Death in Her Eyes (A Mac Everett Mystery Book 1) (20 page)

“Tell me how I can help you. Why do you need protection?”

“Because of Stephanie, of course!”

“Her husband is safely in jail. Why would you need protection?”

“You can never be too careful, they got to her, and I don’t want to be next,” she said

“Who got her?” I asked. “I thought everyone agreed her husband did it. Who are you really afraid of?”

Was she paranoid or cautious? I wasn’t sure. It also could be a scam. Then I noticed she held eye contact with me, but every few seconds, she looked down into her left. She had some heavy self-talk going and she was rationalizing the hell out of something.

“That’s not important. I need round-the-clock protection,” she said. “Do you want the job or don’t you?”

“Sounds like you have a deal, Dr. Greer. I’ll take the job.”

“Wonderful, you can use the spare room. You can start tonight and…”

“Now there’s another matter I’d like to talk with you about.”

“Oh, what’s that,” she said.

“It’s about the murder your friend,” I said. “I still work for the Hunt family.”

I could see her eyes go wide. Her face held neither a smile nor a frown, but some unnamed expression that made me wonder if she would kiss me or open fire. I needed her to make one slip, one unguarded comment. I had to be on my game.

“Yes, helping the bastard who killed my best friend,” she cut me off aggressively. “What questions do you have? Let’s get on with it.”

“I thought you weren’t sure her husband did it?”

She gave a casual shrug and said, “You can’t be too careful. You’ve got questions; let’s get them out of the way.”

“How long have you known Stephanie Hunt?” I began.

“We met in college,” she said. “We were in the same sorority, went to the same graduate school, but in different areas. We were very close. I was in her wedding.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t realize you’d known her so long.”

“Mr. Everett, you couldn’t give a flip about me or Stephanie.” Her tone was intense, but controlled. “Stephanie Hunt was my best friend. I won’t help you get her killer off.”

“If you’re convinced Mr. Hunt killed his wife, Ms. Greer, why do you need protection?”

“
Doctor
Greer,” she corrected.

“OK Dr. Greer, why do you need protection?”

“I’m not positive Cary did it. He’s not much of a man, a wimp really. I can’t imagine him killing her.”

“I still need to ask you some questions,” I said.

“I may have to reconsider that job offer.”

“Dr. Greer, that’s your call, but I have another job to finish. I saw you in a number of pictures in Mrs. Hunt’s home.”

“I spent a lot of time with Stephanie. We played tennis on a regular basis. We even traveled abroad together. You won’t get me to say anything to help her killer get off. Stephanie Hunt was my best friend.”

“You already said that.”

“Were you aware of any trouble between them,” I asked, “any history of violence?”

“Hit her, no- he didn’t have it in him.”

“What can you tell me about their relationship?”

“She told me he was sleeping with someone.”

“Do you know…?”

“No, I don’t know who it was. You might try Libby Davis. It was obvious she wanted to sleep with him and it wouldn’t surprise me if she killed Stephanie to get him,” she hissed. “Libby was always flirting with Cary. She’s always been a bit of a slut. She was more Stephanie’s friend than mine.”

“So you aren’t close to Libby Davis? I was under the impression Mrs. Hunt, Ms. Davis, Ms. Williams, and you were the Three Musketeers plus d'Artagnan.

“I suppose you think that’s funny?” she sniped, a full-blown smirk was on her face.

“Not at all, I’ve spoken to both Ms. Davis and Ms. Williams,” I said slowly, “and like you, they felt very close to the deceased.”

I watched for a reaction as I said these last few words. She didn’t flinch.

“You said you had traveled with Mrs. Hunt. Where did you go?”

“Machu Picchu, the Great Wall, a couple Caribbean cruises, we toured Europe together twice, but surely that’s not what you want to know, is it Mr. Everett?”

“No of course not, I want to know about Stephanie Hunt. Understanding the victim often gives clues to the perpetrator.”

“Don’t you call them the ‘perp’?” she asked. “I think you’ve talked yourself out of a job after all. If that’s all the questions, Mr. Everett, you can show yourself…”

“You mentioned knowing about Mr. Hunt’s affair, did Mrs. Hunt mention her own extracurricular activities? I understand she had lovers as well.”

