LIVE Ammo (Sunshine State Mystery Series Book 2)

by Lynda Fitzgerald

  Allie took a deep breath. “I didn’t come here to look at your house.”

  “My mother’s house. Not mine, and not the sheriff’s. You’re a reporter. Don’t you want all the gory details?”

  Her eyes were drawn to the laptop on the coffee table. Rand Arbutten had been doing his homework. “I’m not here as a reporter, and I’m not looking for details, gory or otherwise. I hoped we could talk for a few minutes.” She looked around. “May I sit down?”

  He gestured to the sofa. “Suit yourself.”

  He flung himself into a recliner facing the television. “Pardon the mess,” he said, his voice rich with sarcasm. “I was too busy burying my mother yesterday to tidy up.”

  Allie chose the middle of the sofa, equidistant from the pillow and blanket. Now that she was here, what in the world would she say? She looked over at Rand. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was rumpled, as if it hadn’t seen a comb since the funeral. His skin had a pale, unhealthy look, as if he had recently spent too much time indoors, and grief had etched premature age lines in his face. For all that, Rand Arbutten was a good-looking man.

  “My aunt and your father never had an affair,” she blurted out. It was lame.

  “Bullshit.”

  “Which is not to say they didn’t love each other,” Allie went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “They did, for many years. My aunt would have gone along with an affair. Your father wouldn’t.”

  Rand reared back in his chair. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better? That they weren’t actively screwing each other? Not that I believe you, you understand.”

  A grandfather clock ticked loudly in the corner, the only sound in the room. Allie could see the sun sparkling on the water in the pool outside the window. She could even smell the chlorine, or maybe she was imagining it. “I don’t care if you believe it. I know it’s true. Your father would never have hurt your mother.”

  Rand jumped to his feet. Allie flattened herself against the back of the sofa, suddenly afraid. This man exuded entirely too much raw power, a man who might turn out to be a killer.

  “Oh, no?” he growled out. “He wouldn’t hurt her? Well, bullshit to that too. He did nothing but hurt her, and in the end, he killed her. I have proof.”

  Allie blinked up at him. “Proof?”

  “Proof,” he repeated. “Pure, incontrovertible proof she was terrified of him. He had threatened to kill her.”

  “If you have proof, why haven’t you taken it to the police?”

  “Because he is the police. The main honcho. Leader of the pack.”

  “You could take it to the governor,” Allie said before she could stop herself. “He’s your father’s boss.”

  “Are you nuts? You don’t think he has him in his pocket?”

  Allie suddenly remembered she was talking to a lawyer. “Do you have proof of that too?”

  He opened his mouth to speak. Closed it. “No, but I have proof she was terrified of him.” He stared at Allie with narrowed eyes as a battle took place on his face. Finally, he spun on his heel and went over to a briefcase resting on a desk in the corner—Italian leather from the look of it. Her mother would be impressed. He reached in and pulled out a manila file folder. Then, he came back to where Allie was sitting and thrust the file at her. “Here. Letters from her. Read them.”

  Allie reached up and took the file. She wasn’t at all certain she wanted to read these letters, but she couldn’t very well refuse, not after she’d barged into his house and demanded he listen to her. “Are you sure?”

  He went back to the recliner and dropped down as if his legs would no longer hold him. He rested his elbows on the chair arms, steepling his fingers in front of him. “You wanted proof.” He gestured at the letters. “Proof.”

  Allie put the file folder on the sofa beside her and opened it. Inside was a tidy stack of typed letters. The oldest, dated a little more than a year ago, lay on top. She picked it up.

  “Dear Rand,

  I’ve found out something so terrible that I hate even to tell you about it. I’ve suspected it for years, but now I know. Your father is having an affair. I don’t yet know the identity of the woman, but you can rest assured I will before this is all over. After all the years I’ve given to him, I can’t believe he’d treat me in this manner.”

  The letter went on in the same vein for another page and a half. Allie skimmed the rest before she picked up the next. It was dated seven months ago.

