Legally Dead

by Edna Buchanan

  He backed across the road and stopped behind some trees, took his gun from under the seat, locked the car, and returned to the house on foot. He vaulted the fence to avoid touching the gate, keeping out of view from the front windows, and ran to the front door. It hung open, kicked in, the wooden frame broken.

  He entered cautiously, gun in hand. There had been no finesse used here, just brute force. The house was quiet. Too quiet.

  Where was Victoria? Scout? What happened to the alarm? The control panel for the security system was dark, dead, dismantled.

  He sidestepped down the hallway, light on his feet, back to the wall, stomach churning. Where were they?

  He wanted to call their names but didn’t dare.

  The faucets were on in the guest bath, the one clients used. Water running out from under the door. No one inside. He let the water run and kept moving.

  Scout’s bed lay on the floor just inside Victoria’s room. There were bloodstains and a bullet hole in the hallway wall. No one in her room. The mattress dragged off the bed, bureau drawers upended on the floor. He couldn’t tell if the bed had been made. Did the intruder arrive in the dark? The thought chilled him to the core.

  In a sudden panic, he headed for the war room. It, too, had been ransacked, savagely ripped apart, papers and files scattered everywhere. The floor safe had been forced open. His laptop was gone.

  In it were the confidential files of the six people he’d relocated since coming to Florida. It would take work to decipher; the clients’ original names were not included, but their new ones and their destinations were.

  Why hadn’t he erased them?

  Rage overwhelmed him. Was it the government? No search warrant was posted. Who else knew he was out of town?

  His mind raced. Were the recent killings an attempt to flush him out? If so, who was hunting him?

  He turned off the faucets in the guest bath, then punched in Victoria’s cell number. It went directly to voice mail. He heard something as he hung up. A stealthy footfall outside, or perhaps the wind in the melaleuca trees, or maybe the dog. The quiet house was full of shadows.

  He positioned himself next to the front door. He would kill an intruder. He would be within the law but hated to have to explain it to the police.

  He sensed rather than heard something. The door burst open an instant later. All he saw was the muzzle of a .45-caliber automatic inches from his face. He dropped, rolled for cover, took aim. His finger tightened on the trigger. Then he saw the face behind the .45 and gasped.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “Goddammit! I almost killed you!” Danny said.

  “No you didn’t!” Venturi stuck his gun in the back of his belt and punched at the wall. “I almost killed you!”

  “Son of a bitch! You nearly bought it!”

  “Like hell!”

  Danny collapsed in a chair and inhaled a deep breath, his head between his knees, still clutching his gun. “Christ, we almost shot each other!” He glanced up, his eyes roving the shadows. “Is the place clear?”

  “I’ve been through the whole house. Nothing. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Heard you left town, tried to call you, then came by to check things out.” Danny squinted impatiently at the caller ID on the vibrating cell phone clipped to his belt, then ignored it.

  “Vicki isn’t here. I’ll kill anybody who hurts her, I swear it, Danny. They took my computer with the personal info on our clients,” he said wearily, his voice thin, “and I think they killed my dog.”

  “Scout? Son of a bitch! My kids loved that dog.”

  “He’s gone, too. And there’s blood and a bullet hole in the hall near his bed.”

  “Did you call the cops?”

  “Would you?”

  “Hell, no. They don’t investigate, they complicate. They’d try to justify their existence by writing reports we probably don’t want to see on public record.”

  “We might have to call them if Vicki doesn’t turn up fast. If she’s been abducted or…” His voice trailed off.

  “Where the hell were you?” Danny asked. “I hate hearing the news by eavesdropping on my wife. Keri was boo-hooing to Luz. Said you took off.”

  Venturi told him.

  “I figured you’d take a preemptive strike. Shoulda told me, though. Did you forget everything you learned in the Marines? Teamwork, that’s how you win.” Danny surveyed the room. “Think they did this?” He checked his vibrating cell again, scowled, and didn’t answer.

