The route took her past a series of strip malls and big box stores, before coming once more into a residential section at the edge of Serenidad Key. Darby waved at the gatehouse keeper who smiled back with a nonchalant wave, then began surveying the numbered buildings.
She passed a pool and two tennis courts before locating Kyle Cameron’s building. Her condo was a ground floor corner unit with landscaping identical to its neighbors’. A red pick-up truck with Florida plates was parked in Kyle’s parking space. Whose vehicle was it? Jack Cameron’s?
She parked the convertible and walked quickly down the winding path. Late-blooming azaleas graced the front of the unit and a few geckos skittered beneath them as she passed. She paused at the front door. Should she knock, ring the bell, or simply enter? She tried the door. It pushed open noiselessly.
Darby stepped into the cool interior. The air conditioning was still doing its best to keep the inhabitants comfortable, even though there was no one at home. Or was there? Darby listened intently. She heard nothing except the usual hum of plugged-in appliances.
A pristine white carpet in a plush pile prompted Darby to slip off her sandals and leave them on a small sisal mat by the door. The walls were white as well, but creamy, so that rather than seeming sterile and cold, the effect was clean and somehow warm. Strategically placed artwork helped: Darby noted that Kyle seemed partial to tropical landscapes in vivid colors.
Darby stepped quietly into the living room. Two oversized love seats, slip covered in a nubby white material, were flanked by warm wood tables. A few books were piled on one of them and Darby glanced at the subject matter. Pre-War Poland, Warsaw, City of Survivors, and The Poles of Warsaw. A little light reading material, she thought wryly.
Darby left the large living room, glancing at the kitchen and dining area. Nothing stirred and nothing seemed amiss. The theme of white on white was repeated, with only occasional bursts of color to enliven the serene surroundings.
She entered the immaculate kitchen, wondering if Kyle was a cook. No appliances on the counters; no dishes draining in the sink. Opening the oven door, Darby saw that it was spotless, as if Kyle Cameron had never turned it on.
Just outside the kitchen, a crystal bowl filled with water and a small goldfish caught her eye. The creature was swimming in circles, his scales flashing against the cut glass. Had Kyle been the last one to feed him? If so, he was probably hungry.
The bowl was on a delicately carved table with a single drawer. She opened it and saw a small box of fish food.
Darby had never owned a fish but knew they required only a pinch of food. Sprinkling it at the surface of the water, she was surprised to note the creature’s acute awareness of her actions. Instantly he darted upwards toward the flakes, but to her surprise, did not take any.
Darby replaced the box. Perhaps he didn’t like to be watched while he ate.
She was about to close the drawer when she spotted the gun. It was a small revolver, a Smith and Wesson by the looks of it, black and very practical looking. Darby opened the drawer further and was stopped by a man’s voice.
“What the fuck are you doing?” It was Jack Cameron, holding a bottle, weaving unsteadily on his feet in the doorway of what Darby imagined was the master bedroom.
Darby caught her breath. Why didn’t I hear him? More important, why didn’t I check to see if he was here before I started feeding Kyle’s pet?
“I said,” he bellowed, his voice becoming thick and dangerous, “What the fuck are you doing?”
Darby closed the drawer and turned to Jack. “I’m feeding the fish, Jack, and looking for you. I’m Darby Farr. I met you a few hours ago, at the Dive. I ordered the grouper sandwich with your godmother, Helen Near.”
Jack licked his lips and seemed to consider her response. He lifted the bottle to his lips, took a drink, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“That’s Buddy,” he said, pointing toward the fish. “Buddy the goldfish. You’re going to have to take him with you ‘cause he’s all alone.”
Darby nodded. “Your family is looking for you, Jack. Can I give you a ride home?”
He barked out a laugh. “Home? You mean Casa Cameron? Shit, yeah. Give me a ride back to the bosom of my loving family.” He looked around the condo, swaying unsteadily on his feet. “This was Kyle’s place. She got it after she left me.” The bottle dropped to the carpet but Jack Cameron did not seem to notice. “She bought all new things. Didn’t want anything except her precious bowl over there.” He pointed toward Buddy and shook his head. “She bought that goddamn goldfish.”
