Killer Listing

by Vicki Doudera

  Jonas Briggs thanked her and turned to Darby, oblivious to the young officer’s parting glance.

  “Thanks for coming down. Let’s grab a table and some coffee.”

  Briggs ushered Darby into the restaurant and chose a table in the corner. The scent of cinnamon was so strong she could taste it. The detective placed an order, and, when the waitress had left, reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a photograph.

  “Ever seen this man?”

  It was a mug shot of a man in his sixties, with a haggard face and gray streaked hair badly in need of a trim. Darby looked at it carefully but did not recognize the face.

  “No.”

  Detective Briggs nodded as if he’d been expecting Darby’s answer. “This is Clyde Hensley,” he said, waving the glossy image, “He’s on parole from a prison in Texas. We suspect he’s been involved in quite a few illegal activities over the years, but the one the guys on the panhandle finally nabbed him on was running an unlicensed tourist business. You see, Mr. Hensley’s got himself a boat, some cable and a parasail. Our friend here had a good thing going—he’d get money up front, take people up for thirty minutes or so, and then drink it away in a bar that night. Just one problem: once in a while his cable—which of course he never inspects—snaps. And then it’s good-bye parasailors.” He looked up as the waitress arrived with their coffees and sticky buns. “Last time his customers just got roughed up. This time, they weren’t so lucky.”

  “What happened?”

  Jonas Briggs’ face grew sober. “Young girl, twenty-one years old, here with her boyfriend having some fun in the sun. They take a ride with Hensley, his cable snaps, and the couple drifts—right into some electrical wires. The young lady was killed.”

  Darby put down her coffee cup. “That’s horrible.”

  “For her as well as her boyfriend. She was electrocuted before his very eyes.” Detective Briggs spooned two heaping teaspoonfuls of sugar into his coffee and sighed. “Luckily he was able to give us a description of Hensley. This time, we’ll be able to put him away for a long time.”

  “So he’s still at large?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. The incident—ah heck, the tragedy—happened Monday.”

  Darby was silent. She felt for the young couple whose only mistake had been to choose the wrong parasail operator. She sipped her coffee and waited for the detective to resume his story.

  “Now, where does Darby Farr come into all this?” Jonas Briggs took a gulp of his coffee. “I’ll tell you after you have a bite or two of that bun.”

  The pastry was flaky and studded with cinnamon and raisins and covered with a light glaze. “Fabulous,” Darby commented after taking a bite. “I’m going to have to run all day to work it off, but it is delicious.”

  Jonas Briggs laughed. “Life is too short to worry about sugar,” he said. “That’s my motto.” He took another gulp of coffee. “I wanted to speak to you because when we searched Hensley’s apartment we found some photographs.” He reached in his jacket. “This one I think you will recognize.”

  Darby picked up the glossy black and white and saw herself. She had her sunglasses on, head down, pocketbook on her shoulder, and was walking past two or three café tables. She didn’t need to look at the image for more than a second before she knew the time and place it was taken. “That was yesterday, at Jack Cameron’s restaurant. Helen and I went there for lunch, around twelve o’clock.” Darby looked at the photo again. “This was taken when we were leaving. I’d say the photographer was seated at the bar.”

  “That’s right.” Jonas Briggs reached for the photograph. “The question is, why did he take a photograph of you?”

  Darby frowned. “I have no idea.”

  Jonas Briggs took another bite of his sticky bun and chewed thoughtfully. “The bartender confirmed Hensley was sitting at the bar while you and Helen were having lunch. When you left, he asked who you were, but the bartender—his name is Marco—didn’t know.” He spread his hands on the checkered tablecloth. “There’s more to the puzzle. In Hensley’s apartment we found dozens and dozens of photographs of another person—Kyle Cameron.”

  Darby felt a chill come over her. She searched the detective’s face to see his reaction but his expression was impassive.

  “Kyle? What was she doing?”

  “Everyday life. Running errands, going to work, meeting people for dinner … Looking at the images, I estimate that Clyde Hensley spent a good part of his day—for several weeks—following her around and snapping pictures.”

  “She never knew?”

  “Nah. We found his lenses. Telephoto, so chances are she never even saw him.”