  “Doubt it, but I hope it was the feds.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cuz if it wasn’t them or a random junkie burglar, it’s whoever killed those protected witnesses.”

  “Shit.” Danny whistled between his teeth. “We’re in trouble then. A random junkie burglar would have beat feet with the TV, the microwave, and the whiskey. They’re still here. Damn, I hate when things get complicated.”

  “The only plus about the cops,” Venturi said thoughtfully, “is their dandy toys, like high-tech forensics, which they would never use in a burglary investigation. Think we can get a crime-scene workup done here?”

  “Sure,” Danny said. “I know a guy. Used to run the crime lab at Miami-Dade. Former Navy submariner. Retired now. Lectures, teaches, writes scientific papers. I’ll try to get him down here. Meanwhile, don’t let anybody touch anything inside or out by the gate. Where the hell’s your car?”

  “I wanted to surprise anybody inside, so I left the car behind the trees on the other side of the road.”

  “That’s why I almost killed you.”

  “No. I almost killed you.”

  Danny hand went again to his cell phone.

  “Christ, Danny. Who keeps calling you?”

  “My wife.” He looked beleaguered. “I just saw her half an hour ago. We’re busy, right?”

  “She’s pregnant, for God’s sake. What if something happened to her or one of the kids? Find out what the hell she wants so she quits calling.”

  “Did you answer your cell when I called?”

  “I was on a goddamn plane!”

  “So I’ll tell Luz I was on a goddamn plane!”

  Danny rocked back and forth on his heels, edgy and restless. He didn’t want to contaminate the crime scene, so he couldn’t pace. “Look, I’ll get Bill down here. Let’s bail now, secure the place, and make sure nobody else walks in.”

  “Call your wife!”

  Danny rolled his eyes, but when his cell vibrated again seconds later, he checked the caller ID, then answered.

  “Wuzup, babe?”

  He listened, then raised a significant eyebrow at Venturi. “Good, hon. Shoulda called me right away. Oh. I didn’t hear it. He’s with me. We’re on the way.”

  “You were right, amigo.” He snapped his phone shut. “Shoulda answered. Good news. Vicki’s at my place with Luz. She’s upset, but okay. Says somebody broke into your house. Wants to talk to you. Let’s go.”

  Danny called Bill on the way. More good news. He agreed to meet them at the house in an hour.

  “Can he be trusted?” Venturi asked. “Once a cop, always a cop. He must still have ties to the department.”

  “Don’t worry about him,” Danny said confidently.

  Luz met them at the door. “Have you talked to Keri?” she asked Venturi.

  “No, I just got back in town.”

  “I can’t reach her.” She gazed balefully at him, one hand resting on her belly.

  “Where’s Vicki?” Venturi said anxiously. “Is she all right?”

  “In the Florida room, resting. Did somebody really break in?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured earnestly, her soulful dark eyes brimmed in compassion and something else that he couldn’t quite place, as though she knew something he didn’t.

  He didn’t pause to pursue it.

  Victoria was already on her feet, using her cane. Her usually impeccable hair was tousled, her clothes disheveled. “I
heard your voice,” she said. “Thank God you’re all right.”

  “Ditto. I was worried as hell about you.”

  Danny strode into the room, his face serious. “Hey, bro, something you should see.” He went to the window and rolled up the rattan shade.

  Danny’s kids were at play in the backyard. Then Venturi saw what they were chasing.

  “Damn!” he said with relief.

  Danny called the children to come wash their hands before dinner. They resisted, balked, and begged for more time. But Scout flew like a bullet, bolted through the door, and jumped all over Venturi.

  “Is he happy to see you, or to escape from my kids?” Danny grinned.

  The dog panted and grinned as Venturi scratched his head, rubbed his belly, and checked him for injuries. Other than a bruised nose, he appeared unscathed. “What happened?” he asked, turning to Vicki.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart, so sorry,” she said contritely. She wrung her hands. “I didn’t know where you were, or how to reach you. I wanted to call the police but was afraid it might be a mistake. I tried and tried to call you. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Start from the top.”

