Bonita Palms Page 5

  Paul Gladstone opened the door and wordlessly beckoned me inside.

  I was taken aback by the change in Cynthia’s husband. The man had always looked his age of seventy-three, but tonight he’d been transformed into someone much older. His posture was stooped. His potbelly not only protruded, it sagged over his belt buckle. What little was left of his gray hair was in disarray. And his eyes—always projecting warmth—were puffy and red, burning with a hurt so obvious it was disquieting.

  “Her body’s in there,” he said, his voice all but a whisper.

  I followed where he was pointing and headed along the hallway to the kitchen, where I acknowledged my second in command, Brad Pederson, then several of the technicians who were already at work. The medical examiner hadn’t yet arrived. Sara and I had decided in the restaurant that it’d be best if I preceded her to the crime scene.

  The kitchen was large enough for us all to fit comfortably. It had every amenity imaginable, from extra wide fridge, to built-in barbecue, butler’s pantry and double sink. There was a modern design to it that’d make any woman proud.

  Mrs. Gladstone’s body lay on the tiled floor, her skin already drained of color. The apparent murder weapon—a bronze statue belonging to the victim and her husband—was lying next to her. Cynthia’s face was compressed; her cheeks were drawn, making them look more skeletal than human. Her head had been crushed so viciously, pieces of skull were jutting out.

  Brad Pederson explained: “Her husband called it in. He’d been out running a few errands and had just returned home.” He paused. “Man-oh-man, it’s one thing to deal with the Sinclair homicide … but two murders in Bonita Palms in less than two weeks?”

  My own sentiment exactly. “Two murders and two different weapons used.” This makes it far less likely that Frank Sinclair is the culprit. “Did you get a fix on the time?”

  Pederson nodded. “Mr. Gladstone was gone for an hour and forty-five minutes. So somewhere between 5:30 and 7:15.”

  I pictured Cynthia Gladstone relaxing at home, perhaps reading a book or watching television … until she’s interrupted by a neighbor or a friend, or at least someone she knew.

  “Any sign of a break-in?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Her husband claims everything was normal. First thing I did was check the doors, windows, and garage.”

  “Did they keep the front door locked?”

  “Always. But the alarm’s solely activated when they go to bed at night. Haven’t had a problem in the fourteen years they’ve been living here.”

  I lowered my voice. “What do you make of it, Brad?”

  There was no hesitation. “Different weapons but the same M.O. Too early to be a copycat killing.”

  I agreed. Two victims, one killer. Unless we catch him soon, this is plainly going to escalate.

  * * *

  The minute Sara’s SUV pulled up I headed outside. There was no regulation at work against us dating but we both felt it was far too soon for anyone to know about it. Meanwhile, despite our evening being interrupted, I was certain something had clicked between us and I was anxious to see how it would play out.

  I gave Sara a brief wave then went to check the perimeter of the house. The property in back was two lots in one and accessible from both sides. There was grass instead of a paved pathway; the landscaping so pristine it made me feel intrusive.

  Unlike the neighboring homes, the lanai wasn’t enclosed by a wire screen. It sat in the open: fair-sized swimming pool surrounded by a full outdoor kitchen, patio furniture in bright summer colors, and a gas barbecue. The tiled area was extensive and gave way to a manicured lawn with an impressive variety of flowerbeds, from Lilies of the Nile, to petunias and marigolds.

  I headed to the edge of the property where I paused and looked back. The moon was full. Solar-powered decorative lights lit the ground and made it easy to see for quite a distance. I could make out my own footprints—faint indentations in the grass—but no one else’s. I could also see into the great room from where I was standing.

  I imagined being an intruder, aiming to enter the house from in back. But how did I get here? Was I parachuted in? Hop a ride on a drone?

  There was no intruder, I concluded. No one surprised Mrs. Gladstone. The only question left was who killed her: A neighbor? A relative or friend? Someone she was comfortable with? A person she trusted? I recognized what I was facing, and I much preferred a madman, a loony-bin escapee, some psychotic bastard.

