Bonita Palms Read online

  She swallowed the last of her wine and poured a refill. She picked up the remote and turned on the seventy-two-inch television. Cathy kicked off her slippers and was just getting comfortable, when the doorbell rang, surprising her…

  2

  January 5

  “What the hell!” I swore.

  The phone’s insistent chime splintered the bedroom’s silence. I brought my arm up until the luminescent dial on my watch came into view: Not even 6:00 a.m.

  I scrambled to a sitting position, heard a CLINK as the base of the phone collided with something. For a moment, I imagined a bottle of Jack Daniels. Then reality set in; it couldn’t be Jack, not anymore.

  My eyesight adjusted to the dark and I noticed the near empty glass of water.

  The phone rang again. I knew it wouldn’t be good news. No one called before dawn except when there was trouble. I picked up the receiver, maneuvered it to my ear, and said hello.

  “Sheriff?”

  Everyone called me sheriff, though in actual fact there was only one who warranted the title, and that was Dean Norman, an elected official. As deputy sheriff I was simply a hired hand.

  “Yes?” I said, head still groggy.

  “Sorry to bother you. I know how early this is,” words rushed. “It’s Pederson.”

  “I recognized your voice, Brad.”

  If the sergeant caught the sarcasm, he didn’t show it. Instead, he went into a rambling spiel, sentences slurring, state of mind close to panic.

  “Whoa,” I said, trying to get him to slow down. “Take a deep breath…”

  The admonition, spoken in as soothing a voice as I could manage, did the trick.

  “There’s been a murder, sir.”

  That got my attention. “Where?”

  “At—uh—Bonita Palms.”

  I came off the bed, stood on not quite awake legs—six foot three and listing—and scratched my mop of grayish-black hair. There’d been so few murders in this part of our territory I could understand the nervousness in Pederson’s voice. “At Bonita Palms?” I echoed.

  “Yes, sir. I’m here now. I was the one to take the call. About twenty minutes ago. I … I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Tell me, Brad, exactly where in Bonita Palms did this alleged murder take place?”

  “In a house, sir. In the community of Augusta.”

  “Augusta?” I needed no reminder that Augusta was one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the Palms. “Who was it?”

  “Cathy Sinclair.”

  “Mrs. Sinclair?” My skin prickled; I’d known the woman well.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you secure the crime scene?” I said, chiding myself for not asking sooner.

  “We did, sir,” the sergeant replied. “Scott and I aren’t letting anyone in or out.” He was referring to Scott Wellington, a corporal on the force.

  “Well, you did good then.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Keep the perimeter secure. I’m on my way.” I disconnected, glanced over at the glass of water and downed what was left.

  * * *

  I skipped breakfast, shower and shave. Instead, I jumped in my car—a black Chrysler 300—and hit the lights and siren.

  The territory of the LCSO, or Lee County Sheriff’s Office, encompassed Fort Myers, San Carlos Park, Lehigh Acres, Estero, and Bonita Springs. There were five bureaus. Patrol, Administration, Special Operations, Corrections, and Criminal Investigations. I was in charge of CI.

  In the eight years I’d been deputy sheriff, I hadn’t seen very many violent crimes. I hoped this wasn’t the start of a trend. An unsolved murder would be a major thorn in my side. But the history of Bonita Springs encouraged me. Established in late 1999, the population had grown to over 50,000; split almost equally between men and women, of whom sixty-nine percent were married. I also knew that twenty-one percent were Hispanic, and that the average age fell somewhere in the mid-fifties. This was a laidback community for the most part, more prone to vehicular mishaps than murder.

  As I approached my destination, I switched off the siren and flashing lights, and drove into the property.

  Stan Beauregard, the head of security at Bonita Palms, was waiting by the main gate. Next to him were his two rent-a-cops—as I liked to call them—Tim Fletcher and Charlie O’Neil. Both men were in their late fifties and had little security experience whatsoever.

