Fatal Decree (4 page)

J.D. knocked on the front door and stuck her head inside. I waved her in. She had changed into what she called her detective uniform, navy slacks, white golf shirt with the Longboat Key Police badge embroidered on the pocket, and the belt with her Sig Sauer, pepper spray, cuffs, Taser, and God knows what else hanging off it. “Want some coffee?” I asked.

“Sure. I’ll get it.”

I heard her rummaging around in the kitchen, and in a few minutes she reappeared with a steaming cup of coffee. “Where’s Jock?”

“In the shower.”

“I’m glad he’s going with me. I hate these notifications. They always change somebody’s life. And never in a good way.”

“Gene will tough it out. He was a company commander in Vietnam. Had to write a lot of letters to parents telling them that their son had been killed in action. He once told me that was the hardest part of his job. Sometimes the kid had been cowering in a hole, too scared to even fire his weapon, and a grenade or a stray shot or a mortar round took him out. Gene always told the parents that their kid died a hero.”

“Maybe,” said J.D., “just being there doing his job was heroic.”

“I guess so. They were all heroes. Every damn one of them.”

“One of whom?” asked Jock, coming into the living room.

“Soldiers,” J.D. said.

“Yeah,” said Jock. “Yeah.”

“Miami-Dade called,” said J.D. “They can’t find a connection between anybody I put away and the whale tail killer. Most of the ones I arrested early in my career were small-time hoodlums who did a couple of years and came home. The later ones, from when I was in homicide, are either still in prison or dead. One was executed and a couple of others died of natural causes. Probably of sheer meanness. I think that’s a disease.”

“Were you able to backtrack the number of whoever called you with the threat?” I asked.

“Yeah. It was to a disposable cell phone. A dead end. The phone was bought in Miami a couple of months ago. But the call pinged off a cell tower in Bradenton. So the guy’s here.”

“Any thoughts on how he got your number?” asked Jock.

“Good question. That number was issued to the Longboat Police Department. The phone isn’t supposed to be used except for department business. When I call out on it, the number is blocked on the receiving end’s caller ID. I can’t figure out how he got the number, but the fact that it was issued to the department got us some quick action from the phone company. Martin Sharkey is going to look into it tomorrow. See if he can figure out how that number got into the hands of this jerk.”

Jock looked at his watch. “You ready to roll, J.D.?” He was dressed in his traveling clothes: black silk shirt, black trousers, black socks, and black Italian loafers. All black. Appropriate, I thought.

“Yeah. Let’s get this over with.”

They left through the front door, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Which were bleak.

The terminal at Sarasota-Bradenton International Airport was quiet. The hands of the large clock in the gatehouse moved slowly toward ten thirty. The plane coming down from Atlanta was the last of the day, and the concourse was eerily deserted. A cleaning woman pushed her cart from trash can to trash can, making the last pickup of the evening. An airline employee stood at the gatehouse counter stacking papers.

J.D. and Jock had shown their credentials to the TSA agent at the security desk, explained their purpose, and were allowed to wait at the gate for Gene Alexander and Les Fulcher. Their message would change Gene’s life forever. He was expecting to be met by his wife, but would run headlong into the worst news he’d ever heard.

It was not J.D.’s first death notification, but they never got easier. She paced the small waiting area, while Jock sat dourly, lost in his thoughts. The plane nosed into the gate, and the passengers began to deplane. They emerged from the jetway, hunched with fatigue, carrying their bags, and hurrying to home or hotel or vacation condo. Jock watched them, remembering the many nights when he had trudged off a plane in some town far from home.

J.D. stood quietly, tense, as if gathering the courage to plow unbidden into a stranger’s life and wreak the havoc that she knew her news would bring. She jerked a little as she recognized Les coming into the gatehouse. The man walking with him was stocky with a head full of iron-gray hair and a face burned by the Alaskan sun. He stood about five feet eight, several inches shorter than Les.

She moved toward the line of passengers, Jock following close behind. “Les,” she said quietly as she approached.

“J.D.,” he said, “what are you doing here this late?”

“I need to talk to Mr. Alexander.”

