Petersen, a rehabilitation specialist, and one of his doctors. She suggested yoga as part of his rehabilitation. At the time, I didn’t know who he was. All I saw was a man with tremendous physical challenges and in a great deal of pain. I suggested unorthodox treatments such as acupuncture. And he agreed. Gradually, his condition improved. And he started coming in more often. He even brought members of his support group to our classes. Thanks to him, our classes grew. We hired more instructors and expanded the class schedule. But it wasn’t enough. Our space was woefully inadequate. Milton offered to help. We gladly accepted, but only as a loan. At first, Milton refused. But we worked out an arrangement. We agreed to donate a portion of our profits to the MS Foundation and we would offer our services free of charge to those facing financial hardship. Our business exploded.”
“At any time, did Milton express an interest in leaving it all behind?”
“As in checking out?”
I nodded.
“Not Milton.” She shook her head. “He loved life and he loved being alive. All he really wanted was his life back without interference from his wife.”
It was my turn to drift into silence.
“What do I do about finding my sister?”
I considered my response. Sammy was already in Naples hunting. Milton’s car was in Naples. And so was Lola’s. Which raised an important point: two cars meant two drivers. One mistake begets another. Mistakes tend to add up. Maybe a surveillance camera at the airport caught a glimpse of the drivers’ faces.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I know where to start looking. You have an extra set of keys to your car?”
Eleven
Before setting off for Naples, I rode to a nearby rental agency where I picked up a car for the long drive.
Lola chose not to change clothes. She grabbed a large tote purse from the kitchen, fetched her keys, slipped into a pair of black wedges, donned a pair of aviator sunglasses, and joined me in the foyer. With her eyes cloaked behind sunglasses, the grim countenance made her seem older than she was.
I hoped whoever drove her car to the airport had left behind some small clue that might tell us more about who we were up against. Before leaving Lola’s home, I called Sammy and told him the missing twin was not Lola but her sister Lisel. I told him I was on my way to Naples with Lola and asked him to arrange for a forensic expert to examine Lola’s car. Not surprisingly, Sammy knew a technician in nearby Fort Myers who would be only too happy to assist.
“For a fee, of course,” he added. We agreed to meet at the airport and we left it at that.
US 41, also known as Tamiami Trail, runs west from Miami to the city of Naples on the opposite coast of the state. The highway cuts a narrow path through the Everglades before it meanders across Big Cypress National Preserve. On both sides of the straight, almost featureless roadway, interminable acres of wilderness stretch forever, making the preserve the perfect dumping ground for a dead body. The bountiful critters that inhabit the untamed river of grass—raccoons, gators, possums, coyotes, bobcats, Florida panthers, and several species of crabs—would ensure that little more than bones remained.
The ride west was a nearly silent two-hour drone. Lola sat erect to my right, her right elbow on the windowsill, her wrist under her chin, gazing out the window at nothing in particular.
Along the way, Lola and I had a few brief spurts of awkward conversation.
I asked her, “You grow up in Miami?”
To which she answered, “No.”
“Where?” I asked a moment later.
“Not Florida,” she said drily.
The message was clear: shut up and drive, Jason.
So I drove.
After another protracted period of listening to nothing but the hum of tires rolling on hot pavement, I became restless. I’m not big on long periods of silence.
“How about sailing?” I blurted when I couldn’t contain myself anymore. A lame icebreaker, but it was the best I had. If I wanted to connect with Lola, I needed to find a shared interest. Also, I wanted to lighten up the mood, have her think of something other than her missing sister.
She turned away from the window and removed her sunglasses. “Why do you ask?”
She spoke! That had to be something. The curtain of silence had been pierced.
“Curiosity? And I hate silence.”
She gave a wan smile. “I’m sorry. I know I’m terrible company.”
“It’s understandable.”
After what seemed like a long time, she said, “I do.”
I deadpanned at her.
She must have understood I had lost the
thread of conversation. She said, “Sailing. I like it.”
“Sailed recently?”
She nodded before she spoke. “A few
months ago, my sister I spent a week in the British Virgin Islands. Virgin Gorda.”
“Bitter End Yacht Club?”
“Yes!” she said. She seemed surprised. “Do you know it?” Her surly, dark expression had lifted, and there was a sparkle to her eyes. At that instant, her brilliant smile and sudden airy demeanor felt so familiar, as if I had known her decades. And maybe I had. Sometimes, a complete stranger inexplicably shines in a way that excites our imagination beyond the normal. Sometimes a profound connection emerges from such unlikely encounters. Perhaps, the unexpected shine was the product of shared experiences of the subconscious. Who knows? And then there are those that seem to shine with an unnatural sense of personal balance and contentment borne, I suppose, from having made peace with their lot in life. And yet here are others who seem to shine with an awareness of a role yet to be realized, their excitement at what is to come palpable, even contagious. Whatever the reason, at that moment, Lola’s kind and battered soul shone brightly.
“I do,” I said. “Been there a few times.”
“Do you sail?” she asked in a much lighter voice.
“I do, but not in the traditional sense,” I said. “I have a boat—a power boat. It belonged to my father.”
She regarded me for a moment before she spoke. “I sense sadness. Is your father gone?”
I nodded. “Seven years.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
We drifted into silence.
The highway sign said Royal Hammock Road exit lay a mile ahead. We had entered the eastern fringes of the ci
ty of Naples.
“We were orphans from a young age, my sister and I,” she said unexpectedly. “Our parents died in a car accident. We were twelve. New Year’s Eve. Their car caught fire.” She was quiet for a moment. “We haven’t celebrated New Year’s since.”
“I am so sorry.”
She donned her sunglasses and turned her gaze back out the window. “It was long ago.”
I hugged the long easy curve of the two-lane highway at an easy clip as we entered the suburban maze of East Naples. The area had experienced massive growth in the past three decades. Traffic lights, roaring trucks, sprawling plazas, car dealerships, fast-food joints, and heavy traffic ruled where only gators, sand hill cranes, and the occasional tropical storm had once presided. Welcome to progress, Florida style.
The main terminal building was small and appropriately styled in the ubiquitous mid-century Spanish Revival tradition: off-white stucco crowned with a pitched roof of barrel tiles. Buildings and hangars rose on one side of the airport’s two runways. There were dozens of small planes, a few helicopters, along with a respectable showing of larger, multiengine craft of every configuration, clustered in formal arrays around the perimeter of the air terminal. A Collier County Sheriff’s single-engine plane glided to a smooth landing as I maneuvered into the parking lot.
It didn’t take long to spot Sammy’s lanky figure in the shimmering heat. He stood by a dark SUV. A stubby woman in blue coveralls and matching baseball cap stood with him. We parked two spaces over and joined them.
“Lola Appel,” I said. “Meet Sammy Raj. He’s the private investigator I mentioned. He worked for the Miami-Dade Police and Palm Beach County Sheriff, among others. He’s assisting me with this case.”
Lola offered her hand and smiled politely. I watched her eyes study the oddly dressed man shaking her hand. I couldn’t blame her. Sammy had that effect on people. It was as if he had stepped off a movie set. From his choice in clothing style—the bolo tie, the western boots, and the Wrangler jeans cinched with a wide belt and magnificent buckle—the inflection of his voice, the slight Texas Twang—everything was a bit much. He certainly didn’t fit the mold of the typical cop. But under that deceiving facade and the dark brooding eyes lay a keen intellect and the sharp instincts of a seasoned detective.