Fatal Decree (19 page)

She chewed on that for a moment. “You could be right,” she said. “But there are no women prisoners at Glades.”

“Maybe Glades isn’t the connection.”

“It looks good so far. Let me see what’s in all this paper. You go on. Nobody’s going to take a shot at me in the police station.”

“I’ll come get you for lunch. You’re supposed to be at the hospital at two. We can eat downtown.”

“Okay,” she said, and gave me a little wave goodbye.

As it turned out, we didn’t make it to the hospital that day.

I was buckling myself into the Explorer when my phone rang. Jock.

“You still at the police station?”

“Just leaving.”

“Meet me at Gene Alexander’s house.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Maybe nothing. I’ll see you there in five minutes.”

Gene lived in a small ranch house dating to the 1960s in a neighborhood known as Emerald Harbor, about five minutes from the police station. His house was perched beside a wide canal that emptied into Sarasota Bay. The yard was dominated by an ancient gumbo-limbo tree and spotted with beds of flowers that bloom in the fall in Florida. Begonias, impatiens, and geraniums provided splotches of red, pink, and white, less brilliant than usual as they hunkered down under the low clouds that dripped rain. The lawn was slightly overgrown, as if no one had mowed it in a couple of weeks. Jock was pulling up just as I arrived. We met on the sidewalk leading to the front door. “What’s up?” I asked. “It’s a bit wet out here.”

“Gene’s not answering his phone. I’ve been trying to get hold of him for the past two hours.”

“Maybe he’s sleeping in.”

“Maybe. But he always has his phone on. Old habit.”

“The battery could be dead.”

“So could he.”

Jock knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again. Nothing. “Can you look in the garage?” he asked. “There’s a door on the side that has a small window.”

I went to the side of the garage and looked in. There were two cars in
the garage. That wasn’t good. I reported back to Jock, and he tried the door. It wasn’t locked. It swung open to reveal a living room that opened to French doors facing south to a patio overlooking the canal. A kitchen with a breakfast bar open to the living room was to my left. A short hall ran to what I assumed to be a door to the garage. A conversation area with a sofa and two club chairs was grouped at the middle of the room, providing a view across the patio to a pool and the wide canal. The floor was a rich wood, probably oak. Expensive-looking Oriental carpets were spread about. A fireplace took up most of the west wall, bordered by a hallway that must have led to the bedrooms. At right angles to the fireplace, a large flat-screen TV sat on a table to my right, against the north wall. Two identical recliners were placed in front of it. One of the recliners was in the open position, footrest even with the seat, the back all the way down. Gene Alexander was lying in the chair, as if he’d fallen asleep watching television. But he wouldn’t be getting up.

We were looking at his right side. His temple had a large hole in it, black around the edges. His right hand was in his lap, clutching a pistol that looked like a .45 caliber. Blood and brain matter had splattered the chair to his left.

“Shit,” said Jock. “Call it in, Matt.”

We didn’t move, standing as if we were rooted to a single spot on the hardwood. I took out my phone and dialed 911, identified myself, gave the operator Gene’s address, and told her there was an apparent suicide, the body still on the premises. We backed out the way we’d come in, not wanting to contaminate the scene. We waited for the cops on the front stoop. Neither one of us had much confidence that Gene had taken his own life.

“I’m sorry, Jock,” I said.

“Thanks, podna. You know Gene didn’t kill himself, right?”

“Doesn’t look that way.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Jock.

“The hand holding the gun was in his lap. That big a pistol will have some kick to it. It would have thrown his arm outward, away from the path of the bullet. It would have been hanging by his side, the pistol on the floor.”

Jock was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t even think about that, but you’re right.”

“What were you thinking?”

“Gene isn’t the kind of guy to kill himself.”

“I don’t know, Jock. He just lost the only family he had.”

“Yeah, but he’s a tough guy. He would’ve handled it. And if he’d killed himself, he’d have called somebody before he did it. So that we’d know. He wouldn’t have left a note. He’d have called.”

Sirens came whooping into the street leading to Gulf of Mexico Drive. A patrol car was followed by an ambulance and an unmarked. A uniformed officer, a captain, crawled out of the cruiser. J.D. and Martin Sharkey got out of the unmarked and walked toward us, a fire department paramedic close behind. “What’ve we got?” asked Sharkey.