Darby wondered whether she would be able to get Jack Cameron to leave the condo. Would he turn into a combative drunk if she tried taking him out of the building? Thank God he doesn’t know about Kyle’s gun. She took a step closer to him.
“Jack, you need to come with me now. I’ll come back and get Buddy later on.”
“You’re the one who found me yesterday, aren’t you? Who are you, my little Japanese guardian angel?” He barked out a chuckle and kicked the bottle with his toe. “Ah, shit. Her fucking carpet’s dirty, and I forgot to take off my shoes.” He covered his face with his hands as if to shut out his surroundings and began to cry.
Darby went closer to Jack, wary, but wanting to help. She knew from her training in martial arts that the most dangerous situations were the ones involving people under great emotional stress or those who were impaired by drugs or alcohol. Jack Cameron was both.
“I know, Jack. I know how much you miss her.” She reached out and touched his arm, felt him stiffen at the touch.
When he pulled his hands away there was an ugly sneer on his tear-stained face.
“Miss her? Is that what you said?”
Darby nodded.
“How can I miss her? She’s inside my head! That bitch won’t leave me alone!”
Darby swallowed. She had Jack’s psychosis all wrong. Quickly she tried to correct what could prove to be a fatal mistake.
“I see,” she said. “Kyle—she’s tormenting you, is that it?”
The sneer left Jack’s face and his features slowly crumpled into despair. He gave a slow, hopeless nod. “I can’t get rid of her.” Darby could hear desperation in his voice. “She’s talking to me all day long, laughing at me, telling me to end it all …” He stopped. “She won’t shut up. I know she’s dead, but not really. Now she’s an evil spirit, like a zombie only invisible.” He spoke rapidly, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, his eyes moving quickly from side to side as if he expected Kyle Cameron to appear at any moment.
“Come with me, Jack, and we’ll get her to stop.”
“How will you do that? She’s smart, you know. She’s probably the smartest woman you’d ever meet.”
Darby thought quickly, knowing she was dealing with a mental condition akin to schizophrenia. “She is smart, but I think we can get her to leave you alone.”
Jack Cameron nodded and shuffled closer to Darby. Her heart was thumping in her chest but she tried not to show her fear. “That’s it,” she coaxed, not wanting to touch Jack for fear she’d affect his docility. He walked with his shoulders hunched, like an old man, a person who was fighting demons and was damn tired of the battle.
Jack followed Darby through the living room and down the carpeted hallway. She held open the door for him and closed it behind them. He climbed into the back seat of the Mustang without comment and lay down on the seat. As Darby started the car and before Jack Cameron passed out, he reminded her to get Buddy’s food when she went back for the fish.
“Careful when you get it out of the drawer,” he cautioned. “There’s a goddamn loaded gun in there.”
Helen, Mitzi, and John Cameron met Darby and her sleeping passenger at Casa Cameron’s massive front door. Helen and Mitzi wore looks of concern; John Cameron, a sneer of disgust. “My son, the drunk,” Darby heard him mutter under his breath.
Darby and Helen helped John and together they managed to settle
Jack on one of the living room’s couches. “Are you sure you don’t need me to stay?” Helen asked Mitzi.
“No,” she said wearily, smoothing her hair with one hand. “I have Carlotta, and John …” her voice trailed off. She took a sudden breath and lifted her chin. “We’re fine, really. Thank you both for your help.”
Helen gave her friend a hug. She and Darby climbed into the Mustang and motored past the statue and down the winding driveway. When they were barely a stone’s throw from the main house, Helen shook her head in frustration.
“What a mess. The only good thing is that you found him alive. I wasn’t too sure that would be the case.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s got a death wish, that boy.”
