by Diane Capri
I shook my head. Nope.
Cindy Allen was still a viable suspect. There’d been something “off” in her eyes in the photo Ben had shown me that day in the pub. A haunted, hunted look that set off red flags in my mind.
She and Hayden had broken up, according to her friend and former colleague, Melody Menton. Allen didn’t attend Hayden’s funeral. She’d never met his parents. How invested could she have been in a past relationship at the time Hayden died? It didn’t seem reasonable that she’d have tried to kill him.
Although I’d still like to find her and ask her myself. She hadn’t called me yet, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t.
If Cindy Allen had started using again, though, she might have hooked up with an old dealer from Pittsburgh. I had talked to a couple of dealers, but none admitted selling to her. Which didn’t mean anything. Drug dealers didn’t often come forward and admit they were responsible for killing their customers. No reason to believe anyone was about to fall on his sword here, either.
Until she was ruled out, the possibility existed that Cindy Allen administered the toxic heroin that killed Hayden. She might not have known the heroin was toxic. Maybe she didn’t intend to kill him. Which would also explain why she’d shown up at the ER that night. Maybe she felt guilty. And maybe she was.
Regardless, Cindy Allen was still our best suspect.
The rest of my run was spent turning the facts over and over in my head until my brain felt like well-mashed potatoes long after we finished up and trotted home.
That had been several hours ago.
Laughter from downstairs drew me back to the present. I stretched my sore neck and shoulders before checking my watch. I’d been sitting out here writing for nearly two hours.
I yawned and stretched again, staring down at the notes I’d scribbled in my journal. My penmanship was much worse than my sixth-grade teacher would have allowed, but the mashed potatoes in my head were finally written down in one place, and I was sure I could decipher my chicken scratches eventually.
I closed the journal and set it aside. I went into the house and clicked on the TV while I searched the kitchen for a snack.
George had fed me handsomely before the dinner crowds descended, but that was hours ago. Soupe a l’Oignon Gratinée—onion soup topped with a slice of French bread and melted Swiss cheese—and Salade Niçoise—a traditional French salad of mixed greens tossed with potatoes, green beans, “Genova Tonna” tuna, boiled egg, olives, and topped with anchovies—only lasted so long.
As usual, the cupboards were devoid of everything except microwave popcorn. I snagged one of the packages, tore open the cellophane with my teeth, stuck the bag in the microwave, and pushed the popcorn button.
I wandered in front of the TV. A local breaking-news bulletin flashed across the screen. I grabbed the remote and turned up the volume while the popcorn went crazy in the bag.
The story itself was astonishing, although not the first of its kind in Florida.
“From preliminary reports on scene at the Aloft Apartments downtown, a local woman drowned in the swimming pool after being attacked by a giant Burmese python,” the reporter read from the teleprompter. “The snake was found wrapped around her neck, constricting her airway and suffocating her.”
The story was completely believable, as strange as it sounded.
Exotic snakes had become a real problem here in the Sunshine State. For the past decade or so, ecologists had been tracking the invasion of Burmese pythons. The species was an interloper from Southeast Asia. Pythons had taken up residence in the Everglades National Park and other areas of Florida.
At full maturity, the serpents reached lengths of twelve feet or more. The beasts were carnivorous. They killed by seizing prey first, using their large, rearward-facing teeth. And then they wrapped their bodies around the prey and constricted, effectively squeezing the victim to death.
Burmese pythons had caused major damage to the local Florida ecosystems by eating their way through several indigenous marsh mammals, like foxes and rabbits. They’d also decimated populations of larger prey, such as raccoons, deer, opossums, and bobcats.
The problem had started with people buying the cute little foot-long baby pythons as pets. By the time the snakes grew to lengths of eight feet or more, the owners could no longer handle them and often dumped them in the Everglades.
Like many species, the Burmese python had multiplied and adapted, reaching population numbers as high as a hundred thousand, some estimated. Now, they were invading urban areas, too, the reporter explained.
The camera cut away from the reporter to zoom in on the EMTs fishing the woman’s body from the pool. I stood mesmerized by the live report. When the moonlight hit the woman’s face, the camera moved away quickly. The image would be removed from the video when the story was replayed later, but the image lasted long enough to burn itself into my mind.
I punched the record button on the news report to save it, and then pressed the reverse button.
When the video image returned to the woman’s face, I pressed pause.
She was willowy. Her blond hair lay limply against her head. Her face was partially covered by her wet hair and distorted by suffocation. But I recognized her.
The microwave beeped, and my heart jumped. I sagged down onto the chair as my knees went wobbly.
I released the video with the play button just as the reporter said, “The woman has been taken to Tampa Southern where her family will be notified before her identity is confirmed to the public.”
But I didn’t need to wait. I knew who she was, without a shadow of a doubt. She’d looked so much like Sheryl Crow the night I’d first seen her. Pretty, and very much alive.
The woman who’d drowned in that pool was Cindy Allen.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Sunday, November 20
9:00 p.m.