  “So what’s the connection between Kyle and this man?”

  “Now you’re asking the million-dollar question.” He took another bite of his sticky bun, chewed some more, and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  “What is the link between them? So far, we haven’t been able to establish anything. Hensley gets out of jail in Texas, comes to Florida, establishes his fly-by-night parasailing operation, and starts taking pictures of Kyle Cameron. She gets killed and a day later he takes photos of you. Why?”

  Darby shook her head. “I wish I could help you. I don’t have any idea.”

  Jonas Briggs signaled for the waitress to bring the check. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you while you’re here. We haven’t found Hensley yet and perhaps he’s not finished shadowing you. I owe it to the family of that poor girl to find him as quickly as possible.”

  Darby nodded. “At least the Kondo Killer is in custody. That must be a relief to your department.”

  Jonas Briggs gave the waitress his credit card and waited for her to depart. “That brings us to the last thing you need to know. I’m telling you something in strictest confidence.” He paused. “I do not believe Kyle’s murder has been solved.”

  “You mean the Kondo Killer wasn’t captured?”

  “Cyril Shank? Oh, he was captured alright. And there is little doubt he committed two murders on the East Coast, and possibly more.” Jonas Briggs paused. “But in my opinion, he was not the man who killed Kyle Cameron.”

  “What are you saying? Someone else murdered Kyle? ”

  Jonas Briggs looked off to the side then back at Darby. “I’m afraid I can’t give you all the details. But there are certain elements of the crime—certain signature elements—that have made me suspicious from the beginning.” His face hardened. “My superiors don’t share my point of view, but I don’t think the Kondo Killer was Kyle’s murderer. I think she was intended to look like one of his victims.”

  “A copycat?”

  “Exactly. Which means—” he looked directly into her face and his expression was grim. “Kyle Cameron’s killer is still out there.”

  “Clyde Hensley?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t fit what we know of his profile, but he was obviously following Kyle for several weeks. Could he be the killer? And if he is, are you his next target?”

  _____

  Helen Near steered her Lexus onto the causeway to St. Andrew’s Isle, paused at the gatehouse, and gave a low whistle. “Holy cow,” she breathed, slapping Darby on the shoulder. “Take a look at this approach. Is this incredible, or what?”

  Darby smiled at Helen’s enthusiasm, happy to shake the feeling of foreboding she’d felt since speaking with Jonas Briggs. Before them was a palm-tree lined drive, perfectly landscaped, curving gently around undulating acres of lush green grass.

  “Would I ever love to play this private course,” Helen whispered, as the gatekeeper verified their appointment and waved them on. She stepped on the gas and started down the winding drive. “Course we don’t have time today, with Kyle’s funeral and all, not to mention the fact that you’ve got to hit the books and study.”

  The Lexus’ wheels hugged the road as they curved around a bend. Before them was a lovely terra-cotta colored home with an orange tiled roof, set back from the links and bordered by beauti
fully landscaped pools. The turquoise water sparkled as a casually dressed man in tan pants and a golf shirt sauntered up to the car.

  “Justin,” he said, giving them a smile. “Justin Fleischman. I work for Mr. Gunnerson here at the guesthouse.”

  “Guesthouse,” said Helen, shaking her head. “And here I thought it was the main residence.”

  Justin Fleischman laughed. “You’re not the only one to think that,” he said. “Even Mr. Gunnerson admits it’s a little on the large side.” He pointed at the driveway. “The main house is further up the road. Don’t worry, you’ll know it.”

  Helen resumed her slow drive up the roadway, coming around a bend bordered by huge bougainvilleas in brilliant shades of red. Before them was a magnificent Mediterranean-style home, similar in appearance to the guesthouse, only many times its size.

  “It’s the little place on steroids,” commented Helen, climbing out of the Lexus with an admiring grin. “Check out that fountain. The tile work alone is unbelievable.”

  Darby followed her gaze to a curving tiled wall holding a shallow pool from which a spray of water cascaded. It was placed squarely in the center of the circular drive, a beautiful backdrop for visitors as they parked their cars.

