“You knew he had been there because of an odor, right?”
Darby nodded ever so slightly. “I know it’s strange …”
“Strange? It’s freaking amazing!” Jonas Briggs lowered his voice and continued, a smile on his face. “You’re like a secret weapon, Darby Farr. And you’re going to help me catch this killer.”
“I’m willing to try.”
“Okay, here goes. Ready for the lowdown?”
She nodded.
“Like many serial killers, Cyril Shank took a souvenir from each of his killings. We kept it out of the press because we hoped it would help us in catching him, and it did. When we arrested Shank we found a small collection of items taken from his victims. Two pieces of ‘memorabilia’ were from the so-called Kondo Killings, and the rest have yet to be identified.”
Darby felt her stomach roll. “I’m listening.”
“Shank’s particular ‘thing’ was to slice off the smallest digit from his victims’ left hands.”
“Pinkie fingers?”
“That’s right. Some guys chop off all of a victim’s fingers, but often that’s to slow down identification of the body. With Shank, I think the one-finger fetish has some kind of sick significance for him.” He took a roll and tore off a chunk, popping it into his mouth with a vengeance. “It’s pretty common for these wackos to keep a little something. Fingers aren’t very original, but there you have it.”
“Just one finger?”
“That’s right. One pinkie, from the left hand.”
“And Kyle?”
“Kyle was missing a pinkie as well.” He leaned back and regarded Darby.
“Why do I feel you’re not telling me everything?”
“Okay. Here’s the thing that aroused my suspicions: hers was cut from her right hand. The two victims on the East Coast were missing their left digits. And yet Kyle’s right pinkie was the one that was severed. Why? These guys don’t screw up when it comes to their signature moves.”
He chewed the piece of bread thoughtfully, and then continued. “I decided it had to be one of two things: either Shank was starting a new pattern, or he was not Kyle’s killer. I talked to a couple of experts and they suggested the new pattern could have something to do with the coasts. Left pinkies were the Atlantic; right pinkies for the Gulf. Makes sense in a sort of sick way, right?”
Darby nodded. “But you didn’t quite buy that explanation.”
Jonas Briggs shook his head. “No. My gut told me that a different guy killed her, a guy who somehow knew about the pinkie, but didn’t know which hand.”
“And then?”
“And then we got lucky and caught Cyril Shank. Sure enough, there were the missing fingers, tucked away in a plastic Marshmallow Fluff container. They matched the victims on the East Coast alright, but there was no missing pinkie from Kyle.”
A waiter appeared to take their dinner order.
“Ready?” asked Jonas Briggs of Darby.
She gave a pleasant smile and looked at the waiter. “Just give me one more minute,” she said. He bowed his head and backed away.
“Jonas, you can’t expect me to order until I know.”
“Know what?”
“Whether you’ve found it.”
“The pinkie? Not yet. But if Jack Cameron has it …”
“He could be the killer,” finished Darby.
“I’d say in all likelihood would be the killer,” said Briggs. They were quiet a few moments, both of them thinking. The waiter returned, eyebrows raised.
Jonas Briggs looked at Darby. The basket of rolls was empty and the poor guy looked famished.
“I’ll have the snapper paella,” she said. She waited for Jonas Briggs to order and the waiter to leave.
“So this is a copycat crime?”
Jonas grimaced. “Yeah, although how this guy learned about the pinkie, I don’t know. I was in the dark about it until Kyle was killed and we started working with the other police departments. It was never in the paper, never in the news. The only thing I can think is that someone close to the investigation leaked it.”
“What about Shank himself? Couldn’t he have bragged about it to someone? Or put it on a website, or an internet chat room?”
“We thought of that. His computer was checked and nothing like that was found. We’ve asked him, and he denies it of course, but he can’t be trusted to tell the truth.”
“What about Clyde Hensley? Where does he fit into all this, and why was he collecting photos of Kyle?”
“I don’t know. I do think I have a pretty good idea of what he was up to this morning.”
“At Helen’s?”