It was Sunday, but I didn’t care. I called Ben Hathaway as soon as I could grab the phone from the kitchen. The only person I knew who worked longer hours than I did was Ben. Sure enough, he was in his office and answered on the second ring.
“It was her, wasn’t it?” I asked without preamble. “Cindy Allen.”
He cleared his throat. “This really isn’t a good time to talk.”
“Just tell me if it was her or not.” I tapped my bare toes against the cold hardwood floor. “Please.”
“It was Cindy Allen in the pool,” he said at last. I exhaled my pent-up breath. “But she didn’t kill Evan Hayden, deliberately or otherwise.”
“How do you know?” I frowned when George walked into the room and met my gaze. He looked away fast, but not before I caught the hint of resignation in his eyes.
Deep down, he wished I would let Ben do his job. He wanted me to be a great judge and a terrific wife and that’s it. I knew how he felt because I wanted the same things. Nothing would have made me happier than to rewind the clock to that Tuesday night when I’d hit Evan Hayden with my car and change the facts.
I shook my head and turned to face the opposite direction, away from George. “It could have been her, Ben. The Pittsburgh coroner told me the same kind of toxic heroin found in Hayden’s system had been implicated in several deaths there.”
“And several other places outside of Pennsylvania.” Ben’s tone sounded cryptic, just like his expression, I imagined.
“What about their relationship? She and Hayden broke up. Cindy was devastated. Ex-girlfriends have done less rational things after a bad breakup than dose the guy with drugs. Especially if she didn’t know the heroin was toxic,” I said.
“It’s a reasonable theory, but we haven’t been able to prove it,” he said, a touch of exhaustion creeping into his voice. I wondered if he’d even been home to sleep. With Cindy Allen’s death tonight, I guessed not. “We don’t even know for sure that they broke up. His parents said they were still together. If so, then she’d have no motive, either. Let it go. She didn’t kill him. Trust me on that for a change.”
I fisted my hand at my side and held my temper. It wasn’t the words so much as the tone that rankled. Being a judge meant never having to stomach condescension from anybody. At least when I had the power to throw them in jail for contempt. This was not one of those times.
After a deep, calming breath, I leaned against the counter and forced a relaxed tone I didn’t quite feel. “Fine. Tell me how you know Cindy Allen didn’t kill Evan Hayden.”
“Because I interviewed her yesterday. While you were gone. I planned to tell you, but we haven’t had a chance to talk. You were out of town.” He sighed, and I pictured him running thick fingers through his hair. “I also interviewed several of her friends and coworkers who corroborated her alibi for the time of Hayden’s death.”
“She wasn’t using again?” I asked, unwilling to believe it.
“Just the opposite,” Hathaway sighed as if he was demonstrating extreme patience. “She volunteered at a local addiction clinic, counseling other heroin addicts. She was required to submit to regular drug screens for the counseling gig. The most recent one was the morning after Hayden died. We checked the reports. She wasn’t using.”
My shoulders slumped as the truth hit home. Cindy Allen hadn’t killed Hayden. Which meant that someone else had. And that person was still at large.
“Why did she go to the ER that night?” I asked quietly, not ready to let the matter go. “That’s strange, isn’t it?”
“She and Hayden were patching things up. They’d planned to have dinner the night he was killed. She went to the restaurant close to the scene of the accident. He didn’t show up for dinner. She waited. She was there when she saw the breaking-news report.” Ben took a deep breath that enabled him to continue. “As soon as she saw the report, she tried to reach Hayden. He didn’t pick up her calls. She called Mitch Rogers, and he was worried, too.”
I frowned. “Mitch Rogers?”
“The baseball player. One of Hayden’s clients and friends, remember?” Ben said, as if I were the densest person on the planet. “Look, we can talk more later, but I really need to go. He’s on his way here now to discuss the next steps.”
“What kind of next steps are you discussing with a baseball player?” I asked, more than a little surprised.
“He was one of Hayden’s clients. He’s got connections. He’s willing to help. Why wouldn’t I work with him? We certainly aren’t making much progress otherwise. Hang on.” Muffled noises issued through the line as he excused himself. The sound of a closing door followed before Ben came back on the line. “You’re right that asking for help from a civilian isn’t my normal process, but this is Mitch Rogers.”
His words held a level of awe most people reserved for moon landings. George had shown much the same reaction to the famous pitcher’s name at lunch that day in the pub. My turn to sigh. Celebrities of all sorts were not the same as we mere mortals, I guessed.
Hathaway said, “He’s agreed to help me get interviews with some of Hayden’s other famous clients. People who have been ducking us and can have their attorneys give us the runaround for years. Anyone who can speed that process along and bring justice for Hayden and his family is good in my book.”
That sounded more like the police chief I knew. And I had to admit the investigation had stalled. Broadening the list of witnesses could lead somewhere.
“What about the other two suspects you already have? Johnny Rae and the guy Hayden fought with at the bar?” I asked.
“The guy at the bar checked out. He didn’t kill Hayden or anyone else. His alibi was tight,” Ben said. “And Rae’s clean, too. His attorneys negotiated a settlement with Foster & Barnes over the lost money. It was already done before Hayden died. Besides, Rae was out of town on vacation with his wife and baby that night.”
