Dead Wrong (Jason Justice Mystery Book 2)

by Ralph Zeta

  I snickered. “She wasn’t the problem.”

  “Sorry?”

  “It was me. The problem.”

  In the darkness of the bridge, she studied my face.

  “Why? You don’t believe in marriage?”

  The question made me pause. I do not subscribe to the precept that a lifelong commitment leads to everlasting contentment. I have seen so many ideal marriages implode. The deluded participants, convinced that a long, happy coexistence is in the Bill Of Rights, are shocked to discover that it’s not an entitlement like Social Security and Medicare. No one with a clear understanding of human nature could ever buy into the fallacy of “happily ever after.” The human condition, with all its imperfections, is not easily molded. As we grow older, we change. And not just in appearance, but in the very essence of who we are. The rare cases in which happily ever after is attained, should be discounted as outliers, unnatural departures that stand out in a world where chaotic coexistence is the only predictable outcome. Happy married life is a fictional tale, a misleading notion created by authors and moviemakers. I saw it first in my parents’ friends. Later on, during my teenage years, I had the unenviable privilege of watching my parents go through their own private hell. For most of their married life, they had shared a loneliness that was palpable. The Silent Justice Family. That loneliness eventually lapsed into a bitterness that transfigured my parents. Home became a cold, stark place I wanted to avoid. As my mother’s health deteriorated, the acrimony grew. Home life improved considerably once my father moved out, and it wasn’t long before I followed in his footsteps. It was hard to deny those experiences are at the root of my cynical views on the subject. Even now, as I tiptoe grudgingly into middle age, I’ll be the first to admit that I have walled myself off, and I fail to see a reason that will change anytime soon.

  “Can’t say I do,” I said, feeling the weight of my words.

  I saw a flicker in her eyes. Her face was in shadow, which made it hard to see the entirety of her expression. Not interested in becoming the topic of conversation, I took the coward’s way: I changed the subject.

  “Have you made arrangements?”

  “For Lisel?”

  I nodded.

  “No. They told me it will be at least a week before the body is released.”

  “Let me know if I can help.”

  “That’s very kind,” she said, her voice cracking. “Thank you.”

  She sat on the edge of the long seating area and glanced at the view beyond the curved windshield, her face in profile. Behind her, a slice of the newly minted moon hung above the palms. We drifted into a long quiet pause, her gaze lost to the shimmering waters of the channel. And for a while, all I could hear were the distant sounds of a passing car, buzzing tires on the drawbridge, or the call of a night bird.

  “My sister was half of my life,” she said sometime later. “We were so close. The accident that killed our parents made our already strong bond even stronger. We came to depend on each other—for everything. Emotionally, financially. We went everywhere together. We often wondered if the way we were—the closeness we shared—would become an impediment later in life. If we could let go of our codependence, and start families of our own.” She gave a little sigh. “We were young and so naive. We thought we could have it all. We even had this longstanding deal we made in our teens. We agreed we could get married only on one condition: that we would live within walking distance of each other. How naive is that?”

  A cold wind blew across my heart. I knew where the conversation was headed.

  “I’m convinced it is possible,” she said. “With hard work and a little luck, we can have it all. Maybe not through the whole of life, but if we really try, it can last a good many years. I truly believe that. But now . . . we’ll never know.”

  It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes, when confronted by situations we are utterly unprepared to handle, the brain grinds to halt. This was one of those moments. I hunted for the right words, but nothing seemed adequate. Finally, when all else had failed, once more, I opted for the easy way out: I said nothing. So we stayed as we were, still and quiet.

  “I’ve never said this to anyone before,” she said sometime later.

  Then nothing.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve lived in fear most of my life. Fear that if I lost my sister, I wouldn’t be able to go on.”

  I leaned forward. I wanted to touch her, tell her that despite the devastating loss, given enough time, the pain would ease and life would regain some of the lost luster. But I didn’t. Words seemed woefully inadequate.

  Her head snapped in my direction. I held her gaze. No tears. Something else: complete devastation, the kind that makes a river of tears seem trite and inconsequential.

