Sutton’s brown eyes blinked. The deep brown color seemed to soften. At first, Orlando thought the eyes looked defiant. But when they softened, another emotion showed. Guilt, he thought. A soft, brown guilt.
“Don’t deny it, Mr. Sutton. Don’t tell a lie on your deathbed.”
His gritty voice answered. “How did you find out?”
“It occurred to me that everybody might be wrong in thinking the intended victim was Mayor Richardson. It was understandable that everyone would think that; which made the walk a perfect time to kill Allan Bayridge. I don’t think it was your idea, Mr. Sutton. Sylvi Bayridge came up with the plan. She is shrewder than she pretends to be. Her husband was an ally of the mayor. She knew the politics of the town, and she had walked with her husband and with the Richardsons many times. She knew the best place for a car to smash into her husband and the mayor. She was fortunate in one sense. Adele Richardson got the flu that day, which saved her life. Sylvi went over ostensibly, to see if she could help Adele. But that gave her the excuse to say she had picked up some symptoms, and wasn’t feeling well that night, either. No one suspected. So, it was only the two men who took that final walk. No one suspected her. She was officially a friend of the Richardsons. No one checked the insurance or wondered how much she inherited.”
“As you said, she’s shrewd. Sylvi was always cunning.” Sutton said.
“The vicious nature of the crime puzzled me, too. Did Mayor Richardson upset his opponents so badly that one would kill four people? Certainly his enemies, being political, must have realized there would have been a huge backlash after the murder of a mayor. Hence, anyone carrying his mantel, and promising to pursue his agenda, would have won the next election. Murder could not have advanced their political agenda. And then there was the question of what happened to the car? The front end would have been badly damaged, and there would have been blood on the hood and side of the car. How can you hide that? You simply drove it to the Manatee Construction company building, where you had some demolition tools. You, and your friend Quint, took the car apart. You needed a second man, because you had to do it quick. The car couldn’t be in the building the next morning when employees came in. So you needed help. By the time the sun was up, the car was completely dismantled.”
Sutton nodded.
“Quint was not part of the plot, but he did help you demolish the car. Sylvi paid him off, and he left for the West Coast. He was trusted, but even so, I think you and Sylvi felt better when he was three thousand miles away. Then you two waited as every policeman and investigator searched for the man who murdered Mayor Lyndon Richardson. They didn’t look for the man and woman who killed Allan Bayridge.”
“Yes, it happened just as Sylvi said it would.”
“Mr. Sutton, I think you should ask the state attorney to come over and listen to your testimony under oath. Go to your grave knowing justice was served. You did a terrible thing twenty-five years ago. Do the right thing now.”
Sutton nodded. “That time, long ago, I had reservations. I didn’t want to kill anyone, but Sylvi kept at me. She was persuasive. Through all these years, I regretted it, but never had the courage to go to the law.” He breathed one more sigh. “Better late than never.” He raised his hand. “The cancer has weakened me, especially in the extremities. When I try to phone someone, I keep hitting the wrong button. Would you dial for me, and I’ll talk.”
Orlando raised his smart phone and punched in the numbers. A secretary said the state attorney was in a meeting, but when Orlando told her the reason for the call, he was on the phone in thirty seconds.
Less than ten minutes later, the state attorney, with an assistant, rushed into the building.
Orlando walked out. He smiled. For a few moments, he couldn’t understand his feelings. He hadn’t felt this way for years, if then. He strode out of the building with a great sense of satisfaction, of pride, and of joy.
###
“You can’t prove a thing!”
Sylvi Bayridge swallowed half of her drink. She stood next to the fireplace in her living room. A fireplace was not really needed in Florida, but it looked nice in the home, surrounded by red bricks. Orlando stood ten feet away from her. He didn’t sit down because he wasn’t planning on staying long.
“I doubted you would fall down and confess, shouting that you couldn’t live with the guilt anymore, but I was curious about how you would take it,” Orlando said.
Sylvi drank more of her drink. “You think you’ll became famous, solving a famous cold case, but you won’t! You don’t have enough proof to hang a jaywalking charge on me.”
She angrily tossed the remnants of the drink and ice into the fireplace, then walked to the portable bar. She grabbed ice and threw it into the glass, then poured more liquor into the glass.
“I think the state attorney does. He has the sworn testimony of a dying man. That carries a lot of weight in a court. Mr. Sullivan will testify that your husband spoke of problems in the marriage, and inquired about a divorce. That would have cost you a lot of money, even with the pre-nup. Others will testify that Mr. Sutton was, shall we say, enjoying the pleasure of your company, while you were still married to Mr. Bayridge.”
“Allan and I had, what is called, an open marriage.”
“When you marry the man you committed adultery with, that puts a different slant on it. Especially after your husband was murdered.”
She drank some of her fresh drink.
“I’m not a lawyer, Mr. Orlando, but I have watched ‘Matlock’ reruns. In fact, my cable system has a few retro channels, and I have taken to watching old episodes of ‘Perry Mason.’”
“Even Mason couldn’t get you off. His clients were innocent. You’re guilty,” Orlando said.
