Fatal Decree (13 page)

Jock and I called it a day. That evening he got a call from Gene Alexander telling him that the medical examiner had released Nell’s body and the funeral would be the next day, a short graveside service in a cemetery out near I-75. Eleven o’clock in the morning. Gene was going to ride to the cemetery with Les Fulcher. Some of the other islanders would be there.

I called J.D. to see if she wanted to join us. She did, and so did Sammy.

We arrived at the cemetery shortly before the services were to begin. Like much of the developed interior of Florida, the cemetery was a flat expanse carved out of an old cattle ranch some years before. A stand of pine trees bordered the property, separating it from the cars passing by on the highway. The grave markers were those flat plaques that lay on the ground so that the
lawn mowers would clear them. One had probably been ordered for Nell.

It seemed a small ending for a life that had been lived well. But then, that’s the way funerals always are. A life stops and all that is left is the corporeal body that needs to be buried or cremated. The dead will be remembered for as long as their loved ones live, but then even the memory is buried. It all seemed so useless in this context, the first step of a child, the striving for success, love, children of their own, success or failure, happiness or despair, all gone in that blink of an eye when life leaves the body. In the end, our entire lives are only a short brushstroke on the cosmic canvas.

Jock, J.D., and Sammy walked toward the little knot of people gathered at the gravesite. I lagged behind and then stopped. I watched J.D. as she moved across the close-cropped grass of the graveyard, her graceful movements so alive in this field of the dead. There is such a fine line between life and death and we never know when we’ll have to cross it. I hoped it wouldn’t be soon.

“Matt,” J.D. said, “are you coming?” She was a few feet in front of me, looking back, wondering, I guess, why I had stopped. Jock and Sammy had moved on.

I wrenched myself back to reality. Only a couple of seconds had elapsed as I stood rooted. I looked at her, thinking that life does go on and as long as we are breathing, happiness is within reach. Maybe she was my happiness. I smiled. “Coming,” I said.

The service was short and the crowd dispersed quickly. We paid our condolences to Gene and drove back to the key. J.D. told us that the forensic people had finished examining the go-fast boat that was assumed to be the one used by the Leffis Key killers. It had been wiped clean, but one of the technicians found a single fingerprint on a stern cleat. It looked as if one of the men had touched the cleat while he was securing a line.

“Were you able to match it?” Jock asked.

“Yes. To a man named Barry Steiffel. He was on parole, released a month ago from Glades Correctional.”

“The same place where Qualman served time,” I said.

“Exactly,” said J.D.

“Do we know where Steiffel is now?” asked Jock.

“No,” said J.D. “He never checked in with his parole officer in Miami.”

“Is that where he’s from?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said J.D. “He went up for armed robbery in Miami Beach. Did eight years of a ten-year sentence.”

“Did you arrest him?” I asked.

“No. Miami Beach is a different jurisdiction. I checked with Miami-Dade, just to be sure I’d never had anything to do with him. As far as we can tell, Steiffel and I never crossed paths.”

“The lady who saw the man get off the boat on the beach said he was alone,” I said. “There were definitely two leaving Leffis Key on that boat. What happened to the other guy?”

“Good question,” said J.D. “Maybe one of them got off farther up the beach.”

“Maybe he’ll show up,” Jock said. “At least we have a name now.”

“You want to join us for lunch, J.D.?” I asked.

“Wish I could,” she said, “but I’ve got to finish up some paperwork. That’s the worse part of this job.”

“Sammy’s got to work, but Logan’s going with us to Tommy Bahama’s restaurant on the Circle tonight. You want to join us?”

“Sorry,” she said. “I’ll be on the Circle, but I’m meeting an old friend from Miami for dinner and drinks at Lynches Pub.”

We dropped her at the police station and took Sammy a little farther south to Pattigeorge’s. “I wonder about the friend from Miami,” I said as Jock and I drove north toward the village.

“Slow down, podna. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re probably wrong.”

“I hope so,” I said.

“We could stop by Lynches for drinks after dinner.”

“Yeah. That wouldn’t be at all obvious. You’re not very good at this, are you?”

“Hey,” he said, “I’m not the one in love.”

“I don’t know whether I am or not. It’s confusing.”