“Gene Alexander’s in there, dead,” said Jock. “Looks like a suicide, but I don’t think it was.”

“Why?” asked J.D.

“You guys take a look,” said Jock. “See what you think.”

Sharkey turned to the police captain. “Set this up as a crime scene. I’ll get the forensics people out here, but that’ll take a while. They’ve got to come from Bradenton. And get me some more uniforms to keep the gawkers away. Let’s take a look, J.D.”

They went to the front door and looked in. They didn’t enter the room. They stood there for a few minutes, talking quietly. They walked back to Jock and me. “Gun’s in the wrong place,” said J.D. “It just wouldn’t have fallen into his lap, and when he died his fingers would have let go of it. Somebody tried to set this up.”

“I agree,” said Sharkey. “What do you guys think?”

“Matt thought the same thing you did, J.D.,” Jock said. “I agree. I think if Gene was going to kill himself, he’d have called somebody first. Just to let them know. I’ll check with my director, see if he called any of his old friends. If he did, they would have called it in. Martin, can you check with the 911 operators, just to be sure?”

Sharkey nodded. “Let’s get J.D. under cover. I don’t want a repeat of that fiasco at Leffis Key.”

“I’m fine, Martin,” said J.D. “This is what I do. Investigate murders.”

“I know,” said Sharkey his voice tense, “and as soon as forensics finishes, I want you on top of it. But for now, just until we have a better handle on the situation, I want Matt to get you the hell out of here.”

“But—”

“But nothing, J.D. I’m not going to have you shot while we stand around with our thumbs up our asses. I’ll call as soon as the forensics guys have anything.”

J.D. was steaming. “Damn it, Martin, what’s the chief going to say about this?”

“He’ll back me up. He’d say my first job was to keep you safe. He’s at some kind of meeting at the sheriff’s office over on the mainland. Dispatch called him and he’s on his way here.”

“Right,” J.D. said. “Protect the girl.” Her voice had taken on that edge that I recognized as repressed anger.

“Get her out of here, Matt. J.D.,” Sharkey said, his voice softening, “you’re the toughest cop I know. But you’re not invulnerable. I’d send any of my people, man or woman, out of here under the circumstances. I’ll call you as soon as we’re sure there’re no shooters lurking around.”

She turned on her heel and walked toward my car. I followed. I thought I could see steam coming out of her ears, but it was probably just my imagination.

I figured I was in for a long morning. Living with a really angry woman can be trying. But J.D. seemed to accept the wisdom of Sharkey’s decision to get her out of the line of fire for the time being. She was quiet, pensive, as if she had a lot on her mind. She’d had a tough week and seemed to want some time with her own thoughts. I read the paper and watched the rain and stayed quiet. At some point, she called the hospital and canceled her meeting with the doctor, telling them that she’d reschedule.

Jock stayed at Gene’s house, working his phone, talking to his director and who knew who else. It was nearing noon when he called. “I’m leaving in a few minutes. I’ll stop for sandwiches on the way to your place. What do you guys want?”

I turned to J.D. “Jock’s going to pick up some sandwiches. What do you want?”

“I’d prefer to go out,” she said. “What about Moore’s?”

I told Jock to meet us there and hung up.

J.D. grinned. “I think I’ll be safe with two big brave men babysitting me.”

“Sarcasm does not become you,” I said.

“Sorry. I don’t like being benched.”

“I know. But in this game, you’re the football.”

She frowned. “Football? I think we need a new metaphor.”

“Let’s go eat,” I said.

At Moore’s, we took a table by the windows overlooking Sarasota Bay. The rain was still falling and our world seemed small and isolated. Sister Key was barely visible through the mist and the homes that hugged the
shoreline of the little lagoon on which the restaurant sat were draped in opacity. The bay was gray, somber under the lowering clouds, its surface ruffled by little whitecaps dancing in the wind. Halyards rattled on the sailboats anchored nearby as they rocked in time with the feeble gusts of the dying front. Springlike weather would come with tomorrow’s sun, returning our island to its natural state. Winter was not a welcome visitor, but we would see more of it in the coming months. The fronts, weakened by their passage across the landmass of America, would make their way down the peninsula, bringing cold air and rainy days. Then, as suddenly as they’d come, they would dissipate in the warm currents of air moving north from the tropics and our key would resume its life in the sunshine.

