Red Tide (Siren Publishing Classic) (31 page)

He left the water running and stood back, examining the scene from the bathroom doorway, trying to decide if it looked believable. Indecision flooded his mind on whether or not to leave the water on, and he finally decided that on would be best. There wasn’t enough blood to leave her in a tub full of water, most of it being soaked up in the sheets. A running shower would help dispel some questions, at least.

Next came the knife. He took it into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. There was still a large, pink, rare slab of London broil roast wrapped in plastic film. He sank the steak knife into it, wiggled it around for a moment, and returned the steak to the fridge. He then cleaned the knife in the kitchen sink, dried it, and returned it to the drawer with the rest, mixing it in to the middle of the knives. He hoped any residual blood on it would be masked by that of the roast.

He stuffed the pile into a black plastic garbage bag scrounged from under the kitchen sink. Tomorrow was trash day, so it would look innocent if he was spotted carrying it downstairs. He examined himself in the bathroom mirror one last time and found no visible blood. He took a towel from the linen closet, wiped the tiled bathroom floor in the off chance there were any of his own bare footprints to be found, and laid it out like a bath mat.

Satisfied, he left the bathroom light on and took the bag into the bedroom where he dressed.

What else to do?

He had the card, he cleared her cell phone and wiped his prints off with his handkerchief.

Damn!

He risked going back into the bathroom. Turning the water off for a minute, he pressed her fingers against the cell phone, then turned the water back on. There was only a drop or two of water on the phone. He carefully blew on it, drying it, trying not to erase any of her prints with the handkerchief.

He clipped it back onto her purse and relaxed. Moving quickly once again, he cleared all his things out of the apartment and gathered them by the door. The process took only a minute. Using the handkerchief again, he dialed his own number from her apartment phone and waited until his answering machine picked up before hanging up. His Caller ID would record the call, and he could honestly tell investigators he didn’t have a key to Jenna’s place. By the time she was discovered, hopefully, there would be a enough of window of opportunity where it would be plausible she called him.

He already had the story formed in his mind. The secretary had told him she acted upset during the day but didn’t say what was wrong with her. The reason, he would later explain to investigators, would be a breakup. She caught him with another woman.

The truth, in part. The more truth in the lies, the better.

When she confronted him, he simply broke up with her rather than swear to stay faithful.

She was crowding me.

She wanted more from the relationship than he was willing to give,

She wanted a commitment, wanted to get married, and we’d only been seeing each other a short time. She was obsessive.

She seemed devastated when he told her Sunday night, and he tried to find her, to make sure she was okay.

I’ll have to remember to call her apartment from my phone.

Nodding to himself, he double-checked to make sure the ID card was in his pocket. He spied her laptop on the counter and for a brief second considered penning a suicide note on it. He negated that idea and was about to leave when he reversed his decision. Using the hunt and peck method with the middle knuckles of his index fingers, he imitated women he’d seen with exceptionally long fingernails who couldn’t type conventionally, leaving no fingerprints. He kept it simple, to the point.

And the time/date on the computer file would correspond with the call on his phone, backing up the time of death and throwing investigators off the trail.

“Dear John…”

He had to force himself not to laugh at the irony of the salutation and decided to scrap that, substituting, “To Whom It May Concern,” instead.

“There’s no reason for me to go on. I love John, but I know in my heart he doesn’t share those feelings and never will. He just had me fooled. I thought he was special, but I guess I was wrong. I’m tired of keeping up this charade, of pretending I enjoy my life alone. After having someone, the emptiness is that much greater—and it’s intolerable. Please tell my family I’m sorry, but I just don’t have the energy to go on anymore—Jenna.”

He read it three times, closed his eyes, counted to ten, and read it once more. It sounded genuine, although a little melodramatic. He saved it and left it up on the screen for someone to find. He would be called a bastard by many, but better that than a murderer.

Besides, he was used to being called a bastard.

One final trip around the apartment showed nothing else. Using the handkerchief one last time, he let himself out and locked the door behind him. The garbage bag appeared totally innocent, but fortunately for John, he met no one on the stairs or in the parking lot. He tossed the bag onto the passenger-side floor of the Porsche and carefully drove away, watching for any witnesses. If there were any, he didn’t see them.

He drove in the opposite direction from his condo and dumped the trash bag into a nearly full Dumpster behind a Holiday Inn approximately ten miles from Jenna’s apartment. By this time, it was nearly four o’clock.

He stopped by Jenna’s office again, found the secretary, and pulled her to the side.

“Are you sure Jenna hasn’t called in or anything?” he asked, fixing her with his blue eyes.

She shook her head, concerned. “What’s going on? Did you two have a fight? She just wasn’t herself this morning.”

He put on as shameful a face as he could muster. “I guess she didn’t tell you.”

The secretary shook her head again.

He sighed. “I’m afraid I have to admit this was my fault.” He looked her in the eye. “She wanted a commitment out of me I wasn’t ready to give. She pressured me, and when she saw me at a bar last night, well…”

“She exploded.”

“Well, that was part of it. I told her I thought we should back up a few steps, see other people, that she was getting more serious than I was ready for right now.” He sighed again, hoping he wasn’t laying it on too thick.

The secretary, Karen, he finally remembered, looked upset. “You men are all alike, you know that?”

“I deserve it,” he meekly admitted. “I know this hurt her, but I had to do it now. It would have been worse to lie to her and lead her on.”

Karen fixed him with a steely glaze of her own. “Well, thank God you had enough sense to realize that. She’s crazy about you. How could you do this to her, you son of a bitch?”

