The shower went on in the bathroom. She pictured her husband stepping inside. She shook her head. Best to get done first.
Jane plugged in the last name on her list, Randall Smirnov from Orlando. Age 36. He had also been killed in a hit-and-run. An obituary listed a father and brother as living relatives. She could find no social media sight or phone number for the father, Toma Smirnov. She pulled up the Orange County property appraiser website. A Toma Smirnov owned a home on Turner Road in Orlando.
The shower went off. Jane put the computer to sleep. Best to get some exercise in tonight because tomorrow she’d be going on a brief road trip.
***
Laughter drifted from upstairs. Male and female. Winston’s legs were heavy, like treading through thick mud as she headed up. The murmurs rose through the closed bedroom door. She waited, her hand on the knob, in the other a large butcher knife.
She entered the room. A woman on top of her husband, the two having sex. They laughed when they saw her. The knife came down. Blood filled the room like a river flowing from a burst dam.
“Steve—” Winston jerked awake. She glanced around. No blood. No one. And she hadn’t been the one to kill him. It’d been the other woman.
She dropped back down and grabbed hold of the spare pillow. How do you move on from such an ache inside? The nightmares came two times a year, on the anniversary of the wedding to Steve and on the date of his death.
A noise sounded from the kitchen down the hall. Thank goodness she hadn’t yelled out or Marcia would have rushed in. She hated to see the concern on her face.
At least she had someone, unlike Pamela.
Had the man who broke into her house intended to kill her?
Winston placed the palms of her hands against her tired eyes. It had been after eleven when Charles finally left. Not that he was the reason for her lack of sleep. If the past four years were any indication, once the anniversary of the murder passed tomorrow, she’d be able to rest.
Maybe she should take a step back from Pamela’s case. It might be making things worse. But she liked the woman. Felt some sort of connection.
The digital clock read five twelve.
She could lay there all morning thinking of Pamela’s loss and her own, but it was best to get moving. Try to focus on something else.
After gathering herself, she rolled out of bed. She put on a swimsuit and headed to the pool. The water woke her. Doing laps was one of the few ways that let her mind forget everything, if only for a short period of time.
She didn’t know how long she’d been out there when she spotted Marcia standing next to a chaise lounge.
“How many more?”
“Fifteen.” Winston did the backstroke to the other side.
“Breakfast will be ready when you get done.” Marcia disappeared back inside.
Once done, Winston went up to shower. The aroma of bacon hit her before she opened the bedroom door. Toast and Mexican scrambled eggs, a mixture of eggs with green and red peppers, and chopped up jalapeno peppers were on the table when she sat down.
“I saw your light going on and off last night.” Marcia put a glass of orange juice next to Winston’s plate.
“I didn’t sleep well. Apparently, you didn’t either.”
“Mine’s from getting old, having to use the bathroom more than I used to.” She poured coffee in a cup from a silver carafe in the middle of the table. “Might help if you moved forward instead of looking back.”
“I’ve tried but can’t.” Winston had pretty much abandoned the idea of dating. While she had loved Steve, his cheating had left her feeling she wasn’t good enough or worthy of a descent relationship. She’d had enough of these feelings growing up. She didn’t want them now.
“It’s been a long time.” Marcia patted Winston on the shoulder.
Winston took a bite of her food. What could she say? She knew Marcia was right.
“It would probably do you good to get rid of those videos.” Marcia placed the coffee cup in front of Winston. “It’s been four years.”
“Sometimes it feels like yesterday,” Winston said.
“Darling, there’s a lot of men out there. You need to go find you someone. Stop living like it’s over.”
“Not sure I really want one after what happened to Steve.” Winston spun her glass.
“Seems that detective is interested.”
“Charles? What makes you say that?”
“He came a long way to make sure you were all right. Something he could have done by phone.”
Was Charles interested in her?
“Wouldn’t matter,” Winston said. “You don’t like him. Can’t take a chance on him getting poisoned in my house.” She chomped off a bite of bacon.
“The only people I poison are those who don’t treat you right.” Marcia took up the empty bacon dish from the table. “As long as he treats you well, I’ll put up with him.”
Warmth rushed into Winston. Some saw Marcia as only a housekeeper, but Winston saw her as a friend, a maternal figure. Someone who’d taken care of her for years. Even if people knew their history, they would probably not understand the connection they had.
“Can I ask you something?” Winston ran a finger through the condensation on her juice glass.
“Sure.” Marcia looked at her from the end of the table.
“When Steve died, did I have a hard time believing it. You know, deny it was him? I don’t remember a lot about those days.”
“Why you ask this?” Marcia took a step back.
“A client came in the other day whose husband had been killed, but she was sure it wasn’t him. Funny thing is, she was right. It makes me wonder if I ever questioned Steve’s death, not wanting to believe.”
“Unfortunately, you’d lost so many, you didn’t hesitate to believe.”
Chapter 22
Jane walked from the Orlando Police Department building on West South Street with the police report on Randall Smirnov. There had yet to be an arrest made in his death. Before the drive to Orlando, she’d placed calls on the other four deaths and found out the same thing.
