Bonita Palms Page 19

  “No word for two weeks, then news came about a body found in the east-end, down by the port. A man in his early twenties … a Monsieur Taillebois.”

  “And Taillebois was into drug trafficking?”

  “Les drogues … and selling young girls.”

  “He was into prostitution?” I wanted clarification.

  “Oui.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Coupé plusieurs fois avec un poignard.” She paused. “C’était vraiment un crime passionnel.”

  Now even the translator was speaking French, and I had to wait.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “Taillebois was stabbed several times with a knife. The police believed it was a crime of passion.”

  “And?”

  St. Claire became reticent again.

  “Sister?”

  She shrugged. “There wasn’t enough evidence to make an arrest.”

  I looked at the translator, then at her. “What are you not telling me?”

  The nuns remained quiet.

  I didn’t move, allowing the silence to sit between us.

  Then Sister Labelle said: “At some point, before the murder, Denise had confessed something to St. Claire.”

  “Oh? What was that?”

  “It is difficult for Sister St. Claire to tell you. What Denise said to her is no different from saying it to a priest in the confessional booth.”

  “I understand that. But the information could save someone’s life, Sister.”

  St. Claire swallowed hard and finally revealed the secret she’d been holding back: “Denise Bernier confessed that she and Taillebois were lovers.”

  51

  The same day

  Randal Park under a dark sky, rain pouring down, heat and humidity on hiatus. No neighbors or friends in sight. No one else willing to bear the elements. Solitude as a salve: no one to criticize, nothing to act as a distraction.

  The voices are as strident and determined as ever, the difference being that you are now resolved to what they have to say. Relief is guaranteed, just around the corner. Being anxious won’t help; it never does.

  You stand at the edge of the pond, rain drenching your head and face but not noticing. You’re here to put a stop to it, that infinitesimal spot of conscience that hasn’t completely dimmed. Ending it is the best way. A plunge into the water, then eternal release.

  But the pills you dry swallowed in the car finally begin to take effect and it’s not long before you realize that there’s more work to do.

  Your preference is passivity over action … until it isn’t. Until whatever that certain something is inside takes over and there’s little choice left, a thrill to experience over and over again.

  The physicality of the movement is feared yet cherished. The itch is intense and irresistible. Eyes remain open until a downward pressure closes them. Visualizing before experiencing, waiting and anticipating.

  Whew—that was close, you tell yourself. Thank God for Narvia.

  You head back to your car.

  There’s one more who needs to die!

  52

  April 7 and 8

  I got out of bed Thursday morning after barely sleeping again. The minute I’d left my meeting yesterday afternoon with Sister St. Claire I called Jean Brunel, recapped my interview, and asked for more details about the murder that took place years ago. Jean said he’d see what he could find and get back to me, which he did as soon as I arrived at the Hertz counter at Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport.

  “What can you tell me?” I asked.

  “There’s not much, I’m afraid. A cold case rarely gets any warmer. The victim, Paul Taillebois, twenty-one, was the alleged head of a prostitution ring, though never proven. His murder remains unsolved.”

  “Was a connection between him and Denise Bernier ever substantiated?”

  “Just rumors that they were lovers. Apparently, Denise discovered he was two-timing her. Still, no hard evidence that she did the deed. The fingerprints were wiped clean from the knife. Denise’s DNA was found on his body but so was that of another unidentified woman’s. Either one could have been the killer. And since the victim was a drug dealer, there was also the possibility it was a robbery gone bad.”

  I thanked Jean for his help and promised to have lunch or dinner with him next time I was in Montreal. Then I contacted Brad Pederson and explained what I needed done.

  I didn’t hear back from Brad until I landed in Fort Myers. Denise Gerigk was tied up with a doctor’s appointment she couldn’t cancel but had agreed to see me Friday morning. I told myself I’d best start preparing. Sometimes the stars aligned, and I believed they were doing so now. But this was going to take all the guile I possessed. One way or another, the burden rested with me to entrap a killer.

  * * *

  When I arrived home last night from the Fort Myers airport, I received an email from Hugh Bostwick finally listing the balance of residents in Bonita Springs who’d filled recent prescriptions for Narvia. A total of forty names.

  Before I could decide how to handle investigating them, I took a call from Sara, welcoming me back.

  “I was only gone for one day,” I reminded her. “You make it sound like I was away for a week.”

  “Well, I missed you.”

  “Thanks. I missed you as well.”

  “It seems we’re always saying that to each other. Wouldn’t it be nice if we had a more permanent arrangement?”

  “Sara—”

  “You can give a girl a complex, Miles.”

  I could see her point, but the jury was still out on my involvement in one or more of the murders. Until the killer or killers were found I couldn’t commit to a future with her. “This case is really weighing me down,” was all I could say.

  There was a pause. “I understand.”

  “You do? I appreciate that, Sara.” I tried to stifle a yawn.

  “Not getting much sleep,” she noted.

  I told her what was happening.

  “Forty names?”