  I let my eyes sweep the property one more time, hoping to spot something I’d missed, a physical clue that would make everything clear. I didn’t want to rush, but after fifteen minutes I’d had enough, figuring there was nothing more to be gained out here.

  I headed back inside, said goodbye to Sara, then instructed Brad Pederson to let me know when everything was wrapped up.

  * * *

  I was almost at my office when I answered a call from Sheriff Dean Norman. In the beginning we spoke often, usually two or three times a day. But the closer the sheriff got to his retirement, scheduled for late April, the more disinterested he appeared to be. Almost apathetic. “Just handle it, Miles,” became his mantra.

  “The same unsub?” he asked before I could say hello.

  “Probably.”

  “And?”

  “This second murder most likely takes Frank Sinclair out of the equation. Unless he did it to camouflage the first, which I doubt. So, this brings us back to square one.”

  “Keep at it. You’ll get him.”

  “I intend to.”

  “Be careful, Miles.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I hear the vultures are out, looking for blood,” the sheriff said ominously.

  “Those two again?” I shook my head.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. Where are you now?”

  “About two minutes from my office.”

  “Well—be prepared for a shit-storm.”

  The line went dead.

  * * *

  It was now close to 10:00 p.m. I walked into my office knowing exactly who’d be there waiting for me. “Vultures” was the sheriff’s and my codeword for the mayors of Bonita Springs and Fort Myers, who were right now making themselves at home. The former was a bear of a man, nine years my junior but weighing quite a bit more. The latter was closer to me in age and size.

  Both were dressed formally in suits and ties. Bruce Hillier of Bonita Springs was seated in the chair behind my desk. Middle-aged, the man’s complexion was always beet red. I suspected a blood pressure issue. Leo Torbram stood on his right next to the desk and in close proximity.

  In theory I reported to Sheriff Norman, but the mayor of Bonita Springs not only had a vested interest, he was ultimately responsible for my position. No matter the circumstance, however, I didn’t appreciate his unannounced visit, and I especially disliked him occupying my chair.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked, implying my displeasure.

  “There’s been another murder,” Hillier said, his tone of voice accusatory, like it was my fault.

  Duhhh, I wanted to say.

  “That’s two murders in less than two weeks.”

  “And?”

  “And?” His lips formed a tight slash. “I’d like to know what you’re doing about it. Bonita Springs doesn’t have murders. We’re one of the safest communities in all of Florida. Perhaps in all of the United States. If word leaks out, our property values will plummet.”

  “I see.”

  “We need to know what progress is being made,” Leo Torbram piped up. “Are there any suspects? Whom have you interviewed? What steps are being taken to prevent a third occurrence?”

  What steps, my ass. How many times had I explained to these clowns what my job entailed? I should be getting on with my investigation, not standing here, wasting m
y breath. “I can assure you,” I said, using a tired cliché, “that everything that should be done is being done. My people are working around the clock. But this’ll take time. Barring a miracle, probably ten more days.”

  “Ten more days!” both men exclaimed at once.

  “That’s right. If we’re lucky. Mrs. Sinclair ordered a pizza on the night she was murdered. We had to track down the deliveryman, be sure his alibi was solid and rule him out. Then we had to interview Frank Sinclair’s fishing buddies, be sure they corroborated his story. Based on their reputation, while they were likely doing more screwing around than fishing, they were still together at the time of Cathy Sinclair’s murder. We’ve also been interviewing the service contractors: pool technicians, plumbers, electricians, carpenters, bug control people, and handymen. The list is endless…”

  “Ten more days, and then what?” Mayor Hillier demanded.

  “If no suspects turn up, we’ll move on to the residents themselves. There are twenty-two hundred homes on site. Nearly four thousand people in all. No matter how you look at it, it’s a formidable task.”

