“We are going to be working tonight,” April said, as she handed Clay a bourbon and Coke. They sat on the small sun porch in Clay’s apartment. The sunset lit the horizon in a bright orange color. The long, thin gray clouds didn’t move on the windless day. Beyond them, another thin line of cumulus looked almost blue in the dusky sky.
April put her feet up on a stool and sipped her glass of wine. “Oh, shucks. That means you won’t be able to watch baseball either tonight.”
“Sad, but true.”
“But on the plus side, we do have a paying client.”
“Yes, and that is a definite plus,” Clay said. “And she didn’t haggle over fees. My regular rate is less than she offered.”
“I'm sure the judge’s life was worth twenty-five thousand and more,” April said.
Clay sipped his drink.
“Have any theories about the case?” April asked.
“Only a weak one. Alden Mallory killed his second wife. The state said it was murder. The defense said it was a fight that got out of hand. The jury convicted him of a lesser charge. He got six years. Time is almost up. He’ll be out in a few months. Let’s say a retired judge made a few discrete inquiries. He had forty years of experience as a policeman, prosecutor and judge and was bound to have many contacts in law enforcement. Let’s say someone got a whiff of something akin to jury tampering. That might endanger Mallory’s release. So it could make a murderer very anxious. So…”
“But Mallory is in jail. He would have to have friends or one particular friend.”
“Yes, takes a good and skilled friend to kill for you, and Mallory, as far as I know, is the only guy with a possible motive in this case. I suspect he hired someone if he is indeed the culprit. However, I admit this is only speculation right now. I need some evidence--which is another reason that we’ll be working tonight.”
“The information about the jury was sent to my email. I think we should work in separate apartments as we might get distracted.”
Clay leaned over and kissed her.
“I think, alas, that you’re right.”
April smiled, then sipped her drink. “Of course we don’t have to work every minute tonight. We could take a little time off now and….be distracted.”
Clay thought for a moment and then nodded. “Actually that sounds like an excellent plan.
7
When April returned to her apartment, she flicked the computer on, found Dangler's email, and printed it out. She made a mental note to buy him a drink or dinner.
Wilma Emmitt – housewife in Winter Springs County. Has two grown children. She volunteers as a substitute teacher in the county schools. Is a native of the county and attended some of the schools she teaches at now. Husband is Carl Emmitt who owns a bait and tackle shop on the beach.
George Jones (Yes, same name as the late country music singer) -- This George works as the assistant to the superintendent at the local country club. Been there about fifteen years. The superintendent will retire soon, and Jones will probably move up to the top spot. Can’t be an easy job. The tee-off times at the country club are filled up almost every day. Gotta be tough to keep the course in good shape. Sorry, I digress. I play out there. Jones has been in the community about forty years, came here as a child. Has a wife and two kids. Very nice citizen. No police charges. Got the impression he was a solid, dependable guy.
Leland “Lee” Brittle – works on one of the ranches in the western part of the county, the Circle R. Has been in the county for a while. Admitted on the stand he had a misdemeanor charge involving drunkenness some years ago. I remember him because he walked with a limp. He had been injured on the job a few months prior to his jury service.
Charlotte Harris – single woman, divorced twice. Working as a receptionist in one of the dental offices on the beach side of town, or at least she was at the time of the trial. Don’t know much about her. Think she came down to Sea Oak a couple of years before the trial and decided to stay. Remember she was a tall redhead. Distinctive. Seemed very sure of herself. Confident. Attractive.
Astrid Fleming – the youngest member of the jury. She was only about twenty-three, long brown hair, had just graduated from college. Recall she didn’t particularly want to serve on the jury because she had just started a new job a few months before and didn’t want to take time off. But I think both the state and the defense thought she’d be a good juror. She struck me as very intelligent.
Richard Noelle – oldest member of the jury. Think he was in his late sixties. I remember wondering if he would nod off in the juror box, but every time I looked over, he was wide awake. Was in construction during his professional career and did look like he was still in good shape. Sixty-five is the new forty nowadays.