  “That’s right. Plus the five on the original list. Meanwhile, Walter Diggs was called away to FBI Headquarters in Tampa to discuss the takeover of our case, and Wellington and Pederson are at an all-day police conference in Miami. This leaves me alone until Friday, which is our deadline. I don’t see how we’ll be able to cover everyone. It’s damn near imposs—”

  “Did you say Friday?” Sara interrupted. “That’s my day off. I can help … if you want me to.”

  I hesitated. “I’m not sure…”

  “Not sure about what? Just tell me what time you want me there.”

  * * *

  Thursday passed like the calm before the storm. I chose names on the list I was familiar with, and spent time interviewing each one in their homes. I listened to complaints about anxiety, but no one said anything suspicious or acted in a way that would cause me to view them as a suspect.

  At home that night I reheated a chicken dish I’d been saving and gobbled it down. Today’s interviews had led me in the direction of liking Denise as the primary suspect; or if there were more, at least one of them.

  I was in bed by eleven but remained awake, wondering what I’d do if tomorrow’s interviews didn’t lead to a suspect.

  When I awoke on Friday a feeling of trepidation stayed with me throughout the routine of shower and shave, then breakfast. I figured with Sara we’d have a chance of completing all interviews in the one day. But I was certain I’d missed something, a puzzle-like piece floating in the ethernet of my mind.

  The minute I opened the door to my car my cell rang. Unknown name, unknown number. I was about to answer when the phone slipped out of my hand and fell onto the driver’s seat. By the time I picked it up it had stopped ringing. No message left. I arrived at my office and a sec
ond call came in. This time I was distracted by Sara just coming through the door, so I missed that one as well.

  Once she was seated, along with Pederson and Wellington, I handed out the lists I’d created for each member of the team including myself, having split the names four ways. After the eight I covered yesterday, plus the original five, we were left with eight each.

  “I’m interviewing Mrs. Gerigk first,” I announced. “She’s my prime. If something comes of it, I’ll reach out to all of you. Be sure to have your cell phones on. In the meantime, remember—you have to be careful not to overstep your legal authority. You can ask how long they’ve been taking Narvia and if they’ve experienced any unusual side effects. You can also ask about their whereabouts on the days and times each murder took place. If you come across anything highly unusual, or anyone looking suspicious, take whatever necessary precautions, then call me. Any questions?”

  There were none and we all filed out of my office.

  * * *

  Throughout the drive I concentrated on how I could work a confession out of Mrs. Gerigk. Most of us in law enforcement have our own patented methods. Some acted the roll of accuser, then priest. I usually played it straight and aboveboard, aiming to convince the doer of the old adage: The truth shall set you free.

  A flash of lightening lit up the sky followed by a loud clap of thunder. Then rain, accompanied by a strong wind. I could feel the car shake as I drove up to the security gate at Bonita Palms.

  A new rent-a-cop I hadn’t seen before waved me through. I reached the Gerigk home in Augusta a few minutes later and parked behind a car that looked familiar, yet I couldn’t place it.

  The rain eased up. I was about to get out of my vehicle when my phone rang. I examined the screen: unknown name, unknown number. I ignored it. This wasn’t the time to be distracted. Almost at the entrance to the Gerigk residence it went off again. This time it was my office, so I accepted the call.

  “Sir—” the desk sergeant said, “there’s a woman looking for you: Joan Ward. She’s apparently been trying to reach you all morning and says that it’s urgent.”

  “Did she tell you what it’s about?”

  “Something you mentioned at a recent meeting you had with her. Would you like her number?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I vacillated between returning the call now or later; decided on now and punched in the digits.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Ward?”

  “Yes. This is Joan.”

  “Miles Delany. I understand you’ve been trying to reach me?”

  “Yes, I have. I’ve called you a few times this morning. I’ve been racking my brain trying to remember an incident that happened to me recently. I felt it was my duty to tell you about it.” She hesitated.

  “Go on, Mrs. Ward,” I prompted her.

  “You told me I should be on the lookout for anyone who acts in a way that goes against their nature.”

  “That’s true.”

  “You also said any information I pass along would be held in the strictest of confidence.”

  “Also true.”

  “Well, I have a concern about one of my neighbors.”

  I took a deep breath. “Go on.”

  “I hope you won’t think I’m being foolish.”

  “Ma’am,” I said, anxious to move her along, “believe me, I’m grateful for the call. I don’t mean to be rude, but can you get to the point?”

  “Some time ago—not sure exactly when—I was home alone and had an unexpected visitor. I remember it being close to the dinner hour…”

  A chill went up my spine. Dinner hour? The same time each of the murders took place.

  “I explained that my husband was out, but she was welcome to stay and visit.”

  She? I was right … Denise.

  “The moment she stepped inside, however, she began acting strange. Barely a peep out of her except to say she’d like a glass of water, with ice. Off I went to the kitchen to prepare some hors d’oeuvres. Can’t simply offer a glass of water to a guest. But I could swear she was bothered about something. Really bothered. And when I came back with the tray, she was gone. Not only that, but the front door was left wide open. There was no ‘goodbye’, no ‘sorry something came up and I have to go’. She disappeared … just like that.”

  I heard Mrs. Ward snap her fingers.

  “Do you think I’m being silly for calling you?” she asked warily.

