Bonita Palms Read online

  The doorbell rang and Frank went to answer it.

  “Please sign here,” he was instructed by the uniformed FedEx driver.

  Though puzzled, he signed, accepted the slim package, and closed the door. He received little mail and something arriving by courier was highly unusual. Frank looked at the shipping label and read who it was from. He wasn’t familiar with the sender’s name or address and had an inkling they were bogus. With curiosity peaked, he ripped the tab at the top of the sleeve and removed an eight-by-ten envelope.

  He undid the clasp. The pictures were in living color and rather explicit. They’d been photoshopped so that the other participants’ faces were not in focus—only Frank’s. In one close-up: an identifiable mole on Frank’s right buttock, next to the penis penetrating him, was very much in high definition. Frank was abhorred. He swore and tried to tear the photographs in one batch but could barely manage a few at a time. He went at it again, until each was in small pieces.

  Despite the pixilation, he recognized her body: Melanie, the Barbara Miller lookalike he’d met at his private club. Noncommittal sex was all he’d been after. And he thought it was there for the taking, until he was drugged, then compromised. He vaguely remembered the clicking of a camera.

  * * *

  Frank found the note in a separate #10 envelope, addressed to George, the fake name he’d used at the club.

  THE ENCLOSED PICTURES ARE DUPLICATE COPIES. UNLESS WE RECEIVE $100,000 IN CASH, THEY WILL GO VIRAL. YOU HAVE UNTIL NOON FRIDAY TO COMPLY. CONTACTING THE AUTHORITIES WILL IMMEDIATELY NEGATE THIS OFFER. YOU WILL BE ADVISED BY COURIER WITHIN 24 HOURS AS TO THE LOCATION OF THE DROP. MAY WE SUGGEST THAT IT BEHOOVES YOU…

  Behooves? Frank repeated in his head, and he stopped reading. “God almighty!” He didn’t believe in coincidences. The only person he knew who used this practically archaic word was Barbara Miller.

  Could she be behind this? What would she hope to gain? Does she need money this badly? Or is there a more diabolical reason motivating her?

  He continued reading: …TO NOT DEVIATE FROM OUR INSTRUCTIONS. OTHERWISE, YOU WILL FACE DIRE CONSEQUENCES. WE TRUST YOUR DECISION WILL BE GUIDED BY PRUDENCE.

  Frank sucked in his breath. Barbara knew him well, knew that any suggestion of his being gay, or at least depicted in a homosexual sex act, would be a major humiliation and put an end to any chance of maintaining relationships with his female friends and probably most of his buddies.

  This woman helped her—Melanie—or whatever the hell her real name is, Frank conjectured. So now they’ll both have to be taken down. Four days left until Friday; no time to lose.

  Frank hurried into his bedroom, removed the .38 Smith & Wesson he kept in a box in his bedroom bureau, and shoved it into his pants pocket. Minutes later he was behind the wheel of his six-series BMW, convertible top left up. He hadn’t changed clothes, still dressed in jeans and an old tee shirt with the Miami Dolphins logo on the front.

  The drive on 41 heading south took 25 minutes. To get his bearings, Frank first approached his private club. He hadn’t been exactly sober when he followed Melanie to her home, but certain landmarks started looking familiar. He knew it was near Pelican Bay. Any house that didn’t have a circular driveway and a FOR SALE sign out front was discounted. Frank remembered to look for an oversized wood door with panels of stained glass.

  Ten minutes later he saw it: the exclusive-looking bungalow on a street corner, with an air of privilege.

  Frank screeched to a stop, got out of the car and rang the bell like a madman. No one answered. After three more tries he returned to the Beemer, moved to the other side of the street, and set up watch. The noon hour came and went. He second guessed himself, wondering if going to the police was the answer. Let the authorities handle the extortion attempt. But if they didn’t make an arrest before Friday he’d be exposed. Dare I take that chance?