A hand on my shoulder made me jump. It was George. He’d come up beside me, and I’d not even heard him move. He frowned, whispering, “What’s going on?”
I relayed what Ben had told me. “You seem a little starstruck here, Ben. Have you questioned Rogers about the murder?”
“Contrary to what you seem to think, I do know how to do my job. I don’t owe you any explanations, either.” Ben’s words were clipped, and I had the sense that I’d offended him and that he’d been holding out on me. But he gave in a little. “We interviewed Rogers by phone shortly after Hayden died. He wasn’t ducking us. He went back to Texas for a team meeting that night. He was on the flight. He’s got a plane ticket and witnesses who will back him up on that.”
“Oh,” I said, deflated.
Ben took a deep breath and let it out slowly, stalling, before he finally said, “I realize you’ve been through a lot here, but Rogers wants to help, and I plan to let him. Unless you have a better brilliant idea.”
He paused. I said nothing because I had nothing.
Ben harrumphed. “I thought so. And like I said, he can open doors that are otherwise firmly closed to us.”
“I haven’t had a chance to brief you on my trip to Pittsburgh. And I know how much you love George’s food.” I looked up and met George’s gaze, an idea forming slowly. “Bring Rogers to dinner tomorrow night at George’s Place. We can put our heads together on these interviews he’s offered to help with.”
Ben didn’t reply immediately. George’s eyes widened.
“Say eight?”
George shook his head fervently, and I amended my statement. “No, let’s do nine instead.”
George nodded.
Another long-suffering sigh from Ben. “Fine. Sure. Why not. I’ll invite him. We’ll see what he says.”
“Understood.” I ended the call then crossed my arms. “Well, it looks like you’re going to meet Mitch Rogers after all.”
“Looks like it,” George said, pulling me into his arms. “Want to go into town and have lunch at that new little French bistro on Gandy tomorrow morning? I hear they have the best crepes in town.”
“Sounds good.” I kissed him lightly on the lips before he gave me a quick squeeze and went back down to the restaurant to finish the evening.
I pulled my popcorn out of the microwave and went into the den to fire up the computer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Monday, November 21
8:30 a.m.
I slept surprisingly well, all things considered. After my run, I’d showered and changed.
This was a rare morning off for both of us, and I’d decided to take advantage of the laid-back attitude, choosing a pair of cream ankle pants and a yellow T-shirt paired with sandals. A quick blast of the blow dryer through my short hair, five minutes with my makeup, and I was ready to go.
George was waiting for me, dressed in a white polo shirt, khakis, and tasseled loafers without socks. I grabbed my tiny purse and Greta’s key and headed for the door. “I’ll drive today. We can put the top down.”
“I need to stop off in the kitchen. I’ll be right out,” he said when we reached the first floor at the bottom of the curving staircase.
“Don’t take long,” I called back, setting my oversized sunglasses on my face and waving on my way through the front door.
When I’d first bought the Mercedes CLK convertible from the dealership, people complained the car was too flashy for a federal judge, but I hadn’t cared. I ran my fingertips along her sleek black side to the door handle, then hesitated.
Greta was an old friend, had been with me for years, yet this would be our first ride since the accident. The dealership had delivered her here after the repairs were finished.
I walked around to the front of the car. The dent on the hood and the one on the bumper had been expertly repaired. Even the Mercedes hood ornament had been replaced. She was shined and polished to a high gloss. She looked every bit as good as she had the day she was born.
So, it was time to suck it up and get back onto that horse—or in this case, behind Greta’s wheel again.
I clicked the button on my key fob and heard the familiar snick as her locks opened.
When I opened the door, the smells of citrus cleaner and leather filled the air. The dealership had given her a complete detailing, too.
George met me in the driveway, his expression concerned. “Are you sure about this? After everything that happened, it’s normal to feel nervous about getting back behind the wheel of your own car again.”
“Hey, handsome.” I grinned over Greta’s black cloth-top roof as I pushed the key fob a second time to unlock the passenger door. “Hop in. I’m starving, and we need to hurry if we want to beat the after-turkey-day crowds.”
I slid into my seat and closed the door and my eyes, just sitting there, hands shaking and pulse pounding. I could do this. I would do this. I’d faced down some of the worst criminals in Florida from my bench. I could drive a few blocks for lunch.
My key fob slid into the electronic ignition slick as ice and, holding my breath, I turned it. The engine roared to life, all Greta’s power purring beneath me.
I lowered all four windows, reached up and pushed the release button and turned the handle to release the latches. Then I pushed the electronic button to lower Greta’s top and just sat there for a moment, feeling the breeze.
Then, slowly, I fastened my seatbelt and shifted from Park into Drive, easing out into the driveway and across the Plant Key Bridge. Poised at the edge of the Bayshore, I squinted into the sunshine and waited for traffic to clear.
It was like I’d never driven Greta before, yet it all came rushing back at once. The thrill of driving her…and the terror of that night. I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white, and several times I nearly pulled over and parked along the side of the road, sure I’d never make it another yard.