Killer Listing Page 15

  He looked up at the two women. “Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? I know that, but it’s the truth.”

  Darby ignored the question. Certainly Jack’s explanation was flimsy, to say the least.

  “Did you discuss this—theory—with anyone? Dr. Menendez?”

  Jack shook his head. “No. I wrote that stupid note and …” He sat up suddenly. “Candy. I may have rambled on to her about it.”

  Helen snorted. “Who’s Candy?”

  Jack Cameron sighed. “A friend. She used to come to the Dive to visit Marco, the bartender.” He gave a shrug, clearly embarrassed. “She’s—well, let’s just say I was one of her clients initially, but the last few times we were together, I couldn’t … I mean, I didn’t want to do anything but talk. I think I may have shared with her my—theory.” He lifted his head. “I don’t care anymore. I didn’t stab my wife, but I feel responsible for her death. And now, more than ever, I want to find out who did kill her.”

  Darby scribbled the name “Candy” on a small notepad. “What’s Candy’s last name?”

  “Sutton. She lives in Bradenton.”

  “Will Marco know how to get in touch with her?”

  Jack looked around the dingy room and gave a bitter chuckle. “He should. She’s his cousin.”

  Darby rose to her feet. “I’ll see if I can talk to her tomorrow. If she backs up what you’re saying, that will certainly help.” She cocked her head. “Where were you when Kyle was killed?”

  Jack Cameron sighed. “Fishing, south of here. I left around eleven, I think, and returned home later in the day.”

  “Anybody go with you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you speak to anyone while you were there?”

  He shook his head. “Didn’t even stop and buy bait.” He chewed his lower lip. “The family lawyer suggested I plead guilty. Crime of passion, he said. ‘The jury will totally understand, Jack. You couldn’t stand Foster McFarlin’s relationship with your wife, and so you killed her.’” He gritted his teeth. “I had to nearly fire the guy before he agreed to represent me if I pleaded innocent.” He looked from Helen to Darby, his eyes wide. “You two believe me, I know it. I didn’t do it. I loved that woman. I just screwed up and lost her, before somebody took her for good.”

  Darby judged Jack to be able to handle her next question, so she asked it.

  “Were you the father of Kyle’s unborn baby?”

  He shuddered and bit his lip. Moments passed before he spoke. “I could have been,” he said. “But I don’t know for sure.”

  “But you and Kyle had been intimate?”

  “About two months ago, I went to see her at her condo. I brought along her favorite Chinese food and begged her to let me in. She did, and I was—ecstatic. We sat on the floor in her living room and watched that damn goldfish swim around in his crystal bowl. She told me about the work she was doing to find out about her grandmother’s heritage …”

  “The books on Warsaw?”

  “That’s right. Kyle’s grandmother Slivicki escaped from Poland with only a few possessions. Kyle was intrigued about the prospect of discovering her past.” He looked down at his hands. “God, she was beautiful. Happy, and excited …” His voice hardened. “She told me she was through with McFarlin. She joked about the money she’d made from his properties, and said she’d miss that if he pulled her listings, but that it was time to call it quits.”

  His hands were balled into fists and Darby saw a vein in his jaw quiver. “Talk about killing somebody, I could wring that Foster McFarlin’s neck …”

  “Knock it off!” Helen stood and faced her godson. “You want to be a changed man? A big part’s accepting responsibility for what you did and did not do. You weren’t a good husband to Kyle, that’s why she strayed. Spending time with prostitutes! Help her now by focusing on finding her killer, not revenge to make yourself feel better.”

  Jack started to respond when a buzzer sounded and the heavy metal door opened. Jonas Briggs entered, looking a little more rumpled than usual. He glanced at Helen but his eyes seemed to linger on Darby Farr.

  “That’s enough of a visit, ladies. Mr. Cameron needs to answer some questions.”

  They nodded and rose to leave. Helen reached for Jack and hugged him, hard. “You hang tough, Jack. Promise?”

  He nodded and tried to smile. “I’m not going to let my godmother down.”