  “If I had done as Lisel asked, if I had gone with her, none of this would have happened. She would be alive,” she said the words through almost clenched teeth. “She asked me, almost begged me to go with her. And I said no. I had a class to teach. I still can’t believe I did that. How selfish of me. My sister is dead and I’m partly to blame.”

  I said nothing. There was nothing to say. I didn’t even want to move, not even a hair. I didn’t want to intrude. Her eyes studied me for a moment. Then she straightened and came to her feet.

  “It’s late,” she said. “I should go.” She dabbed at her nose with a tissue she found in her jean skirt pocket.

  “Lola, listen to me,” I said, standing up. “It’s past three in the morning. It’s a long way home. There are three perfectly comfortable guest rooms downstairs, and guess what? They don’t look anything like my living room. Fresh sheets, clean, and, I guarantee, very quiet. And an extra bonus: the door locks all work. I promise.”

  That drew a faint smile.

  She studied my face before she spoke, “The locks don’t concern me. You’ve been nothing but a gentleman. I’m okay to drive.”

  “I insist.”

  “I don’t wish to impose . . .”

  “No imposition at all, Lola. Now, let’s stop arguing and let me show you the rooms. Then you decide which one to spend the night in. Deal?”

  She blinked indecision.

  “Trust me. When you see how comfortable they are, you’ll want to stay.”

  * * *

  I awoke to the faint sound of footsteps above. My bedside clock said it was 6:35. The aroma of fresh coffee pulled me from my slumber. I started to roll out of bed but was stopped short by a fierce stab of pain coming from my left arm. Not interested in further pain, I rolled the opposite way. I went in the bathroom and brushed my teeth and imposed some order to my unruly dirty-blond hair. Despite the noticeable stubble I had going, I opted not to shave. I wasn’t due back in the office until later. No need to rush. I slipped into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Reasonably sure I looked presentable enough, I followed the scent of fresh coffee.

  There was no one in the galley.

  As I poured a steaming cup, my nose detected an unexpected scent. Cleaners? I surveyed the galley. It sparkled. The few dirty dishes in the sink the night before were gone. I opened the cupboards. Everything was clean and in its place. I didn’t know whether to feel grateful that Lola had tidied up, or embarrassed that she had felt the need to.

  I went outside and peered up at the flying bridge. There was a razor’s glint to the sunrise as it vied with a thick layer of clouds hovering just above the eastern horizon.

  “Good morning,” I said to the bridge. I heard footsteps in response.

  “Oh, hi!” she said before she appeared at the bridge railing. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  I couldn’t help but take a long look. She wore a shift of primitive-looking white-and-tan fabric stirred by the gentle breeze. Bare legged, lean and tall, with those long locks, she had me spellbound.

  “C-coffee,” I stammered. “The smell of coffee woke me.”

  Forcing myself back to reality, I climbed the ladder to the bridge.

  “You�
��re an early riser.”

  “Not always,” she said. “I just couldn’t sleep any longer.” She turned to the rising sun. “Besides, it was so worth it, getting up. I mean, look at that. It’s spectacular, don’t you think?”

  “It is,” I said, stepping onto the bridge. “You changed.”

  “I did. It’s from a new line we started selling in our store. It had been in the car for days. I forgot I had it.”

  “I like it.”

  “Thank you.” Still seeming to glow with her own light, she sipped her coffee.

  “You picked up downstairs. My untidiness may not have made the best impression. I apologize for that, but you didn’t have to clean up.”

  “It wasn’t a big deal, Jason. Besides, I like doing things like that. And anyway, I owe you.”

  “Owe me?”

  “Yes. For showing up last night unannounced. For getting you out of bed. For making you come get me.”

  I waved her off and took a slurp of hot coffee.

  “You look tired.”

  I smiled. “I look worse than I feel.”

  She turned toward the sunrise. “You mind if we just sit here and watch?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “The arm,” she said arm. “Does it hurt?”

  I smiled. “Not too bad.”