Darby sensed Helen was right. She knew Jack needed more than just a sleep-it-off session on his parents’ couch. He needed serious medical attention.
She remembered the loaded gun, how close she’d come to a serious confrontation, and grabbed her phone to report it. She had begun dialing when she remembered her vow.
“What are you doing?” Helen asked, as Darby pulled to the side of the road and put the Mustang in park.
“Calling Detective Briggs.”
“Yes, but why did you pull over?”
Darby pictured the accident she’d witnessed on the San Diego Freeway only two weeks earlier. An SUV driven by a young lawyer had veered into the breakdown lane where he’d hit and killed a fifty-year old woman inspecting a flat tire. At the time of the crash, the driver was talking on his cell phone, discussing an upcoming trial with an associate.
“I didn’t see her,” he reported to the police when asked what had happened. “I just didn’t see her.”
Darby put up a finger as Jonas Briggs came on the line. Later, she’d explain to Helen that witnessing the accident had led her to stop her own distracted driving habits. Although she was still tempted to make a quick phone call or check an e-mail while behind the wheel, she was determined—in honor of the poor victim of the freeway accident—to leave that behavior behind.
Darby told Jonas Briggs of her encounter with Jack Cameron and the gun still present in the condo. “What were you doing there?” he asked, a briskness in his voice that was new.
“Looking for Jack. His family couldn’t reach him, and I guessed he might be at Kyle’s place.” She paused, wondering how much she should tell the detective. “He was in the master bedroom, drunk, and obviously distraught. I convinced him to come with me and brought him home.” She glanced at Helen. “I’m not a psychologist, but his behavior seems to me to be way beyond normal grief. I suggested to Mitzi Cameron that they get him some medical attention immediately.”
Detective Briggs was silent. Darby wondered whether he was taking notes, or checking his e-mails, when he finally answered. “That was good advice.” He took a moment more before continuing to speak. “Are you attending Kyle Cameron’s memorial service tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to talk with you after the service, if that’s possible. Some new information has come to light and it affects you. I’ll look for you outside the church?”
“Fine.”
“Thank you, Darby.” His Southern twang was noticeable when he said her name and she found herself smiling. She was about to hang up when she remembered Buddy.
“Oh! There’s one more thing. Kyle Cameron had a fish—a goldfish—and no one is taking care of it.”
To her surprise, the detective didn’t chuckle or give a patronizing sigh. “I remember seeing that fish. Cute little guy. I’ll make sure he’s given a good home.”
“Thanks.” Darby disconnected and glanced at her passenger.
Helen raised her eyebrows. “What was that all about?”
Darby pulled back into the stream of cars, relaying Jonas Brigg’s request to meet the next day and the emergence of new information.
“Now what in the hell could that be?” Helen shook her head. “I swear to God, you think you’ve got one thing settled and something else comes in to complicate it. Like a phone call I have to make when we get back to the house.”
“To whom?”
“Marty Glickman, the broker in charge of Kyle’s old office at Barnaby’s. He left a message at the office saying he needs to speak to me immediately.”
“Any idea what it’s about?”
“Oh, yeah.” Helen looked down at her nails and gave a short grunt. “I’ve got a good idea. I think he’s steamed over Kyle’s leaving Barnaby’s and coming to work for me. He’s worried about her listings and whether she’d told her clients she was jumping ship and coming to Near & Farr. I know Marty and he won’t want to lose a single one of those properties, especially Foster McFarlin’s cadre of listings. Did I tell you that girl had literally thousands of his lots for sale?”
“Seriously?”
“Absolutely. He owned ten developments in South Florida alone. Most of them were financially troubled but that wasn’t anything that Kyle had to worry about. She just had to hang on to the listings, hope the economy improved, or wait for a big investor who wanted to scoop up some distressed dirt.”
“So Esperanza Shores wasn’t the only one in trouble?” asked Darby, as she negotiated the turn onto Driftwood.