  “My goodness,” Helen exclaimed, slamming her car door. “This is going to be one fun listing.”

  They walked toward a massive front door made of weathered, wide-planked wood, which was opened almost immediately by a small man with a receding hairline and wire-rimmed glasses. “You’re here,” he said, allowing them to enter the cool foyer. Arches framed a wrought-iron stairway that contrasted with the bleached stucco walls. “Tag!” he yelled up the stairs. “The real estate brokers are here.”

  He gave a quick nervous smile. “I’m Bernie Schultz. Tag will be down in a minute.”

  He led Helen and Darby to a grand living room with rustic wooden beams against white-washed walls. They sat down on a worn leather couch with vibrant red and yellow pillows while Bernie Schultz looked anxiously toward the door. “He’s got appointments all day,” he confided. “It isn’t the easiest thing to keep him on track.”

  “Keep me on track? Are you complaining again, Schultz?” The tall, larger-than-life persona of one of the world’s most recognizable golfers filled the room, and both women found themselves rising to their feet.

  “Ladies, ladies, no need to get up,” Tag Gunnerson boomed. He was tanned and boyishly handsome, with a full head of thick blonde hair and wide shoulders. He had an athlete’s trim but powerful physique, and the muscles in his arms and thighs rippled under his well-tailored clothes. He was bigger than Darby imagined, and, as he reached out to shake both their hands, the force of his grip was strong and confident. Magnetic, Darby thought.

  Tag Gunnerson cocked a thumb in Bernie Schultz’s direction and grinned. “I keep him around because he reminds me of that old World War Two show, ‘Hogan’s Heroes.’ Remember Schultz? The fat guy with the mustache?” He chuckled.

  Bernie Schultz gave a shrug as if he’d heard the joke many times before. “Tag, these are the brokers from Near & Farr Realty.”

  “Yes, yes,” Tag said, motioning for them to sit. “Kyle Cameron’s friends.”

  Helen nodded. “Yes, I was quite fond of Kyle.” She smoothed her skirt, and Darby knew she was composing herself. Meeting an idol didn’t happen every day, but Darby could tell she was determined to remain professional.

  “I’m Helen Near, and this is my colleague, Darby Farr. Unfortunately, Darby didn’t get the opportunity to meet Kyle.” Helen tried to give a bright smile. “Your home and grounds are beautiful, Mr. Gunnerson.”

  “Please, call me Tag.” He gave an affable smile and looked around. “It is a pretty place. Thanks for saying so.”

  “May I ask why you are interested in selling?”

  Tag nodded. “Sure. It’s no secret that I’ve been helping care for my nephew Charlie since he was born. He’s got a rare form of leukemia, and it’s a lot for Gretchen—that’s my sister—to handle. As much as my schedule permits, I like to help out.” He raised his eyebrows, all mirth gone from his demeanor. “I want to be closer to them, and they live outside of Phoenix. Long story short, I’m relocating to Arizona.”

  Bernie Schultz gave a small cough. “Tag’s career allows him to live anywhere as long as there are challenging golf courses nearby.”

  “Which there certainly are in south central Arizona,” said Helen.

  “Have you played there?” asked Tag.

  “Several times. I love the Scottsdale courses, especially Whisper Rock, Troon, and the Desert Mountain Club.”

  “I’m impressed,” Tag said. “None of them are easy holes.”

  “I’m not a big fan of easy.”

  Tag laughed. “Me neither.” He turned to Bernie. “Go through the paperwork with Helen, Schultz, and take her on the grand tour of St. Andrew’s Isle. Anyone who knows Arizona golfing like she does is the one for me.” He turned to Darby. “I understand you may be helping Mr. Kobayashi should he decide to buy this place.”

  Darby nodded. “I’ve got to get some licensing requirements out of the way, but once that’s done, I’d be happy to represent him. Is he in Florida now?”

  “He will be here on Friday and asked if I might set up a meeting with you. He’s pleased to work with someone who shares his ethnicity.”

  “I’m sure Helen told you that I’m only half Japanese, on my mother’s side.”