“Geez. We sound like we’re still in high school.”

And I guess we did. But if I had known what the night would bring, I would have turned around and taken J.D. home with me. Even if I had to kidnap her to do it.

During her early years in Miami, J.D. had become friends with a young prosecutor named Deanna Bichler. While J.D. moved up the ranks of the Miami-Dade Police Department, Deanna had left the state attorney’s office and moved into private practice with a Miami law firm. Over the years, her brilliance and penchant for hard work had made her one of the top criminal defense attorneys in the state. She was now almost forty years old, but seemed forever young. She had not aged since her mid-twenties, and, in the parlance of the young men who lusted after her, she was “hot.” She was wearing her lawyer uniform, gray suit, white blouse, low-heeled pumps. Her dark hair was fixed in a bun at the nape of her neck, a small diamond stud in each earlobe, a single gold strand necklace around her neck.

J.D. and Deanna had been bridesmaids in each other’s weddings, but unlike J.D.’s disastrous stab at matrimony, Deanna’s had prospered. She now had three children and a husband who practiced civil law in another large Miami firm. She was happy, but missed the camaraderie she and J.D. had enjoyed over the fifteen years they had known each other. Telephone calls and Facebook just weren’t the same as sharing a drink and some laughs in South Beach.

Deanna had spent the day in federal court in Tampa doing battle with the U.S. Attorney’s Office on a fraud case. There had been several motions to be heard, and they hadn’t finished by the time the judge wanted to call it a day.

Her client was wealthy and had made his money with a sophisticated Medicare scam that milked the taxpayers for millions of dollars. She had called J.D. on Sunday and told her that she would be in Tampa and, if J.D.
had time for dinner, she would drive down and meet her. She had to be back in court early the next day and would drive back to her hotel in Tampa after dinner. They had agreed to meet at Lynches Pub on St. Armands Circle.

J.D. parked in back of the pub, in a large parking lot that accommodated visitors to the shops and restaurants that lined the Circle. She had what the Lynch sisters, Ethna and Chris, who owned the place, called “back-door privileges.” It was a perk that was given only to the locals who were friends of “the girls,” as they were universally called by the islanders.

She came in through the kitchen, and saw Deanna sitting at a small table in the front of the narrow space that housed the pub. She smiled as she noticed how Deanna was dressed. She felt decidedly unprofessional in white Capri pants, a pale-green blouse, and sandals, her hair in a pony-tail. But then, that was the island uniform. They hugged, ordered drinks, and caught up with all the gossip from Miami. “So,” J.D. said, “sounds like a big case in Tampa.”

“Yeah. My client is guilty as sin, but there’s a lot of money involved, so the U.S. Attorney himself is handling it. Big Daddy.”

“Big Daddy?”

Deanna smiled. “Yes, that’s what he’s called. He’s pretty much a big teddy bear, but he gives no quarter in the courtroom.”

“David Parrish?” asked J.D.

“You know him?”

“A friend of a friend. I actually met him a couple of days ago.”

“Small world. How does your friend know him?”

“They were classmates in law school.”

Deanna smiled. “So, your friend is a lawyer. Male or female?”

“Most definitely male.”

“I see. Might he be more than just a friend?”

“It’s complicated,” said J.D.

“I thrive on complications. Give it up, old friend. How long have you been sleeping with him?”

“I haven’t.”

“Hmmmm.”

“I told you it was complicated.”

Deanna made a “come on” gesture with her fingers.

“Okay,” said J.D. “I can’t sort it all out. He’s the most intriguing man I’ve ever met. He’s a retired trial lawyer who insists his only goal in life is to be a beach bum.”

“Ah, an older man.”

“Not at all. He retired early. Got disgusted with the practice of law. Says it turned into a business instead of a profession.”

“I think he knows whereof he speaks.”

J.D. laughed. “Yeah.”

“Did he practice here?”

“Orlando.”

“What’s his name?”

“Matt Royal.”

Deanna sat back. “He was big-time.”

“You know him?”

“Only by reputation. Never met him. But he was at the top of his game when he just up and quit. Somebody told me he’d moved to an island. I didn’t know it was this one.”

“Well, he’s here, and he’s—unsettling, I guess.”