  “I went out for groceries and gas at about eleven this morning. When I came back just before two, the gate was broken, and Scout was loose outside, standing by the side of the road. I’d left him in the house. The front door was open and there was a terrible mess inside. Water running, overflowing, everywhere. The faucets were all on, full blast. I ran from room to room, turning them off, until Scout started barking out by my car. I panicked. I thought he’d come back.” She hiccupped a sob. “I was afraid to face him alone. I think the water was still running in the guest room.

  “I couldn’t see what Scout was barking at. I think a car had pulled up to the gate. It was gone by the time I got out there. I didn’t know what to do, so I took the dog and left. I didn’t know when you’d be back, so I came here.

  “I’m so sorry he did this to you.” Tears streaked her face.

  “Who?” Danny asked.

  “Sidney, of course.” She fumbled for a handkerchief. “Who else would do such a thing?”

  Danny turned to Venturi. “Your brother-in-law?”

  Venturi nodded, sat next to Vicki, and took her hand.

  “He’s furious at me,” she whispered. “I told him he’s wrong, but he blames you for everything. For having me here, for persuading me to prosecute, and refusing to post his bond.”

  “Think he’d come here while free on bond in New York? How would he find my place?”

  “He’s been calling even more than I’ve said,” she admitted. “He wants me to drop the charges, goes into rants, accuses me of abandoning him.”

  “And how would he find my place?” Venturi repeated, fearing the answer.

  “He’s my son. I am his next of kin.” She averted her eyes. “I know now it was stupid, but he called weeping one night, said it wasn’t right that he didn’t know where his own mother lived. I gave him the address. I’m so sorry.”

  “That was a mistake,” he said. “But I’d be very happy if Sidney is responsible.”

  “But why, Michael?”

  “Because it would rule out more dangerous people.”

  “I wish it wasn’t him,” she said. “Then I wouldn’t feel it’s my fault. But it’s his style, his MO. He’s done it before.”

  Danny checked his watch. “Let’s go find out, amigo. Bill will be at your place in twenty.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Bill wore a gray-streaked ponytail, boots, blue jeans, and a T-shirt with a submarine on the front and the message: THERE ARE 2 KINDS OF BOATS—SUBMARINES AND…

  Venturi wondered what the second was but didn’t ask. He saw the answer when Bill turned his back to inspect the damaged gate:…TARGETS.

  He and Danny greeted each other like long-lost brothers.

  Vicki was still at Danny’s. Convinced at first that Sidney was guilty, she now harbored hope that he was innocent. Venturi hoped as fervently that he was not.

  What else, he wondered, had Vicki told her errant son? He kept secrets, so it troubled him when those he trusted didn’t.

  “It never occurred to me that she might confide our business to that junkie burglar piece of crap,” he told Danny.

  “Blood is thicker, my friend,” Danny said. “Your mother will take you in when nobody else will.”

  Mike wouldn’t know. His own mother fell dead on the street, killed by an aneurysm as she shopped for produce in New York’s Little Italy, when he was fourteen. He fondly remembered her hugs, her smell, the fragrant herbs in her kitchen.

  “A mother will mortgage the farm to bail a badass son out of jail, then lie for him in court,” Danny was saying.

  “Mother or not, I hope to hell it was snot-nose Sidney,” Venturi said. “He’s no problem. He’s already a quart low and knocking.”

  “We’ll know soon.” Danny sounded confident. “The blood in that hall didn’t come from your dog.”

  Bill lifted transfer evidence, light blue paint, from the gate where the intruder had rammed it with his own vehicle. Bill suspected he’d used a truck. Some have painted bumpers. He measured the marks so he could match their height to a specific model. The gate sprang back after being struck. Its white paint would probably be found on the suspect’s vehicle.

  He photographed the tire tracks from four angles, using a tripod and a detachable strobe, painstakingly removed tiny pebbles and vegetation that had fallen into the impressions, then photographed them again. After measuring the tracks, he took impressions with Diecast, a plasterlike product mixed with water.

