The Claudia Hershey Mysteries - Box Set: Three Claudia Hershey Mysteries

by Laura Belgrave

Richardson nodded glumly and led her to his vehicle. His hands were back in his pockets.

  * * *

  For reasons she couldn’t isolate, Claudia began to get a bad feeling before they were even halfway through the jungle-like growth that flanked the highway where Richardson had eventually pulled over. The highway had a name, of course. It was called Clowe, and though its street sign was bent and partially obscured by palmetto scrub, it wasn’t invisible. It wasn’t even a mystery. Clowe bisected Old Moogen Road, and the dirt entryway that Richardson described in his report was less than a tenth of a mile north of the intersection.

  For a moment Claudia wondered if her unease stemmed from Old Moogen Road itself, merely because Carella had mentioned that it buffered the far end of Willow Whisper’s undeveloped land. Then again, Old Moogen was a feeder road that provided access to dozens of farms and ranches. It ran for miles, and Richardson hadn’t brought her anywhere near to the gated community. In fact, it didn’t look like he’d brought her anywhere near to civilization at all.

  Claudia batted at a cloud of gnats. More likely, her unease flowed from the idea of snakes. Legions of them probably lived in the prickly foliage Richardson was leading her through, and every spur that snagged at her ankles reminded her of how poorly dressed she was to be playing in a field. She squinted into the sun, regretting that she’d instructed Richardson to take them directly to the location of the trespass site, rather than the complainant’s house. But she hadn’t wanted to embarrass the young officer in front of a civilian. Still, where the hell did this Mrs. Evans live? Claudia couldn’t see past the trees to get her bearings and the woman had a numbered street address, which in Indian Run meant that it defied geographic logic. You could turn a corner on Northwest 40th Avenue and find yourself on Southeast 38th Street. It’s just the way it worked.

  She asked Richardson how much farther.

  “Not much,” he said. “Three minutes, maybe?”

  She kept her eyes down, alert for unfriendly wildlife, and trudged behind him. Neither of them had much to say, and in the silence Richardson’s three minutes blossomed into ten by the time they finally reached the land he identified as “the right place.” Claudia shaded her eyes and took stock of where they stood. It took a minute, but when that minute had passed, so did her sense of foreboding, because now there was something to replace it: an unmistakable feeling of dread.

  “See those holes, Lieutenant?” said Richardson. “They’re like scuff marks, like how an animal might—”

  “Richardson?”

  “Yes, Ma’am?”

  “Don’t talk.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Don’t move, either.”

  He nodded.

  Claudia dug through her purse for her cell phone. She called Carella, gave their location, and told him to send two uniformed officers and a crime scene unit. The only animals who had recently been where she and the rookie stood were human.

  Chapter 25

  The sheriff’s office sent one two-man crime scene unit. Within thirty minutes of their arrival, the senior technician called for more help and requested night lights. They might be at the scene long enough to need them. Within an hour, six technicians swarmed an area of woods and field some one hundred by eighty feet, hoping like hell they wouldn’t need to expand it. They hadn’t called for a medical examiner yet, but no one doubted that they would. It was only a matter of time before someone unearthed a body, parts of a body, or evidence that a body had been there.

  The region had been secured and marked off by two Indian Run officers. It showed more than a dozen dig marks, most of them superficial but others deeper than one foot. The dig marks were concentrated near an oak tree crippled by lightning. A thick, grizzled limb lay along the ground, its charred end slightly raised and butt-up against the trunk. The rest of the tree stood listlessly, blackened where its limb had been dismembered. Dig marks fanned out from the tree in an ever-widening circle that looked increasingly random.

  Claudia stood beside Suggs and watched the technicians work, setting markers, measuring, taking photographs. The chief had arrived just before the second crime scene crew. For once he said nothing about turning to the sheriff’s office for help.

  “Whoever was out here wasn’t exactly subtle,” he remarked. “Crime scene gonna bring in infrared to pinpoint location on a grave? There’s a lot of ground here.”

  “If their preliminary work doesn’t pan out they’ll go the distance, but that’s expensive and it might not be necessary. The way it looks is someone was trying to dig up an old body, not bury a new one.” She gestured vaguely at the dig marks. “We’re guessing they had an idea where to look, but couldn’t pinpoint it, maybe because of a lot of growth over time. The landscape would look different. They had an idea, though, so we’re banking on their dig marks as a general guide.”

  “So the body’s old.”

  “Hard to think otherwise.”

  Suggs licked perspiration from his upper lip. “You got any theories?”

  “Not yet,” she said, although that wasn’t entirely true. An idea was forming in the back of her mind, but it was like a mild itch too vague to find. “I don’t like the location, though.”

  Richardson’s “chunk of land” stood on Willow Whisper’s undeveloped plot, some forty feet behind Hemmer’s house. Trees blocked the view. It was, however, perfectly visible from Mrs. Evans’s house, an old structure that stood perpendicular to Willow Whisper but wasn’t part of the gated community. All that separated her house from the undeveloped land was a six-foot berm, giving her an unobstructed view from her upstairs bedroom window. Richardson could’ve walked from the woman’s backdoor onto the land in less than a minute. He’d taken the long way “so as not to tromp through her flowerbeds.”

  “We talk to the Evans woman yet?” said Suggs.

