Killer Listing (10 page)

Darby’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Helen’s voice in the next room.

“Go ahead and try, Marty, but you won’t get anywhere!”

Darby didn’t want to eavesdrop, but it was impossible to ignore Helen’s words and angry tone of voice.

“Don’t you threaten me. Look, as far as I’m concerned, this conversation is over.” The phone receiver hit something hard. Moments later Helen stormed into the kitchen, her short hair standing straight up like the bristles on a boar’s head brush.

“That man is such a jerk! No wonder poor Kyle wanted out of there. He’s an absolute ass, that’s what he is. Ugh!” She stomped back into the living room and returned with her Mojito. After taking a gulp, she explained.

“You probably guessed that was Marty Glickman. He claims that Tag Gunnerson’s assistant—the guy I talked to—consulted with a Barnaby’s broker, Peter Janssen, about a year ago. They discussed the listing of St. Andrew’s Isle. He says that Peter then referred the listing to Kyle, and that she had promised to pay a hefty referral fee. He’s just found out about our appointment for tomorrow, and needless to say, he’s enraged. He says that listing belongs to Barnaby’s.”

Darby regarded Helen thoughtfully. Unfortunately, disputes over clients were common everywhere, although she’d managed to avoid getting tangled up in any conflicts in California. Not that Darby Farr wasn’t competitive: she hadn’t risen to the top of the ladder in the lucrative Southern California market by being a pushover. It was more that Darby was a consummate professional, and to her, these disputes brought up the seamier side of real estate: the side consumed by greed.

Helen let out a big sigh. “I hate these kinds of things, but Darby, I know that Kyle would have mentioned any referrals to me. Something about this just doesn’t make sense.”

Darby heated the oil and butter in a pan. “Is this referral agreement in writing?”

Helen nodded. “So Glickman says. He’s sending it to me tomorrow.” She watched as Darby began to gently sauté the sole.

“Kyle told me about this listing. Not in so many words, but she told me she was getting a fabulous property once she left Barnaby’s. I’m sure it was St. Andrew’s Isle, and I know she didn’t want them having any part of it.”

“Who is the other broker?”

“Janssen? In his sixties, fairly successful. He’s nice enough, although too much of a salesman type for my taste.” She shook her head. “Why in the world would he have given Kyle the listing in the first place? I mean, you don’t just give away a forty- or fifty-million-dollar property, now do you?”

Darby watched as her friend took a deep breath and made an effort to calm herself.

“That fish smells absolutely delicious. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that idiot Marty Glickman ruin my dinner. We’ll straighten the whole thing out tomorrow when we meet with Tag.” Helen sat down at the table and giggled. “Listen to that, Darby! The best golfer in the whole damn world and I just called him ‘Tag’, like I’ve known him my whole life.”

Darby brought the platter of
sole meuniere
to the table and took a seat.

“You know how it goes, Helen. Once you sell his house, you’ll be his new best friend. I wouldn’t be surprised if you get to play a few rounds with him.”

Helen picked up her fork and grinned. “That would be great,” she said, scooping up a piece of the sole. “I’d like to talk to him about his chip shot. Seems to me he’s turning his wrist.”

_____

Chellie Howe got the call from her press secretary just as she was preparing for an infrequent night at home with order-in Chinese food and a movie.

“What is it?” she snapped, wishing for the hundredth time that she could unplug all the devices that kept her wired to her staff all hours of the day and night. She was alone—Foster was in Miami at a baseball game and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow—and craving some quiet.

“The Stuart police have the Kondo Killer in custody,” Mindy Jackson said. “They got him just an hour ago. A guy named Cyril Shank, ex-con with a long list of priors. I’m at Esperanza Shores with the gathering multitude. Thought you’d want to get over here and say something.”

Chellie rose to her feet. “Damn right. Who’s there?”

“WCVB and WLKZ are on their way. I’ll get the rest of them, don’t worry. Your statement is already written. Want a car?”

“No, I’m planning to walk, Mindy! Of course I want a car.” She strode toward her closet and glanced at her clothes. “E-mail me what I’m saying. I’ll be ready in two minutes.” Chellie grabbed a few hangers with dry cleaned suits and chose a flattering but conservative charcoal gray jacket and pants in a light summer silk. She dressed quickly, and then grabbed her make-up bag and Smartphone and bolted down the stairs.