  “Oh, my dear son, I have indeed found out the woman your father is having an affair with. Her name is Louise Smith, and she has been working for him for years. I’m certain the affair has been going on the entire time. At least now I know why he never loved me. I intend to confront him with what I know. I don’t know what will happen when I do. You know how violent his temper is.”

  Allie looked up. “He has a violent temper?”

  Rand had watched her as she read. “How would I know? He shipped me off in the sixth grade. Before that, he was never home. Judging from what I know of him since, I’d say his temper was deadly.”

  There was something so evasive about his answer that Allie couldn’t let it rest. “When you ran away from school, and he caught you, did he beat you?”

  “How did—oh, she probably told you about that. No, he didn’t beat me,” he said bitterly, “but probably because I was a cowering little worm back then. I was scared to death of him. He told me if I did it again, he was putting my ass in reform school.”

  “Did he ever hit your mother?”

  “How the hell do I know?” he demanded, clearly agitated. “I didn’t live with them.”

  “But when you saw her, were there bruises—”

  “Are you going to read or not?”

  Allie read. There were six more letters dating from seven months ago until just a week before she died. The next few were clearly just whining and innuendo. “I’m so afraid. He terrifies me.” That kind of thing. Then a month ago, she had written,

  “Dear Rand,

  I am weeping as I write this. Your father has demanded a divorce, I imagine so he can go live with his whore. How can he throw me away like so much garbage? Where is his compassion? His loyalty? I have told him that he’s mad to think I will agree to a divorce after all these years. I’ve kept up my end of the bargain. I’ve been a dutiful wife to him for more than thirty years. I’m too old to begin again. I gave my youth to him, and now he wants to toss me aside. What can I do? I’ve always told you your father is an evil man. Now, maybe you’ll see that I was telling you the truth. I’m terrified to sleep at night because I don’t know what he might do to me. He has the entire police force behind him. Please keep me in your prayers, son. Even if I never see you again, know that you have one parent who always loved you.”

  Allie blew out a breath. What a blatant piece of manipulation. It was right up there with “If you leave me, I’ll kill myself.” Surely, this educated man, this attorney, hadn’t bought it. She glanced up at his face. Or maybe he had.

  The last letter was brief.

  “Son, I have to ask for your help. I told your father I would never give him a divorce. Now, I think he is going to kill me as he has threatened to over and over again. You have to come here. Not today. Wait until Tuesday. He always goes to the firing range on Tuesday. Come to pick me up at 3:00. Park down the street so your father won’t see the car if he comes home early. If he sees you, I fear for both our safety. Please be close by, but don’t come in. I’ll come out to you. Please, please don’t abandon me as your father has. My life is in your hands.”

  Allie could hear Rand move in his chair. She slowly placed the letter atop the others. What could she say that wouldn’t cause an explosion? “She was clearly terrified—”

  “I told you.”

  “Or at least she wanted you to think she was.”

  Rand slapped the chair arms, jumping to his feet. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?
”

  “You only have her word for what was happening—”

  “She said—”

  “She was wrong about his leaving to be with my aunt. My aunt had been dead for almost a year when she wrote this.” Allie gestured at the letter.

  “You don’t think he was just screwing one woman, do you? Men like him—”

  “What men like him?” she demanded. “What are you basing your comparison on?”

  His eyes flickered, and just for an instant, Allie thought she saw something like respect cross his face. “Political men. Powerful men. Men used to having their way.”

  “And you know many of those men?”

  “I know him.” His voice echoed off the walls.

  “Do you?” Allie asked quietly. “Do you really? He was never home when you were young. He shipped you off to school when you were twelve. When did you get to know him so well?”

  “My mother—” he began. “My mother wrote me weekly. She told me what was happening. She would never have lied to me.” But Allie thought his voice carried a little less conviction.