  He was debating his options when a silver Lincoln Continental pulled into the driveway and a middle-aged couple disembarked. Each opened the back door on their side and removed a carry-on with wheels. Frank rocketed out of his car and dashed across the street.

  The man was close to his age; corpulent with thinning brown hair. He wore an off-white sport shirt and gray slacks. “Can I help you?” he asked, unnerved by the agitated stranger rapidly approaching.

  “Yes. I’m looking for Melanie.”

  “Melanie?” The man’s confusion appeared genuine.

  “Are you sure you have the correct address?” the woman asked. She had on a pink cotton dress. She was similar in age to the man, in her mid-fifties. Not quite as overweight, she wore little makeup, yet her skin radiated.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Frank said, wanting to be more forceful but not let on that he’d actually been inside. “This was the address she gave me.”

  “You poor dear. She must have misled you,” the woman said kindly, then indicated the man standing beside her. “My husband and I have lived in this house for over twenty years—built it from the ground up. It’s for sale, if you’re looking for a good buy. But there’s no Melanie here, I’m sorry to say.”

  Frank didn’t doubt her sincerity as he looked from her to her husband. Unless they were Oscar-caliber actors, it was unlikely they were in on the scheme. Still, no harm in asking: “Would you happen to know a Barbara Miller?”

  The woman’s face showed no recognition. “No. Who is she?”

  “A close friend of Melanie’s.”

  “Sorry. We don’t know her either.”

  Frank pieced it together: the couple had just returned from a trip. With their house up for sale, it would’ve been easy for Barbara to obtain the listing, then use the property for her private purpose, as she’d done so often for their assignations. Then, with her partners in crime, set him up for a fall.

  “I apologize for having barged in on you like this,” he said and turned to go.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help,” the woman called after him.

  26

  March 2

  In front of the television, can of Diet Coke in one hand, other hand tapping a thoughtless pattern on my knee. A Florida Everblades hockey game was on but I was oblivious to the TV screen. Dinner had been a ham and Swiss on rye; I hardly remembered eating it.

  Can’t let Hank’s snowballing continue, I told myself. His bringing in those contractors for a second interview was a charade, a mockery of what good police work is all about. Worse, it was turning me into a culpable participant. I had to find a way to stop him. Ask Sara for advice, I considered. She’s the person I felt I could trust the most.

  I glanced at the cordless phone seated in its cradle on a side table. My hand reached out, then withdrew. Do it! I punched in the number I knew by heart. After the fifth ring voicemail kicked in and I left a message asking her to call me.

  * * *

  The following morning I came into work, walked past the area where the deputies and other employees sat, went through the door leading to reception, and stopped short in surprise. Every chair, every inch of floor space, was occupied. Over forty men, sitting or standing, all of whom I’d interviewed before. Their chatter ceased as soon as they noticed me. Their faces turned my way in anticipation.

  I already had their names and contact information. “You’re all dismissed,” I announced. “Sorry if you were inconvenienced.” It felt good doing the right thing for a change.

  * * *

  It didn’t take long for Broderick to get wind of what I’d done. I worked on verifying alibis all morning, then went out for lunch. When I returned, he called me into what was once my office and now his.

  Mayor Hillier, sitting next to him, leapt to his feet and hollered at me. “You’ve set us back weeks, maybe months!”

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Mayor Torbram, also present, chimed in. “You’ve obstructed this investigation!�
��

  “Really?” I said casually.

  “You willfully ignored a direct order from Hank to conduct interviews,” Hillier practically screamed.

  “Been there, done that.” I shrugged.

  “You sonofabitch!” Spittle flew from Mayor Hillier’s mouth. “This is grounds for insubordination!”

  “Insubordination?” I echoed. “What is this—the army?” I chuckled just to rankle him. “What’re ya gonna do? Court-martial me?”

  “No. I’m relieving you of your duty,” Hillier said with immense satisfaction on his face. “Leave your badge and gun on the desk.”