The car was waiting outside the townhouse. Chellie yanked open the door and slid across the seat. “Go ahead,” she ordered, snapping open a compact and brushing her nose and chin with pressed powder. The rest of her make-up application took only minutes, as did her review of her statement. She changed a word or two and took a deep breath as the car pulled up in front of the condo unit where Kyle Cameron’s mangled body had been discovered the day before. She glanced at the news vans and crews and gritted her teeth. “Showtime,” she said softly, opening her car door.

Mindy Jackson was at her side like a shadow. “You’re on right after Detective Briggs,” she said, guiding Chellie toward a phalanx of camera crews and reporters. “Tallahassee said to say the usual.” She paused, frowning. “Don’t take any questions.”

Chellie flashed her aide a look. She knew Mindy’s concern stemmed from her ever-present worries about Foster and his inability to keep his pants on. “I can handle the press,” she said.

Mindy shrugged. “Do what you want. You’re the one who thinks she’s going to run for governor next fall.”

Chellie bit back a retort as they arrived at the cluster of cameras, reporters, and curious onlookers. Jonas Briggs, one of the hunkiest cops in Florida, was standing next to the Sarasota Police Commissioner. Chellie caught Briggs’ eye and gave him a hint of a smile, then pursed her lips and listened as the Commissioner cleared his throat and began.

“At fourteen hundred hours today a task force from Stuart, Florida, raided a property and apprehended a suspect in the stabbing deaths of three real estate agents.” He looked up from his notes and fixed the cameras with a somber stare. “A warrant to search the property was issued only an hour before the search, using intelligence gathered by departments on both coasts, as well as the Florida Office of Statewide Intelligence. Evidence found inside the home was sufficient for the law enforcement officials present to apprehend the occupant. The suspect was alone and taken by surprise. He is now in custody in Stuart and awaiting charges.”

“I’d like to recognize and commend the collaborative work by all of the Serenidad Key police and homicide detectives and Stuart and Daytona Beach detectives and prosecutors in their efforts to track down and bring to justice the person believed to be responsible for the death of three young women, one of them our very own Kyle Cameron of Serenidad Key. I hope this arrest provides in some small measure a level of relief and comfort to her family and friends.”

Jonas Briggs stepped up to the microphone as the Commissioner moved aside. “I believe Lieutenant Governor Chellie Howe has some words before I take your questions,” he said.

Chellie nodded and moved smoothly to the microphone. Ever the gentleman, Jonas Briggs was letting her go first.

“Thank you, Detective Briggs and Commissioner Conrad,” she said. She fixed the cameras with a steely gaze. “Let this be a message to anyone who would use deadly violence on our streets. The state of Florida will spare no effort to identify you and we will use our finest forces to catch you. The hardworking men and women who worked this case did so around the clock to achieve this goal, and they will continue those efforts until we bring justice to the victims’ families.” She paused. “Both Governor Harris and I wish to thank our law enforcement departments, as well as the OSI, for their thorough and timely work.”

The reporters shouted questions and Chellie could not resist staying in the camera’s bright glare for a few moments more. “I’ll take your questions,” she said, pointing at Dan Hughes, one of her favorite reporters. He began to speak when another voice, brash, insistent, and several decibels louder, drowned him out.

“Any truth to the rumor that your husband, developer Foster McFarlin was having an affair with the deceased, Kyle Cameron?”

She tasted bitter bile in her throat and fought to keep her composure. “No comment,” she snapped, stepping aside and giving Jonas Briggs a quick glance. He had read the situation and was already grabbing the microphone and assuming control.

“Let me tell you what we do know, Ladies and Gentlemen.”

Chellie felt the arm of Mindy, thin but surprisingly strong, yanking her through the crowds and back to the waiting car. She bent and sank gratefully onto the leather seat, heard the noise of the crowd abruptly cease as the car door slammed shut. Mindy’s advice to avoid questions had been correct. Chellie closed her eyes and fumed.
I should have listened
.

_____

The capture of the Kondo Killer led the stories on the ten o’clock news. Helen had gone to bed, exhausted from a long day dealing with Mitzi, and complaining of an all-over achiness in her chest and shoulders. Darby made herself a cup of organic chamomile tea and listened to Sarasota’s police commissioner laud the work of the various law enforcement agencies responsible for capturing the Kondo Killer, now identified as Cyril Shank.

She watched as a petite blonde woman took the microphone and began speaking in a forceful manner, gesturing with a pointed finger toward the crowd.