J.D. shivered. “Sometimes, I feel like I’m a long way from Miami.”

“Miami doesn’t have bad weather occasionally?”

“Yeah, but I’m not really talking about the weather. If we were in Miami, I wouldn’t have to have a babysitter.”

“Okay,” I said, an edge creeping into my voice. “I’m getting kind of tired of this babysitter crap.”

She reached out and covered my hand with hers. “I’m sorry, Matt. I don’t mean to take it out on you, but this little island is starting to stifle me.”

“How so?”

“I can’t do anything here that isn’t the subject of common gossip within hours. I’m already getting stares from some of our locals who’re damn sure I’m not sleeping in the guest room at your house.”

“I think you’re picking up the wrong signals. I doubt that any of the islanders care if we’re sleeping together. In fact, I’d bet if you took a vote, most of them would vote in my favor.”

“Your favor?”

“Sure. You know, so that I could enjoy your favors.” I was trying to jolly her out of something rarely seen: J.D. in a bad mood.

She smiled and squeezed my hand. “Well, I guess if the island voted for it—” Her voice trailed off.

“What else is bothering you?”

“I’m cramped here. Miami is a big, sprawling city. If somebody was after me down there, I’d still be able to work. I’d get lost in the crowd.
Here, I feel like a sitting duck. If somebody wants me, they don’t have to look very far.”

“Is this something new or have you been feeling this way for a while?”

“Look, Matt, I love this place, but I was thinking this way before the killings started, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

It was what I was asking. “Are you thinking about leaving? Going back to Miami?”

“I don’t know. It’s crossed my mind. The chief of detectives down there made it clear he’d take me back. Maybe I made a mistake coming here in the first place. I guess I was looking for a little refuge from the big city. Maybe a new life.”

“You found a new life. Aren’t you happy with it?”

“I am,” she said. “It’s not that. Sometimes I feel an overpowering sense of ennui here. Miami always made me feel like I was on steroids.”

“Maybe it’s just what we call island fever. It hits us all sometimes. We get off the key for a few days and it goes away. We’re always glad to get back.”

“Maybe that’s what it is. I feel like I’ve been on vacation, and now I’m ready for it to end so that I can get back to work.”

“Do I fit into this scenario?”

“You may be the only reason I’m still here.”

“Tell me,” I said.

“It’s not easy to figure out, Matt. I have feelings for you, maybe more than I have a right to, but I’ve kept you at a distance because I don’t want to get trapped on this island if it isn’t working out for me.”

“How would I trap you?”

“Would you leave here?”

“Probably not.”

“So if I fall in love with you, and you won’t leave the island, I’ve either got to stay here or lose you. It’s a trap.”

“It’s a trap for me as well,” I said.

“How?”

“If I’m in love with you and you decide to leave, I’ll either have to go with you or stay here without you. Either way, I get a broken heart because
I had to make a decision which of my two loves, LBK or J.D., I’d have to give up.”

She grinned. “Damn. Everybody says you were a great lawyer.”

“Were?”

“Are, I guess. You make a heck of a case.”

“But do I get the verdict?”

“Which verdict?”

“The one where you stay here and take up with me.”

“Here comes Jock.”

“And the verdict?”

She patted my hand, withdrew hers, and smiled. “We’ll talk.” Her mood seemed to have lifted a bit.

Jock came in brushing rain off his bald head. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I stopped by Matt’s to get into some dry clothes.”

“Did you turn up anything?” I asked.

“Maybe. There were fingerprints on the gun that didn’t belong to Gene. Forensics is running them now. We’ll see.”

“Did the gun belong to Gene?” asked J.D.

“The cops don’t think so,” said Jock. “The serial number was filed off, but that might just mean that Gene got it from the agency. The director is checking on that.”

“Did Gene call anybody before he died?” asked J.D.

“No. He didn’t call the director, and if he’d called someone else in the agency, it would have been reported immediately. No 911 calls either. Bill Lester checked.”