  She decided to press her advantage while she had it. She closed the folder and, leaving it on the sofa, stood. “I came here today to tell you I’m not your enemy. Not unless you want me to be. I’m not trying to prove your father is innocent.” Liar. “I just want to know what happened. The truth. If he’s guilty of killing your mother, then I’ll know I was wrong, and I’ll try to get the information to the proper authorities. If he’s innocent,” she lifted her chin, “then maybe I can prevent a bitter child from ruining the life of his only living parent.”

  Rand’s face flushed. Allie could see his rage simmering in the air between them, a mist that blurred his outline, but she held her ground, even when he took a step toward her. She had effectively drawn a line in the sand. Now, it was up to him.

  For a moment, she was afraid that he would come after her, but he didn’t move. He stood staring at her as if he could make her vanish with only his hatred. After a long time—minutes, certainly—she picked up her purse and headed for the front door. She let herself out, closing the door softly, and walked purposefully to her Jeep. She started the engine and drove down the street until his house was out of sight. Then, she pulled to the curb and gave in to a violent case of the shakes.

  Chapter 9

  When Allie finally got control of herself, she pulled back onto the road, turning at the first left. All the streets looked alike. Which way had she come in? She wound and twisted through the neighborhood, ending up in half a dozen cul-de-sacs before she found the main road. Fear. It had to be fear causing her to lose her way, and that made her angry. Finally, when she ended up on 520, she almost wept with relief.

  What in God’s name had possessed her to go to his house? Why did she keep putting herself in harm’s way? Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she should go back to Atlanta, work for the AJC, live in her safe little apartment in Sandy Springs, spend an hour going back and forth to work every day, and go to Savannah when she wanted a beach. Except she wouldn’t.

  She headed toward Cocoa Beach on autopilot. It was not even noon on Sunday, but she needed a drink. Maybe two. She glanced in her rearview mirror and groaned. Not again.

  When she first came back to Cape Canaveral, she had been followed, first by Marc, who was trying to determine if she was the killer’s next target, and then by Joe and Sheryl in their misguided efforts to protect her from Marc. Maybe that’s why she had gotten into the habit of checking her rearview mirror. She’d checked it while she wound lost through the streets of Rand Arbutten’s neighborhood, and she checked it when she pulled onto the main drag. There was no doubt about it. The sedan was following her. She remembered it because the windows were tinted so dark she wondered how the driver could see through them. Wasn’t that illegal? Whether it was or not, she was being followed, and it wasn’t Marc or Sheryl doing the following this time.

  She sped up and slipped between two cars. She saw the sedan pull up until the driver saw her, and then fall back into the line of traffic.

  Maybe three drinks.

  She pulled out her cell phone and punched the speed-dial for Sheryl. “I’m being followed,” she blurted out when Sheryl answered.

  “Do you know who it is?”

  “If I knew, would I be calling you?”

  “Don’t be a smartass. Where are you?”

  “On the 520 causeway. Second bridge. I’m going to Lester’s. Can you meet me there?”

  There was a hum on the line. It was probably the sound of Sheryl’s brain as she tried to think of a way of saying no. “Can’t you go somewhere else?”

  “I’m almost at Lester’s. If you want to rescue me, you’ll have to do it there.”

  A shorter hesitation this time. “I’m on my way.”

  Allie turned into Lester’s without signaling, a little trick Marc had taught her, and slipped in between two vans. She watched as the dark sedan continued. Letting out a sigh, she locked the Jeep and went inside.

  It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dark. She blinked a few times before she could make out the empty bar, the silent television. She looked back at the door, realizing suddenly that it was Sunday morning. Were they even open?

  She saw the kitchen door begin to swing open, and Del Delaney backed out carrying a tray of clean glasses. He looked startled when he saw Allie.

  “Hi,” she said, holding her purse in front of her like a shield. “Are you open? The door was unlocked,” she said, gesturing toward the entrance.

  “Hey,” he said, recovering himself. He came down to the end of the bar and put the tray on top of the beer coolers. “Yeah, we’re open. Or we will be in—” he glanced at the clock, “ten minutes.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Allie said, backing toward the door. “I didn’t realize it was so early. I can wait outside.”