Les was standing still now, his instincts telling him that something was not right. He’d been a firefighter for a long time, and he knew about tragedy. He knew the look on the faces of those who carried bad news. He knew something was terribly wrong. “Gene,” he said, “this is Detective J. D. Duncan, Longboat Key Police.”

“Hello, Gene,” said Jock, moving up beside J.D.

A look of recognition and surprise crossed Alexander’s face. “Jock Algren. My God. What brings you here?”

“It’s bad, Gene. Les, would you mind checking on the luggage while J.D. and I talk to Gene?”

“No problem. Let me know if you need me.”

“Mr. Alexander,” said J.D., “let’s sit.”

They walked to a corner of the gatehouse. Alexander was worried, his face suddenly devoid of color. “What’s up, Jock?”

“Sit here, Mr. Alexander,” said J.D.

He took a seat. She sat beside him. Jock stood, his arms at his side, almost as if he were at attention.

“Mr. Alexander,” J.D. said, “there’s no easy way to tell you this. Your wife died last night. I’m so sorry.”

“What? Died? How? When?”

“She was murdered, Mr. Alexander. We don’t know why or who did it, but we’ll find him. I promise.”

He looked up at Jock, bewildered, the shock setting in. “Why are you here, Jock? Was this related to the agency in some way?”

“We have no reason to believe that, Gene. I was here visiting a friend when I heard about Nell’s death. I talked to the director. He’s put the agency at your disposal. I don’t think it was related, but we’ll do everything in our power to help the police catch the bastard who killed her.”

“Son of a bitch,” Alexander said quietly. He swiped a hand over his eyes, brushing away tears. “Son of a bitch. Where did you find her? I called her when we changed planes in Seattle and again from Atlanta. She didn’t answer. I figured she just left her cell phone somewhere.”

“Her body was in the bay near Sister Key,” said J.D. “She wasn’t killed there, and we don’t know where it happened. When was the last time you talked to her?”

“Last night. About six o’clock Sarasota time.”

“Did she mention any plans for the evening?”

“She said something about going out to eat, but I didn’t get any details.”

“Any idea about where she might have gone?”

“Not really. She would probably have stayed on the key, or maybe the Circle, but I don’t know for sure.”

St. Armands Circle is an upscale shopping and dining area on the next key south of Longboat. The islands are connected by a bridge. If Nell had been to one of the restaurants there or on Longboat, the police could probably figure it out. November was not a big month for tourists or snowbirds, so most of the customers would be locals.

“How did you find her?” asked Alexander.

J.D. told him. About the body in the water, the bullet to the head, the early morning discovery by a Coast Guard auxiliaryman. She didn’t tell him about the connection to the Miami killings.

“She didn’t suffer, then,” said Alexander. More a prayer than a statement.

“We don’t think so, Mr. Alexander,” J.D. said. “We’ll talk some more in the morning. I’d like for our crime-scene investigator to go over your house before you go back in. Would that be all right with you?”

“Why the house? Do you think she was killed there?”

“It’s a possibility. We want to be thorough.”

“You’re welcome to take a look at it.”

“Can you spend the night with Les?” J.D. asked. “I’d like to have our crime-scene guy go through the house first thing in the morning.”

“I’m sure we can work that out.”

“Do you need anything? A ride? Can I call a family member?”

“No. Les left his car in long-term parking, so we’ll make do. And there is no family. We never had children. It was just the two of us.”

They left the gatehouse and walked the empty concourse past security
and went down the escalator to the baggage claim area. “Wait here, Gene,” Jock said. “Les and I’ll get the car.”

Jock told Les about the murder as they walked to the lot. He didn’t go into details, nor did he mention the connection to Miami. That would all come in good time. Les said he’d be happy to have Gene as a houseguest for as long as needed.

The next morning was Sunday, and the island slept in. J.D. had dropped Jock off at my cottage shortly after midnight and went home to sleep. She was going to meet us for breakfast at the Blue Dolphin at ten.

As we drove down the key, I spotted two auto carriers parked in stacking lanes on Gulf of Mexico Drive, unloading the cars shipped south by their owners. They were harbingers of the approaching season, serving much the same purpose as the robins of spring in the Midwest, preparing us for the change in weather and putting us on notice that the snowbirds, those northerners who spend every winter on our island, were returning.