“Trying to widen the suspect pool?” she smirked. “You’ve talked to those snobs at the country club. They hated her. She was better than all of them,” she hissed. “They never respected her or her ability, her athletic talent…”

She stopped mid sentence, realizing she was going too far.

“You won’t misinterpret that outburst, I trust. I’m grieving over the loss of a friend.”

“A close friend…of course not,” I assured her. “Her affairs are bound to come up though. Was there any one she saw regularly? You know…a steady lover rather than a casual fling.

“You’ve heard about her flirting, I suppose.”

She avoided the question, but her eyes gave me the answer I needed.

“Is that what it was, flirting? People have said they knew of several brief affairs.”

“They meant nothing to her, I can assure you.”

I didn’t like what I saw in her eyes.

“So she talked about it to you? Was there anyone in particular that didn’t take to being dropped or waiting in line?”

“That’s all the questions for tonight, Mr. Everett.”

“Well, no that isn’t exactly all the questions I have. How was Stephanie involved in your business?”

The question surprised her, but she covered well. She nervously took a cigarette from a box on the desk and lit it. When I smelled it, I knew it was a Djarum Black.

“She helped me find investors,” she replied. “I’m organizing the funding to purchase a business in the area.” She squirmed a bit and her eyes told me she knew much more. The smirk flickered, but then was back. She was good, but I’d interrogated too many people to miss the signs, the micro twitches in her face and finally, the subvocal clues. Her unconscious betrayed her. Her reaction to my last question was to say subvocally
he knows
.

“Let’s try something else,” I said. “There were some unusual findings in Mrs. Hunt’s autopsy. The Medical Examiner isn’t cooperating with me so I thought since you work in marine research you could help me understand these findings,” I said, knowing she wouldn’t fall for it.

“I’m an administrator. I don’t know much about those things.”

The lie was in her eyes and on her lips. She was agitated. I’d tweaked the nerve I’d been looking for. She sat on the edge of her seat; her arms crossed over her breasts and began to take long nervous drags of her cigarette. Her body language screamed defensive. Her eyes told me she was lying with every word.

“But you oversee research and you manage a huge business concern. You did research in Southeast Asia on the subject. You’d know about all of it, wouldn’t you? I responded. “I’m sure you could help.”

Sharon shrugged and leaned back on the sofa. “Perhaps,” she said.

Flattery is such a useful tool. She relaxed for a moment. If there would be a reaction, it would be now.

“What can you tell me about the properties of marine neurotoxins?”

Her lips moved again and in that split second, I saw her form the word
Nancy
. She didn’t say it aloud, but I knew I had her. Was it the Nancy from the lawsuit? How did it connect?

“Properties, why I don’t know, they’re dangerous of course,” she said. Her confidence was slipping.

“Could they cause paralysis in a person?”

“If the contact was sufficient, yes I believe they could.”

Fear flashed in her eyes and once again, her lips betrayed her when they formed the word,
Nancy
. I knew the who, but unfortunately, I didn’t know the why. It was a good thing for this woman we weren’t in Iraq.

She didn’t know where I was going with this line of questions. She was involved, but not in the way I’d thought. How were these people connected? Maybe she’d slip up if I made a direct assault.

“Who is Nancy and how’s she connected to all this?”

“I don’t know anyone named Nancy,” she replied too quickly.

I could see the lie as her baby blues darted to her right again and again. I had a lead, but she was closing down. I had to keep her off balance.

“Why don’t you tell me about Nancy?” I said,’

Her face broke into what might pass for a smile as she crossed the distance between us. She stopped in front of me and looked me in the eye, lifted her chin in a defiant way, and said, “I think you better leave.”

“What?” I replied.

“Shut up and get out of here,” Sharon said firmly as she pointed toward the door. “Get out!” There was a note of panic in her voice. I grabbed her arm as she swiped at my face. She jerked away and grabbed a lamp then smashed it on the floor. As I watched her disappear down a hall, I figured I had better get out of there before she came out blasting with something more deadly than a lamp. I snatched Greer’s abandoned cigarette butt from the ashtray, dropped it in an envelope with an old utility bill then stuffed it back in my pocket as I beat feet for the front door.