“Chellie Howe,” Darby read aloud from the title underneath the woman’s image. So this was the woman who held the position of Lieutenant Governor of the state, and was Foster McFarlin’s wife, too. Darby listened as she emphasized the need for a tougher attitude on crime in Florida. “There are other Kondo Killers out there,” Chellie warned. “We’ve got to get them where they live.”

Darby switched off the television and headed down the hall to her room. Grabbing her cell phone, she called ET and was pleased to hear his melodic voice.

“I figure you’re just settling down to watch ‘Stage My House,’ ” she teased. “Am I right?”

He gave a low chuckle. “Close. An intriguing series on how to renovate the classic American split-level. Who knew a raised ranch could look this good?”

Darby laughed. “Any luck on my Florida license?”

She heard the rustle of papers. “Yes, and luck is the operable word. Just this year the Sunshine State decided to include California as one of the ten states for which they offer mutual recognition of licenses.”

“So what does that mean?”

“You need to take—and pass—a Florida-specific real estate law examination. Forty questions, each one point in value. A grade of thirty points or higher and you’re licensed.”

“Good work. Any idea where and when I can take it?”

“Again good fortune has smiled on you, Darby Farr. There is a test on Thursday in Sarasota.”

“And—”

“And you are already signed up.” ET was quiet for a moment. “I want to thank you again for offering to help me. You can’t imagine what the loan of this money means to me—and my family.”

“Listen, ET, we’re a team. Thanks to you, I’m able to go jetting off on these trips. How else could I manage my clients and their deals?” She stifled a yawn. “I’d better get some sleep. I’ve got to study for my test.”

“You will ace it.” His voice grew husky. “I do hope you are taking your safety seriously.”

“I’m not in any danger,” Darby replied. “The murderer has been captured.” The image of Kyle Cameron’s pulverized body flashed into her mind and she shuddered. The serial killer was in police custody; she and other real estate agents across the state were out of harm’s way. And yet why did ET’s admonishment give her the chills?

Darby Farr was stepping
into her sneakers for an early morning run when her cell phone rang. She answered it quickly, before it could rouse Helen, and was surprised to hear the voice of Detective Jonas Briggs.

“Sorry to phone you at the crack of dawn, Darby, but I know you are an early riser. I’m wondering if we could meet sometime this morning, before Kyle’s service. I’ve got a lot on my plate but I’d really like to speak with you.”

“I’m just about to head out for a run. Would you like me to meet you somewhere now?”

“That would be super. How about where I spotted you last time, in front of the Belle Haven. Sound okay to you?”

“Sure. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Fine.” He paused. “As a police detective, I can’t resist telling you to be careful.”

“Thanks.” She hung up, wondering at the note of anxiety in Jonas Briggs’ voice.

_____

Darby pounded down the streets surrounding Helen’s little bungalow before cutting over toward the heart of town. It was already hot and humid, and she marveled that Floridians could take the sultry heat day after day. She remembered her aunt Jane, adjusting to her first few Maine winters, and smiled. Cold or hot, it wasn’t easy to reset an internal thermometer. Little wonder Jane Farr had favored thick wool sweaters year round in Hurricane Harbor.

Belle Haven—or rather the site where Belle Haven had been—looked even more forlorn than before. Trash was piled in a corner of the lot and a pile of bricks that had once comprised the chimney spilled onto the sidewalk. The smell of burnt timbers and the odor of grease mingled and hung rank in the still air. Darby wondered if Jonas Briggs was any closer to figuring out how the destructive blaze had begun.

A touch on her elbow caused her to jump.

“Are you waiting for Detective Briggs?” It was a uniformed police officer in her twenties, with curly red hair and freckles. She smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Kelly McGee from the department. Detective Briggs was held up a few moments. He asked me to take you around the corner to his favorite breakfast place and he’ll be along very shortly.” She smiled again. “It’s a quick walk and they have fabulous sticky buns. He asked me to order him one.”

Darby smiled at the police officer’s enthusiasm. “Sure. Sticky buns are high on my list of favorite foods as well.”

On the walk to the restaurant, Kelly McGee told Darby about her childhood in Philadelphia, her years at the Police Academy, and the admiration she had for Detective Jonas Briggs. “He’s just one of those guys who is so nice, you know what I mean? He doesn’t need to be Mr. Macho all the time, and that’s refreshing, especially in a cop.”

