“Any of this old Florida money coming from agricultural interests?”
“Probably. There are rumors he’s about to run for sheriff. If he could have pinned the murder on you, and convince the DA he had a winnable case, he’d get the news media coverage and probably announce his intent to run.”
I looked directly into her eyes. “How do I know you aren’t here to try to implicate me?”
“I hoped you’d trust me.”
“Trust you, I don’t even know you. You stick a cotton swab in my mouth, collect some hard evidence that I found, take a non-suspect into questioning, come to my house, pet my dog, and ask me to trust you. Why?”
“Because I don’t have anyone else.” Her nostrils flared.
I said nothing.
“I’m not sure who I can trust in the department. My partner, Dan Grant, is honest and dedicated. But he’s only been a detective six months. I don’t know who’s in Slater’s camp. Thought maybe you might help. If you weren’t a former cop, I wouldn’t be here. Maybe I’m wrong, but based on the way you acted at the crime scene, I believe there is something in you that seeks justice.”
I was silent.
“Will you help?” Her eyes searched mine.
“Detective Moore—”
“Please, it’s Leslie.”
“All right, Leslie…I’m Sean. Now that we’ve got the formalities out of the way and we’re on a first-name basis, I’ll help. But it’s got to be a two-way street. You give me what you have and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Okay, what’s first?”
“The physical evidence near the scene. What were the results?”
“The blood on the stick came from the victim. No match from the DNA database with the hair on the duct tape, but we do know it didn’t come from the vic. We found skin under her fingernails, but it didn’t match DNA found in the hair from the tape.”
“Meaning she was raped by two different men, or she was in a fight with someone before the last perp raped and killed her.”
I retrieved the Ziploc bags. One contained the soil I’d collected from the girl’s shoe. The other had the thread Joe Billie spotted on the thorn. I handed them to Leslie.
“What’s this?”
“Run an analysis on this soil. See what’s in it, where it might have come from.”
“Is this why you mentioned agricultural interests?”
“Maybe. It could wind up being pay dirt. The thread was hanging on a palm thorn. I’m betting it came from the killer’s clothes, probably a shirt. Find any commonality you can on the two victims. If we can find that, we’re on the trail of this guy. I believe he’ll keep killing until he’s caught. Give me your cell number.”
I reached in a drawer and found the sealed envelope with the single follicle of hair. I opened the envelope, took a pair of scissors off the table, cut the hair in two pieces, placed one in an envelope, and gave it to Leslie. She watched as I put the second half in a separate envelope, sealing it.
“What’s that?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Is that the vic’s hair?”
“Your forensics ought to tell us. I found it on my boat. Someone planted it."
“Planted it? I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with this.”
“Somebody did.”
“You still don’t trust me, do you?”
“No, but I’m willing to take a risk.”
“I’m taking a risk just coming here.”
“Have you ever been on my boat?” I watched her eyes.
“What?”
“My boat at Ponce Inlet Marina. I noticed a few things out of place.”
“I wouldn’t board a boat without a warrant. I was there, though, with Slater.”
“Did Slater board her?”
“No. We questioned a few people about your coming and going. Everyone there, from the bartender to the dock master, seems to like and respect you.”
“If you told them you were investigating a murder, there is now a marina full of people wondering if I might slit their throats in the dead of night.”
She pushed a strand of hair behind her right ear and smiled awkwardly. “I’m sorry. Sometimes the innocent get bruised. I should go now.”
I followed her to the door. She started to say something, hesitating for a moment. “Can I ask you why you quit as a homicide detective? According to the people I’ve talked to, you have some ability, maybe a rare gift, to really read suspects. To tell if someone is lying the first few seconds you talk with them.”
“Sometimes I got lucky, that’s all.”
Leslie smiled. “I don’t think luck has anything to do with it. It’s the kind of thing the FBI tries to teach in its behavioral profile classes. Not everyone can learn it, ever. Was it a skill you developed?”
I wanted to change the subject. “Don’t let your research into my background skew your judgment. I made mistakes…so many I quit.”
“You don’t seem like a quitter. Maybe one day you’ll tell me about it.”
“Nothing to tell.”
“Somehow I don’t quite believe that.” She smiled and opened the door. “I’ll have the results of these samples soon.”
Watching her get in the unmarked patrol, car I thought of an unmarked grave. It was then that I planned to attend a funeral.
TWENTY-ONE
The next morning I drove to the Volusia County Cemetery, a potter’s field. I parked and stood under a lone water oak tree and waited for the crew to finish. A blackbird alighted on one of the limbs not far above my head. There were only two men, the backhoe operator and a man with a shovel. When the grave was deep enough, the men slid the wooden coffin out from a county truck.
They held opposite sides and carried it like carrying a junk sofa to the curb for pick up. They lowered it by hand, then I heard one of them say, “Hold it! On three. One…two…three.” The coffin dropped the hole with a two thuds, body against wood.
“Show some respect!” I yelled, stepping from the water oak. The man working the shovel stopped and stood erect. He was tall, well over six feet, Viking stock with dirty blonde hair gelled in a flattop. He held the shovel with one hand, resting it against his wide shoulder. The other man, light-skinned black and overweight, shirttail hanging out, climbed on the backhoe and turned over the diesel, ignoring me.
I stepped to the open grave and looked at the pine box at the bottom of the hole.
“What are you doing? The casket could splinter.”
“Don’t matter,” said the man with the shovel. “They’s nobodies.” He lit a cigarette. He inhaled the smoke, flipped an ash into the grave and said, “Ashes to ashes.”
“Her grave isn’t your ash tray!”
“You related to her?”
“I didn’t have a lot of time to get to know her.”
“Fuckin’ nut.” He shoveled in dirt.
The man on the backhoe shrugged his shoulders and began scrapping the dirt in the grave. The man with the shovel was angry, tossing in dirt like someone covering up a hole that didn’t produce buried treasure.
Within a few minutes they were done. Eighteen years of life covered in twenty minutes of work. The man with the shovel tossed his cigarette into the grave and covered it up with dirt.
I grabbed the wooden end of the shovel with one hand, catching him off guard. “Dig it out!”
“Kiss my ass!” he shouted above the noise from the backhoe. He jerked the shovel out of my hand and swung the blade at my head. It missed my nose by inches, the grit and sand spraying my eyes, blinding for a moment. He hit me with the wooden handle. The blow landed on my jaw. There was the instant taste of blood in my mouth.