One Deadly Sister (Sandy Reid Mystery Series #1) (16 page)

Moran wanted a meeting, so Goddard drove back to the station and headed for the chief’s office. As he opened the door, he could hear Moran’s high-pitched voice criticizing the chief for the lack of progress. Moran accented his complaint with his fist in the air. “Get in here Goddard, my desk is piled high with pink call-back slips from state and national media. I need something to tell them. I could be forced into a news conference at any time.”

“You’d love those TV lights and cameras,” Goddard said.

“The chief just told me that nothing resulted from the search of Barner’s house. Let’s go back to Reid. Please assure me we still have him nailed. You know, Tallahassee keeps asking me, if I need any backup for the case. I tell them I have it under control.
Do
I have it under control, Goddard?”

“It’s circumstantial but pretty good. I just talked with Loraine Dellin. She  admits to having sex with Reid. He told her she wouldn’t really love him as long as Towson was alive. There’s your love triangle, your threat and your motive. The affair goes on for at least a week. On the morning of the murder, they meet again at a motel. He admits there was a gun there. There’s your means. We know they argued. Later that day Towson is found murdered.”

“And where was Loraine during all this?”

“She admits to being at the motel Saturday morning. The murder had to be between 2:15, the time noted on Barner’s service receipt and six, when he was found. She was seen at the museum at three and at five. The museum’s shift change is at four; she arrived on one guard’s shift and left on another. So she could have left in between. She could have left the museum after three, shot Towson and came back before five.”

“Is there any way you can make it cornier?” Moran said. “Your triangle theory is all wrong because it’s unexciting. I can’t stand before the national media and tell such a boring little tale of romance gone wrong. It won’t get air time.”

The chief said, “But we’ve got the killer, we just need to nail down some more evidence.”

“We have enough right now to confuse the idiot jurors I get in this town. Even so, I’m not happy because I want to land the big fish behind this plot. Don’t you get it? The victim was a state senator going to be the next Governor of Florida. Someday possibly president. It’s a political assassination. Think big...murder, money, conspiracies and influence. There’s much more to this affair. And it’s here in Park Beach, right here in my district! And what do you do? You hand me a tidy little love triangle? You’re missing the big picture.”

Goddard knew the state attorney dreamed about this case developing into some notorious national intrigue that would propel him into the U.S. Senate.

“This isn’t an impulsive killing or a crime of passion,” Moran continued. “Towson was an important person. When they bump off big people, there’s always money and power in the mix. Anyone can get himself killed over a boneheaded love triangle and some mixed up sex. Forget
cherchez la femme
. With the big cats, look for the money and power. Find the big connection. There’s something there! Has to be. What do we know about the third woman in the statement, Norma Martin? I hear she’s Latina. I suspected there was a foreign angle to this.”

The chief answered, “In this case, the total of your foreign angle might only be a quiet Cuban-American restaurant nine miles away. Have you eaten out at the Jardin? Rice, beans, all that good stuff. Norma Martin fronts for the owners and runs it. National crime has nothing on her.”

“Not good enough,” Moran snapped. “We know Cuban-American money interests were opposing the election of Towson. Where there’s smoke there’s fire. What does she actually have to say, Goddard? Let me see her statement.”

Goddard realized he had his priorities wrong. Moran had him. He should have talked to her much sooner. “She’s on my list. I haven’t met with her yet.”

“You haven’t met with her yet! Damn it to hell, you’ve been fiddling around with old-lady neighbors and the local exterminator. Meanwhile, the hit man from Philadelphia drops the name of Norma Martin, who fronts for unnamed Cuban interests. How many times would she have to bite you on the ass, before you’d turn around and investigate?”

“She’s next on my list to interview.”

“Slick work, Goddard. Only five days after the murder and already you’re thinking about talking with the principals in the case.”

Goddard knew he had screwed up by not developing secondary suspects. Norma Martin might even have skipped town by now or destroyed evidence. “I was headed out there when you called me back in.” That stretched the truth.

“Reid isn’t some jealous lover. He was paid to do this,” Moran said. “Get out of here and find the big boys who hired him.”

Goddard left and headed for the Jardin Café beyond the edge of town. He had taken far too long to contact Norma Martin and wasn’t happy with himself about that. He didn’t know her connection to all this. He did know she fronted for some corporation. And now, she’s had plenty of time to run.

Fortunately, he found her still around. The restaurant wasn’t open, so he waited at the back door while a worker went to find Mrs. Martin. She appeared dressed in the customary hostess-style dark dress with a white collar, all covered just now with an oversized apron. In her late fifties, he guessed. Slim, attractive, with a slightly exotic look. She greeted him and motioned toward a booth at the rear of the main dining area. She lit a cigarette as soon as they sat. "Sign says no smoking," he said, to get the conversation started.

"Rank has its privileges."

"So you own this place?" He knew she didn’t.

"Lock stock and fish barrel, been at this since I was a little girl."

"Do you know why I'm here?"

"Most likely Senator Towson, it’s all over TV. What happened to our quiet little town?”

“How do you know him?”

“He made reservations and brought guests here. Not often, but enough for me to know who he was."

"Where do you live? I couldn't find you in the directory?"

"Been living in my cook's place, nice condo and she's never there."

"Give me her name. I need some kind of address for you."

"Elena Duarte, on Banyon Street,” she said with some hesitation. “But this is really my address. I’ve an office here, get all my calls and mail here. On nights when I’m exhausted, which are most nights, I even sleep here."

“Where were you last Saturday, the day Towson was killed?”

“Saturday? I would have been grocery shopping and every day back here by four.”

“Ever been in Towson’s apartment?”

