Bonita Palms Page 14

  At the fridge, Barbara was gathering ice cubes into a bucket. You stepped up behind her, knife raised, when Barbara unexpectedly glanced over her shoulder. She screamed, whirled around, and threw the ice bucket at you.

  You batted it away with one arm. Didn’t feel a thing. So focused were you on your mission.

  “Please … don’t!” Barbara pleaded. “I’ll do anything you ask.”

  You lowered the knife with a look of compassion.

  The ruse worked. Barbara saw this as remorse and capitulation. She raised her left hand, placed her right hand over her heart. “I swear I won’t tell anyone. This’ll be our secret.”

  You nodded in agreement. Barbara let out a sigh of relief. And that’s when you jabbed the knife into her upper chest, just below the clavicle.

  “W…Why?” Barbara barely managed.

  The next plunge went deep into her stomach, carrying with it as much force as possible.

  Barbara’s scream died as she collapsed on the floor. She was bleeding out. You steered clear of the pooling blood to avoid leaving footprints, then slashed her breasts, back and forth, again and again.

  32

  March 18

  It was good to be back at work. Things were different but in a good way. I sensed it the minute I walked through the door to my office. There was a hum or buzz, an inaudible sound only I could hear, a vibe echoing off the walls, telling me this was where I belonged.

  Brad Pederson was first to greet me. “Sheriff—”

  “Deputy sheriff.”

  “Welcome home.” He placed a 24" x 10" x 6" gift-wrapped box on my desk.

  I went to open it, but he stopped me. “Hold it. This needs an explanation. Everyone on staff made a contribution. We’ve been anticipating your return, and we’re all glad to have you back.”

  I picked up the box and noted the heft; about ten pounds at least. “Good speech. May I open it now?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Nothing’s going to fly out at me, is it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Stop calling me ‘sir’.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I undid the wrapping and peered into the box. Tissue paper enveloped an oblong object. I removed the paper and held up a metallic sculpture of Sylvester Stallone as Rocky, over a foot and a half tall, nine inches wide. “Cool,” I said, pleased with the gift.

  “Sheriff—”

  “Shh,” I stopped Pederson before he could say anything further. “I’m admiring it.”

  He indicated a new photograph on the corkboard. “I need to bring you up to speed.”

  I put the statue down. Barbara Miller was the most flagrantly sexual person I’d ever met. Yet there was something about her I couldn’t help but like.

  “Similar M.O. to the others,” Pederson said. “Husband away from the house. No forced entry.”

  “Still think it’s the same perp?”

  “I do. Mrs. Miller was young and strong. The medical examiner believes Miller tried warding off the killer by throwing a bucket of ice at him. She knew whoever this was. She let him into her home. No doubt about it.”

  I studied the stab wounds in the photograph. “You said the knife was left at the scene?”

  “Yes, sir. It was part of a set of eight that belonged to the victim.”

  “Umm. Very strange. Using a knife to kill someone when he never used one before. It’s quite personal, especially the way Mrs. Miller’s breasts were slashed after she was dead. I interviewed the husband, Bill. The man was stoic. He was either unable to come to grips with his wife’s murder or it didn’t bother him in the least. But his alibi’s solid. Tell me, were any slipups found? A morsel of evidence that could help us?”

  “No, sir. None whatsoever.”

  I sighed. Nothing like reality to dampen my mood after a mere few minutes back on the job.

  * * *

  The Miller house in the Augusta subdivision of Bonita Palms was over five thousand square feet and two stories high. I remembered the interesting circular columns fronting the door—one on each side—rising to the roof.

  Bill Miller had given me an extra key and I let myself in. It was still an active crime scene, so Bill was currently staying at a hotel until we were through processing the evidence. My team advised Bill that they’d let him know when he could return.

  The doorbell rang and I went to answer it.

  “Sheriff Delany?” The man was average height, middle-aged, with close-cropped red hair and an Irish accent.