  “No. Not at all,” I said, my pulse starting to gallop. My suspicion of Mrs. Gerigk as the prime suspect was about to be confirmed. “Can you tell me the name of your visitor?”

  “Do you promise to keep me out of it?”

  “You have my assurance, Joan. Who was it?”

  “Debbie Stafford. I don’t know if you know her. She lives—”

  Debbie Stafford? Disbelief washed over me. I was stunned. This was not the name I expected to hear.

  “Sheriff—do you know where she lives?”

  “Yes, I do.” I pictured Mrs. Stafford in my mind, remembering the times I’d been summoned to her home; the woman fading in and out of reality, seeing ghosts. “Thanks very much for the information, Joan. It will be kept in strict confidence.” I disconnected before I could be delayed any further.

  I removed the master list I kept in my pocket and gave it a hard look. Within seconds I was swearing to myself. The Stafford residence was under Sara’s name and it was her first interview.

  I dialed her cell as fast as I could; it went to voicemail. I got a hold of Brad. “Get to the Stafford house!” I instructed, fighting my panic. “Drop everything and move. Call Wellington on your way. Get him over there too. Now!”

  * * *

  I was first to arrive. Sara’s beige SUV was the only vehicle in sight. I very much wanted to believe Debbie Stafford wouldn’t be capable of murder, that I was jumping to conclusions. But all I could do now was pray I’d find Sara safe and sound.

  I parked behind her SUV and hurried out. It was eerily quiet. The rain had stopped and the wind had abated, yet the sky was dark.

  I approached the door; found it unlocked. I thrust it open. The lights were off, I couldn’t make out much of anything. “Sara?” I called.

  I remembered the plan of the house from the many times I’d been there. The abundance of crosses and crucifixes on the walls. The rooms standing kitty-corner to the entranceway.

  I fanned a bank of light switches with my hand, then moved forward. “Mr. and Mrs. Stafford,” I called out. “I need you both to show yourselves.”

  No response.

  I searched the great room; made my way in and out of each bedroom and bathroom, then the rooms Debbie and Larry used as individual offices. There was no sign of anyone, and I knew time was running out on Sara.

  In the hallway I felt a slight breeze and traced its source. The sliding doors leading to the lanai had been left open. It took a few quick strides to get there. The sky wasn’t much brighter but I could make out the pool, the sauna and built-in barbecue. Everything seemed in order.

  I hurried back into the house. If Sara’s SUV was out front, where was she? And where were Mr. and Mrs. Stafford? I forced down a growing sense of dread and retraced my steps. The last place I hadn’t looked was the garage.

  I reached it in seconds. There were two spaces, both empty. I tried to picture the vehicle Mrs. Stafford drove, a white Jag … and immediately knew why the car parked outside the Gerigk residence had looked familiar.

  * * *

  Please God, I was thinking as I ran to my car.

  I should have known better. I never should have gotten Sara involved.

  I called Brad Pederson and told him to divert his people to the Gerigk residence instead. Then I drove like a man possessed, cursing myself for being negligent. For not at least checking in on Denise Ger
igk before dashing off, half-cocked.

  I slammed to a stop, jumped out and made a beeline for the house, pounding my fist on the door, ringing the bell.

  The door was locked and looked impenetrable. Mrs. Stafford’s parked car out front gave me probable cause. I needed to find another way in. I dashed off the stairs and approached the large bay window on my right. Floor to ceiling glass … far too thick.

  I rushed to my car, popped the trunk, and removed the lug wrench. Then I hurried along the narrow stone walkway leading from the front of the house to the back. As expected, the door to the wire cage of the lanai was unlocked. I flung it open and made a beeline around the pool and straight for the sliding doors facing the master bedroom.

  I stepped to one side. The lug wrench was awkward, but I managed to swing it as hard as I could. The glass shattered. Within seconds I’d cleared enough space to safely pass through. I released my gun from its holster, nudged it against my right leg, pointed at the floor. I did a quick reconnaissance of the room, checked both clothes closets, the large bathroom, underneath the king-size bed. Then I stood still and listened, trying to pick out any extraneous sound: someone breathing, someone issuing whispered commands. I barked Sara’s name, then Mrs. Gerigk’s. I heard nothing and moved as rapidly as I could while still being careful, gun now raised, taking aim in each direction.

  I cleared the guest bedrooms and bathrooms in record time, then turned and faced the kitchen, which was when I saw her—Debbie Stafford—as imposing as ever, wearing a shapeless black dress. Her face was swollen, eyes enlarged and bloodshot. She was holding a bloodied butcher knife and muttering something to herself.

  “Drop it!” I ordered, pointing my gun at her.

  Instead of obeying, she stood transfixed.

  “Mrs. Stafford,” I said evenly, “I need you to put the knife down and tell me where I can find Sara Churchill and Denise Gerigk.”

  She glared at me but didn’t speak.

  I inched closer, peeked behind the kitchen island … and spotted her: Mrs. Gerigk, lying on the tiled floor, bleeding from a chest wound. I thought she was dead until I noticed her lips move ever so slightly. It was a relief to see she was alive, but not for long if she didn’t get medical attention.