“Yeah. Filming you to add to his collection. We found compact disks in his apartment with multiple images of women undressing. Doesn’t seem like he ever progressed beyond the Peeping Tom stage, but who knows.”
“Do you think Kyle’s murder was one of his little photo shoots gone wrong?”
“No. Kyle’s killing was premeditated. Someone wanted that girl dead and went to that open house to do it. Now that we know it was not Cyril Shank, we have to look at those close to her with motive. Was it her husband? Her lover? His wife? Or someone we’re completely ignoring?”
“Have you looked into Chellie Howe and Foster McFarlin’s whereabouts?”
“Foster was driving between his various developments, speaking with his subs, but there’s quite a bit of time unaccounted for. Chellie was speaking at a fundraiser at the Ringling Museum. Her assistant, Mindy Jackson, was with her.”
The waiter arrived with their dinners and placed them down with a flourish. Jonas regarded his miniscule portion of lomo adobado, a pork dish, and sighed.
Darby slid him some of her paella on her bread plate and he grinned and said thanks. Taking a bite, he chewed and regarded her carefully.
“It all comes down to one question, Darby: who wanted Kyle Cameron dead?”
She nodded and took a sip of the Rioja, the memory of Miss Florida’s First Runner-Up lingering in her mind.
_____
Chellie Howe left Mindy sitting at her desk and walked the three blocks from her office back to the condo. It was a mild night, the heat of the past several weeks having broken somewhat, and a hint of a breeze was in the air.
Chellie looked at her cell phone, checking her incoming messages with irritation. She had the usual annoying reminders from Mindy, even though Mindy had been only an office away, and a few calls from staffers alerting her to upcoming legislation and concerns of the Governor. She sighed. Nothing important; nothing from Foster.
She swallowed, tasting acid in the back of her throat. Why had she thought Kyle’s death would make any difference in Foster McFarlin’s behavior? With Kyle safely out of the picture, Chellie had imagined … She shook her head. It seemed so stupid now. Stupid and naïve. She’d imagined he’d return to her and that they’d once again have a real marriage.
Fuck him, she thought with a bitterness born of years of humiliation. Fuck him to all hell. She exhaled deeply, trying to rid herself of the sour taste of defeat. How do I get beyond this? What do I do? She bit her lip, heard her heels clicking on the pavement, and then another sound …
Wham! It was too late for Chellie Howe to react, too late for her to avoid the handle of the pistol as it smashed into her cranium. She collapsed to the ground, her arms flung wide, waiting for an embrace that never came.
_____
Darby lay in bed in Helen’s guestroom, unable to sleep. Her evening with Jonas Briggs had not clarified anything: instead, she now had the additional puzzle of the severed pinkie to ponder. Without a sound she rose from the bed and opened a window. There was a slight breeze in the air and the curtains gently billowed.
Darby looked out over the lawn at the street bathed in moonlight. Clyde Hensley had passed her line of vision directly in front of Helen’s massive palms, his baseball cap pulled low and his arm extended. Why the outstretched arm, she wondered. He’d pulled it back into the v
ehicle a second later.
Darby pulled on some shorts and a tee shirt and made her way quietly through Helen’s house. She opened the front door and crept across the lawn, looking at the black asphalt with curiosity. Had Clyde Hensley tossed something out the window? And if so, had the police already found it?
In a gutter on the other side of the street, Darby saw a white paper bag with red lettering. She knelt and examined it, using a stick she found nearby to peer inside. A styrofoam cup, its contents most likely coffee, bore the logo of a nationwide donut chain. A few napkins with the same red lettering were crumpled alongside. Darby lifted the bag using the stick, feeling foolish as she carried it back to Helen’s house. My big discovery is a discarded coffee cup. Who knows if it even belonged to Hensley?
Back at the bungalow, Darby laid the bag on Helen’s porch and poked inside with the stick. There was a crumpled piece of paper in the bottom, most likely a receipt. Darby regarded it with interest. There was writing on it.
She grabbed a corner of the paper and carefully opened it up.
