“About that.”
“Well, he was a few inches shorter than you. That’s about all I can tell you. I’m sorry.”
“You’re doing fine. It must have been quite a shock, especially after everything you’ve endured. Do you think it had anything to do with your husband’s death?”
“I doubt it. I’ve heard about burglars who read the obituary pages to find appropriate targets, checking to see when everyone would be away for the funeral. It was probably poor timing on his part and bad luck on mine.”
“I’d say you were very lucky it wasn’t more serious. I think you should call the police now, Mrs. Marrano.”
She rose from the chair and walked into a large, open kitchen. I listened while she reported the break-in and then returned to the living room. She paused in front of the open doors a moment, the bright sun shining through, and I glimpsed the shadowy outline of her trim body through the thin wrap.
“They’ll be here in a few minutes,” she said. “If you don’t mind waiting, I’m going to get dressed before they arrive.”
While she was getting dressed, I peered through the door of the office, trying to figure out what the burglar had been after. Numerous plaques lined the dark mahogany paneled walls. From where I stood I couldn’t read any of the inscriptions, but I imagined they were the typical awards civic organizations give to politicians to curry favor and stroke oversized egos.
Mixed in with the plaques were framed photographs of William Marrano with various dignitaries, including the last two governors. In one of the pictures, Marrano and Kurtis Laurance were grinning into the camera and holding golf clubs in the air as though they’d won a playoff with Tiger Woods.
An expensive rosewood desk faced a window overlooking the front lawn. Desk drawers were open with file jackets and papers strewn across the floor. On the desk a computer with a large monitor flickered from columns of characters to a blue screensaver. I glimpsed it briefly before it changed screens. Definitely an email inbox.
A matching hutch behind the desk contained books, a briefcase, and an expensive Nikon SLR digital camera. I’d recently priced the same model and knew it retailed for nearly $2,000. Most burglars snatched money or easily hocked valuables. Jewelry, electronics, cameras. Yet, this dude took the time to rifle Marrano’s desk and read his emails, but left the Nikon behind.
“It’s a mess, isn’t it?”
I hadn’t heard Erin Marrano walk up behind me. “Sure is, but it looks like you scared him away before he did any real damage. Tell me, were you using this computer?” I pointed toward the PC. She looked at it and started to enter the office, but I blocked her way. “Better not until the police have a chance to dust for prints.”
“That was Bill’s office, I seldom go in there. In fact, I have my own computer in the spare bedroom. A new iBook. Why do you ask?”
“Probably nothing more than a nosy burglar, but it seems like he was accessing your husband’s email.”
“That’s strange. Perhaps he—”
The chimes of the front door bell rang through the house, and Erin’s eyes flashed with uncertainty. The police had arrived.
EIGHT
There were lots of yes ma’ams and no ma’ams as the police took Erin’s statement. Detective Horgan accompanied two uniformed officers and a crime scene investigator who dusted all the surfaces for latents. Horgan shot me his version of the hard-ass squint when he saw me. He took my statement, and once again I found myself explaining my role in another crime.
More than an hour had passed, and I knew I’d never make my two o’clock meeting in Jacksonville. While Horgan nosed around, I phoned Charla and asked her to plead my case with the insurance company. She rewarded me with a tsk, tsk, tsk like a mother hen, and I returned to watching the police dust the desk and computer for fingerprints. Burglars aren’t genetic engineers, but I had a feeling this burglar was too smart to leave his prints behind.
After they left, I asked Erin if she wanted me to come back tomorrow.
“You’re probably hungry,” she replied. “I’ll make us some sandwiches and we can go ahead with our meeting.”
She moved efficiently through a large kitchen that looked like it had recently been remodeled with expensive cabinets, granite countertops and brushed aluminum appliances. A large plastic pretzel container half-full of pennies occupied a space next to a built-in wine rack and seemed out of place in the nearly sterile kitchen. Erin picked up a half-dozen pennies sitting on the counter, offered me an embarrassed smile, and dropped them into the jar.
We said little as we ate, but after she cleared the dishes and poured us another glass of tea, I got down to business.
“You told me over the phone that you’ve lived in St. Augustine for seven-and-a-half years.”
“Yes, that’s right. I taught school in Huntsville, Alabama for about six years before moving here to accept another teaching job.”
“Why St. Augustine?”
“My old college roommate lives nearby in Ponte Vedra Beach. I came for a visit one summer, and she brought me to St. Augustine for lunch. I absolutely fell in love with this quaint old town. On a whim I applied for a job with the St. Johns County School Board. After returning home, I received a letter informing me they had an opening if I was still interested.”
“And how did you meet Mr. Marrano?”
She tilted her head back as though it happened in the distant past and she needed to dredge it out of her memory. “I attended a symphony concert at Flagler College with a friend of mine. Bill was there, and my friend introduced us. Back in Huntsville, we’d say he took a shine to me.”
“What about you? Did you take a shine to him?”
“Let’s say that I was a bit overwhelmed. Bill Marrano had a finger in everything in St. Johns County. He was on the city commission, owned a successful real estate company, and his family had been here for over two-hundred years.”
“Did you date long before he proposed?”
