Fatal Decree (3 page)

“Are we going fishing?” he asked.

“Finish your coffee and let’s go.”

A T-dock jutted from my backyard into the bay. My boat,
Recess
, a twenty-eight-foot Grady-White walk-around fishing machine with a small cabin and twin 250-horsepower Yamaha outboard engines, rested against the pilings at the end of the pier.

We loaded the gear on
Recess
and pulled away from the dock. We went to Annie’s at the foot of the Cortez Bridge, bought bait and beer, and headed for a man-made reef about seven miles off shore. The seas were flat and we made good time. We fished for a couple of hours and didn’t catch anything worth keeping. We gave up and ran back to the Mar Vista Pub for lunch.

We decided to try fishing the bay in the afternoon, but were no more successful than we’d been in the morning. We were about to give it up for
the day when my cell phone sounded the first few bars of
The Girl from Ipanema,
the special ringtone I’d assigned to J.D.

“Isn’t Gene Alexander a friend of yours?” she asked.

“Sure is. Why?”

“The lady we found this morning was his wife, Nell.”

“Shit.”

“It looks as if your tidal calculations might be right. He lives in Emerald Harbor, but he’s not at home. Any idea where he might be?”

“He and Les Fulcher went to Alaska on a fishing trip last week. I think they’re due in tonight.”

“Thanks, Matt. I guess I’ll have to wait to notify him.”

“I’ve got his cell phone number if you want it.”

“I’ll wait. That’s not the kind of news you give somebody over the phone. Besides, if he’s already on his way home, he’s probably on a plane. I’ll meet him at the airport tonight.”

“Any other developments?” I asked.

“Nothing much. The cause of death was a gunshot to the back of the head. Small caliber. The slug was still in her brain. She never knew what hit her.”

“That’s the good news, I guess.”

“I guess. We’ll see if ballistics can match this slug to any other murders in the state. The lab is working on that now.”

“You want some dinner?” I asked.

“Afraid not. I’ve got a lot of work to do tonight.”

“You’ve got to eat sometime.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Meet us at Moore’s. We’re in Palma Sola Bay, fishing. It’s almost five now. We can be there by six.”

“Okay. A quick grouper sandwich and I’m back to work.”

Moore’s Stone Crab Restaurant has clung to the edge of Sarasota Bay for more than forty years, serving up large helpings of seafood, much of it caught earlier that day by the restaurant’s own boats. The stone crabs had just come into season, and the place was packed. Jock and I took seats at the U-shaped bar that was separated by a wall from the restaurant proper.
A large stuffed tarpon dominated the west wall of the bar, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black Label stuck spout first into its mouth. The north wall was mirrored and TV sets perched in their brackets in each corner, both tuned to a sports channel. Large windows were set into the south wall, giving a view twelve miles down the bay to the city of Sarasota.

My friend Debbie no longer worked there, and I missed her every time I came into the place. She’d gotten married at the end of the summer to a man who owned a small chain of movie theaters in the Midwest.

They’d moved to Lakewood Ranch out east of I-75, and Debbie was managing a high-end restaurant in the small village that catered to the wealthy retirees who had bought the homes that bordered the golf courses. I’d had dinner with the happy couple the week before and kept up with her through regular e-mails.

Barbara had taken Debbie’s place behind the bar and was fast making friends of all the regulars. She put a Miller Lite in front of me, and I introduced her to Jock. He ordered and she went for his O’Doul’s.

“I gathered from your phone call with J.D. that you knew the lady they found in the bay,” Jock said.

“I’ve only met her a time or two, but I know her husband, Gene Alexander. He’s a friend of Les Fulcher.”

“Shit.” Jock pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and punched a button, waited, then, “Dave, did Gene Alexander retire to Longboat Key, Florida?” Silence. “Yeah. I think his wife’s been killed. I’ll call you back when I know more.” He hung up.

“What is it, Jock?” I asked.

“Alexander was one of ours.”

“He worked for your agency?”

“Yes. Can’t be two Gene Alexanders on this island. Does the guy you know have just one leg?”

“Yeah. He lost a battle with a land mine in Vietnam. He wears a prosthesis though, and if he has on long pants, you’d never know it.”

“Gene was one of our analysts. A damn good one, too. Worked for us for thirty years and retired. I heard that he’d moved here last year. I was planning to look him up for a beer this trip.”