“No!” She nervously crushed her cigarette in the ashtray. “Be right back.” She slid out of the booth.

After she disappeared into the kitchen, he picked up her cigarette butt with a napkin and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

Minutes later she returned. She stood with her arms folded across her chest and announced, “I’m too busy to talk with you. I know nothing about any murder. Please don’t bother me again.”

“Better here, Mrs. Martin, than down at police headquarters.” That line was always worth a try.

“As a matter of fact, it
isn’t
better here. I can’t talk to you anywhere. Please leave.”

Back in his vehicle, he flipped open his notebook. He had met a tense Norma Martin and possibly had DNA from her cigarette. She mentioned her cook, Elena Duarte. He brought up the address search on his patrol-car computer, nothing for Elena Duarte. Next, he tried Norma Martin. She was in there and on Banyon Street. Why had she tried to deceive him about living with her cook?

He knew, if some Tampa Cuban-Americans were connected to the murder, Norma Martin would now alert them. And they just might be the link to the bigger plot that Moran suspected and hoped for.

Towson had enemies in the Cuban community. He had publicly opposed amnesty for refugees after the 1980 Mariel boatlift. Also, he opposed legalizing casinos in Florida. And South Florida is sympathetic to the old-time families involved in Havana’s casinos before Castro kicked them out.

Goddard felt uncomfortable in this unfamiliar situation. He knew that a small town cop couldn’t run around the state checking out money trails and motives. And Moran didn’t want to bring in state investigators. Didn’t want them butting in, taking over and taking credit.

So, far, Norma Martin was the only link to a possible Tampa connection. An important link, if DNA from her cigarette puts her in Towson’s apartment.

Ray Reid was still the best suspect so far, although he seemed an unlikely professional hit man. Goddard needed more background on him. What did he really do in Philadelphia? It wouldn’t hurt to see if his sister could fill in some blanks. Interesting woman. Who was he kidding? He’d just flat out like to take another look at her.

He phoned attorney Jerry Kagan and after brief pleasantries asked for the phone number of Reid’s sister. Kagan was surprised with the request, and said he must check with her first to see if she wanted it given out. Goddard told him, “Then just have her meet me at the Coffee Spot on the barrier island. Thirty minutes, no later.” Kagan wouldn’t promise she’d show up.

Kagan quickly relayed the request to Sandy. Her response was, “Wants to see
me
?” She was in jeans, no time to change. She looked in the rearview mirror...could be better, but she didn’t need much daytime makeup anyway.

What was this all about? Was he going to serve a summons or a cease-and-desist order? He wasn’t the type to try to hit on her...or was he? For good or for bad she had gotten to Detective Chip Goddard.

S
andy Reid crossed the Intracoastal Waterway to the barrier island and drove on east to Highway A1A. Goddard had said meet at the Coffee Spot, and she knew about where to find it.

She had driven around the same area when she first arrived in Park Beach. It was late that day. After driving a thousand miles and getting warmer by the hour, she wanted to see the ocean immediately. She went directly to the beach from I-95 and parked her car in a small beachfront park.

A pleasant onshore breeze caught her hair as she walked over to the water. She walked barefoot in the pale sand along the wavering water’s edge, daring the warm hint of tide to catch her feet and slap around her ankles. A carefree moment. She could get used to this place called Florida.

This afternoon, looking for the Coffee Spot, she headed for the beachfront area again. She remembered the arrangement of low-rise condos and beachfront hotels on one side of Ocean Drive and the boutiques and restaurants facing them. She found the Coffee Spot down a few blocks away from the expensive beachfront hotels.

She liked the retro fifties décor—a neon-light clock above an old fashioned jukebox—like an old-time diner without all the stainless steel. She sat at the counter on a red-topped stool. The waitress was filling her diner-style coffee mug when Goddard came in through the swinging kitchen door directly in front of her.

“I parked in back. Let’s move over to that last booth,” he said. “I’ll sit on the far side.”

Sandy nodded and picked up her coffee. “Remember the old movies...never sit with your back to the door and never trust a skirt.”

He grinned. “Of course, everything I needed to know I learned from old movies.”

A pretty good line, she thought. And she loved the grin. How bad could he be? She raised her coffee mug, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

“How do you like Florida, Miss Reid?”

“If they ever had a day like this in Philly, they’d write a song about it.”

Nice smile, smelled good, taller than she remembered. His jaw was slightly large, no, on second thought just right. So far, so good. She had yet to see his eyes. “You going to sit there and watch me through those cop glasses?”

“Sorry.” He took them off.

Now, up close, she got a good look at him. His steel-gray eyes were set a little deep yet nicely spaced. She felt slightly timid looking at him. He was more interesting than she had anticipated, more appealing. She should have changed before meeting him. She wished she came across a little more put together right now facing this guy. “How come you don’t walk and talk like a cop.”

“How do I walk and talk?”

“More like a lifeguard.”

“I was, right here on this beach. Summer before I went off to college. But we’re not here to socialize.”

“I hope not, Detective, because I’m busy with a murder investigation.”

“Call me Chip, and you’re Sandra.”

“Sandy.” She reached across and shook his hand. It was softer than she expected. Her hand felt small.

The waitress was quick with his coffee. He waved the cream away. Sandy said, “You’re a plain black coffee kind of guy.”

“What kind is that?”

“No frills, nothing fancy added. Hold the cream and sugar, baby, take me straight to the caffeine.”

“Am I being judged here?”

“You betcha.”

“You’re an interesting girl. Your mind is always turning, isn’t it?” He blew on the coffee, took a sip and glanced up at her. “First of all, I’m sorry if I came off overbearing when we first met.”