Darby nodded, but Kelly wasn’t finished.

“He’s a hard worker, too. The way he cracked this condo murder case? Really impressive. He worked with some other departments, but I know he was the one who pulled it all together.” She blushed. “Here he comes now.”

Darby looked down the street and saw the muscular figure of Jonas Briggs jogging to meet them. He was wearing tan pants and a white shirt with a navy jacket zipped halfway up. The nautical style seemed to suit him.

The detective stopped in front of them, removed his jacket, and wiped his brow. “Whew. It’s hot already.” He pointed at the restaurant’s façade. “You two didn’t get that far. Was she late for our appointment, Officer McGee?”

The redhead shook her curls and blushed more deeply. “No, sir. We were having a little chat as we walked here.” She smiled at Darby and gave Jonas a shy glance. “I’m headed back to the station for the Wednesday department meeting. Enjoy your um … sticky bun.”

Jonas Briggs thanked her and turned to Darby, oblivious to the young officer’s parting glance.

“Thanks for coming down. Let’s grab a table and some coffee.”

Briggs ushered Darby into the restaurant and chose a table in the corner. The scent of cinnamon was so strong she could taste it. The detective placed an order, and, when the waitress had left, reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a photograph.

“Ever seen this man?”

It was a mug shot of a man in his sixties, with a haggard face and gray streaked hair badly in need of a trim. Darby looked at it carefully but did not recognize the face.

“No.”

Detective Briggs nodded as if he’d been expecting Darby’s answer. “This is Clyde Hensley,” he said, waving the glossy image, “He’s on parole from a prison in Texas. We suspect he’s been involved in quite a few illegal activities over the years, but the one the guys on the panhandle finally nabbed him on was running an unlicensed tourist business. You see, Mr. Hensley’s got himself a boat, some cable and a parasail. Our friend here had a good thing going—he’d get money up front, take people up for thirty minutes or so, and then drink it away in a bar that night. Just one problem: once in a while his cable—which of course he never inspects—snaps. And then it’s good-bye parasailors.” He looked up as the waitress arrived with their coffees and sticky buns. “Last time his customers just got roughed up. This time, they weren’t so lucky.”

“What happened?”

Jonas Briggs’ face grew sober. “Young girl, twenty-one years old, here with her boyfriend having some fun in the sun. They take a ride with Hensley, his cable snaps, and the couple drifts—right into some electrical wires. The young lady was killed.”

Darby put down her coffee cup. “That’s horrible.”

“For her as well as her boyfriend. She was electrocuted before his very eyes.” Detective Briggs spooned two heaping teaspoonfuls of sugar into his coffee and sighed. “Luckily he was able to give us a description of Hensley. This time, we’ll be able to put him away for a long time.”

“So he’s still at large?”

“Unfortunately, yes. The incident—ah heck, the tragedy—happened Monday.”

Darby was silent. She felt for the young couple whose only mistake had been to choose the wrong parasail operator. She sipped her coffee and waited for the detective to resume his story.

“Now, where does Darby Farr come into all this?” Jonas Briggs took a gulp of his coffee. “I’ll tell you after you have a bite or two of that bun.”

The pastry was flaky and studded with cinnamon and raisins and covered with a light glaze. “Fabulous,” Darby commented after taking a bite. “I’m going to have to run all day to work it off, but it is delicious.”

Jonas Briggs laughed. “Life is too short to worry about sugar,” he said. “That’s my motto.” He took another gulp of coffee. “I wanted to speak to you because when we searched Hensley’s apartment we found some photographs.” He reached in his jacket. “This one I think you will recognize.”

Darby picked up the glossy black and white and saw herself. She had her sunglasses on, head down, pocketbook on her shoulder, and was walking past two or three café tables. She didn’t need to look at the image for more than a second before she knew the time and place it was taken. “That was yesterday, at Jack Cameron’s restaurant. Helen and I went there for lunch, around twelve o’clock.” Darby looked at the photo again. “This was taken when we were leaving. I’d say the photographer was seated at the bar.”

“That’s right.” Jonas Briggs reached for the photograph. “The question is, why did he take a photograph of you?”

Darby frowned. “I have no idea.”

Jonas Briggs took another bite of his sticky bun and chewed thoughtfully. “The bartender confirmed Hensley was sitting at the bar while you and Helen were having lunch. When you left, he asked who you were, but the bartender—his name is Marco—didn’t know.” He spread his hands on the checkered tablecloth. “There’s more to the puzzle. In Hensley’s apartment we found dozens and dozens of photographs of another person—Kyle Cameron.”