  An orange blob of sun pushed above the thinning layer of slate clouds. After some time, she asked, “You ever take her out?”

  “The boat?” She nodded. “I do. But not as often as I’d like.”

  “Where do you go?”

  “Fishing mostly. A little snorkeling during the season for spiny lobster. The Bahamas sometimes.”

  “Where in the Bahamas?”

  “West End on Grand Bahama. It’s the closest. Andros sometimes. Nassau. And even Bimini when I have time to burn.”

  “Bimini sounds wonderful. I hear the water is so clear you can spot a quarter in fifty feet of water.”

  “Sometimes, when the winds are calm for a few days, visibility can be twice that.”

  “Love to see that.”

  “Ever been?”

  She shook her head.

  “When this is over, how would you like to join me for short sail to Bimini? I could use the break. And so could you.”

  A tentative smile that after a moment, a brief smile came and went. “That is very kind of you, Jason.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  She eyed me a moment then said, “Maybe.”

  Twenty-Five

  Before she left, Lola asked if we had made progress in the search for Milton Lowry. I shared a portion of my conversation with Gabriela’s sister, Norma Klein, and how what I gleaned from it had shifted the focus of the investigation. Her reaction came as a surprise.

  “I think you should stop this.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t owe me anything, Jason.”

  “Not sure I understand.”

  “I know you’re doing this at least in part because of me,” she said. “And also for my sister. And for Milton. But they are both gone now. I don’t know. I just don’t want anyone else getting hurt. Or worse.”

  “You want your sister’s killer brought to justice, don’t you?”

  “I do,” she said. “But not if it places you at risk, Jason. I don’t want that.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said. “I do. But I can handle myself.”

  The pale green eyes held me for a moment. “I’m drained, Jason. I don’t know how much more I can take. I feel like a big part of me is gone. I can’t stop thinking about Lisel, the horrors she must have endured. I keep wondering how much she must have suffered. It seems like she’s been gone for eons, but it’s been less than a week. I don’t know. Everything seems so strange now. I don’t even recognize myself or what I’m going through. It’s like I’m elsewhere, far away, watching all this happen to someone else, not me.”

  I made breakfast: scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. Lola avoided the bacon. She went home soon after, and I got dressed and drove to my office. There were a few issues regarding two cases nearing arbitration that required my attention. I worked straight through lunch. It was close to one thirty when Sammy Raj called my cell.

  “Who’s the best investigator you know?” Sammy said.

  “Let’s see, nobody comes to mind.”

  My clever wit was rewarded with a beat of silence.

  “Do you have something to tell me, or do you just miss my lilting voice?”

  “You better rethink that, J.J.,” Sammy said. “’Cause if you don’t, you’ll be forcing my hand.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” I said. “Force you to do what exactly?”

  “File a complaint with the Labor Relations Board. It is increasingly obvious that I am not being paid commensurate with my considerable skill set. I bring a lot to the table. And it should be reflected in my fee.”

  “Is that right? Well, if you manage to come up with information that advances the current case, I just may entertain the subject of a raise at some point during this papacy or the next.”

  “Are you serious?” Sammy said indignantly.

  We’ve had the same argument many times before. Even if I doubled his fee, which I had done twice in the past five years, it wouldn’t change a thing. This was just Sammy being Sammy.

  “Do you have something to tell me or not?”

  “I do. But don’t think for a second I’m gonna let this go, J.J.”

  “I’m sure it won’t. Now, what do you have?”

  “Recall that Paula Jumper said her boys showed up to visit?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, after digging around and connecting a great many dots, I gotta say, I’m liking them boys. A hell of a lot.”

  “Go on.”

  “You said there were at least two attackers at the farmhouse. Maybe it’s only a coincidence, but Paula’s two criminally inclined boys showing up in Florida and the timing of the events at the Lowry farm may not be a coincidence. In fact, their arrival jibes pretty well with everything that’s happened.”

  “How?”