“How so?”

“I’m not sure I can explain it. He gives me something I thought I’d never feel again. A sense of comfort and a little tingle every time I think about seeing him.”

“Do you see him a lot?”

“It’s a small island. I see him almost every day. And he has a way of getting in the middle of some of my cases. And he thinks he needs to protect me. I’m a big girl. I don’t need that.”

“The male ego,” said Deanna. “Those old-boy trial lawyers seem to have some sort of genetic disorder that floods their systems with testosterone. That leads to outsized egos. I don’t think they could spend their lives the way they do without it. They’re problem solvers by nature and they think they can fix anything; particularly women in need of protection. And in their fevered little brains, all women need protection.”

J.D. laughed. “You’re a trial lawyer. How do you handle it?”

“I ignore it most of the time. Men like David Parrish are almost courtly.
Sometimes he treats me like I’m his daughter, but when it comes to a case, he’s sharp as a spear. And he’s aiming it at me, smiling, and treating me with the utmost respect. But I know, and he knows, that he’s going to gut me if he can.”

“So,” asked J.D., “what’s your take on the way Matt treats me? All protective.”

“I think he sees you in a lot more than a professional light.”

“He’s told me as much.”

“And your response?”

“I told him that he was a very special person to me. We even discussed sleeping together once, but we both decided we weren’t ready for that.”

“And since?” asked Deanna.

“It’s never come up again.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know. It’s a small island and I don’t want complications. I’ve only been on the police force here for a year, and the chief is one of Matt’s best friends.”

“You’re going to have to discuss this with Matt sooner or later.”

“I know. I keep putting it off.”

“He hasn’t brought it up again?”

“No. I think he’s too much of a gentleman.”

“Or too scared.”

“Well,” said J.D., chuckling, “there’s that.”

They changed the subject and spent another hour talking about their lives and those of mutual friends in Miami. J.D. didn’t bring up the fact that she had been the target of two murder attempts in the past three days. No sense in putting a wet blanket over the evening.

Deanna looked at her watch. “Good grief,” she said. “It’s almost eleven and I’ve got an early morning with Big Daddy. I’d better get on the road.”

They said their good-byes and hugged. Deanna left by the front door and J.D. went to the bar and spent a few minutes talking to Jill, the night manager. It was nearing midnight when she took her leave and went through the back door, headed for her car and home. She didn’t notice the man hiding in the shadows of the building next door.

J.D. never knew what it was. Maybe a minuscule change in air pressure brought about by the proximity of another person. Perhaps she heard a footstep on the asphalt of the parking lot or a squeak from a running shoe worn by the man in the shadows. An intake of breath, an exhalation, a grunt as he pulled the large KA-BAR knife from its scabbard. Something. Somehow she knew that danger was close, that her life was about to be snuffed out. Whatever it was, it put her on alert and set off the alarm bells in her mind, the ones that she’d honed during her fifteen years of police work and regular workouts with her martial arts master.

She pivoted on the ball of her left foot, coming to rest facing her assailant, her knees bent, her arms up in the strike position. Only a fraction of a second had elapsed since she felt the alert. It was almost enough.

She saw a big man, maybe six two, 220 pounds, a large knife in his left hand, held at waist height in striking position. As she planted herself on the asphalt, the knife was moving toward her midsection. She dodged to her right, putting her weight on her right foot as she felt the knife slice into her left side. She refused to think about it. Her left foot came up in a power kick, catching her assailant off guard, his momentum from the slashing dive still carrying him forward. Her foot impacted with his left rib cage. J.D. knew that bones were broken.

The big man fell forward and to his right, the blow from J.D.’s foot pushing him off balance, the pain of the broken ribs already flooding his system. J.D. brought her left foot to the ground, shifting her weight onto it as she pivoted again. The man was hitting the ground, his knees bending to catch himself, his arms outstretched to break his fall, the knife skittering across the surface of the parking lot. He was hurt badly, moaning as
he landed on his knees. His hands had slid along the rough surface, but his knees held. He was in a position not unlike that of Muslim men praying, his legs slightly splayed. J.D. finished her pivot almost directly behind the man. She aimed her right foot between his legs and delivered a powerful blow to his scrotum.