  “That’s me. You must be the locksmith.”

  “I am, sir.” He handed me his business card. “Sean Fitzgerald, at your service.”

  We shook hands and I led the way into the master bedroom.

  It was spacious, with deep-pile carpet, but a good example of money gone to waste, starting with the fireplace—something not quite practical for Florida—to the oversized television set that was too big for the room, to the outlandish mirror recessed into the ceiling.

  I approached Barbara Miller’s side of the bed and pointed to the Picasso print. “The safe is behind the painting.”

  “Combination still a mystery?” the locksmith asked for verification.

  I nodded. “Even the deceased’s husband doesn’t know it.” In fact, Bill was curious himself about what was in the safe. Barbara constantly refused his inquiries and now that she was dead, he was pleased not to wait any longer. I’d no sooner made the request when he scribbled out written permission to crack the safe, provided I divulge to him what I found inside. I agreed but with the restriction that any evidence that might implicate Barbara in a crime, by point of law, would have to be sealed, pending an investigation.

  Fitzgerald placed the black case he was carrying, which resembled a narrow tool box, on the bed. “I’ll need your signature, Sheriff.”

  I reviewed the legal document he handed me, which more or less protected his butt, then signed in the appropriate place.

  The locksmith went to work. I’d expected him to take out a stethoscope-like device that would’ve enabled him to hear the clicking of the tumblers. When I asked, he said I shouldn’t believe what I saw on television or in the movies. Instead, he extracted a power drill affixed with a bit that could cut into metal. The noise was deafening.

  * * *

  It took close to a half-hour and I remained by the locksmith’s side throughout. When the door to the safe popped open, Fitzgerald backed away.

  I thanked the man for his service, saw him out, and returned to the bedroom. There was far less than I’d anticipated finding: Barbara Miller’s passport, a wallet containing seven hundred dollars in cash, miscellaneous jewelry, and an eight-by-ten manila envelope. I felt foolish. I’d been grasping at straws for so long, I was hoping today would be different and not another waste of time. Then I removed the contents of the envelope … and everything changed.

  There was a thumb drive as well as printed color pictures of Frank Sinclair. Close-ups from every imaginable angle. Frank was either in ecstasy or agony; I couldn’t tell which. And my image of him being a macho heterosexual evaporated. I would definitely not be sharing this part of my find with Bill Miller.

  I read the letter, addressed to George—which I took to be Frank’s alias—and my pulse started to race. Not a waste of time after all; far from it. Something nefarious was going on, and I now had a strong motive for murder: blackmail in its ugliest form.

  33

  Eight days ago

  Move! Frank Sinclair told himself. Move while there’s still time. Before the police come looking for me. Don’t bother to pack a suitcase. Throw a few necessities into a carry-on bag and get the hell out of Florida.

  Frank left the house through the garage, piled into his BMW and hit the road. With Barbara Miller now dead, he was sure it was only a matter of time before a polic
e investigation would uncover her blackmail scheme, which would make him the number one suspect in her murder. There was no way he wanted to risk being questioned.

  He had a little over $20,000 in cash with him; an emergency fund he kept hidden in the garage, to support his philandering lifestyle. He also had six credit cards in his wallet, but they were useless. Credit cards left a trail and could easily lead the cops to his whereabouts.

  The first few hours of the drive were nerve wracking and he didn’t know what to do with himself other than pay attention to the road ahead. Then Frank glanced in his rearview mirror and noticed a black van, a vehicle he thought he’d seen before. Perhaps at the last rest stop? Something in his subconscious made the connection. It didn’t necessarily mean someone was following him, but Frank needed to be sure.

  He’d been traveling below the sixty-five mile per hour speed limit. He now moved into the passing lane and stepped it up to seventy. The van was the fourth car behind. As Frank accelerated so did the van.

  He increased his speed to eighty, overtook six other cars, then pulled back into the inside lane and decelerated. The van did the same, matching him speed for speed, maneuver for maneuver, the driver maintaining the four-car spread between them.