Donald Bergeron. The name was scrawled in ink on the back of a receipt dated several months earlier. This was old trash, discarded by Hensley that morning, whether on purpose or accidentally. Darby said the name out loud. It meant nothing, and yet she felt a strange sense of excitement. It was a clue, in a case where there were precious few such scraps.
She carried the bag into Helen’s and placed it in her bedroom. Booting up her laptop, she punched in Donald Bergeron and came up with a wide range of contacts across the country. Typing in the name and Hensley’s yielded nothing, so Darby turned off her computer and climbed back into bed.
Despite finding no solid information, she knew she would now get some sleep. Hensley had written down a name. Darby felt sure it meant something, and that she would soon discover its significance.
_____
Officer Kelly McGee chirped out “Good morning” to Detective Dave DiNunzio, who was slumped at his desk in the middle of a big yawn as she passed. He mumbled something incoherent to Kelly and shook his shaggy head, reminding her of a big bear just coming out of hibernation. He was always exhausted on Fridays, recovering from his weekly poker game the night before. She smiled as he stretched, yawned again, and answered the phone. She saw him swivel in his chair and cup his hand over the receiver, suddenly alert. “Have you seen Detective Briggs?”
Kelly McGee frowned. “Not yet.” She thought about his dinner plans with the beautiful Darby Farr and felt the familiar ache in her ribs. Knock it off, she told herself. You’ve just got to get over it.
Kelly looked over a pile of papers on her desk and wondered where to begin. The computer queries on ticket data, or the log book? Reluctantly she lifted the pile of queries and pulled out her chair. DiNunzio was at her side, a strange look on his face.
“The Lieutenant Governor was assaulted last night in Tallahassee,” he said. “Briggs is over there as part of a new task force she’s formed, and he’s tied up until lunchtime at least.” He shook his head at Kelly, who wore a confused expression. “Hard to believe, some asshole went and mugged Chellie Howe, huh?”
Kelly McGee’s red curls bounced as she shook her head. “Is she okay?”
“Yeah. Shook up, and more determined than ever to catch every criminal in Florida. Hence the new task force.” He checked the few notes he’d scribbled while talking to Briggs. “He wants us to head over to Driftwood to see that Darby Farr. She found something on her lawn late last night.”
Kelly nearly winced at the name Darby Farr, and yet could not contain a shiver of excitement at the prospect of gathering evidence.
“What are we waiting for?” she asked DiNunzio. “My car is in front.”
_____
Darby showed the scrap of paper to Detective DiNunzio and Officer McGee while a worried Helen, hands clasped in consternation, looked on.
“What does it mean, Detective?” she asked. “Can you tell?”
Dave DiNunizio put a beefy hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “Now don’t get too concerned, Mrs. …”
“Miss Near,” she said, shrugging off his placating hand. “You’re new in the department, aren’t you, Detective DiNunzio?”
He gave a sheepish nod. “Yes, Ma’am. But I’m not new to police work.”
“Then you listen up. I’m already concerned. A man installed a camera in my guest room window. He could have harmed Darby. I want to make sure you’re taking this seriously.”
Kelly McGee fixed Helen Near with a level gaze. “That’s why we’re here, Miss Near. This name could be a link to a murder suspect. It’s very important evidence, and I’m glad Miss Farr found it.”
Darby wondered at the previously garrulous officer’s sudden formality but did not react. “How quickly can we run it through your database?”
“I’ll take it down to the station right now.” She gave Darby a curious look. “Would you like to come?”
Darby nodded. “Definitely. I’ll take my own car and follow you.” She turned to Helen. “My appointment with Mr. Kobayashi is at ten, so I’ll head over to the island from downtown. Are you going to be okay?”
“Who, me? Sure, I’ll be fine.” Helen leaned toward Darby and whispered, “You really want to make me feel better, get your Mr. Kobayashi to write a check for St. Andrew’s Isle. Then I’ll be peachy keen.”
_____
Kelly McGee pointed to a plastic chair in the precinct’s waiting room. “Have a seat,” she said, heading toward the glass door of an office. Darby picked up a newspaper and glanced at the front page. Lieutenant Governor Chellie Howe was featured, discussing her plan to put more patrolmen on the streets of Florida’s cities. Darby looked for a mention of the Kondo Killings, and found several places where the violence of the murders was decried.