“Did you know his wife?” I asked.

“I’ve known her for years, but it was more of an office wife sort of thing. We never socialized. It just wasn’t the kind of thing you do in an agency like ours. I worked a lot with Gene. He had an eye for the unusual blips in all the intel that came across his desk. He saved my ass more than once by keeping me a step ahead of the opposition. Did you say Gene was in Alaska?”

“Yeah. He and Les Fulcher went out there on a fly-fishing trip. Due back this evening.”

“Some homecoming. I wonder if J.D. would let me go with her to notify Gene.”

“Ask her.”

J.D. was walking through the door that separated the bar from the restaurant. She looked tired and a little sad. Murder was a rarity in our island world, but she’d seen a lot of it in the years she’d worked homicide for the Miami-Dade Police Department. It wasn’t something anybody ever got used to. She took a seat on the stool between us, the one we’d saved for her.

Barb came over with a glass of white wine. “Hey, J.D.,” she said. “I heard about the murder over near Sister Key. I guess you’ve been busy today.”

J.D. gave her a sad smile. “Unfortunately, yes. And my day isn’t over, so I’ll have to make do with this one glass. Can we move over to that table?” She pointed to a four top by the windows.

“Sure.”

We took our drinks to the table. J.D. said, “I wanted to talk about today, but I didn’t want the whole bar to hear about it. Lord knows, news travels fast enough on this island as it is.”

“J.D.,” Jock said, “I know Gene Alexander.” He explained the relationship to his agency and told her that they’d worked together a number of times over the years. “I’d like to go with you to make the notification.”

“I don’t see why not,” J.D. said. “He and Les are due into Sarasota-Bradenton at ten thirty tonight.”

“Do you know any more than you did this morning?” I asked.

“Not much. Other than the identification. The autopsy confirmed that she died from a gunshot to the head. The bullet was still there, a twenty-two-caliber, light load. It was meant to kill, but not exit the body. The
ballistics guy called me a few minutes ago. Said the bullet came from the same gun that killed the three women in Miami twelve years ago.”

“Are you thinking the same killer?” I asked.

“I don’t know. The killings in Miami had a ritual feel to them. This one looks more like a crime of opportunity. Same gun, same signature, but it’s the only one in twelve years. It might be a copycat, but I can’t explain the initials on the back of Nell’s neck.”

“What does Miami-Dade think?” I asked.

“Not much. They’re stumped. The twelve-year gap is the puzzler. They’re going back through cases and trying to see if anybody we looked at then might have been in prison for the past twelve years and just got out. They’re also checking on people I put away for other crimes. See if anybody who might hold a grudge is out now.”

“But you don’t think it’s the same guy,” I said.

“Who knows? But, this killing fits the pattern of the ones in Miami. The victim’s appearance generally matched the whale tail victims. Lots of circular thinking here.”

“Maybe you just don’t want to see the pattern.” I said. “If it’s the same murderer, why place a body where you were sure to be involved in the investigation?”

She just looked at me. Like I’d said what she’d been thinking, but didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Were you involved in those cases in Miami?” I asked.

“Mostly on the periphery of the investigation. I was a rookie detective and did some of the legwork, but that was all.”

Jock said, “Could there be a connection to you?”

“Maybe. We finally found the other end of the rope tied to a tree on Sister Key.”

“So the body didn’t drift up from Emerald Harbor,” I said.

“No. She’d been tied to a tree right across from my condo. If the rope hadn’t broken, I would have been able to see the body from my place.”

“You worked the case in Miami,” said Jock, “even if you were only involved a little. What if Nell’s murder was a signal to you? The killer would have known that the ballistics lab would connect the gun to the killings in Miami.”

“I guess that’s a possibility, but it seems a little far-fetched,” she said.

“Even so,” said Jock, “if the body today was meant for you for some reason, I’d think the people you ought to be looking at are ones you put away.”

“Do you think it’s a coincidence that the body was left near your condo?” I asked.

“That’d be one hell of a coincidence,” said Jock.

“I agree with Jock,” said J.D., “but why now? It’s been a long time. I don’t think the killer’s been asleep for the past dozen years.”

“Have you had anything unusual happen in the past few days?” Jock asked.