Frankly, they all looked pretty solid to me. Still, don’t know why they let Mallory off with a lesser verdict than murder.
April nodded and forwarded the list to Clay. The list didn’t contain a Eureka moment, but it did give her a starting point.
Clay didn’t experience a Eureka moment, either, as he read the transcripts of the Mallory murder trial. He stopped about halfway through and rubbed his temples, then got up and squirted some saline solution in his eyes. April had told him Dangler’s thoughts on the trial, and Clay found himself in agreement with the court reporter. He was only midway through the transcripts, but he thought the state had already established a good case against the defendant.
The defense claimed both Mallory and his wife were fighting, and both slugged one another. The prosecution told jurors it wasn’t a fight, but an assault. Mallory was sixty pounds heavier than his wife and stronger. One punch from him and she couldn’t punch back. Evidence showed that she had more than one bruise from more than one punch. Of course, the defense hadn’t presented their case yet, but Clay doubted he would change his mind even when he heard the defense witnesses. He also agreed with Dangler that the prosecutor, although said to be mediocre, was capable and didn’t make any mistakes. The defense attorney was adequate. Clay thought he might be missing something by reading the transcripts. At times an attorney can impress jurors and win credibility points by his manner and by the tone of his voice. A transcript doesn’t reveal those aspects of a trial.
He sighed and flicked on the late news. He decided to finish reading the transcripts the next morning.
The next day, Manatee met Clay at the Pelican Lounge. Clay had his usual bourbon and Coke. Manatee had straight whisky. The man had dark, green eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, and was just a bit slimmer than a Carolina Panther linebacker. His mustache was black and trimmed; oddly, the goatee gray and trending white. He had a deep, rumbling baritone voice. The rumbling voice didn’t give Clay high marks for the Rollo matter.
“You’re too soft, Clay. Violence can dissuade stalkers, but it has to be more than one punch. Or a punch and a slap. It has to be enough to produce a violent PTSD effect. You won’t read that in any politically correct essay, or law enforcement journals for that matter, but that solves the problem.”
“Maybe. Just thought he wasn’t that hardcore. Thought having his sides and stomach aching for three days would help him see things more clearly.”
“Probably not. After your call, I met and introduced myself to Ms Newman. Very nice lady.”
“Yes, she is.”
“Good thing you called me in. If I have a private session with fat boy, I’ll give him more than one or two punches. Clay, my friend, you are a latter-day Lancelot or Galahad. But if you’re a knight of the Round Table, you have to use your sword. The bad guys don’t fall down or stop stalking women just because we want them to.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Clay said, sipping his drink. “Are you charging me extra for the private detective lecture?”
“No, this is free. Ms Newman is a real nice lady, and I’m going to make sure she’s not bothered anymore.”
“Now who’s the Lancelot?”
“Not me. She’s good-looking, too. I’m hoping we might�
��. strike up a friendship.”
“If she’s looking for something permanent you should tell her you’re not the marrying kind. At least not yet.”
“I’ll break that to her gently.”
“Where is she now?”
He swallowed his drink. “At Madison Advertising. That’s where she works. In the Coastal Sun Complex, which has security. They are keeping a close watch on her. I’ll be there when she leaves for her apartment. And make sure Bollo isn’t there.”
“Actually, it’s Rollo.”
“Whatever. But what he told you about having a rich father is true. His father, Eric Eberdine, inherited some citrus and some cattle and branched into information technology. He’s elderly now, but his son doesn’t seem to be bright as he is.”
“We can’t all be geniuses.”
“We can all be moral, but Rollo or Bollo fails that test, too.”
“If everyone was moral, society wouldn’t need lawyers or judges or private detectives.” Manatee had finished his drink, and a waitress brought him another one. He took one sip, then narrowed his eyes as he stared at Clay.