  I looked from one to the other. “Your call, but I promise you, gentlemen—this is one decision you’ll come to regret.”

  * * *

  I arrived home, knowing it was a matter of time. Hank Broderick didn’t have the smarts to solve this case. I could already envision the mistakes he was going to make. Unless he caught an incredible break, the killer would outmaneuver him every step of the way.

  I noticed my cordless phone blinking; punched in the code and listened.

  “Hi, it’s Sara. I got your message. Funny, because I’d been meaning to reach out to you; invite you to dinner at my place tomorrow night. Let me know if you can make it. Bye.”

  I wondered if the invitation was a peace offering, or if there was something else on her mind.

  I reached Sara at her office and asked if I could bring anything.

  “Only yourself … and a thick skin.”

  “Huh? What does that mean?”

  “Be prepared to talk.”

  * * *

  I picked up a bottle of Pouilly Fuissé. The wine had made an impression the last time I’d been invited to her house and I was hoping to stack the odds in my favor.

  Sara accepted the bottle with a brief thank you.

  I followed her into the great room. The widescreen TV was on but the sound had been muted.

  Sara’s blonde hair was pinned up. Her belted burgundy dress fell above her knees. Instead of shoes she was wearing slippers.

  “Here—” she proffered a can of Diet Coke and a glass with ice.

  I took both from her.

  “Make yourself comfortable.” She pointed to the couch. “I’ll be right back.”

  I watched her go and took a seat as instructed.

  Sara returned with a glass of wine and sat down next to me. When she asked about work, I hesitated.

  “Miles?”

  “What work?”

  “Meaning?”

  “I was shit-canned by Hillier. I’m still waiting to hear from Sheriff Norman. He’s going to have to get back in the game, whether he likes it or not.”

  “What happened, exactly?”

  I explained how Hank Broderick had me doing multiple b.s. interviews.

  “What are you going to do, Miles?”

  I shrugged nonchalantly. “Enough about me. What did you want to talk about?”

  Sara took a gulp of wine. “The last time you were here you scared the hell out of me.”

  I stiffened. “What … What did I do?”

  Sara looked at me long and hard. She appeared to get it—that I wasn’t playing innocent. I really didn’t know.

  “I came into your bedroom during the night,” she said. “I didn’t want to be alone. You were asleep. At least, it looked like you were asleep. I slipped into bed and put my arm around you. I wanted to cuddle. And then … you attacked me. You refused to back off no matter how much I protested. It was as if you were … possessed. Finally, I slapped you a good one, then hurried to my own room and locked the door.”

  Good God! Why can’t I remember this? I’d never want to hurt Sara. I recalled the other incident in my recent past. The vivid “dream” when I woke in the morning with bruises on my hands and chest. What’s going on? What’s happening to me?

  “Sara, I wish I could explain, but…” Out of the corner of my eye I caught a breaking news flash on the television screen. Sara was aware of it too and she un-muted the sound.

  Photographs of the three murder victims were displayed and the male newscaster said, “An arrest just took place in the murders of Cathy Sinclair, Cynthia Gladstone and Jill Derbyshire.”

  “Huh?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “…acting Deputy Sheriff Hank Broderick announced a few minutes ago that the alleged suspect—”

  The screen dissolved for a second and the photographs of the women were replaced by one of a young African American.

  I shot up from the couch. “No!”

  “Who is he?” Sara asked.

  “—is being formally charged with all three murders,” the broadcaster continued.

  “This is such crap!” I growled. “This kid is innocent. He didn’t do it. I know him.”

  “Miles, who is he?” Sara repeated, just as the announcer said, “Martin Williams, a resident of Bonita Springs, will be arraigned in the morning…”

  “The boy’s been studying at FIU in Miami for a degree in business administration,” I explained. “His longtime girlfriend left him for another guy. He’s been on a sabbatical for the past few months, backpacking in the Florida Panhandle. His parents have a home in Bonita Palms; he visits them from time to time. I know the family well. They were next-door neighbors to the Sinclair’s and were one of my first interviews.”