  Stan himself, a tall, wizened gray-haired man in his sixties, boasted about having once been a policeman somewhere in the Midwest.

  All three looked shaken and quite pale. Beauregard took the lead. He explained how the body was found by Mrs. Sinclair’s husband, who’d just returned from a fishing trip. “From the doorway it appeared she’d been beaten pretty bad. I didn’t want to contaminate the crime scene, so I didn’t go inside. C’mon—” he raised the gate arm “we’ll head on over there.”

  I drove through and stopped on the other side. “I’ll take it from here, Stan.” I didn’t have much respect for Beauregard. Not after his background check revealed a few discrepancies in the man’s story. But we tolerated each other. I did so out of courtesy; Beauregard out of necessity.

  “The husband’s at the Gladstone’s, right next door,” Beauregard offered. “I asked him to wait there until you arrived.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “Thank you for that.”

  The drive took a little less than ten minutes. I’d been there enough times to know the way. I had to park on the street because the sergeant’s and corporal’s cars were blocking the entrance to the circular driveway. Both men were in their late thirties and slightly under six feet tall. Brad Pederson was thin, brown-haired, and fairly good looking. Scott Wellington, on the other hand, was a husky individual with dark hair and a stern face that seldom broke into a smile. The first thing I did, after the men greeted me, was ask them to shut down the flashing lights on their vehicles. “No need to attract any more attention than necessary.”

  Once the task was completed, I told them to make sure no one left any of the homes in the immediate vicinity, at least not until the occupants could be interviewed. “I’ll get you started on that in a few minutes.”

  Near the front door of the victim’s house, I noticed what looked like a business card sticking out of the mailbox. It had been positioned in such a way to make it difficult to miss. The Pizza Hut logo was on the front. The back of the card had a scribbled note about no one answering the bell to accept a delivery. I pocketed the card for a follow-up.

  The front door stood partially open. I removed the latex gloves and elasticized booties from my pants pocket and slipped them on. Then I opened the door all the way. There was a great amount of blood, on the walls, the floor, and on the victim herself.

  I felt my heart pumping in my chest. I disliked this part of the job. It wasn’t that I was squeamish. But I hated to see the depravity that existed, the harm that we did to one another.

  I had met Cathy Sinclair on more than one occasion. I’d found her to be the opposite of what one would expect from a woman of her means and stature—down to earth and accommodating. She didn’t deserve this.

  No one deserved this, I reminded myself.

  I approached the victim, took precautions to avoid the blood spatter, bent down and slowly inhaled.

  Mrs. Sinclair was wearing a Rolex and that immediately worried me. If this had been a robbery, the perpetrator would have taken the watch. That not being the case changed the dynamic completely.

  So, what happened here? I asked myself. I shut my eyes for a moment and allowed the scene to play out in my mind. I imagined the struggle that took place, visualized Mrs. Sinclair being caught off guard, how she must have tried to escape.

  I opened my eyes and spotted the pipe wrench. Then the way the woman’s arm was twisted in an awkward position
. And the deep cut in her neck. I clenched my fists and stood, took one last look at the body, then moved away.

  * * *

  I became even more concerned while touring the house. Everything was neat and tidy. The windows and doors hadn’t been breached. I counted a total of six widescreen television sets in the various rooms, expensive glassware and silverware, and a pair of diamond stud earrings lying on the credenza in the walk-in closet of the master bedroom.

  Murder for murder’s sake wasn’t something to be taken lightly. The task I faced was going to be daunting. Literally hundreds of service people entered the Bonita Palms property each day. The residents made their own decision about who to use for the pool, pest control, garden, air-conditioning, plumbing, electrical work, television repair, and other chores. Tracking these people down and interviewing them would stretch my staff to the limit.

  I concluded my search in the oversized garage with a work area occupying the back wall. Everything was immaculately neat and tidy and brand new, like one would find at a hardware store. My eyes skimmed the tools, bench and various implements hanging on hooks from a board above it. One hook was empty.