  Darby and Helen walked through the doorway and heard Jonas tell Jack that he’d be back in a minute. He joined them in the hallway that led back to the station. “Can we push dinner to eight?” he asked. “I’ve got some paperwork to finish up here.”

  “I’m fine with that, unless you’re too busy.”

  Jonas Briggs shook his head. “Never too busy to eat, and besides, I’d really like your take on a few things.”

  Helen raised her eyebrows and was about to speak when Darby’s phone rang. She glanced at the number and answered. A moment later she had said “yes” and hung up.

  “That was Mitzi,” she announced. “She’s asked us to come to Casa Cameron.”

  Helen nodded. By now they had exited the building and were at Helen’s Lexus. “You drive, Darby,” she said with a sigh. “I’m feeling like that Mojito I made could very well have been a double.”

  Darby slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. Precisely why I only drank half, she thought.

  _____

  Clyde Hensley kicked the front bumper of the Corolla and swore. He was trying to pry off the dented Texas plates, but the damn things were rusted right onto the bumpers. In exasperation he grabbed a set of metal cutters and clamped down, hard. The blades bit into the metal and he nodded. Now he was getting somewhere.

  Half an hour later he had both the front and rear bumpers cut off, along with the old plates. He chucked them into the tall grass that bordered the dirt road and peered into the Corolla’s back seat. There were the California plates he’d stolen from the junk store in Palmetto. Quickly Clyde wired them on to what remained of the bumpers. There. That ought to buy him some time if the Asian girl or any of her nosey neighbors had noticed the car.

  He got back into the Corolla and drove down the dirt road. Nothing but dilapidated old shacks and bayous full of crocodiles. He frowned as the road grew rougher and grabbed the map. The road was supposed to take him through the Everglades, a route he figured was safer than the highway. He slowed down and stopped. Peering at the map, he found his location and decided to continue.

  The Corolla bumped and jerked on the rutted surface and Clyde shook his head in disgust. What was he doing in this godforsaken part of Florida? The Asian girl hadn’t seen him, and even if she’d found the camera, that didn’t implicate him. He frowned. There was still the matter of the parasailing accident. That girl was dead, electrocuted on the wires, and that was good reason to lay low. No telling how long they’d look for him for that.

  A mile passed without sign of any human habitation, and Clyde regarded the thick brush on either side of the road with uneasiness. Bad place to break down, he thought, and then immediately wished he could banish the idea. All bad luck ever needed was a good foothold, he muttered, at precisely the same time that he noticed steam pouring from the engine.

  Shit! He looked at the temperature gauge. Sure enough, he was overheating. He slowed to a stop along the road and got out. Billows of white smoke rose from the hood. Gingerly he lifted the metal, yelping as the car belched out a column of hot steam.

  He spat into the dry dirt in disgust and looked up and down the road. Not a sign of another car, and come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any traffic whatsoever since he’d left the highway. He looked at the sky. The sun was getting lower, and he guessed it was coming on late afternoon. Nothing to do but wait until the engine cooled down. He sighed and climbed into the front seat. An old magazine lay on the floor and Clyde thumbed through it, glancing at a few advertisements for guns. The interior of the car was stuffy, and before he knew it, he’d drifted off
to sleep.

  _____

  Casa Cameron seemed to Darby to be waiting for something to happen, its immense windows keeping vigil as they pulled into the circular drive. Even the Madonna wore a watchful expression, her gaze more forlorn than beatific.

  “Place isn’t as cheerful as usual, now is it?” Helen asked as they approached the front door. It was opened almost immediately by Carlotta.

  Her usually expressionless face seemed to soften at their presence. “This way to Señora Cameron,” she said, leading them to the formal living room.

  Darby’s eyes went immediately to the portrait. There, above the mantel, a young Mitzi Cameron looked down with a coy smile, while the real woman was seated in her wheelchair at an immense antique desk, the edges of which were dotted with silver-framed photographs. She turned to face them.

  “How is he?”

  Helen bent and gave her oldest friend a quick hug.

  “Jack is surprisingly well,” she said. “He’s lucid, and determined to figure out who killed Kyle.”