  The problem with any modern expressway today, Frank realized, was that there was nowhere to hide. He could pull in at the next rest area, or he could take the upcoming exit and see where it led. But what good would it do? If the tail was a professional, he’d never lose him.

  Frank understood it wasn’t the police; if it was, they would have stopped him long ago. No, if he had to guess, he’d put his money on that girl, Melanie. Well, maybe not her exactly, but one of her friends or associates. It had taken organization to set him up. If she was as close to Barbara as he suspected, then she’d want her murder avenged.

  But if someone thought that they could intimidate him, they had another think coming. Frank had always been prepared to fight fire with fire; it wasn’t in his DNA to turn the other cheek.

  Without giving it further thought, he activated his turn signal, eased his foot off the accelerator, and braked hard. As he pulled off to the side, the car slid a little on some loose gravel, but Frank regained control.

  He came to a full stop and looked in his rearview mirror, expecting to see the van. Instead, it went sailing past. He tried to catch sight of the driver. The vehicle’s tinted windows were too dark, preventing him from being able to see inside.

  34

  March 21

  Early afternoon on a Wednesday and the corkboard was our focal point. Appended were the latest crime-scene photographs. Alongside me were Brad Pederson, Scott Wellington, and Walter Diggs of the FBI.

  Diggs was someone I’d worked with in the past; one of the few Feds I trusted. He was tall, 6’3”, wearing a well-fitted dark-gray suit and conservative black tie. I’d invited him to consult with us, figuring it was best to be proactive and get him involved. Otherwise the FBI would likely appoint someone else and I’d be at risk of facing another Hank Broderick situation, working with a guy who’d try to run roughshod over me.

  I directed everyone’s attention to Barbara Miller’s picture on the board. “This is getting far more personal, gentlemen. The use of a knife is something we haven’t seen before.” I paused. “Brad—anything more on linking Mrs. Miller to Frank Sinclair?”

  The sergeant let his frustration show. “Nothing. The woman remains an enigma.”

  Agent Diggs, comfortable in his area of expertise, approached the corkboard and removed the letter I’d uncovered in the safe at the Miller residence. “Even though this is addressed to someone named George, and despite the fact it’s signed by someone named Melanie, we know from the FedEx receipt it had been delivered to Frank Sinclair’s home. So, it’s safe to assume that George was an alias Mr. Sinclair used when he was out on the prowl. My people are working on that connection. And we’ll get there soon. There’s no doubt about that.”

  Spoken like a true feebee, I almost said aloud.

  “Meanwhile,” the agent continued, “our profilers have carefully gone through the details of each murder. The evidence indicates that our doer is male, older than what you’d normally find—in his fifties or even sixties—well educated, and of an affluent background.”

  I noted the information, then turned my attention to Scott Wellington. “Where are we on Mr. Miller’s alibi?”

  “It’s rock solid,” the corporal said. “The man was getting a haircut at 5th Avenue Barber & Shave in Naples when the murder took place.”

  “Okay,” I said. I was about to call the meeting to an end when Diggs stopped me.

  “There’s something else about Bill Miller that you need to be aware of. During our interview, the man was reluctant to talk about his business, which peaked our curiosity. We could tell something didn’t pass the smell test so we’re delving into it. If we get the slightest hint of probable cause, we’ll ask a judge for a subpoena.”

  The news, while related, wasn’t a high priority. “Fine then,” I said. “Look—let’s take a break for now. We all know what we have to do. Let’s meet back here tomorrow morning.”

  * * *

  After 7:00 p.m. I still hadn’t left my office. I was revisiting reports, hoping to find that seemingly “insignificant” clue every case has that cracks it wide open. But no such luck.

  By the time I got home I was hungry and wanted something quick. I picked out a lasagna dinner from the freezer and zapped it in the microwave. While eating I caught up with local events by reading the Fort Myers News Press. Dessert was skipped but I made a Keurig coffee and took it with me into the great room.