  I returned to the crime scene and examined the pipe wrench lying next to the victim. I was certain it once hung on the now-empty hook in the garage. There was a large smudge of blood running down its length. And something else. A patch of matted hair and probably brain matter. I was certain we wouldn’t find any prints. But I’d have forensics give it a thorough going over, nevertheless.

  I’d seen enough. I opened the front door and stepped out.

  It was still early—not quite 7:15—but the January sun was unusually bright, the sky crystal blue. I found it irreverent, juxtaposed as nature was with the bloodied corpse lying inside.

  * * *

  Just as I reached the end of the walkway, I noticed a familiar beige Lexus SUV pulling to a stop. The minute the medical examiner of Lee County opened the door I found butterflies fluttering against the wall of my stomach.

  Sara Churchill was a blue-eyed blonde. A widow at the age of forty-eight, her husband had been a fireman who was killed on the job.

  I said hello, self-conscious about my appearance—no shave or shower. There was no denying my attraction.

  “What do we have?” Ms. Churchill asked.

  I went into it, described the scene, then offered my deduction that this wasn’t a robbery gone bad. “There are no broken locks, no smashed windows. And the murder weapon was left in plain sight.” I paused. “Sara—I’m anxious to get your findings.”

  She looked me straight in the eye. “Relax, Miles. I’ll make it a priority. Promise.”

  * * *

  I called my men together and asked them to begin interviewing the neighbors. Then I walked next door and rang the bell. A melodic chime sounded. Less than a minute later I was ushered inside a luxurious house.

  The Gladstones had resided in Bonita Palms for five years. Originally from Detroit, they now homesteaded in Florida. Their fortune originated with Paul’s side of the family, third-generation owners of a dozen GM car dealerships spread across the state of Michigan. Cynthia wasn’t merely good-looking but the opposite of her husband. Paul, at seventy-three, was older by ten years. Short, pot-bellied, and balding. A physically mismatched but popular couple, generous with their time and money, especially at fund-raising events.

  Mrs. Gladstone greeted me with grief etched on her face and silently guided me into the great room. Far from a misnomer, the room was of an open concept, with living and dining rooms co-existing. Marble columns rose like Roman arches toward a ceiling that was so high one would have to be an aerialist to change any of the recessed pot lights.

  I was familiar with most of the neighborhood homes, but this one stood out. The paintings and sculptures alone were way above my pay-grade. And the drapes and furnishings were of a type I could only admire from a distance.

  The victim’s husband, Frank Sinclair, was already seated in a high-backed upholstered chair that resembled a wide-bodied throne. I said hello, offered my condolences, and took a seat opposite. Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone had the good sense to leave us alone without my asking.

  “I came home early,” Sinclair began before I could even ask a question. “I wanted to surprise Cathy. The fish weren’t exactly biting but the mosquitoes were. In droves. We’d had enough.”

  “We?” I questioned.

  “Yeah. My usual group. Tim Alonzo, Harry Pringle, and Alan Rheingold. Here—I’ve written down their names and phone numbers for you.”

  How convenient, I was thinking as I leaned over and accepted the handwritten note. What can I expect next, I wondered, the name of the perp and his reason for committing the murder?

  I was reminded that I disliked Sinclair from the first time we’d met, years ago. The man was always casual. Too casual. At the moment his tan sport shirt was half unbuttoned; beige shorts, feet sockless in sandals. Sinclair was a young fifty-seven; artificially colored brown hair worn long. His six-foot frame toned and in good shape. And a sing-song voice that was so cheerful it sounded phony.

  “I can’t believe she’s gone,” Sinclair was saying, half to himself.

  I looked him directly in his eyes. “Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

  He didn’t flinch. “Me? No. None whatsoever. Everybody loved Cath.”

  “There was a pipe wrench positioned close to the body. Do you own one?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  No denial … smart move, Frank. “Tell me what happened. You arrived home at what time?”

  “Just after five-thirty this morning.”

  “And you saw what?”