  Mitzi nodded. “John said something similar, although it probably killed him to admit it.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “Why in God’s name did my son write that ridiculous note? He admitted to killing her.”

  Darby felt a stab of pity for Mitzi Cameron, whose lined face did indeed seem to have aged in the past forty eight hours.

  “He was despondent,” Darby offered. “Given the anguish that he’s been in, that confession has to be viewed in a different light.”

  “Maybe.” Mitzi Cameron seemed almost despondent herself. She reached for a photograph from her desk and handed it to Darby.

  “That’s Jack and Kyle, just before they were married,” she said. “So much in love. How could it all have unraveled? How could anyone think he would have done anything to harm her?”

  Darby and Helen were quiet as Mitzi Cameron continued.

  “I nearly lost my son. Now his reputation’s on the line.” She looked from her friend to Darby Farr. “I’ll do anything to prove his innocence.”

  Helen rose and stood beside Mitzi. “The police will find out the truth,” she said with conviction. “That Jonas Briggs is a good man, and he’s smart.”

  Mitzi gave a harsh laugh. “Yes, but he’s not the one in charge, Nell. It’s that damn commissioner and Chellie Howe. They hate that this case has been reopened, and believe me, they just want a warm body at this point.” She looked up at Darby and her eyes were like laser beams. “I need someone who can figure this out before they put Jack away, because believe me, that’s what they’ll try to do. Someone with brains, who can work outside the system. That person is you.”

  Darby remembered the look of conviction she’d seen on Jack Cameron’s face. He was not a man who had murdered his wife, she was sure of that.

  “I appreciate your vote of confidence,” she said, “but I’m not a detective.”

  “That’s precisely why I need you. You aren’t trapped by the bureaucracy like Jonas Briggs. You aren’t at the whim of some politician.” She curled her thin hands into fists and then unclenched them. “I beg of you, Darby. Help my son.”

  Darby walked toward the desk holding the framed photograph.

  “I promise I’ll do my best to find out the truth.”

  “That’s all I’m asking,” Mitzi said softly.

  Darby leaned over and replaced the photograph. Beside it was an image of Kyle Cameron, holding a bouquet of flowers and wearing a crown. A sash across her midnight blue evening dress read “Miss Florida.”

  “This is when Kyle won the pageant?”

  Mitzi nodded, then pointed at the photo and chuckled. “She had quite the bouffant hairstyle back then, but of course, it was the eighties. All that teasing and hairspray.”

  “Who is this?” Darby indicated a beautiful woman standing beside Kyle, whose striking dark looks were oddly familiar.

  Mitzi Cameron gave an amused little laugh.

  “You don’t recognize her? To my eyes, she’s hardly changed at all.” She gave a fond smile as if remembering the long-ago evening. “If Miss Florida should be unable to perform her duties,” she intoned, “this contestant shall replace her automatically.” She smiled, her imitation of a pageant announcer apparently finished. “That’s my daughter, the first runner-up.”

  Darby looked into the strikingly beautiful face of Alexandra Cameron. Her head was tilted toward Kyle’s, her gray eyes cast downward, as if she was noticing for the first time who was wearing the coveted sash. A strange smile twisted the corners of the young woman’s face, a smile that made Darby shudder. Was it her imagination, or had the camera caught the runner-up giving her future sister-in-law a look of pure malice?

  _____

  Sensing heat radiating from the parked Corolla, the snake slithered out of the swamp and toward the vehicle. Its cold-blooded body welcomed the warmth, for dusk was approaching and the wet grasses and mud of the mangroves were turning chilly. It wriggled up to a window, seeking entry to the warm metal box, but the tiny crack wasn’t sufficient for its telephone pole-diameter sized girth to pass through. The snake continued along the car’s side and around to the back, making only the faintest rustling noise as it moved.

  At the rear of the Corolla, the snake flicked its tongue and found a spot where a chunk of missing metal revealed a good sized hole. Heat-sensitive organs on his snout measured the higher temperature of the car’s interior, prompting the powerful creature to muscle in further, finding small crevices of rusted metal which gave way with the merest push. The reptile’s persistence was rewarded when the floor of the car yielded and the snake glided into the Toyota’s roomy backseat.