“About a year. He took me on a Caribbean cruise and we were strolling the deck after dinner one night when he proposed.” She adjusted her skirt, tugging the hem down a fraction.
“Very romantic,” I said.
“We were married two months later in the Cathedral.”
“When was that?”
“Three years ago next month. Not a very long marriage.”
I pressed on. “Any problems with the marriage?”
This is where it can get dicey. I’ve interviewed dozens of husbands and wives who were screwing around and most will put their individual spin on the facts. Men usually deny they were unfaithful until you lay out the photographs, but most women will ‘fess up quickly after they’ve been caught.
Erin Marrano didn’t hesitate. “The first year couldn’t have been better. Bill was attentive and we traveled a good bit.” A small, dark mole perched below the right corner of her lush mouth like an invitation for closer scrutiny, and I found myself staring at it.
“And after the first year?” I asked, regaining my focus.
“He ran for re-election, won, was appointed vice mayor. Every night he’d go to one meeting or another. He’d come home late and exhausted. You can imagine how that affected our marriage.”
I didn’t say anything.
“He tried to do his job during the day, but people called him all the time. He and his brother Buck own a camp near Palatka, and he’d drive over there just to get away. Even when it wasn’t hunting season.”
“It sounds like the honeymoon was over.”
“My mother would say, ‘The blush was off the rose.’”
“A wise woman, your mother.”
“Yes, a cliché for every situation. Let’s say things were difficult and it didn’t get any better.”
She raised a hand to the right side of her face, unconsciously fingering a spot along her cheekbone. A dark blotch was still visible beneath her carefully applied make-up. She’d done a good job concealing the bruise, but not quite good enough. I kn
ew it wasn’t from her collision with the intruder since the handprint had been on the left side of her face.
“I believe I get the picture,” I said.
She snapped out of her reverie, dropping her hand to her lap.
“Tell me about the last time you saw your husband.”
“Saturday night. We were supposed to drive into Jacksonville and have dinner with friends, but he called to say he couldn’t make it. Some Republican Club function he needed to attend. He wanted me to go with him, but I decided to go to dinner with our friends. Didn’t get back until ten-thirty. Bill was home when I arrived, and had been drinking.”
“A lot?”
She shrugged as if to say, how much is a lot? “He wasn’t knee-walking drunk, if that’s what you mean. But he wasn’t in a good mood either, and I’m afraid we had an argument.”
“What about?”
“Oh, he became rather childish when he’d been drinking. He thought I should have gone with him or stayed home and waited for him. The dutiful wife, don’t you know? It didn’t occur to him that he was gone almost every night while I sat home alone. I was frankly tired of it and told him so.”
“How did he react?”
She touched her cheek again. “He stormed out of the house and said he was going to spend the rest of the weekend at his hunting camp. ‘Get it ready for hunting season,’ I think is what he said.” Looking toward the front door, she shook her head sadly. “That was the last time I saw him.”
I waited a beat or two before following up. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm your husband?”
“No, I really don’t. I know the police are looking at Dr. Poe, but I can’t believe he had anything to do with it.”
“How well do you know him?”
“I first met him when he came to speak to one of my classes. He has a remarkable way of making history come alive for the kids, and I made it a point to invite him back as often as possible. I didn’t tell my husband this, but I admired Dr. Poe for taking a stand against the Matanzas Bay project.”
“Maybe he stood up too often and too loudly.”
“Perhaps, but isn’t it refreshing to find someone so honest and passionate in defense of their beliefs? Bill was a politician through and through. Very skilled at answering questions without stepping on toes so no one could pin him down on an issue. That’s the difference between a politician and someone like Jeffrey Poe who says what he really means.”
I couldn’t argue with that, but standing up for his principles may have made Poe a target for the police. “Is there anyone else you think I should talk to about this?”
“Clayton Henderson is one of Dr. Poe’s closest friends. He also seems to have quite a network of confidants who keep him informed on everything going on in St. Augustine.”
“I’ve met Mr. Henderson. An interesting man. Lives in town, doesn’t he?”
“He bought the old Martinez House in the historic district and restored it beautifully.”
“What did your husband think about Mr. Henderson?”
She huffed through her nose derisively. “For all his public support for the arts, my husband had an antipathy for intellectuals and academics. Plus he was Dr. Poe’s friend.”
“Anyone else I should talk to?”
I watched as she rubbed her shoulder, thinking about my question. She finally said, “Not that I know of.”
“What about Kurtis Laurance? His name keeps coming up. Aside from being allies on the Matanzas Bay development, he and your husband were pretty close friends, weren’t they?” I recalled the photograph of Marrano and Laurance on the golf course. “Do you think he’d know anything about your husband’s death?”
“Of course not. He and Kurtis were almost inseparable. Bill was his campaign treasurer, and they’ve worked closely together to get this development off the ground ever since Kurtis moved to St. Augustine.”
Before I could follow-up with another question, her telephone rang. She excused herself and walked to the phone mounted on a nearby wall.
The conversation was one-sided. She listened, keeping her eyes on me, until she said, “Thank you,” and hung up. The glow was gone from her face now, the blemish on her cheekbone more pronounced.