  “Nothing at first. I drove into the garage, parked, and headed into the house. I tried to make as little noise as possible, figuring my wife would be asleep. I was tiptoeing past the entranceway when I saw her.” Sinclair shook his head. “I … still can’t believe it.”

  Finally, some emotion out of him, I was thinking. But in a large percentage of these cases, the spouse ended up being the guilty party. I couldn’t ignore that fact, even though Sinclair had an alibi that three men would likely back up.

  “When did you and your friends leave on your trip?” I asked.

  “On the second. We started doing this every two or three months.”

  “How long a drive is it?”

  “Four hours. Northeast of Tampa.”

  “What hotel did you stay at?”

  “We didn’t. We found a private home through Airbnb instead.”

  “I’ll need the exact address.”

  “Of course.”

  I kept at it for another half-hour, figuring if I caught the man lying about the smallest, most insignificant detail, everything else might unravel. But his story held. Or at least it did on the surface. I’d have to contact his friends, see if their statements of events matched Frank Sinclair’s, though I suspected they would.

  I stood and again told him I was sorry for his loss, then added, “I take it you have no plans for immediate travel?”

  He shot a look at me that said, I know darn well why you’re asking that stupid question. “No plans whatsoever.”

  * * *

  I drove directly to a narrow red-bricked building in the heart of downtown Fort Myers. The current sheriff’s office was being renovated so we were allotted this space in the interim. Luckily, the room I was given was above average; I could meet with a dozen people comfortably should the need arise. The downside was the lack of windows and fluorescent lighting that didn’t make up for the difference.

  Before I could get comfortable at my desk, I received consecutive phone calls. First from the mayor of Fort Myers, then the mayor of Bonita Springs. Each expressed concern about the murder and asked what I planned to do about it. I wanted to tell them it was none of their damn business; but common sense prevailed, and
I assured both that no stone would be left unturned.

  By the time I opened an electronic file on the woman’s murder, however, I was pissed at my holding back. It rankled that men supposedly as astute as both mayors wouldn’t comprehend the complexity of the situation, would not understand the quandary I faced.

  Screw them, an inner voice counseled. Just get on with the job.

  I began by entering my notes into the computer—what I’d found in the house, the condition of the corpse, the murder weapon, my interview with the deceased’s husband. Mid-morning Stan Beauregard delivered the list of visitors for the past week, as well as the service people approved for entrance to the Bonita Palms property. There were over six hundred names in all.

  Lunch was a Big Mac at the nearby McDonalds.

  By late afternoon, I’d completed lengthy discussions with Brad Pederson and Scott Wellington. Their interviews with the Sinclair neighbors in Augusta had gone as expected. No one had seen or heard anything. The subdivision was more or less isolated.

  I looked at my watch—past 6:00 p.m. I’d had enough. Time to go home. I envisioned a tall JD on the rocks; maybe more than one. Then I chastised myself.

  The drive took me east of 75 to a fairly new, un-gated subdivision off Corkscrew Road. They were small homes, nothing deluxe. Mine had two bedrooms and two baths, kitchen and great room, if one could call it that. A total of fifteen hundred square feet in all, decorated conservatively. A few framed photographs of me in my younger days; one on a golf course, another on a fishing boat.

  By the time I’d undressed, washed, and stashed my gun away, I was more than ready for a touch of Jack. I stepped up to the empty liquor cabinet in the great room, imagined it still being stocked with my favorite beverage … and paused.

  Promises made. Promises broken. I realized I couldn’t go on this way. My troubles were supposedly behind me. If I slipped there’d be no going back. It would be okay if I could stop at one drink, but not a chance.

  I pushed myself away from the cabinet and walked into the master bathroom. My Crestor medication was sitting on the counter. I partially filled a glass with water, popped one of the pills and swallowed. Then I opened the drawer beneath the mirror and removed the container of Narvia. This prescription was my magic elixir, used to control anxiety. More than that, it dimmed my need for alcohol by helping me to unwind. I shook out two pills and washed them down.