Darby felt a chill come over her. She searched the detective’s face to see his reaction but his expression was impassive.

“Kyle? What was she doing?”

“Everyday life. Running errands, going to work, meeting people for dinner … Looking at the images, I estimate that Clyde Hensley spent a good part of his day—for several weeks—following her around and snapping pictures.”

“She never knew?”

“Nah. We found his lenses. Telephoto, so chances are she never even saw him.”

“So what’s the connection between Kyle and this man?”

“Now you’re asking the million-dollar question.” He took another bite of his sticky bun, chewed some more, and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“What is the link between them? So far, we haven’t been able to establish anything. Hensley gets out of jail in Texas, comes to Florida, establishes his fly-by-night parasailing operation, and starts taking pictures of Kyle Cameron. She gets killed and a day later he takes photos of you. Why?”

Darby shook her head. “I wish I could help you. I don’t have any idea.”

Jonas Briggs signaled for the waitress to bring the check. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you while you’re here. We haven’t found Hensley yet and perhaps he’s not finished shadowing you. I owe it to the family of that poor girl to find him as quickly as possible.”

Darby nodded. “At least the Kondo Killer is in custody. That must be a relief to your department.”

Jonas Briggs gave the waitress his credit card and waited for her to depart. “That brings us to the last thing you need to know. I’m telling you something in strictest confidence.” He paused. “I do not believe Kyle’s murder has been solved.”

“You mean the Kondo Killer wasn’t captured?”

“Cyril Shank? Oh, he was captured alright. And there is little doubt he committed two murders on the East Coast, and possibly more.” Jonas Briggs paused. “But in my opinion, he was not the man who killed Kyle Cameron.”

“What are you saying? Someone else murdered Kyle? ”

Jonas Briggs looked off to the side then back at Darby. “I’m afraid I can’t give you all the details. But there are certain elements of the crime—certain signature elements—that have made me suspicious from the beginning.” His face hardened. “My superiors don’t share my point of view, but I don’t think the Kondo Killer was Kyle’s murderer. I think she was intended to look like one of his victims.”

“A copycat?”

“Exactly. Which means—” he looked directly into her face and his expression was grim. “Kyle Cameron’s killer is still out there.”

“Clyde Hensley?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t fit what we know of his profile, but he was obviously following Kyle for several weeks. Could he be the killer? And if he is, are you his next target?”

_____

Helen Near steered her Lexus onto the causeway to St. Andrew’s Isle, paused at the gatehouse, and gave a low whistle. “Holy cow,” she breathed, slapping Darby on the shoulder. “Take a look at this approach. Is this incredible, or what?”

Darby smiled at Helen’s enthusiasm, happy to shake the feeling of foreboding she’d felt since speaking with Jonas Briggs. Before them was a palm-tree lined drive, perfectly landscaped, curving gently around undulating acres of lush green grass.

“Would I ever love to play this private course,” Helen whispered, as the gatekeeper verified their appointment and waved them on. She stepped on the gas and started down the winding drive. “Course we don’t have time today, with Kyle’s funeral and all, not to mention the fact that you’ve got to hit the books and study.”

The Lexus’ wheels hugged the road as they curved around a bend. Before them was a lovely terra-cotta colored home with an orange tiled roof, set back from the links and bordered by beautifully landscaped pools. The turquoise water sparkled as a casually dressed man in tan pants and a golf shirt sauntered up to the car.

“Justin,” he said, giving them a smile. “Justin Fleischman. I work for Mr. Gunnerson here at the guesthouse.”

“Guesthouse,” said Helen, shaking her head. “And here I thought it was the main residence.”

Justin Fleischman laughed. “You’re not the only one to think that,” he said. “Even Mr. Gunnerson admits it’s a little on the large side.” He pointed at the driveway. “The main house is further up the road. Don’t worry, you’ll know it.”

Helen resumed her slow drive up the roadway, coming around a bend bordered by huge bougainvilleas in brilliant shades of red. Before them was a magnificent Mediterranean-style home, similar in appearance to the guesthouse, only many times its size.

“It’s the little place on steroids,” commented Helen, climbing out of the Lexus with an admiring grin. “Check out that fountain. The tile work alone is unbelievable.”