  “You are convinced Mrs. Lowry is the real target here,” Sammy said. “Well, if that’s true, and I tend to agree, then Paula’s arrest, being fired, losing her home and the money she was getting from Lowry, having to take two jobs to make ends meet, wasn’t easy on her. Not for a woman taking care of a special-needs boy. I’m sure the six days she spent in jail took a heavy toll on her and her son. Mrs. Lowry was the cause of all the harm that befell that woman and her boy. Maybe her boys came here to even the score.”

  “It’s possible,” I said. “The only question as far as Paula’s concerned is, are the boys acting on their own, or following her wishes?”

  “Well, to find out we’ll have to get on with them boys,” Sammy said. “But I gotta say, tracking those them down has been damned near impossible. They move around and leave no trace. I’m having a hard time getting a bead on them. No cell phones, no address, no nothing. No one in that family seems to have anything that even resembles a permanent address. We’ve poured a lot of man-hours looking at this, and we’ve got little to go on.”

  “Nothing recent?”

  “Nothing,” Sammy said. “But we came across something interesting. It may be nothing. But we may have a bead on someone with close ties to Paula. A distant relative—a second or third cousin, I believe.”

  “Why him?”

  “Something I found in Paula’s phone records. A few recent calls to and from a burner cell. The calls started about six weeks ago. Before that, the number didn’t figure anywhere. That got my attention. So we tracked down the cell towers that routed the calls. That got us an approximate location. Utility records show Paula has a relative living in the area where the calls originated. But I warn you, J.J., it may be a dead end, but my gut says it’s worth looking into.”

  “You still have what’s-her-name with the impressive title watching Paula?” I asked.

  “Shithouse Martha is
on the job.”

  My desk phone rang. It was a client call. I excused myself and said to Sammy, “I’ll be in your office around four.”

  Twenty-Six

  I arrived in Sammy’s office around four thirty. A large topographical map of southern Florida was draped over the conference table in a corner of his ample office. Several file folders lay on top of the map.

  “How’s the arm?” Sammy asked as I sank into one of the chairs before his desk.

  “Fine,” I said, and inspected the bandage. “No bleeding. Looks like I’m going to live.” Privately, though, I was concerned the injury could become an impediment in a pinch.

  “The pretty girls you mess with may buy your bullshit, but not me. You should know that by now.”

  “I’ve had worse,” I said, shrugging off his concern. “You have something on this cousin of Pula’s?”

  “I do.” Sammy rounded his desk and picked up the folders from the table and set them on my lap. “But before we talk about him, you should have a look at these. See if anything jumps at you. Everything you ever wanted to know about the Jumper boys. Rap sheets, mug shots—the works.”

  I studied the files. Despite their relative youth, the brothers had impressive rap sheets—career criminals, to be sure. The older boy, Jesse, had enlisted in the marines when he turned eighteen. Saw action in Afghanistan. His service record, however, was less than stellar. Three years into his enlistment he had been charged with insubordination and striking a superior officer. Spent time in the brig under Article 90 followed by a dishonorable discharge. His felony record was a smorgasbord of criminal activities, including armed robbery, carjacking, grand theft auto, drug possession with intent to distribute, resisting arrest, and assault with a deadly weapon. He was sentenced to ten years on two counts of armed robbery, and now out on parole. The younger brother, Samuel, had similar bragging rights: armed robbery, assault on a police officer, attempted murder. He was also suspected as the trigger man in two unsolved deadly muggings.

  The dark, grim faces captured in the eight-by-ten glossies belonged to two men in their mid-twenties. The two shared similar facial features: wide jaws, high cheekbones, dark, brooding eyes, dark, clear skin, and thick, wavy black hair. But something about Jesse in particular, raised a red flag with me. Behind those dark eyes, the way they stared back at the camera with uncloaked rage and contempt, lay what I would have to call a mixture of stupidity and flagrant arrogance. I chose not to read further; I had seen all I needed to see. I knew it was Jesse who I saw at the Lowry farm. And it was Jesse with the knife aimed at Mrs. Lowry’s back on Brickell Avenue.