  I turned on the TV, changed channels a few times, finally went to my PVR. The list of unwatched shows and movies was short, but I was able to find something interesting.

  Side Effects was released a number of years ago. I’d missed seeing it even though Steven Soderbergh was a director I admired. With a cast that included Jude Law, Rooney Mara, and Catherine Zeta-Jones, I figured it was worth my time.

  For once, I wasn’t disappointed. The acting was as good as I expected, and the storyline held me intrigued. From the time Rooney Mara smashed her vehicle into the parking garage wall—after first attaching her seatbelt—to her mood swings, prescription drug ingestion, to the murder of her husband, I was hooked.

  But the further along the movie played the more an idea began to creep into my head. I couldn’t fully define it yet, but it was there, waiting to see the light. Meanwhile, I continued to follow the drama playing out on my television screen. From the woman’s psychiatrist taking the fall, to the use of drugs as her potential alibi, to the suspicion that it was all an act and the woman was lying. The ending was worth the wait. The medication played no role whatsoever. Ironically, there were no side effects. The drugs had simply been used as an excuse.

  The fact that justice prevailed was a satisfying conclusion. I took hold of the clicker, was about to shut off the TV, when the idea nagging inside my brain became clear, and I froze.

  What if—I hypothesized—a particular prescription medication really could cause a neurosis? Really could change people in ways that couldn’t be imagined? Really could scramble their sanity and turn them violent?

  * * *

  Up on my feet, I began to pace, telling myself to calm down. But I was amped, facing a reality that was far too personal. My own medication could’ve been what led to actions beyond my control: fighting with total strangers, being unconsciously aggressive with a woman I truly cared about. How far a leap would it be to murder?

  Four heinous crimes had been committed; none of which made sense. The victims trusted their assailant. There was no forced entry; each allowed him into her home. Whoever he was, the women had no clue that he’d come to do them harm.

  I asked myself, How many people are there in our lives that we put complete trust in
? A spouse would most likely be number one, followed by parents, children, and finally close friends. Who else? Doctors, accountants, and … deputy sheriffs?

  I continued pacing, believing I might have stumbled upon the cause. But had I also found the number one suspect?

  35

  Eleven days ago

  One down, two to go—like it was preordained, Bill Miller mused. No effort on his part. Nothing he’d had to do. Life taking its course; or in this case, the serial killer simply doing his thing. He only wished he could have been there, a proverbial fly-on-the-wall, watching Barbara die a brutal, agonizing death.

  Bill was presently sitting close to Frank Sinclair’s house in a black Dodge van. Renting the vehicle had become a necessity. His doctor had filed a compulsory report with the government that prohibited him from driving. Someone in his medical condition, ingesting his profile of drugs, wasn’t to be trusted on the road. But Bill was able to purchase a forged driver’s license and used it with the rent-a-car company.

  The same connection who provided the counterfeit document was also able to supply a handgun with silencer and plant a bug in Frank’s car. Bill had met Tommy Anderson in a bar when he’d first arrived in Florida and had kept his information on file. Anderson worked out of a liquor store in downtown Fort Myers. Bill had used him once before—to strong-arm a client who threatened to expose his financial scheme—so he knew Anderson was trustworthy.

  The tracking implement attached to Sinclair’s car was cheap, with a radius of one mile. Bill was provided with a monitoring device similar to a small handheld calculator. It served a purpose solely if he remained within range.

  Bill planned to follow Frank until an opportunity presented itself—with no other cars in the vicinity as witnesses—and shoot Frank from the open passenger side window of the van, making him look like a victim of road rage. The assistant golf pro, June Adams, was next on his list. She and Frank had consorted with Barbara and both had to pay the price. Bill knew his medical condition was rapidly deteriorating. In fact, his doctor wanted him admitted to hospital. But first he needed to satisfy his craving for revenge.