She sniffed. “You have listed what I believe is circumstantial evidence. Is that the right term? I may have them confused. Anyway, it’s not enough to prove guilt.”
“Oh, I think it is. You see, after the statement of Mr. Sutton, there was a search for Sutton’s friend, Quint, the man who helped him destroy the car used in the crime. About two days ago, they found him. He was in San Luis Obispo. He took no part in the murder, but he destroyed evidence. He’s very willing to turn state’s evidence. He will tell authorities that Mr. Sutton mentioned his co-conspirator while they were dismantling the car. That confirms Mr. Sutton’s death bed statement, that you two planned the murder together. The state attorney is studying all the evidence. I think he will get an arrest warrant for you within a day or two. You got away with murder for twenty-five years, but you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison. And the Richardson family will have closure and a measure of peace, knowing justice has caught up with the two people who killed Mayor Lyndon Richardson, a very good and decent man. I never knew him, but I’m beginning to greatly respect and admire him. He changed a city and, even twenty-five years after he died, he changed the life of a certain individual.”
“People on white horses give me cramps. Get out, and don’t come back.”
“I hope you enjoy your time in prison.”
He turned around and walked toward the front door.
###
Back in his hotel room, he phoned Emily. She answered immediately.
“Boss, how are you?”
“Amazingly well. I’m staring out into a beautiful, scenic ocean. I feel like it’s a new day in more ways than one.”
“Oh, it sounds like you are doing well.”
“Emily, why don’t you come down and join me for a few days.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Emily, I’m not suggesting we jump in bed. I want us to start anew. We‘ve known each other for a while, but that seems to be in another time, another place. I told you once that somehow, Martin had lost his courage, but that somehow, I had found mine. I found the courage to face the morning and not to fear the night. It’s a new day and a new time. So, I want to begin again. To sta
rt, let’s just walk hand in hand on the beach and see what happens.”
“I’ll go along with that, Boss. I’m going to pack a suitcase.”
“And will you please stop calling me, Boss?
“Sure will, Boss. As soon as I get down to Linwood Springs.”
Book 3: The Missing One
-1-
New York at night – a hive of motion, action, and preparation! Cars flew down the streets, patrons entered and exited trendy restaurants, theatre marques announced the newest attraction or show, men and women stumbled – laughing – from bars. Cleaning crews started at one the of the street, sweeping their way south, only to turn around and rake trash in the other direction the next day. Taxi drivers cruised for fares – young associates burned midnight oil in often futile attempts to impress the boss.
All in the City That Never Sleeps.
The rich and powerful, ever fearful someone would try to take what they have, huddled in overpriced apartments behind alarmed doors. Opportunists slid down sidewalks, always on the lookout for an open door or an unlocked window. The streets reeked of money…power… desperation... sadness… success… failure… and crime.
And, that very night, well after the good and most of the bad had retired home for a restless night’s sleep, a gang of criminals were on the prowl.
The Manhattan air was still crisp – summer had not come. Tango Cash walked down the street with a swagger and thinking about his name.
Stupid…just stupid. Can’t believe my mom liked that stupid movie so much.
Tango’s mother had a thing for Kurt Russell. When she’d gotten pregnant by a man named Simon Cash, she insisted her son be named after one of her favorite Russell films – a 1989 “buddy film” with Sylvester Stallone entitled Tango and Cash.
Could be worse, he thought. She could have named he Hard Cash or Check Cash or worse, Johnny Cash after that cracker singer – I’d have killed myself.
A feral cat darted across his path. Tango kicked at it, missed, and dialed a number on his phone. “Jordy,” he said into the phone. “It’s time.”
“We’re on, boss.”
The line went dead.
Cash reviewed his plan – a scheme to steal as many ATMs as his gang could in one night. The operation was too big for Tango to trust to anyone else. He’d done most of the legwork himself. Hour upon hour of surveillance. He knew the machines he’d hit … when and how they were filled with cash (no use robbing an empty box) ... how they were attached to the walls of the bank. He’d also had one of his crew heist the construction equipment he knew he’d need.
Fifteen, he thought. Fifteen machines. Around two hundred grand per machine. A cool three million for a night’s work.
Cash smiled and quickened his step.
The timetable was precise. Cash knew the restocking schedules. Lazy fools. They run the same route every night. I bet they’re supposed to change things up.
He’d spilt one million – the other two were for him. He’d done the work – he deserved the payday.
Tango checked the time. Once everything was prepared, an 18-wheeler would pick up the ATMs. Work fast … work quiet … and, since the alarms on the machines would be neutralized … get away before anyone knew what had happened.
His phone rang. and Tango jumped a little. So far, they had communicated through messaging to reduce the chances of listening ears. “What?” he said into the mobile, his voice a bark.
“I’m almost there, boss.”
“Good, I’m waiting.”
A smile broke the angry lines of his face and Tango ran until he was at the meeting point. The semi with the ATMs was supposed to be there in less than two minutes; they’d be gone before sunrise. Tango waited for a few seconds; then he heard the steady rumble of the truck.
“Everything okay?” he asked the man who opened the door for him.