Erin Marrano folded her arms below her breasts and took a deep breath before speaking. “That was Chief Conover. He wanted me to know that Jeffrey Poe has been arrested and charged with my husband’s murder.”
NINE
Even the largest, best-equipped police department normally took more than a day to investigate a murder case. Poe’s arrest meant he’d either confessed to the murder, which I didn’t believe, or more likely, Conover’s detectives had discovered what they believe to be overwhelming evidence. They probably found his prints on the bayonet, but they’d need more than that to make their case stick before a jury.
Knowing Poe’s history of depression, I figured he’d take his arrest hard. He needed a friend more than ever. As I drove, I called the County Jail and made an appointment to see him during tonight’s visiting hours. Erin Marrano may be my client, but Poe was my friend, and I planned to do everything in my power to clear him. That meant interviewing everyone who might be connected with the case, starting with Clayton Henderson.
I turned onto King Street hunting for a parking place. A white Ford Explorer slipped in behind me. He may have been following me from Erin’s house, but I was absorbed in Poe’s arrest and hadn’t noticed him. He stayed on my tail as I turned into the parking lot behind city hall. I climbed out and fed quarters into the parking meter before turning to find Sergeant Marrano staring at me through his Oakley Ducati’s.
“Sergeant, so nice to see you again,” I said with what I hoped was the appropriate degree of sarcasm.
He stepped toward me. I reflexively tensed myself in case he blew another valve.
“You’ve heard the news about Poe?” he asked.
“Didn’t take long to wrap it up,” I said. “One day. Must be some kind of record, even for a crack investigator like Detective Horgan.”
“We have a solid case, and Poe’s going to get the needle for what he did.” Marrano spoke quietly, under tight control, unlike the raw emotion he displayed yesterday.
“That remains to be seen, sergeant. From my perspective, this is a classic railroad job. The prosecutor will have to hold his nose when he presents the case, and the smell will probably gag the jurors.”
Marrano took another step in my direction, and I instinctively tightened my stomach muscles. He responded with a twisted smile. Removing his sunglasses, he said, “You’re talking out of your ass, Mitchell. But that’s what I’d expect from you. The evidence proves he’s the killer. We found his prints on the murder weapon, and—”
“Come on,” I broke in. “He must have told you why his prints were on the bayonet. There are three witnesses to back up his story.”
“You can think whatever you want, but there’s no doubt we have the right man. There is one other thing bothering me, though.”
The smug expression on his face didn’t waver as he waited for me to respond. Behind him, I spotted the long-neglected statue of Lady Justice standing on a stained pedestal. The statue’s arm, which normally held the Scales of Justice, was broken off at the elbow.
When I didn’t take the bait, he said, “This is where you say, ‘Okay, sergeant, what’s bothering you?’”
“I’ll bite. What’s bothering you?”
“They also found your prints on the murder weapon. That’s what bothers me. Be thinking of a good answer because Horgan will want to know when he brings you in today.”
“I’ll be glad to clear up the mystery for you, as I’m sure Poe did. There’ll be a lot of red faces when the truth comes out, sergeant. Not everyone believes you have the right man. In fact, your sister-in-law is one of those people. She’s hired me to find her husband’s killer since the police seem to have a bad case of tunnel vision.”
Marrano replaced his sunglasses. “I
’ll make you a promise, Mitchell. If it turns out we’re wrong about Poe, I’ll personally apologize to both of you. But if I find out you had a hand in killing my brother, you’re not going to know what hit you.”
“You’ve already demonstrated your investigative techniques,” I said, patting my stomach. “But I look forward to your apology, and Mrs. Marrano will look forward to learning who really killed her husband.”
“Erin’s made a mistake,” he said stiffly, his jaw tightening. “Poe killed her husband. There’s no question about it, and you should do yourself a favor and back off.”
“You may be right, but I’m staying on the case until she tells me it’s over.”
“And I’m telling you if you don’t watch your step you’ll be wearing an orange jumpsuit and sharing a cell with your friend.” He leaned in close. I smelled stale coffee and fried fish on his breath.
“Listen, sergeant, I know you have a personal interest in this case, but Jeffrey Poe didn’t kill your brother. Someone’s obviously made a mistake.”
“You bastard,” he spit out, his rigid control suddenly replaced by a hot fury. “The only person making a mistake is you. And you can’t afford to make any more enemies around here.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
His lip curled into a sneer. “You forget where you are, don’t you? You’re not in Boston or New York. This is St. Augustine.”
When I looked at him blankly, he added, “You’ve already put yourself on some people’s shit list by dating that colored girl, Serena Howard. Don’t make it any worse on yourself.”
I hadn’t forgotten where I was, but maybe when I was. Wasn’t this the twenty-first century? Hadn’t we elected the country’s first African-American president? Marrano’s brand of ugly racism should have gone the way of those White and Colored signs once posted on rest rooms and above water fountains. An inner rage bubbled inside me, and I wanted to slam this ignorant redneck against the nearest palm tree and pound some decency into him. But I knew it was a lost cause.
Quint Mitchell 01 - Matanzas Bay Page 6