  “And how long will that take? Ten additional days?”

  “Or longer.”

  The man’s red face colored even more. “Well, you don’t have that goddamn luxury. You either come up with a shorter timeframe, or you’ll find yourself in jeopardy.”

  I almost burst out laughing. “In jeopardy for doing my job?”

  “That’s correct,” Mayor Torbram interrupted. “Isn’t that what Bruce just said?”

  I turned toward him. “He did, but I wanted it clarified. Look, I’m sorry, gentlemen, but if you have a problem with my performance, you should take it up with my immediate supervisor—Sheriff Norman.”

  Mayor Hillier came out of my chair in a fury, his breathing sounding impaired. “Enough!” he hollered. “I think it would be best if you recused yourself from this case!”

  Recused? What am I—a lawyer? I mused.

  “Or better still, hand in your resignation.”

  “My resignation?”

  “That’s right. You know what they say—if you can’t stand the heat in the kitchen, get out.”

  I know what’s going on here. Hank Broderick, the ex-deputy sheriff of Lee County—a crony of Mayor Hillier’s—had recently resurfaced. Hillier was angling to get his friend back in my job.

  I took my time, moving the opposite way around the desk to sit in my chair.

  “So, what’s it going to be?” Hillier glared at me.

  “What will be will be,” I taunted. “Now—get the hell out of my office … gentlemen.”

  Mayor Hillier did his best to save face. “As of now, you’re on the clock. If you don’t have a suspect in custody within two weeks, we’ll instruct the sheriff to demand your resignation.”

  I’d said my piece and was done talking. Head down, I shuffled through some paperwork, ignoring them. Without another word, they filed out of my office. I resolved that I’d risk being fired before I’d kiss any mayoral ass.

  9

  20+ years ago

  My father was a first-generation policeman in Phoenix, Arizona. I never wanted to be anything but a cop myself and naturally followed in his footsteps.

  At the age of twenty-five I married my twenty-three-year-old girlfriend, Alice Knox, a petite brunette with green eyes. Alice was a secretary in a law office. We each kept long hours and both enjoyed what we did.

  A few years later an opportunity for advancement presented itself with the Chicago Police Department. I was reluctant to accept the offer as it’d mean leaving the only city either of us had known. I decided to delay my answer.

  Three weeks became a month. Chicago grew impatient. I talked it over with Alice and she encouraged me: Not accepting the job would lead to second guessing myself later in life. Did I want to look back when it was too late and feel regret? The time for career advancement was now, she insisted, while I was still young.

  I suspected she was saying these things strictly for my benefit, but her words were convincing. I called Chicago and negotiated the terms of my employment.

  Like any move of this nature there was a learning curve; finding my way around a new city, getting used to severe winter weather. It was fortunate I had Alice by my side. Every complaint I made was countered by sage advice.

  We settled into a routine. Alice found a job with a legal firm close to home. And, unusual for Chicago, I didn’t have more than a half-hour drive to work. Starting a family became our next priority.

  We did away with prophylactics and took to experimenting with new and challenging positions. It brought both of us heightened pleasure, yet nothing worked. Alice couldn’t conceive, no matter what we tried. We spent too many hours discussing it, stressing over it, wondering if it wasn’t meant to be.

  We talked about adoption. Alice was in favor; I was not. It became a moot point four months later when her gynecologist confirmed her pregnancy. But Alice didn’t have an easy time of it; morning sickness lasted forever.

  By the time she was admitted to the hospital we already knew it was a boy. Contractions were timed; anxiety gave way to pain and seven hours later Charles was born. Alice was too exhausted to rejoice, but I was fueled by relief. I went on a cigar passing binge to doctors and nurses, interns, and even total strangers.

  Charles wasn’t a happy baby. While not colic, the symptoms he displayed were of a similar nature. When he wasn’t crying, he was coughing. Instead of smiling, he was whining.