  The warmth of the leather was enticing, but the 20-foot long Burmese python sensed something even more appetizing at the opposite end of the car. It slithered between the two front seats and onto the recumbent body of a warm-blooded mammal, larger than its usual fare of rats, birds, and juvenile alligators, but tempting nonetheless. With surprising speed and force the snake used its powerful jaws to strike at the animal’s soft skin, sinking in his small, even teeth and encountering the same surprised reactions all prey exhibited: startled noises, futile pushes from paws or hands, and feeble efforts to stop the pain. Screaming assailed the small vibratory bones in the sides of his head, but the snake was not deterred. It kept its vise-like jaws clamped tightly on its prey, diverting attention from the real danger: the powerful coils that were quickly looping around the prostate form.

  The python felt its victim flailing and heard him shouting, and yet already it was far too late to escape. Without releasing its jaws, the snake began rhythmically constricting its muscles, squeezing the length of Clyde Hensley in an inescapable embrace. Tighter and tighter it gripped, causing him to wheeze and sputter as air was forced out of his lungs.

  The snake constricted until the body stopped moving, at which point it unhinged its jaw and freed Clyde Hensley’s bloodied face. For a few moments it contemplated swallowing its kill. Fatigue won out over hunger and the snake uncoiled from its victim. Exhausted from the effort of suffocating such a large and uncooperative mammal, the python slipped to the still-warm seats in the back to enjoy a well-earned nap.

  “Do you really think Jack Cameron killed Kyle?” Darby was buttering a sourdough roll and waiting for her companion’s response. She and Jonas Briggs were seated at Luna, a Spanish restaurant overlooking the Gulf of Mexico in old Tampa. The sun had just begun sinking into the sea, with promises of a gorgeous sunset to follow.

  “You don’t waste any time, do you, Farr?” He thought a moment. “Honestly? No, I don’t think Jack’s our man. And before you ask me why he’s in jail if I don’t think he’s guilty, let me remind you that I’m not the only one making decisions in Serenidad Key.” He glanced around the restaurant and lowered his voice. “I think I’ve filled you in, as much as I can, on the politics involved. Commissioner Conrad and Lieutenant Governor Howe are all over me to get this thing settled. Needless to say, they don’t l
ike the idea of a murderer at large.”

  He was quiet as the sommelier approached and presented a bottle of red wine.

  Jonas Briggs nodded at the label, waited for it to be opened and tasted it appreciatively. “You’re going to love this wine, Darby.” The sommelier poured them each a glass and withdrew.

  “I’m not going to kid you. The case against Jack is substantial. The guy had motive as well as opportunity. I’ve got the note he left for the bartender basically confessing to the crime, as well as numerous witnesses who saw him entering Kyle’s condo plenty of times.”

  “She wasn’t killed at her condo.”

  “I know,” he said patiently, “but Jack’s easy and frequent access to her place sets him up as the obsessed jilted husband. I’m sure that if we dig deeper, we’ll find someone who heard him in one of his drunken rants, carrying on about Kyle, and that’s all a jury’s going to need.”

  Darby took a sip of the wine, trying to block out the image of Jack Cameron in the holding cell. She knew Jonas Briggs was right—it did not look good for Jack, and yet where was the physical evidence? There was none, at least none that she knew about.

  “Is there any evidence linking Jack to the crime?”

  Jonas Briggs gave her a long, level look. “No. Not yet anyway.” He pointed at her glass. “Isn’t this delicious?”

  Darby took another sip of the spicy red wine. He’d chosen a Rioja from Spain’s oldest and most famous vineyard, and she recognized it immediately.

  “The Muga Rioja Reserva, right?”

  “Exactly! How the heck do you know that?”

  Darby smiled. “I have what is called ‘exceptional palate memory.’ It is an odd gift that comes in handy identifying wines, teas, things like that. Linked to it is a keen sense of smell. It’s how I was able to notice Clyde Hensley’s little camera.”