“I know. I feel horrible about it, but I didn’t have a choice. I stopped by her apartment right before I came here, but I guess she either wasn’t home or she was ignoring me, because there wasn’t any answer when I knocked, even though her car was outside.”

He looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to run. I have to get back to Tampa. I’ve got a meeting in the morning. Next time you see her, please tell her to call me. I’m worried about her.”

He thought she mumbled some less-than-kind words at his back when he left, but that didn’t concern him. Everything added credence to his story.

He stopped at a park on the way to his condo and parked away from the few people there. Rummaging around in his briefcase, he came up with a lighter he rarely used. Melody’s ID card didn’t burn exactly, but it melted beyond recognition on the parking lot asphalt. He waited for it to cool and picked it up with his handkerchief, throwing it all away in the bathroom of a fast food restaurant he stopped at for lunch.

There were probably quite a few land speed records set during his whirlwind visit to his condo. Within ten minutes of arriving, he had everything he needed packed and sitting by the door, waiting to be loaded into the Porsche. Back in Tampa, he would make sure to detail and thoroughly clean the car.

He quickly checked his answering machine—no messages. The Caller ID showed Jenna’s number, among others.

Perfect.

The last loose end to tie up would be Mitch. She would have to be killed. Without her, their case should fall apart.

Not that he intended to be caught in the first place.

Contingency plans were very important in his line of work. All it took was the DEA or Coast Guard to capture the wrong person—or the right one, depending on your point of view—and the entire network would crumble. Although he would admit it was partially his own pride that led to this situation. It would not have progressed to this if Mitch had not involved herself.

He would take care of her himself this time.

Good help is so hard to find.

He took a last look at the condo. Probably would never see it again. Not as John Tyne, at least. Quickly loading the Porsche, he sped toward Tampa.

Sam sat in his office Monday morning and studied the case file. His gut told him Mitch was right, that John was behind not only the
Emmerand
, but the bombing as well. Yesterday’s interview with him only served to confirm the suspicion, but he had no proof, and the problem was he couldn’t get a warrant or an indictment on gut instincts.

“Dammit!”

“What’s wrong?”

Sam started at the voice and looked up. Jim McGuiness leaned against the door frame.

“I know John Tyne is our man. Problem is tying everything together to convince the State Attorney’s office and a judge to get a warrant.”

His partner nodded. “I’ve been thinking that, too. I want to go out there and take another look at the scene before we go ask for a warrant this afternoon. Out in Aripeka.”

Sam shrugged. “What the hell. I’m certainly not doing any good here. You drive.”

* * * *

There were only a few cars in the lot. They parked next to the dive shop. Sam noticed Ed’s truck was missing.

Dan looked up from the computer when they walked in. “Hi, guys. What’s up?”

“Ed and Mitch playing hooky today?” Sam asked.

Dan laughed. “I’m sure they’re playing something, but I don’t know if it’s hooky.”

It was Sam’s turn to laugh. “Probably more like slap and tickle from the way they looked the other day.”

“With a lot more tickle than slap,” Dan chimed in.

Jim shook his head. “All right, you two, quit picking on the lovebirds. Dan, you told us about a guy who came into the shop looking for Mitch on Friday, before the bombing. Can you remember anything else about him?”

Dan turned away from the computer and thought about it. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t. I really didn’t pay that much attention to him at the time.”

“Do you know where he was parked?” Sam asked.

“I think he was over by the trees, but I can’t swear to it. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay, Dan,” Jim reassured him. “You had no way of knowing.”

“Jim, let’s go walk around over there again. I know it’s probably a waste of time, but it certainly won’t hurt.”

“Okay.” They left the shop. With their footsteps crunching in the shell lot, they walked over to the stand of trees where the Bronco met its demise. A few remaining, charred palm fronds on the trees rustled slightly with the breeze coming off the Gulf.

Sam took a deep breath. “I know this was pretty well gone over, but let’s try one more time. We know Mitch parked here.” He sidestepped into the center of the blackened spot. “That would leave room for at least two more vehicles to park here.” He sidestepped toward the Gulf. “And here.” He moved over one more space. “And nobody was parked next to her on either side. Ed’s truck and Dan’s car were up by the dive shop.” He pointed over his shoulder. “And everybody else was either in front of Bob Keith’s store or over closer to the docks.”

“Point being?” Jim asked.

“Point being, if you’re going to rig a car to explode, you’re not going to park all the hell away from it and tote stuff back and forth from your car. So you’re going to park as close as you can to it. Especially if you need your own vehicle as a shield to keep people from seeing what you’re doing. So chances are, he parked here.” Sam walked to the space between where the Bronco had been and the shop and scanned the area. “Mitch’s Bronco would have shielded him from the water side.”

A chain-link fence separated the parking lot from the property next door. Spanish needles and knee-high grass grew unhindered on the property. Inspiration struck Sam.

“Jim, are you sure they searched over there?”

* * * *

Three hours later, a crime scene team brought Sam a plastic evidence bag.

“How far in?” he asked.

The technician checked his notes. “Twenty feet.”

Sam looked at Jim. “An easy throw from this side of the fence for a lazy hit man.”

Jim smiled. “Pray for prints.”

* * * *

They returned to the office after lunch. Sam sat at his desk and studied a couple of reports that arrived while he was gone. One was from Hillsborough County, about the serial killer they had working the area, listing particulars to look for and the appropriate contacts through their department and the FDLE. Kenny Schoenborn was listed as the lead officer. The next detailed a murder near Orlando that was tentatively being connected to the same case. The autopsy showed the victim died in the same manner and her stomach contents revealed boiled peanuts.