“Everything’s okay, boss,” came the answer from inside. Cash climbed into the truck, closing the door behind him with a heavy pull. “We’ve got fake serial numbers on the machines back there,” the driver said.
Tango looked out over a sea of heavy gray tarpaulin. “They under there?”
“Safer than a nun’s virginity.” Two cars were in front – two trailed. Three guys rode with Cash.
Cash heard his mother’s voice in his head. “You’re too clever for your own good. You’ll end up in trouble.”
Doing okay now, Ma, he thought. Biggest score of my twenty-seven-year life!
“Come on, brothers, it’s time to live a little,” Tango shouted into the night, and his boys cried out in response.
“We’re rich now. Nothing is going to stop us from doing whatever we want.”
-2-
Nothing changed overnight. The city stretched its arms and came the life – the citizens of the light replacing the denizens of the darkness, but mostly doing the same things
Jimmy Nolan woke to the sounds of the city, still confused by his dream – a lot of old cameras, popping flashbulbs, and … flamingos – and feeling sore all over. It had been a long night for him, spending hours developing photos in his grandmother’s garage.
The twenty-one-year-old wanted nothing more than to dedicate his life to photography. But, no one would give him a break. Still, Jimmy had every intention of becoming famous and following his dream.
“Jimmy, Jimmy…” his grandmother called from the kitchen, forcing him to hurry up with his shower and clothes.
“You took your time, coming down,” Mrs. Rebecca Nolan said when her grandson finally arrived for breakfast.
“I was up late last night,” Jimmy said, stuffing his mouth with pancakes. “I have some good shots.”
“Don’t you think it’s about time for you to consider your future?” his grandmother asked. “There are not a lot of successful photographers, Jimmy. Face it – find something stable.”
“It’d be nice if you’d at least look at my work.”
Grandma looked at a photo. “Pretty picture,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Get a job.”
“I will be a big fashion photographer, Grandma,” Jimmy said for the thousandth time. “I’ve told you already that nothing else interests me.”
“But, you should be practical…”
“I am, I assure you, I am practical. I have been taking photos, developing them, and then sending them to the biggest fashion houses. Soon, someone will notice me.”
“You know how much I love you, Jimmy.” The woman sat in front of him. “And I want you to be happy and to do what you love, but I want you also to have a good life. You need a reliable job.”
“Soon, Grandma, soon I will have all that,” the boy said, and smiled at her. “Soon, I will be a famous fashion photographer.”
Rebeca clucked at his silliness and poured him another glass of coffee. She had been taking care of her grandson for years now; she knew how stubborn he could be. Like all grandparents, Rebeca wanted the best for her grandson, and if that meant crushing his fantasies a little in the name of practicality, she was ready to do it.
Jimmy was still too young to understand how difficult life could be, and how cruel it was. She laughed as he sped off into the city on his red bicycle. The boy had brought her a lot of joy, and Rebeca was going to be sorry to see him go his own way some day.
Jimmy Nolan was almost six feet tall, and he liked dressing in sporty, comfortable clothes. After finishing college, he had dedicated his time and energy to becoming a famous photographer. He had an analytical and witty mind that helped him survive in New York, and he could see things through a lens other people never imagined. He loved creating beauty.
As he pedaled, he reflected on his grandmother’s warning. I can get what I want. I know the business … I know photography. And, I’ll roll over anyone who gets in my fuckin’ way.
Jimmy laughed aloud. People told him he needed to watch his mouth – and to tone down a little. M
aybe I should fuck…ah flippin’ try to be nicer.
He rode through the crowded streets of New York and saw nothing but beauty – even in the dirty sideways and dilapidated buildings. But, fashion captivated him. He never bypassed an opportunity to snap away at a cute ensemble or a fashion experiment.
His midnight project had been pieces of a big puzzle. After an afternoon of photographing people in the park, he spent the evening getting the finished photos just right – an homage to individual style. His portfolio was going to be impressive.
-3-
Of all his duties, Detective Clyde Davis hated dealing with families the most. Robbery, murder, mayhem…he could handle. Looking into the eyes of a devastated parent or a grieving spouse tore through his heart like a finger through wet tissue paper. It’s good news, he thought. Well…good news to a woman with a dead husband.
The 5”8’ detective drove slower than usual. He wasn’t looking forward to this.
Blessed with an innate sense of investigation, Davis had shot up through the ranks. It wasn’t easy to become a detective at twenty-nine…twenty-nine and African-American…twenty-nine and African-American in the NYPD. He smiled.
“The women think I’m a stud … the men think I’m a bastard – I must be doing something right,” he said out loud.
He parked, waited, then hoisted himself out of the car. He smoothed his immaculate, black suit and walked toward the front door of 2146 Roswell with all the confidence he could muster. He saw the Brooklyn Bridge in the distance, hanging like a malicious reminder of everything he wanted to forget. Clyde took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
A middle-aged, African-American woman answered.
“Good morning, Detective,” she said.
“Good morning, Mrs. Warren. May I come in?”
He settled in the living room – she went to get coffee. Clyde was relieved there were no children at home. I guess you only get a few days off for a murdered dad.
Family Ties Mystery Series Box Set Page 26