I made a clean get away. As I walked along the sidewalk to my car, I was thinking about how I could get Stan to run DNA on the cigarette butt when I heard a noise. Something moved in the bushes. I turned to look and the lights went out.

I came around, face down on cold concrete. The back of my head was throbbing, but at least that was a sign of life. I reached out with both hands to push myself to my feet, but my left hand hit something wet and sticky. I reached for my cell phone as I tried to crawl, but the blackness returned.

When I was aware again, I realized something familiar had brought me back, something from the past.

“Whoa,” the familiar voice of Stan Lee said. “Easy.”

I felt strong hands easing me up, but I couldn’t focus.

“You’ve had quite a crack to that thick skull of yours, Mac. Take it easy. An ambulance will be here any time.” The concern in his voice sent a shudder through me.

“Where’s Greer?” I asked.

“Don’t know. She’s gone,” Stan said. “Did she hit you?”

“Slow down. I need a little time to get it together.”

I pulled myself in the direction of a sitting position and immediately regretted it. I’d only made it about a third of the way to upright when a thunderstorm blew up inside my head. I wobbled about to go down again as strong hands eased me back to the ground.

“Take it easy,” Stan said as he eased me back down to the sidewalk. “Did you see who bushwhacked you? Do you remember anything?”

“I was leaving and…someone hit me from behind. They were in the bushes. I don’t think it was Greer. She was still inside,” I said. Groggy, I blinked repeatedly trying to clear my head. It wasn’t working.

“She’s not there now,” he replied. “Did you hear anything before you were hit?” Stan asked.

“No, nothing. Damn, I messed up, didn’t I?” I said looking up at Stan. He was out of focus. “I wasn’t drinking Stan. I swear.”

“No Captain, you weren’t drinking. You did just fine.”

“Oh, ah- OK, I guess,” I said.

I shuddered as it became clear the grim reaper had been just around the corner.
Why didn’t they finish me off?

I filled Stan in on my meeting with Greer and the sham job.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“It’s about two forty-five now. My wife won’t be happy I’ve been out with you all night. So what is Greer up to?”

“How did you find me?”

Stan smiled. “The security guard found you when he was making his rounds,” Stan said. “I heard the 911 call go out and came looking.”

I became aware of several sets of flashing red and blue lights. I bet the stalwart residents of Heathrow weren’t used to seeing this sort of light display.

“Well I’m damn glad…”

“What’s the connection to Stephanie Hunt?” Stan asked.

Stephanie Hunt, I tried to remember. What was the connection? What had Greer said? Then it came back to me.

I held back on telling Stan about Mrs. Hunt and Greer. I needed to be sure. “They were in the same sorority and shared an apartment at some point,” I said.

“What? Are you sure?” Stan demanded. “How’d you find that out?”

“Whoa, keep it down. I’m right here,” I said. “I’ll give it all to you just give me a chance to see straight and remember all of it.”

“That makes Greer a strong suspect,” Stan said.

“Yep, Greer said she’s trying to start a new company. Stephanie Hunt was helping get investors,” I said. “Stephanie was the honey to attract the high rollers. Greer has let it out she’s raising money to buy Perimeter Marine, but I think it’s a scam.”

I heard a siren in the distance and saw the flashing red lights.

“Why’s that?” Stan asked.

“I talked to a guy at Ocean World who says they wouldn’t sell Perimeter Marine. It’s too valuable to them. Stephanie Hunt was in over her head in gambling debts. Maybe Greer was too. My guess is the Hunt name in the investment world, her obvious assets and willingness to use them was a way they could raise some cash,” I replied, “but that doesn’t close the deal on who killed Mrs. Hunt.”

“Maybe if we find Greer we can ask her,” Stan speculated. There’s enough evidence to clear Cary Hunt though.”