“Since you turned the Ms Newman case over to me, I assume it is entirely mine, and I will handle it my own way. Which, to be blunt, may be a bit different than how you would handle it. I am not what society would deem a virtuous man, but I do have one good trait. I don’t like men who hit women. Or stalk women. When I’m around, they don’t get away with it. So if Rollo acts up again, I will use my methods, not yours. I just want to be clear about that.”
Clay nodded. “That’s fine. As long as Ms Newman stays safe.”
“And you really have to get that Lancelot thing under control.”
“Not until I slay the Black Knight, find the chalice of gold, and restore Camelot to its glory. Then all shall live in peace.”
Manatee leaned back in his chair. “Unfortunately Camelot is fiction. Very good fiction, but fiction. We have to deal with reality.”
How true, Clay thought.
George Jones didn’t look anything like the late “possum,” the country star’s nickname. It was said of Jones that he wasn’t just a country music singer, but that he was the country music singer. If you’ve heard any of his songs, you know why.
The Winter Springs George Jones said he couldn’t sing a note. The country club closed one day a week because the high rate of play made maintenance so difficult. Jones leaned on the open door of his truck in front of the eighth hole watching sprinklers douse the green with water. Two men worked on two huge bunkers nearby. April noticed the green sloped steeply. Golfers would have a difficult time getting their balls to hold without running off into the fringe. Jones wore a hat like the white hunters wore in old African safari movies. Two beads of sweat ran down his face. One slid over a small round bandage on his left jaw. Two circles of sweat dampened his shirt. He was a slender man but showed an amiable smile.
“I remember the case. It was the only jury I ever served on. I wanted the second-degree verdict. At least one other juror was as adamant as I was and made her case in the juror room. But two other members stood firm on a not guilty verdict. They said they wouldn’t agree to anything else. I don’t know how they came to that conclusion, but they did. Our first vote, which we took a few minutes after going into the jury room, was seven for second-degree murder, two for acquittal and three abstained.”
“Who was the other juror who strongly argued for the murder verdict?” April said.
“A young lady named Astrid. Forget her last name. She was convinced Mallory had killed his wife deliberately. She wanted a first-degree verdict for that matter. The two others tried to browbeat her, but she jammed their words right back at them. Called Mallory a bully and a killer. She said the day the state flicked the switch on him she’d shout for joy. She wasn’t about to change her vote and neither was I.”
A burst of wind blew water from the sprinklers toward them. Drops splashed over Jones’s shirt and April’s blouse. It was a hot, sunny day, and April thought the spray was refreshing.
“Who were the two who demanded acquittal?” she said.
Jones thought for a moment. “One was a guy named Lee, I think he worked on a ranch. Before we started arguing, I told him we had something in common. We didn’t have desk jobs. We both worked in the sun.” Jones patted the bandage on his face. “Skin cancer. One of the drawbacks of the job. It was caught early, thank goodness, and was just a small spot. I need to be checked about every six months.”
“Who was the other juror?”
“It was a lady…let me see if I can think of her name…been a while ago. I remember she was a redhead.”
“Charlotte Harris?”
He snapped his fingers. “Yes. Her name was Charlotte. Don’t remember the last name. She was a passionate spokesman for the defendant.”
“So how did the disagreements work themselves out? There wasn’t a mistrial.”
“The two undecided jurors decided finally to vote guilty but said they would accept a lesser charge than murder. The redhead was persuasive. She argued a good case. I didn’t buy her reasoning, but she could have made a good lawyer. But Astrid and I stayed firm. With two exceptions, the jurors weren’t wavering either. Finally, Charlotte said they would accept a simple assault charge. We said no, but we might accept manslaughter. They said they would go to felony assault. Astrid and I agreed because we wondered if the case was as strong as we thought. Two people wanted a not guilty verdict, and two people were wavering. We thought, with a hung jury, the defendant might actually win a not guilty verdict on the next trial. So we compromised on the lesser charge.”