  Our lives were no longer normal. Sleep for Alice and me became erratic. Charles had to be constantly monitored. I consulted our pediatrician so often I was making a nuisance of myself.

  We discussed a live-in nanny. It would be a squeeze financially but well worth it. We hired a woman from England. Elizabeth Crane began with us on a Monday. On the following Saturday, she quit. Even a seasoned professional couldn’t handle our cantankerous child.

  * * *

  At the age of two, Charles was into violent temper tantrums. If he didn’t get his way, he’d throw whatever happened to be within reach. It could be his dinner plate, the cutlery, or his glass. Anything not tied down or too heavy was at risk. Alice and I often bore the brunt of his projectiles. As did the nannies, when they were still with us. Three more had already been hired and bailed.

  We desperately wanted to believe neither of us was at fault. Until now we’d seldom argued, rarely picked on one another, never cast blame; but the strain was starting to show.

  At the age of four my son’s moods were getting worse. He’d mope around the house or explode with fits of temper.

  At six Charles was sent home for talking back to his teacher. We reprimanded our son by confining him to his room. There would be no television, no video games. Instead of teaching him a lesson it fueled his anger even more. He busted up every toy that was breakable; and the ones that weren’t he flung out the window.

  We engaged a child psychologist and Charles began bi-weekly sessions. Progress was slow in coming. I thought it was nonexistent. Alice—the eternal optimist—claimed she could see a glimmer of hope.

  When our son turned ten, he was accused of cheating on an exam. We were called in for a meeting with his teacher and a guidance counselor. My wife and I became less civil with each other; I blamed her, she blamed me.

  In Charles’ fifteenth year, Alice noticed the odd piece of jewelry would go missing. As a test she purposely left an old cubic zirconia ring of hers on the bedroom dresser in plain sight. She told Charles she was going out for a couple of hours. Upon her return the ring was gone.

  My police instincts urged me to take action; I didn’t know any other way. I wanted to interrogate our son until the truth came out. However, my wife counseled restraint, and I obeyed her wishes.

  Charles’ first arrest—for the robbery of a gas-bar attendant—came at age
seventeen; and I could tell Alice couldn’t take anymore. She quit her job and simply lost interest. There was no inertia, no get-up-and-go. Instead of discussing our son’s situation she argued with me. I often noticed her words slurring. She became irritable and could barely hold a thought or carry on a meaningful conversation.

  I suspected the cause. It didn’t take long to discover a stash of prescription drugs carelessly hidden in her bathroom. Our arguments grew more frequent and more intense. I began to stay away, preferring liquid dinners in bars to the alternative.

  Charles stint at university lasted one semester. His entry into the workforce was no better. He failed at whatever job he tried; car-wash attendant, busboy in a restaurant, burger flipper at McDonald’s. The chip on his shoulder never failed to alienate his employers.

  And his friends were of no help. A motley crew of angry blacks, trailer-trash whites and knife-carrying Hispanics. Not a congenial one in the bunch; quick tempered and prone to violence, menacing in their manner, eager to challenge authority.

  The more often Charles brought them home, the more nervous and agitated Alice became. She stood by, helpless, as our son and his buddies locked themselves in his room and played heavy metal rock at ear-splitting decibels.

  I learned the truth in one of my wife’s few lucid moments and I took action. I searched Charles’ room and found a stash of cocaine and amphetamines. When I confronted him, my son swore he wasn’t a user himself, just a dealer, as if that made a difference. I warned him to change his ways or I’d have no choice but to have him arrested.

  The hatred in my son’s eyes intensified.

  * * *

  I took to imbibing during the day. I kept a flask in my desk at work as well as one in my car. Breath mints were my constant companion. If I arrived home at a decent hour Alice would pick a fight. If I arrived home late, I’d find her passed out on the couch.

  My “woe is me” attitude grew worse and constantly sought blame. Charles was culpable because of the way he turned out; my wife was at fault because she’d turned to drugs.