“Not really. If this was meant for me somehow, the murderer must have gone to some length to find out where I live. Cops aren’t listed in your usual databases.”

“Matt,” Barb called from behind the bar, “do you guys want to eat?”

I nodded and she brought three menus to the table. We gave her our order, and she disappeared into the kitchen.

Jock said, “I’ve got to make a call,” and stepped out onto the lanai that overlooked the bay.

“Where do you go from here?” I asked J.D.

“I’ll talk to the victim’s husband. See if he knows something that can give us a starting point. We didn’t turn up anything at Emerald Harbor.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

She smiled. “No. Just be ready to put up with a stressed-out cop.”

“Is there any other kind?”

“Some days are worse than others.”

“I’m concerned about you being a target of some kind of psychopath.”

“I’m probably not. We’ll find the connection to the gun, and maybe that’ll give us Nell’s killer. Stop worrying.”

Jock rejoined us. “J.D., I’ve been on the phone with Dave Kendall, my director. He said that our agency will do whatever we can to help. We’re at your disposal.”

“I appreciate that, but I don’t think this has anything to do with your agency.” J.D. said.

“Dave’s not convinced of that. Even if it isn’t connected to the agency, Gene is one of ours, and Dave wants the son of a bitch who killed his wife.”

J.D. smiled. “Jock, I think you might be one of those crazy conspiracy theorists. You’re trying to decide whether the killer is after me or your agency. It’s probably neither. Just a random crime.”

Jock chuckled. “My work tends to bring out the paranoia, but it’s saved my butt a bunch of times.”

“We’ll see,” said J.D.

Barb brought our food and took another drink order. J.D. asked for iced tea. Our conversation turned to island gossip, the weather, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, the beauty of our view down the bay as the lights of downtown Sarasota began to wink on, responding to the gathering darkness. We were trying to empty our minds of dark thoughts of murder and the damage it would do to a good man who would live the rest of his life without the woman he loved.

It was a little past seven when we left the restaurant. The sun was gone and darkness was enveloping our island, moving rapidly from east to west. A slight chill rode the onshore breeze that ruffled the water of the bay. A gull cackled somewhere in the distance, a dog barked in response, and then the quiet of an early evening surrounded us. We stood on the shell parking lot next to J.D.’s unmarked police car. She said, “I’m going home to a hot shower and a change of clothes.”

“Do you want me to meet you at your place?” asked Jock.

“No. I’ll pick you up at Matt’s in about an hour. Maybe I’ll have something more from Miami by then.”

Her cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. “Blocked,” she said. “It’s probably Sharkey.” She answered, was quiet for a moment, and then closed the phone. She had a look on her face, grim determination maybe, or anger. I couldn’t tell.

“What?” I asked.

“I think it was the killer.”

That brought me up short. “What did he say?”

“He said, ‘You’re next, bitch. Or maybe not. But later.’”

“Those were his exact words?” Jock asked.

“Exactly.” She pulled a notebook from her purse and wrote down the quote.

“J.D.,” I said, “this is serious. Take Jock with you tonight. I’ll take the boat home.”

“Don’t, Matt,” she said with an edge to her voice. “I’m not some freaking meter maid. I’m a cop. I’ve got a gun. I can shoot. I hope the bastard does come after me. It’ll be the last time he tries to kill a woman.”

I’d forgotten for a moment how steely she could be. She was a woman making it in what had traditionally been a man’s job. She took my comment as an insult. “Sorry, Detective,” I said. “I know you can take care of yourself. But I still worry about you.”

She softened a little, her face relaxing, and a smile beginning to play around her mouth. “Don’t,” she said. “But I’m glad you do. I’ll see you in an hour.” She kissed me on the cheek, got in her car, and drove off.

“You’re making progress, podna,” said Jock. “You’ll notice that she didn’t kiss me.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but you’re butt ugly.”

Still, I had noticed and wondered if the kiss meant anything.

Jock and I ran the boat up the lagoon to my cottage. I pulled her into the dock, secured the lines, and washed her down with fresh water while Jock cleaned our fishing gear. I flushed both engines, turned off the dock lights, and we went to the house. I fixed a pot of coffee, thinking we might have a long night. I didn’t know what to expect when Jock and J.D. gave Gene the news of his wife’s death.