Within minutes she was on U.S. Route 441 heading to the home of Toma Smirnov on Turner Road. Traffic wasn’t too bad heading to north Orlando, away from all the tourist parks.
It was just slight of ten when she parked at the curb in front of the Smirnov home. The police gave her his number, but she chose not to call. Apparently, he didn’t work, so she took a chance he’d be there and up. It was harder to ignore someone at your door than on the internet or telephone.
By looking in the Orange County Clerk of the Court website, she’d discovered he’d been divorced for over ten years, but had no arrests.
On the porch, Jane pulled on the handle to the screen door, but it didn’t open. She knocked on the green wood frame. While waiting, she scanned the porch. Two vibrant green plants sat on a round tabletop. Two wrought iron chairs, each with a floral chair pad, had been pushed under the table.
Jane knocked again.
The inside door finally opened, and an old man appeared. “I ain’t buying whatever you’re selling.” He had a slight Russian accent, but it didn’t interfere with his English.
“I’m not selling anything. Just came to talk to you about your son, Randolph.”
“You a cop?”
“Private.”
“Who hired you?”
“Can’t say. Confidentiality and such.”
“Well then I ain’t got nothing to say.” He turned and shut the door.
Jane couldn’t blame him. She knocked again.
The guy jerked it open. “I said I ain’t got nothing to say.”
“I can’t tell you who hired me, but I’m looking into a murder in Jacksonville that might have something to do with your son Randolph,” Jane explained. “Do you mind if I come in for just a minute to get some information?”
“I don’t know nothing.”
“Maybe not, but if there’s a chance of ca
tching your son’s killer, isn’t it worth a few minutes?” She raised her chin, daring him to deny her access now.
The guy stared at her for a second. He finally flicked a gate hook with his finger, releasing the screen door.
Jane followed him inside. The place reeked of cigarette smoke. Vodka bottles littered the coffee table like a Russian cliché. Heat blasted from a heater in the corner. The only place to sit was a sofa, but the guy had already sat down on the middle cushion, so she chose to stand.
“Can you tell me what happened the day your son died?” she asked.
“He was out with his brother, and some car came around the corner and hit him.”
“What’s his brother’s name?”
“Andrew.”
She took two steps to the right, out of the hot air of the heater. “Can I get his information?”
“Haven’t seen him since the funeral.”
This man’s nonchalant tone shocked Jane. She’d be a mess if she hadn’t seen one of her kids in a while. “Have you received phone calls or letters from him?”
The man released a sound like air coming from a hole in a tire. “After Randolph died, Andrew returned to Miami and never came back. Left me to fend for myself.”
Jane glanced around. Little doubt he left to get away from his alcoholic father. “Were you two at odds before Randolph died?”
“Got along fine until the insurance money.” He gritted his teeth. They were brown from years of cigarettes. “Tried to rip me off.”
“Insurance money?”
“Went to some company Randy worked for. Only paid him about a hundred a week, but when he died, they got a hundred thousand dollars on his life. Andrew went to a lawyer first, hoping to get the money away from me. They said it wouldn’t do any good. Company paid for the policy and were the beneficiary.” He let out a cough that sounded like he was about to lose a lung.
“How long had he worked for company?”
“About six months.”
“Did they give you any of the funds?”
“Not one red cent.”
He coughed again. This time he stood and walked from the room. He went into what she assumed was the bathroom. After a second she heard him coughing some more and then he spit from deep in his throat.
While waiting for him to return, Jane walked over and looked at the pictures on an entertainment center. Two small boys and Toma Smirnov when they were all much younger. No woman in any photos.
“Do you know where your son’s mother is?” she hollered to the next room.
“Dead.”
“Any other family?”
“No.”
She hoped she wasn’t interrupting his using the facilities since it was taking him so long. She turned back to the pictures.
“What the…”
In a different five-by-seven photograph, two teen boys sat on a bench, each in a pair of swimming trunks. She glanced over her shoulder to ensure Smirnov was still in the back. She pulled out her cell phone and shot a picture of the photograph. When Mr. Smirnov returned, she was holding the picture in her hand.
“Who are these two?”
“My boys.”
“Which one’s Randolph?”
“The younger one.”
He’d had blue eyes compared to his older brother’s green eyes. “Were they close?”
He shrugged.
“What’s Andrew do?”
“Insurance.”
She replaced the picture. “Don’t suppose you know the name of the company where Randolph was employed?”
“Uh-uh.” He shook his head as he sat back down.
“How about Andrew?”
“Nope, and I don’t care to know.”
“You ever hear of a guy named Phillip Evers?”
“No.” He shook his head. “What’s he got to do with my son?”
“I’m not sure. He had your son’s I.D. on him when he was killed.”
The man’s eyes widened.
“If you think of anything that can help me, don’t hesitate to call.” Jane pulled out her business card and handed it to him.
“Any reward if I find something?” He stared at her card. “Times have been hard without my boys.”
“I’m sure we can come up with something to help you out.”
“I got some stuff out in the garage I can go through.” The guy tossed the card on the table.