Just then, the band-aid bus squealed around the corner and Stan stood to flag them down. The siren and the flashing lights about sent me into orbit, but I was grateful to see them. All I remember hearing was Stan saying to the paramedics, “Take care of him. He’s my friend.”

The trip in the ambulance was bumpy, painful, but worth it. Fourteen stitches, one MRI and a couple pretty ER nurses later Stan drove me home with the phone numbers two of the nurses in my notebook.

Stan walked me up the steps, but even with help, they seemed like Mount Everest. We went past the office and Stan practically carried me through my apartment door. He helped me stagger to my bed. The morning sun sifted through the blinds and the bright light exploded in my head. It didn’t bother me long, though. I was out as soon as I hit my rack. Visions of faraway places and arched corridors flashed in front of me. People came and went, but I couldn’t make out their faces. The crush of people in the mid-day heat, the closeness of the air. The aromas of the street marketplace led me through the arches.

I don’t know how long I slept, but the hand shaking me was about to be broken off when I heard a voice.

“Mac…Mac…wake up.”

My arm and legs flailed, kicking like a drowning man, I tried to get free of some unseen force that had me by the throat. Then I heard a familiar voice.

“Captain, it’s OK. It’s Roscoe. You’re OK. Captain, it’s me,” Roscoe murmured.

“Roscoe! What happened? I was… crap, I thought I was back in the sandbox,” I moaned.

“You’ve had a crack to the head. You’ve got a concussion. Stan didn’t want to leave you alone. I let myself in,” Roscoe said.

“I was back there in the market. Remember the marketplace in Fallujah, it had those two outdoor colonnades, arch after arch after arch.”

“Yeah, I remember, that was where they zapped us bad. They’d set a damn good ambush. We fought arch by arch. We lost a lot of friends that day. You’re OK now,” he said.

He remembered it too.

“What are you doing here?” I asked as I realized Roscoe was sitting next to me.

“Feel up to some grub and a ride?”

“What? A ride, are you crazy? I just got to sleep,” I bawled. “My head’s killing me. Leave me.”

“Stan called. They’ve found what’s left of Greer’s Lexus.”

“What’s left of it?” I asked.

“It’s been torched in the middle of a state forest.”

“Give me five minutes to get pulled together,” I said, as I gingerly pried myself out of bed. Once I was in a sitting position, I discovered I was still wearing clothes from the day before. The caked blood was a nice fashion statement. “What time is it?”

“It’s about two in the afternoon” Roscoe replied. “You left the hospital around six so you’ve slept a couple hours, but the doctor said to take it easy.”

“You mind driving? We can take my car.”

“What, you don’t like my ride?” he asked.

“You have a habit of deferring essential maintenance,” I said.

I’d been broken down with Roscoe more than once.

Roscoe’s a big guy. Linebacker shoulders, tall like a tree, and I needed all his strength to help me get up. I struggled out of my Guy Harvey shirt. Fireworks went off in my head when I bent down to grab a golf shirt off the floor. I picked it up and I slipped it over my head forgetting the bandage across the back of my noggin. My muffled scream drew a chuckle from Roscoe.

“It’s not nice to laugh at the infirm,” I chided. “Let’s get going before I say something you’ll regret.” Somewhere inside my head, a whole Indian tribe was dancing and beating war drums.

“Try somethin’ to eat. Always makes me feel better,” he said as he handed me a coffee and a glazed donut. It was still warm.

“Where do you get all the damn warm donuts?” I demanded.

“My cousin works at a Krispy Kreme around the corner from here,” he said.

“Thanks buddy, I owe you,” I said as I gulped down some joe and tore into the sugary fried dough. A potential heart attack never tasted so good.

A few minutes later, we were out the door. With Roscoe driving, going anywhere would take a while. To say my buddy drives like an old lady is an insult to old ladies. In Iraq, we called him Roscoe Black, founder and chief instructor for the Roscoe Black School of Painfully Slow Driving. We drove at his cautious pace, ten miles per hour below the posted speed limit, north on State Route 417 in silence. I leaned against the window, eyes closed, trying to calm the Indian uprising in my head. Being upright was not my position.