  “No, come on in,” Del said. “I always forget to lock that door.”

  “Aren’t you afraid to be in here alone with the cash and all?” she asked. Then, she looked at his broad shoulders, the muscles bulging out of his T-shirt. “I guess you aren’t,” she said with a smile.

  He grinned. “Have a seat. What can I get you? The usual?”

  Allie looked at him in surprise. “What’s the usual?”

  “Bloody Mary when you’re hungry, Diet Coke when you’re not. You don’t like the wine.” He chuckled at the look on her face. “I watched you that night. You hated it.”

  Allie put her purse on the bar and climbed on a barstool. “How do you remember all that? You must serve a hundred people a day.”

  He shrugged, embarrassed now. “It just comes to me. I look at someone and think, ‘scotch and water twist’ or ‘Miller Light.’ I don’t really think about it.”

  “That’s amazing,” Allie said, and she almost laughed when he blushed.

  “So, what’ll it be? Bloody Mary?”

  “It’s awfully early to drink, don’t you think?”

  “Depends on what time you got up. You get up at six, it’s already afternoon. Especially on Sunday.”

  Allie smiled. “I like your logic. Yes, I’d love a Bloody Mary. Why don’t you make it two?”

  “You that hungry?” Del asked over his shoulder as he grabbed two glasses off the tray. “I could fix you something.”

  “No, Sheryl will be here in a minute.” She laughed self-consciously. “I called her when I thought someone was following me.”

  “A car?”

  Allie nodded.

  “What’d it look like?”

  “Dark. A sedan. It had tinted windows.”

  Del grinned. “You’re in Florida. Everybody with a brain has tinted windows.” He poured mix into the glasses. “You get the license plate?”

  Allie knew that if she had, he would be on the phone to the police in an instant. “No, he was behind me the whole time.”

  “Damn,” he said. “We need a front plate law here like they have in Maryland.” He looked over at
the front door. “He didn’t follow you into the lot?”

  “No, he kept going. It was probably my imagination.”

  She watched as he measured vodka into the glasses with more concentration than Allie thought was warranted.

  “So her name’s Sheryl?”

  Allie blinked. It took her a minute to realize what he was asking. “Yes, Sheryl Levine.”

  “Can I ask you something about her?” Del asked tentatively.

  “If it’s about the other day, I have to apologize. Sheryl’s a little—” She searched for the right word. “A little rough around the edges, but—”

  “Yeah. I like that,” Del said, adding a wedge of lime to the drinks.

  “Excuse me?”

  He looked over at Allie. “She doesn’t take any shit. I like that.” He put one of the glasses in front of her. “I’ve watched the times you’ve been in here. Guys sending you both drinks and trying to hit on you and all. All it takes is one look from her to put them back on their stools. You gotta hand it to her. She’s tough.”

  Apparently no apology was necessary.

  “No,” he said after a minute. “I wanted to ask you about that guy. The one who died. If that’s all right,” he added quickly. Allie wasn’t at all sure it was.

  Del didn’t wait for her permission. “I’ve done a bunch of reading about what happened. I remember you said she was in love with him.” He played with a lemon twist. “Was he in love with her too? I mean, were they an item?”

  “Not an item, exactly. I mean—” What did she mean? “They were kind of a new item.”

  “She seemed real broken up about his dying.”

  Allie stiffened. “She would have been broken up about his dying even if they hadn’t been an item,” she said abruptly. “We’ve all been friends since we were children.”

  Del held up a hand. “Hey, sorry. No offense.” He chewed the inside of his lip. Allie could tell there was something more he wanted to say. Finally, he did. “She’s pretty hot, you know? Not just her bod, but I mean she’s a really sharp lady.”

  Allie relented. “I think so too.”

  Just then, the front door slammed open. Sheryl marched inside and whipped off her sunglasses. “You okay?” she asked.