Jane knew he’d try his best to find a connection. At least she’d gotten one of the most important pieces of the puzzle—a name to put to the face of their imposter husband. Andrew Smirnov.
***
It was after two when Jane pulled into her parking space at work. Before she exited her vehicle, her cell rang. Terri.
“Hey, kid, what’s up?”
“Dress shopping.”
“You’re out looking?”
“No, going to look and want you to come.” There was a slight pause. “Now I know it’s not your thing, you’d rather be out chasing bad guys, but I’d like you to be there.”
“Let me know when. If I can, I’ll be there.”
“Really?
“Really.”
“I thought you’d find an excuse.”
Had she been prone to do so in the past? “I’m on a case, but you’re my sister. I love you and will do anything for you. Besides, if I don’t agree, you’ll sic Mom on me.”
“In a heartbeat.” Terri laughed. “I’ll let you know when I get it set up.”
Excited she’d found out the true identification of Pamela’s husband, Jane would have agreed to just about anything.
She glided into the office. Brenda had her face in her computer.
“Winston here?” Jane asked.
“She’s meeting someone in the hospital.”
Jane walked back to her office, where she sent a quick text to Charles with the information and the picture of Andrew Smirnov.
Unlike most books or TV shows with private investigators, those who succeeded found it paid to work hand-in-hand with the authorities. As a military police officer, she discovered that those who wanted all the glory would mess up crime scenes. Some would bully, lie, cheat, and steal just to prove themselves. And her connection with certain detectives of the JSO had kept her from trouble when she bent the law a bit.
Jane typed up a report of what she’d found in Orlando and on the dead men. She’d get in touch with Pamela later when she could see her face-to-face. Jane had detected a simmering disturbance beneath Pamela’s surface when she searched the house. According to a phone call Winston had with her earlier, like Old Faithful Pamela had already blown—when the crib arrived.
That was the depression part. Jane knew it was a matter of time until anger came out. While she liked the woman, Jane didn’t really want to be around when her emotions broke loose. If Winston wanted to play nursemaid, let her.
Jane’s computer dinged. Amanda Solis, Joseph Toomey’s sister, had responded to Jane’s message. I would not have a problem speaking with you, but I won’t pay anything, so if you want money, don’t bother to call. If this is legit, I’ll call you, just leave me your number.
Jane sent her the message with her cell number. While waiting, she typed in the name Anthony Smirnov. She’d dig deeper once she had a good idea what she was looking for. While most private investigators used Lexus Nexus for their research, Jane found it a bit on the expensive end. So far, by not having it, her business hadn’t been harmed. It just took a couple minutes longer to find things.
Several searches popped up with men who had the name Anthony Smirnov. She ignored those on videos like TikTok or YouTube. If you were going to cheat people out of their money, it was probably smart not to put too much of yourself out there where you might get found. Mr. Smirnov had said his son had lived in Miami the last time he’d seen him, but she found no one by such a name. After a few minutes, she finally hit on a T. Anthony Smirnov in the insurance business.
An author friend once told her that writers should
write what they know. The same went for con men. It’s easier to cheat someone in a business you are familiar with.
She clicked on the LinkedIn site for T. Anthony Smirnov. His face appeared on screen.
Bingo! Some days God made it easy.
The bio stated he was an independent insurance agent. Which she already knew. If the information were true, he graduated from the University of Florida with a business degree. She took down the post office address listed in Live Oak.
Jane got up and retrieved a bottle of water from the kitchen area. Her phone rang on her desk, and she rushed back to answer it.
“This is Jane Bayou.”
“Ms. Bayou.” The woman’s voice was curt. “This is Amanda Solis. You wanted to speak about my brother, James?”
Jane introduced herself again, even though she’d done so in her message, but she wanted to put this woman at ease. “I’m working on a case, and his name came up.”
“What type of investigation.” Ms. Solis’ voice sounded cautious.
“It involves a murder.” Jane waited a beat for that to set in. “Someone had a license with his name here in Jacksonville.”
“What did they use his name for?” Her voice rose an octave.
“That’s what I can’t figure out,” Jane said. “A man was killed in a home invasion. Turned out the homeowner had several IDs on him. One being your brothers. What can you tell me about James’ accident?”
“Someone killed him while he was walking down the road. Hit-and-run.”
“Anyone ever charged in the case?”
“No. A homeless guy getting killed isn’t exactly a top priority for the police.”
Jane understood. There were too many other cases to deal with, and the chances of catching the driver were extremely slim.
“Did your brother have a job?” she asked.
“Yeah, he made about a hundred a week.” She huffed out a loud breath. “Claimed he was some sort of Vice-President or something. He made just enough to keep up his drug habit.” She paused. “He was hooked on meth.”
“Sorry to hear that. That’s a tough one to beat.”
“Once it got hold of James, it just didn’t want to let go. Not that he tried hard to get clean. Didn’t have it in him to quit. There were drugs in his system when he died. The police think he might have wandered into the street, and the driver either panicked when they hit him or never knew they did.”
Chasing a Dead Man Page 11