Darby was about to put the paper down when a familiar name—the byline of a wire service story covering rebel groups in Afghanistan—caught her eye. “Miles Porter,” she said aloud. They’d met in Maine, just a month earlier, and felt a mutual attraction. She scanned the story, hoping Miles was not in danger, but the report gave no indication of its author’s whereabouts.
Kelly McGee cleared her throat and Darby looked up, startled.
“I’m sorry,” the officer said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s fine. I just noticed this news story. It’s by a friend of mine, someone I haven’t heard from in a while.” She stood up. “Any luck?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Donald Bergeron and Clyde Hensley were incarcerated in the same Texas prison at the same time. Not only that, but they shared a cell for a few months.”
“Interesting. Do you think Clyde was planning to contact this guy?”
“Well if he did, he came up empty. Donald Bergeron died last year—just about the time Clyde Hensley was released.”
“Did he die in prison?”
“No, Bergeron was already out, still in Texas, when he was shot in an alley near his job. His shooting was never solved.”
“Maybe Clyde Hensley didn’t know Bergeron was dead.”
“Could be.”
Darby glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’d better take off. Thanks so much for following up on this.”
“I wish it had led somewhere,” Kelly said.
“Me too,” said Darby. “Me too.”
_____
Hideki Kobayashi arrived early at the St. Andrew’s Isle gatehouse, but Darby had anticipated this and was even earlier. Wearing a perfectly tailored suit and pristine white shirt, the dapper man with black hair going gray at the temples bowed to Darby and she gave a small bow back. With a twinkle in his eye, he greeted her in Japanese. Darby smiled and answered him back.
“I see your command of Japanese is very good,” he observed.
“I can manage the pleasantries, but beyond that, I’m afraid I don’t remember very much of what my mother taught me.”
“And yet your accent is flawless. What part of Japan is your fam
ily from?”
“South of Tokyo. A city called Kamakura.”
Hideki Kobayashi inclined his head slightly, but said nothing.
“And yourself? Where are you from, Mr. Kobayashi?”
“I now live in Tokyo, but I was raised in Yokohama City. Kamakura is a beautiful old town; I know it well.” He gave another subtle tilt of his head. “I believe that our meeting is fortuitous. We shall talk further about our Japanese roots, but first, may I examine this exquisite property?”
Darby nodded. “Of course.” She did not believe in omens, but it did seem her relationship with Mr. Kobayashi was getting off to a very auspicious start.
_____
Chellie Howe was ready to leave the hospital. Dressed in fresh clothes and sitting in a chair by the window, she pressed a few buttons on her Smartphone and reread her husband’s only message:
Heard what happened and that you’re going to be alright. Thank God. Listen, it’s midnight, and I’m not in any shape to travel. I’ll see you late morning.
That was it. He had nothing more to say, even when she’d been attacked and left for dead on the street.
She swallowed and tried to steady her hands. This was the marriage she had chosen, this was the kind of man he was, a man with precious few feelings, a man who had blatantly taken a lover and showed little concern at the attempt on her life.
A monster.
Chellie closed her eyes. The pain and rage were almost more than she could bear.
There was a knock on the door and Mindy Jackson entered, oblivious to her employer’s mood. “Detective Briggs called and said he’d stop in before the task force meeting. Then I’ve got a press conference scheduled at eleven on the steps of the …”
Chellie’s emotions needed an outlet and the hapless assistant fit the bill.
“Get out of my room! I don’t care what you’ve done. Just get out.”
Mindy’s face colored and she began backing away.
“Fine,” she breathed, her voice sounding high and reedy. “I’ll leave and this time I’m leaving for good. But one more detail you may want to take care of, Lieutenant Governor Howe. The Sarasota Women’s Club called to reschedule your talk—the one you completely missed at the Ringling Museum? They’d like you to contact them as soon as possible …”
Killer Listing Page 16
