I tried Leslie’s cell for the third time in two hours. The first two times I got her voice-mail. The last try there was a clicking noise like the phone had been disconnected.
I locked Jupiter and started walking to my Jeep. The tiki bar was filled with people and song. As I walked by, I could see the sole entertainer, dressed in white island cottons and wearing a hat that looked like a mix between a fedora and an Australian bush hat. He was crooning the Jack Johnson song, “Crying Shame.”
Nick was at the bar with a woman. He got off his stool and waved me inside. “Sean, this is Margarita.”
She smiled and said, “Nice to meet you.” She looked like she was imported from Colombia. Exotic. Dark skin, high cheekbones, and full lips.
“Good to meet you, too.”
“Sean, I drank all your beer today. Let me repay you.” He turned towards a bartender. “Corona for my friend.”
“Nick, I can’t stay. I want to give you a number.” I wrote a phone number down on a bar napkin. “Call him if I don’t make it back tonight. His name’s Dan Gant. He’s a detective with the Volusia County Sheriff’s Office.”
“Man, you need some help? What’s going on?”
“If my Jeep’s gone all night. Call him. Tell him I went to Leslie’s house, I left at 10:30 tonight, and tell him to go there.”
As I walked toward the door, Dave Collins entered. He grinned and said, “Care to join me for coffee? I’ve been thinking about your predicament, your quest, perhaps.”
“I’m meeting Leslie for diner.”
“It’s getting a little late for dinner.”
“I know. She’s not answering her cell, which is not like her.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Dave’s voice had a sense of urgency I hadn’t heard in a while. “If the same guy is now killing people for organs, maybe this is part of a larger, much more frightening enterprise that is far beyond the scope of your average serial killer, beyond your talk-show tabloid murderer. He’s got issues that will add a chapter to criminal psychology books.”
“Maybe we’re coming to the same conclusion.”
“What would poison a human mind so much it would make a man rape, kill, and then butcher?”
I said nothing, thinking about Leslie.
Dave continued. “Someone is having his way with a frightened group of people with little or no voice, but it seems deeper than that, like he’s flaunting these killings in someone’s face. Why? If Richard Brennen is a serial killer is it because he hates a larger-than-life domineering father so much he’s killing their workers.”
“You’re giving me something to think about as I hunt for Leslie.”
“I’m sure she’s fine.”
I wanted very much to believe him.
I drove up AIA, past Daytona Beach Shores and the high-rise condos. My Jeep was engulfed in a roar of a dozen bikers passing me on both sides. I turned left on Main Street, drove past Boothill Saloon and a dozen other biker bars and strip joints. As I passed the Club Platinum, I thought about what Robin Eastman’s mother had told Leslie, ‘she was my happy baby.’
Driving west towards Leslie’s subdivision, half dozen emergency vehicles passed me, including two Volusia County sheriff’s cars, a Daytona Beach police cruiser, a fire department EMT ambulance, and another county ambulance. I was hoping I wouldn’t drive up into the chaos of a multi-car accident scattered across an intersection.
I was still a couple of miles away from Leslie’s house when an uneasy feeling hit my stomach, like I’d gone over a hill too fast. What if she was in a car accident?
Maybe she’d left the ME’s office, stopped by her office, and left her phone in the car. What if the emergency vehicles were rushing to her house?
I tried her cell again. Nothing but a disconnect sound. It was the most desolate sound I’d heard in a long time. I drove faster. Sped in the direction of sirens. It was the direction that sounded alarm bells in my head. It congealed fear in my heart, knocking on the door of a dark place I was afraid to open again.
FIFTY-FIVE
Turning the street corner, I could see the hue of pulsating blue lights above the tree line. Bastard!
I raced down Leslie’s street, taking out a large plastic garbage can near the curb. At the end of the cul-de-sac, all hell was breaking loose. Dozens of police and emergency vehicles were parked. Blue, white, and red emergency lights whirled and flashed sending an eerie color spectrum across yards, houses, and trees. The blur of lights and wide-eyed stares were like a slow-motion parade of the arcane.
Neighbors, some in bathrobes, stood in the shadows pointing and whispering. I gunned the Jeep and pulled to a stop on the sidewalk near Leslie’s front yard. I jumped out and ran through the bystanders, emergency crews, the crackle of police radios, TV reporters rehearsing lines before live shots, finally reaching the crime scene tape like a marathon runner.
A uniform stopped talking into the radio microphone on his shoulder and barked, “You can’t go in there!
I ignored him and ran to the front porch just as the body was coming out. Two grim-faced members of the coroner’s staff pushed a gurney with a white sheet over it. I could see a blood stain about the size of a quarter on the sheet in the head area.
“Leslie!” I shouted, my voice sounding strange, like foreign language coming out of my throat. Please God…
“Stand back, sir!” an EMT ordered. “Out of the way!”
Two strong hands clamped down on my shoulders, pulling me backwards.
“This is a crime scene! Stay outta the house!” one square-jawed officer yelled.
“Take your hands off me!” Blue uniforms charging.
“Put the cuffs on him!” ordered an officer.
Dan Grant stepped from inside the house. “It’s all right! Let him go.”
The officers released my arms. Dan frowned and motioned for me to follow him. We walked a few feet away from the porch, near a flower garden Leslie had planted. Dan’s eyes were wet, tearing. “Sean…she’s gone.”
My stomach burned, the taste of rage raising though my esophagus like a sulfurous gas. I stared at the roses in her garden and pictured her face, heard her laugh, and felt my eyes moisten. “What happened?”
“Shot once in the head. Professional hit. No sign of entry anywhere. Nothing broken. Looks like she was going out the door and was surprised. Somebody was waiting in the bushes for her. Probably stuck the gun in her face and backed her into the foyer. That’s where the body was found. She had her car keys in her hand.”
“She was coming to meet me for dinner. No answer on her cell.”
“Whoever killed her stomped on her cell. Crushed it right next to the body.”
I said nothing.
Dan looked towards the coroner’s van. “Can’t believe she’s gone…” He paused to compose himself. “I was just talking with her earlier. She told me a joke she heard on talk radio. She filled me in on the questioning of the mother in Tampa. She told me about your trip to Jacksonville, and the Miami connection, this guy called Santana who may have put out a hit on club owner Tony Martin.” He exhaled pent up air. “Who’d do this, Sean? Hit Leslie? Why? The perp didn’t even take the time or initiative to make it look like a forced burglary. Nothing seems out of place.”
“Any idea what caliber of bullet?”
“Not yet.”
“See if it matches ballistics in the shooting of club owner Tony Martin. Who reported Leslie’s death?”
“A neighbor. Man two doors down. Out walking his dog. Said he saw a jogger running down the road—”
“And?”