The Blue Dolphin was full of locals, many coming from early Mass or getting ready for the morning services at the Protestant churches on the island. Others, like Jock and me, were simply starting another day in the soft sunshine of early November, planning a fishing trip or a beach walk or a round of golf. The murder was the topic of conversation at most of the tables. Both the St. Petersburg and Sarasota papers had put the story on the front page of their Sunday editions, leaving out the details. Murder did not come to our mellow island with any regularity, and the mental image of a body floating in the bay unsettled everyone. The fact that many in the Blue Dolphin that morning knew Nell Alexander made the crime more personal, and thus, more frightening.

Jock and I took an empty table and waited for J.D. She’d called just as we were parking to tell me that she was running a few minutes late. We drank coffee as Jock told me more about his evening at the airport. He planned to call Gene Alexander later in the day to see if there was anything he needed.

J.D. arrived and took a seat. She looked beat, as if she had not slept
well. “Sorry to be late,” she said. “I’ve been at the station since eight. The forensics people started at the Alexander home at daybreak. Place was clean. Wherever Nell was killed, it wasn’t inside her house.”

“That should make things a little easier for Gene,” said Jock. “Have you called him?”

“Yes. He’s probably home by now. Another thing. There was no sign of her BMW at the house.”

A server came to the table with a pot of coffee, filled our cups, and poured one for J.D. “I guess you’ve been busy, J.D.,” the server said. “Nell was a fine lady and one of our regulars.”

“We’ll find the guy, Jeanine,” said J.D. We placed our order and Jeanine left for the kitchen.

“Did the newspapers have Nell’s name?” I asked.

“No. Just that an unidentified woman had been found dead near Sister Key. The island grapevine apparently knows about Nell, though.”

“News travels fast on the key,” I said.

J.D. laughed. “I’m still getting used to that. We may have gotten our first break in the case. We got a call early this morning from a delivery captain in Tampa. He read about the murder in the St. Pete paper.”

“Was he any help?” I knew that some people who read stories of murder want to be part of the action and will thrust themselves into it, sometimes making up evidence to enhance their value to law enforcement.

“Actually, he was. He was bringing a yacht up from Naples, heading for Tampa on the Intracoastal. There was no moon and he was moving slowly in the dark, using his spotlight to find the markers. His beam caught a boat pulled into the mangroves near the south end of Sister Key about three o’clock Saturday morning. The same area where we found the body.”

I was skeptical. “Why would an experienced captain be on the inside?” I asked. “He could make much better time out in the Gulf.”

“I asked him about that,” said J.D. “He said there were storms way out that night and the swells were pretty huge. He didn’t want to take any chances on damaging the boat, so he came inside at Boca Grande pass.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “Were there storms in the Gulf Saturday?”

“I checked. He was right about the high seas. We even got a little more erosion up by the North Shore Road beach access.”

“Did he have any details about the boat at Sister Key?” Jock asked.

“He said it was a flats boat, probably a twenty footer with a poling platform. There were no lights showing, which made the captain take a closer look. There was a man in the boat with a fishing rod who waved at the captain, so he figured it was just some fool who didn’t have enough sense to turn on his anchor light.”

“Any description of the man in the boat?” I asked.

“No. Just that he was white. He was wearing a baseball cap, shorts, and a T-shirt. Nothing more definitive.”

“That could be our guy,” said Jock. “Any chance of finding the boat?”

“Needle in a haystack,” said J.D. “A boat generally fitting the description the captain gave me was stolen Friday night from a lift behind a home up on Bimini Bay.”

“Where’s that?” asked Jock.

“North end of Anna Maria Island,” I said. “The killer probably set the boat adrift somewhere when he finished with it. It might turn up.”

Jock said, “If the killer stole the boat from Bimini Bay, he would have had to have some way to get there. Assuming he’s working alone, he could have left his car somewhere nearby, walked in, stolen the boat, and taken off. But how would he get back to his car? Wouldn’t it make sense for him to take the boat back to near where his car was parked?”