  He obtained the vehicle’s track width by measuring the distance between the tires and calculated the wheelbase by measuring from the leading edges of the front and rear tire impressions. Then he’d use the figures to search a database for vehicles that could have left the impressions.

  “Bill’s the best,” Danny muttered, as they watched him work. “Guarantee this burglary will be better investigated than most homicides.”

  “I need that laptop back,” Venturi said grimly, “for peace of mind. Sidney’s not smart enough to do any damage with it.” He shuddered at what someone smarter and more dangerous might do.

  “If he did this,” Danny muttered, “we should shoot Sidney’s skinny ass and dump him out there.” He nodded toward the Glades.

  “He’s not worth a murder rap,” Venturi said.

  “It wouldn’t be murder,” Danny said, “more like retroactive birth control.”

  Bill worked quickly and efficiently while he still had some light and it wasn’t raining. Towering storm clouds built in the west. After determining the vehicle’s turning radius, he concluded that it was a pickup truck.

  He studied the shoe impressions leading from the truck to the front door and collected soil samples that might match those found on the intruder’s shoes or in his truck.

  “Some people claim the soil’s all the same in this part of the state. It’s not,” Bill explained. “It’s often a mix of lots of things. People use compost, fertilizer, or mulch. Sometimes you can make a perfect match.” He turned to Venturi. “If you find your suspect, collect his shoes ASAP. That’ll minimize any changes to the tread. Package them separately and get them to me.”

  Impressions on the front door appeared to be made by a sneaker. The pattern could identify the brand.

  Determined to finish outside before dark, Bill hadn’t even checked the house. When he did carry his equipment—fingerprint powder and brushes, chemicals, swabs, a master processing kit, and a handheld UV alternate light source—into the house, he stopped for a moment and smiled.

  The intruder had touched so many things, had been so active, he’d obviously worked up a sweat. Even if he wore gloves, he surely touched his head, face, or beard. Even a smudged fabric impression could yield DNA.

  “You sure?” Venturi asked.

  “The sample is only as good as the collector and
the test as good as the examiner, but oh, yeah, sure, it’s doable,” Bill assured him.

  The intruder had spent considerable time and had been inside all three bathrooms. Bill processed the underside of each toilet seat, the walls nearby, and all the doorjambs for fingerprints.

  “You can’t take a leak with socks on your hands,” he said.

  He studied the blood trail in the hall. “I can tell you right away if it’s animal or human. A species test is simple.”

  “It’s probably the perp’s,” Venturi said. “We thought it was my dog’s. But he turned up uninjured after we called you.”

  “Definitely human,” Bill affirmed in minutes. “I can give you the blood type tonight. That’s the good news. The bad news is that same-day DNA results happen only on television. It takes a week to ten days, and then, if your suspect isn’t in the database, you have to find somebody to match it to.”

  “But we can rule out or identify a suspect with mitochondrial DNA from his mother, right?” Venturi said.

  “Most definitely.” Bill focused on the blood. “The tails on the drops show the source’s direction of travel. You can see from the edges of these drops that they fell several feet from an upper extremity. And there”—he pointed—“see where the drops look like stretched-out exclamation marks? They flew through the air and hit the wall. The end of the stain with the smallest blob reveals which way the bleeding individual was moving.

  “And here we have circular blood drops that fell less than twelve inches at a forty-five-degree angle.” He shot photos and stepped back to scrutinize the scene.

  “That bullet hole is in the wall a foot away. Looks like he missed a shot at close range. He was using his left hand.

  “What kind of dog do you have?”

  They described Scout, as Bill pieced it all together.

  “Up to here,” Bill said, “the dog is following and probably barking. But as the intruder approaches the bedrooms, the dog becomes more aggressive.

  “He bites the intruder’s lower leg or ankle, drawing blood. The man takes a swing at the dog, who latches onto his arm, tearing the flesh with his teeth.