  “Half’s a whole lot more than nothing is the way I see it.” Tag Gunnerson turned to Bernie. “Give Darby the details on Kobayashi’s flights and set up a convenient time for them to get together.” He smiled his expansive smile and rose to his feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to my agent about some upcoming tour dates.” He grinned and pointed a finger at Helen, cocking it as if it were a gun. “I very much look forward to working with you.”

  “Likewise, Tag.” Helen lifted her briefcase. “We’ll discuss pricing options some other time?”

  “Nah.” Tag Gunnerson grinned. “That’s what I’ve got old Schultz for.” He glanced at his watch and waved. “Adios, ladies. Hit ’em straight and long.”

  They watched as he strode out of the room.

  “Well,” Bernie Schultz said, giving another of his delicate coughs. “Tag has spoken, so let’s get the show on the road. I believe you met Justin Fleischman. He’s waiting to take you through the houses and grounds.” He eyed Helen’s briefcase. “Have you brought the listing papers?”

  Helen nodded and pulled them out.

  “And what price are you suggesting?”

  “Forty-five million,” Helen said. “We may adjust that after we see the property, but I think you’ll find our analysis to be quite thorough.”

  “Very good. I’ll go over everything with Tag and call you tonight or tomorrow.” He handed Darby a disk. “Hideki Kobayashi’s itinerary as well as some background information that may be helpful.” He rose to his feet. “You ladies will see that Tag is a very hands-off client. He’ll trust the number you’ve come up with and will expect the transaction with Kobayashi—if indeed he decides to go forth—to be a smooth one.” He gave a condescending smile. “I doubt that many of your sellers are as easy to deal with.”

  Helen and Darby both stood. Helen extended her hand and smiled.

  “I look forward to working with you, Bernie. Call me and we’ll get the show on the road as you suggested.”

  Darby thanked him for the disk and his time. She paused as they were heading out of the room.

  “Bernie, I have a quick question. Was this property ever offered to Barnaby’s International Realty?”

  He stopped and thought a moment. “Last year I called Barnaby’s and a gentleman—Peter? Paul?—came out to meet us. He was nice enough, but Tag wasn’t quite ready to sell, so that’s where it ended.”

  “Did you contact Barnaby’s recently? When Tag decided it was time to list the property?”

  “Yes. I called them to
get in touch with Kyle Cameron. She was the one Tag wanted.”

  “Had Kyle contacted Tag?”

  “He met her at a charity dinner a few months ago, and asked me to set something up. She was supposed to come to a little cocktail party Tag hosted Monday night. Of course, given what happened, she didn’t show.” He shrugged. “She must have told him she was joining your agency, or he wouldn’t have asked me to call you.” He gave them an expectant look, clearly ready to be done with all the questions. “And now if you’re through, Justin is waiting …”

  “Yes,” Darby said, following Helen back into the tiled foyer. “We’re ready to take the tour.”

  _____

  When they were back in Helen’s Lexus and zooming away from St. Andrew’s Isle, Helen looked at Darby and gave her big, booming laugh.

  “Can you believe that place? What about the movie theatre? Pretty nifty!”

  “I’d rather watch Hitchcock movies than endless rounds of golf, but it was cool.” Darby glanced up at the canopy of palms that lined the roadway. “The house is magnificent, but I really loved the gardens. The way they were so private, as if they were little secret hideaways.”

  Helen gave another booming laugh. “The whole place is amazing. A killer listing, that’s what Kyle would have said.” She glanced over at Darby, her eyes dancing. “Tag doesn’t even want to talk price! So I have to put up with that prissy assistant Bernie, but who cares?”

  Darby agreed. “Tag’s whole focus is on his game and getting to Arizona. Wouldn’t it be nice if all our clients were that uncomplicated?”

  “No kidding.” Helen’s look turned shrewd. “I’ve been thinking about how we can handle your representation of Mr. Kobayashi. Do you really have to go to all the trouble of taking that exam?”

  Darby laughed. “Yes! If I want to stay on the right side of the Florida Real Estate commission, I have to play by the rules.” She grinned. “It’s no big deal, Helen. I’ll study after the service and take the test on Thursday morning. Believe me, I do not want to pass up the chance to help Mr. Kobayashi buy St. Andrew’s Isle.”