He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. “I didn’t like it, but I think it’s the best we could have done.”
April smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Mr Jones, I appreciate your time.” She glanced around to look at the golf course. “By the way, my fiancée and I play here as do a lot of other people. Most of the time the course is crowded. With all the traffic, you do an extraordinary job of keeping the course maintained.”
“Thanks. I rarely get compliments. Many of our members are retired and have nothing to do but complain. They complain much better than they play golf.”
When Clay drove back to his office, the man standing at the door wore a nice green suit, a neat haircut, and a smile. He also smelled of cop. A second later, Clay recognized him but couldn’t recall his name.
“Come in,” he told the man, opening the door. “I can’t think of your name, but I’m guessing you wear a badge.”
Green Suit nodded. “Detective Larry Yost of the Winter Springs Sheriff’s Department.”
“I trust this is not an official visit. I’ve met you before, detective, but I can’t think of where.”
“To be honest, neither can I. It was at some local event. Maybe at a football game.”
“Possibly. I’m an avid fan of our local teams.”
Detective Yost strolled through the office. For a moment his attention was focused on the bookshelf. He reached over and pulled out a book. “Reading about the competition?”
“I always liked Raymond Chandler and Philip Marlowe, not to mention John D. MacDonald and his hero, Travis McGee.”
Yost checked the back of the book, which was one in the literary series featuring Mr McGee, the boat-bum erudite detective who lived on a houseboat in Fort Lauderdale. Bahia Mar Marina. Slip F-18. Clay tried to stay out of cities, but once when he was in Fort Lauderdale, he drove to the marina and walked out to Slip F-18. McGee wasn’t there of course, but Clay liked to believe the fictional detective was somewhere sipping his gin and enjoying the good life.
“MacDonald lived in Florida, didn’t he?” Yost said.
“Yes. After World War II, he moved to Sarasota and lived there the rest of his life and churned out exceptional mystery novels. I really enjoyed the McGee tales. I have a silver bracelet I occasionally wear with the words WWTMD. ‘What would Travis McGee Do.’”
Yost laughed. “Ma
ybe I should pick up the McGee books. He sounds like an intriguing character.”
“The most philosophical of all us detectives, but he was a man of action too.”
Clay walked around his desk and sat down. Yost pushed the book back into the stack.
“I have a bit of information for you, Clay. Jack Travers told me you’re looking into the murder of Judge Trulock and may have some questions about one of the last murder cases he tried.”
“Yes. The defendant was Alden Mallory, who killed his wife. Just curious about the case for now.”
He crossed his legs and brought out a pack of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all.”
Yost lit the cigarette and blew out smoke. The scent of menthol floated through the office. “I investigated that case for the department. I remember it well. I thought we gave the assistant state attorney some solid evidence. He didn’t use it very well, but that wasn’t the fault of the sheriff’s department.”
“Hanford wasn’t one of the best.”
“But there’s something that didn’t come out at trial. After Mallory’s wife’s death, we began looking into his background. As it turned out, ten years earlier his first wife had died. They were up in Jackson County, and she drowned. The police didn’t have any reason to suspect foul play. But when Mallory killed his second wife, they revisited the case. That was years ago, and I don’t remember all the details, but I know they found one or two things that didn’t add up. Nothing was substantial enough that they could make a case for murder or negligent homicide after ten years, but it was a case that made investigators uneasy.”
“They felt a crime had been committed but couldn’t prove it?”
Yost nodded. “I think so. But the trail was cold when they took that second look. I can’t say it was open and shut because it clearly wasn’t. They just had that nagging feeling that a criminal might have gotten away with murder. If I recall, there was a lake up there in Jackson County where Mallory’s wife occasionally went to swim. Usually, she went with a friend. Usually, there were other people there, but Mallory said she must have decided to take an afternoon swim one day when he wasn’t home. Later that night her body was found floating in the lake.”
A Sea Oak Mystery Boxed Set Page 5