“Esperanza Shores was just the tip of the McFarlin iceberg. He’s got a nineteen-hundred-acre property inland from here designed to hold eight hundred homes. Only forty-five houses are in there, and it looks like a ghost town. No clubhouse, no pool, and no fancy five-star restaurants like Foster promised his investors. Another two are in bankruptcy. One’s got house lots for nine hundred houses; Kyle sold one hundred and fifty or so of them before things soured. I’ll tell you, it’s a mess. Foster put so much money into these residential golf resorts, and now there aren’t enough people with enough dough to play golf! He’s got investors who are suing him, people who can’t pay the course and association fees, and regulators looking into his sales practices. It’s a bad situation.”
“Where did Kyle fit in?” Darby pulled into Helen’s driveway and turned off the Mustang’s engine.
“Well, she made a pile of money when times were good, that’s for sure. She told me once that they sold three hundred and fifty lots in a single day during the heyday. Imagine that! McFarlin would have these splashy parties, with champagne and caviar, and invite way more people than he had available lots. A kind of feeding frenzy would develop and folks would start tripping over themselves to sign on the dotted line.”
She gave Darby a guilty grin. “I went to one of those parties and saw Kyle in action, working the room in her short skirt and high heels, doing the Miss Florida thing whenever she needed to woo one of the golfers.” She opened her car door. “Didn’t do her much good in the long run, though, did it? It didn’t keep her from being some psycho’s final victim.”
Darby walked around the car and joined Helen on the bungalow’s front porch. “Speaking of that, I wonder how Jack will take the news of the capture of Kyle’s killer? He’s not a well man, Helen. He’s hearing voices, perhaps hallucinating.”
“I’ll call Mitzi and make sure she’s contacted somebody with a few more initials after his name than Menendez. I hate to burden her with anything else, but this is serious. Jack could be in big trouble.”
“Yes,” Darby agreed. “He strikes me as a man dangling at the end of his rope.”
_____
Chellie Howe regarded the notice on the granite countertop with disgust. It was another lawsuit against her husband’s real estate development company, McFarlin Enterprises. This one was a class-action suit alleging that Foster and his partners had schemed to sell properties based on fraudulent appraisals. She snorted. That’s a new one, she thought. At least this team of lawyers has some creativity.
She left the notice untouched and made her way to the liquor cabinet. Years ago, she’d decided to let Foster and his legal advisors solve their problems without any input from her. She had too much at stake to get invol
ved in anything that could sully her reputation or lose her votes. As it was, Foster’s untimely investing decisions had cost them millions; but more to the point they’d cost Chellie in credibility with the voters. She’d adopted an innocent response, claiming that Foster was a victim of the economic downturn just like everyone else in Florida, and so far, it had worked. She frowned. This new lawsuit would not be so easy to explain away. Maybe it was time to cut Foster McFarlin loose.
And then there were his extramarital affairs.
If Chellie Howe still had any close girlfriends, they would have asked her long ago why she’d stayed married to a man who couldn’t keep his hands off other women. She pondered the question in an abstract kind of way. I’m not the only woman married to a sex-addicted man (for that was what it was, she was sure of that) and she wasn’t the first wife to turn a blind eye to the trysts. Certainly one had to look no further than the many political wives who stood by their cheating spouses. She reached into the cabinet and retrieved a bottle of single malt scotch. Did she still love Foster? She had been in love with him once, back in their college days when he’d been the star running back on the football team, but could she honestly say that she still cared for the man who wounded her to her very core?
She poured herself a glass, inhaling the pungent aroma, and sipped it slowly, letting it burn on her lips. She didn’t need his money, although it had come in handy years ago. She made enough on her own now, and could easily become a high-paid consultant when her political career was over. Thank God, because Foster was going through their funds like there was no tomorrow. They had no children to keep their marriage together, no pets, and very little personal property. There wasn’t much they did together, save for their public appearances for charities and political functions, but those occupied nearly every night of the week. Was that why she remained Foster McFarlin’s wife? So she’d have a lousy date?
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