  “So why was Williams arrested?”

  “This is Hank Broderick, Sara. Having a suspect in custody is a desperate attempt to make himself look good. And it’s all going to come back to bite him in the ass.”

  27

  March 5

  Bill Miller was in pain; seated behind the desk in his home office, file folder open, contemplating the information in front of him. The throbbing ache in his gut made it difficult to concentrate. His cancer was indeed back with a vengeance. He placed another Celenome pill in his mouth, washed it down with water, and waited.

  For all intents and purposes his life had ended a few years ago. Bill believed he should have left this earth the minute the clock ticked over on the twenty-fourth hour of the twelfth month of his sixty-ninth year.

  But he drew satisfaction from the knowledge that when his financial scam was exposed, it’d be after his demise. And then it wouldn’t matter … to him.

  Robbing Peter to pay Paul could only have gone on for so long. Although, when he’d first conceived of the idea, he didn’t think it would end this soon. Commodity prices were supposed to fluctuate. Who knew that the U.S. dollar would remain stable for this long, especially in light of the drop in the price of oil? Or that it would strengthen against most of the world’s currencies?

  Bill had guessed wrong. So now his clients—many of them friends and neighbors —would take the fall. But, if all went as planned, he’d be deceased and Barbara would be the one they’d blame.

  He took hold of the contents of the file and read through each of the documents. The forged signature he’d meticulously practiced for over a year looked genuine, with Barbara’s replacing his own. He felt confident that even forensic accountants wouldn’t be able to uncover the truth.

  Soon, his craving for revenge would be assuaged. Some common household appliance to the back of his wife’s head would be the easy part. He’d feel no compunction about doing it. And he’d derive infinite pleasure in the leaking out of her cheating brain. The more difficult component would be planting the evidence and throwing the sheriff’s department off the scent; make them believe the Bonita Palms’ serial killer has struck again.

  Talk in the neighborhood was about the arrest of Martin Williams. Bill believed, as did almost everyone else he talked to, that the boy was innocent. To help push Martin’s vindication along, Bill thought it a stroke of genius to get rid of Barbara now, while he had the chance. A killing of two birds with one stone
. The kid would be exonerated, but most important, his wife would be dead. He couldn’t think of anything more satisfying.

  * * *

  June Adams’ arms enveloped Barbara Miller, putting her in a rapturous state. What just happened? Barbara wondered. She was drenched in sweat, and it felt good, like the best damn workout of her life. Words couldn’t describe the multiple sensations that had coursed through her body. June’s tongue, an instrument of such dexterity—harsh yet delicate, smooth yet coarse—had coaxed a reaction from nerve endings where none seemed to exist before. Not solely June’s tongue but her mouth. Teasing her vagina, then fully appropriating it, until Barbara could stand it no longer. She reached a whole other level; her body thrown into spasms of pleasure and bringing her to tears.

  “You did it,” she whispered to the assistant golf pro.

  “Did what?”

  She grew embarrassed.

  “Barb?”

  “You’ll laugh if I tell you.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Took me somewhere I’ve never gone before.”

  June smiled to herself, then slowly changed positions, half leaning on an elbow, allowing one of her breasts to nudge Barbara’s lips.

  It was a temptation Barbara couldn’t let pass. She immediately thrust out her tongue and licked. Before long, her mouth encompassed the entire nipple and she began to suck. She reached between June’s legs and simultaneously stroked her clitoris. Gently at first, until she worked it into a pattern of sucking and stroking.

  June moaned, then shrieked, a prolonged sound most likely heard by the neighbors.

  Still, Barbara didn’t stop.

  “P..l..ea..se,” June stammered, going into convulsions.

  Barbara continued for a moment longer before releasing her hand.

  “My God, my God, my God,” June muttered. “I can’t get enough of you. Do you know that? I really can’t get enough!”

  * * *