Still heading east, we got off the freeway and picked up a county road. The quiet and my sunglasses seemed to be helping. I lifted my head as we passed a huge Catholic church.

“Feeling any better?” Roscoe asked, as he turned right onto a secondary road. It was paved, but just barely.

“Yeah a little,” I replied. I was grateful for the snail’s pace. I don’t think I’d have made it if we went any faster on the rough road.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked, after we had bounced along the uneven road for a while.

“Stan said a Forest Service smoke tower saw the fire. It’s in the Big Econ State Forest.”

“Where the hell is that?” I barked.

“East of Oviedo,” he replied. “We’re almost there.”

When you live in the city, it’s hard to remember so much of Florida is untamed. Go to the metro areas of Miami-Dade, Ft. Lauderdale, Tampa, or my home, Orlando, and you forget Florida is a huge state covered by trees and scrub, much of it in hundreds of state or federal parks, conservation, and forest areas.

Twenty-five minutes past the church, we came to a checkpoint manned by the Florida Highway Patrol. We identified ourselves, got some directions, and jolted off down a decidedly narrower, rougher road.

“Won’t be far now,” Roscoe said.

“Yeah, I can smell it too.”

We broke out of the trees where the road paralleled the tannic Econlockhatchee River. Dark, slow moving water rolled by, disturbed only by the occasional snag. I spotted a gator stalking some grey water bird standing in the shallows. We continued down the road and a moment later the bird swooped past us making its escape. Finally, we came to a lime rock boat ramp. Burned trees and a scorched area on the makeshift pavement surrounded the remains of a four-door car.

Stan gave a thumbs up to the deputy who intercepted us at the entrance and we parked. Stan came over to help me out of the car. “How are you feeling Mac?” he said as he shook my hand. “Sorry to get you all the way out here.”

“I’ll live,” I replied. “If the fresh air doesn’t kill me,” I chuckled. “Thanks for calling.”

Turning to Roscoe who was coming around the front of the car, he said, “Appreciate you looking after him, man.”

“No problem, man,” he replied as they shook hands. “Somebody has to. Damn sure he can’t do it himself,” he cracked.

“Want to see the body? It’s burned up pretty bad,” Stan asked. “Not much chance of identification without dental records.”

“I can give it a try.”

“Let’s get it done,” he said. “You wait here,” he said to Roscoe.

“You won’t get a bitch from me,” he replied. “Standin’ here is plenty close enough.”

The smell of burned oil and flesh hung in the air like an invisible warning to stay back.

“Come on,” Stan said. “Let’s get it over with.” He headed toward the smoldering hulk that had once been a luxury car. A burned Lexus emblem was on the ground.

What was left of the vehicle was among some scorched trees. The forestry people had responded quickly and contained the fire before it had spread more than a hundred yards from the ruined metal frame.

“Come on, let’s take a look inside,” Stan said.

I wasn’t anxious to see the toasted body of my would-be employer. I’d seen a lot of mangled bodies in Iraq, but the burned ones were the worst.

I peered into the space where the passenger’s window should have been. Slumped over, its skull in the passenger seat was a crispy critter with a large caliber gunshot wound above the left ear. Like most burned bodies, this one was in the fetal position and its hands were in tight fists, the typical pugilistic position. Fire causes muscles to stiffen and shorten, making the limbs bend. The change is evident at all the joints, but most noticeable when the hands turn into clenched fists. The body looked like a boxer in the ring. It occurs even if the victim was dead before the fire and this one certainly met that qualification. There was a silver dollar sized hole in the side of the skull.

“Probably a .45” Stan said, leaning over me. “Guess that takes care of Greer.”

“The shooter came up to the driver’s side and put one behind the left ear,” I said. “You’re right about it being .45,” I replied, looking up at Stan, “but that’s not Greer.”

“What?” Stan said, jerking up straight.

I straightened up too as I was hearing those war drums again. “I think this is Luck Taylor,” I said. “I can’t tell the difference between a male and a female skeleton, but that mouth full of gold teeth. Luck Taylor showed ‘em to me yesterday. He was smiling then.”