  “I sent Carella out. He called just before you got here.” Claudia waved her hand in an arc. “All this property used to be hers and her husband’s. They were small-time vegetable growers. But she couldn’t keep it going after her husband died some seven years ago. She had it cleared, planted some trees and ‘gave it back to nature,’ was how she explained it to Carella. What she didn’t think through, though, were property taxes. They were killing her. When the developer made an offer, she took it.”

  “Hercules.”

  “Right. The builder wanted to raze her house and take that smidgen of land, too, but she wouldn’t go along. Eventually he plugged some mature trees onto her property to separate it from the corner lot Hemmer wound up buying.”

  Suggs wiped his face with his sleeve. “It’s hotter’n hell out here, Hershey. Your nose is burning.”

  Claudia shrugged.

  “What’d you do with Richardson?”

  “I sent him back on patrol.”

  “You gonna let him live?”

  “I told him I’ve taken a personal interest in him and that we’re going to work closely together in the coming weeks.”

  Suggs smiled. “That’s brutal.”

  She was about to comment, but then her eyes flickered left. “Head’s up, Chief,” she whispered. “We’ve got company.”

  Mayor Arthur Lane and a lean man in tight jeans and a polo shirt were striding toward them. Claudia didn’t need an introduction to know that the man in jeans was Boyd Manning. He’d been notified about a “situation” on his property; his presence was requested. Lane’s presence had not been requested, but she wasn’t surprised to see him.

  Manning stood about six-two. He had dark wavy hair, cobalt eyes and skin made ruddy from long hours in the sun. Women would notice him, and he carried himself with the confidence of someone who knew it. He smiled thinly when he introduced himself with a handshake, first to Suggs and then to Claudia.

  “Chief,” he said, “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

  “Back at a town council meeting, back before you first broke ground.”

  “Right. I remember. You weren’t keen on growth in
Indian Run.”

  “I’m still not.”

  Manning shrugged indifferently. “Can’t keep people from wanting to move to Florida, and there’s not a whole lot of room left on the coast.”

  Lane began to sputter about “an invasion of privacy” on Manning’s land, but the builder stopped him with a casual lift of his hand.

  “It’s all right, Art,” he said. “Let’s just hear what Detective Hershey has to say before we get all worked up.” He turned to Claudia. “So what’s going on here? You people prospecting for gold? Someone found sacred Indian burial grounds?”

  When she didn’t react Manning looked at Lane and the mayor laughed obligingly.

  “We didn’t dig those holes, Mr. Manning,” said Claudia. “We found them when we followed up on a trespassing complaint.”

  Manning tucked a piece of gum in his mouth and surveyed the crime technicians at work for a moment. “Okay, so someone was out here digging,” he said. “Vacant land, lots of trees . . . kids playing, probably, looking for arrowheads or something. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “I’m sure it wouldn’t” said Claudia. “But that digging pattern isn’t the work of kids, Mr. Manning. Amateurs, yes. Kids, no.”

  Manning frowned. “Well, whatever it is, I hope you’re not planning on being here long. I’ll be clearing this land soon and starting the final phase of Willow Whisper.”

  “His permits are all in place,” said Lane. He glared at Suggs. “If this show of yours is some kind of asinine way to block—”

  Before Lane could continue, a cell phone on Manning’s belt rang. He held up a finger to his audience, then stepped away a few feet and turned his back. The mayor gestured for Suggs to follow him for what he called “a private chat.” Claudia didn’t need to guess at what the mayor might have to say, but her interest was solely on Manning and what little she could overhear from his phone conversation. He talked for a few minutes. When he finished, he clamped his phone back on his belt. He looked agitated.

  “Something’s come up in the office,” he said. “When you’re done drilling for oil on my property, let me know.” He pulled a business card from his shirt pocket. He held it between two fingers, but pulled it back slightly when Claudia reached for it.

  “Something you want to say?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure what kind of game plan you have—”

  “There’s no game plan.”

  “—but whatever it is, you ought to rethink it. You’re riling people needlessly. It could backfire on you.”

  “How nice that you’re concerned for me, Mr. Manning.”

  “I’m not. But I’m concerned for the community.”

  “Ah.”

  He looked at her. Then he handed over the card, his jaw set. “It’s easiest to get me on my cell.”

  “Thank you.”

  He opened his mouth as if to say more, but instead gave a slight shake to his head, then put his thumb and forefinger to his lips and whistled sharply. The mayor whirled from Suggs and trotted toward him like a puppy. They walked away without a backward glance.

  * * *

  By four o’clock Claudia felt as withered as the field grass that grew thick in erratic patches across the property. The chief had left an hour earlier, leaving her to shepherd the crime scene and percolate in the heat. But she didn’t complain. The men and women actually working the area had it far worse. For fear of destroying evidence, they could only move inches at a time as they brushed aside decaying vegetation and probed at dig marks, widening them with flat-bladed spades and hand trowels. They had a side bet going on who would turn up something interesting first.

  Claudia watched from beneath the shade of a tree. She had no idea what it was, could only identify a handful of Florida’s trees, which in her estimation always bore scrawny leaves compared to the trees she’d grown up with in Cleveland. It occurred to her that she no longer missed Ohio, though, not really, and she wondered when that had happened. A second later it didn’t matter. Her cell phone rang and it was Moody on the other end, Moody with real news, news that mattered, news that would alter the way they proceeded with the investigation.

  “Here’s one that’ll make your day,” he said. “The crime scene finally got around to running the prints on the beer can from Bonolo’s garbage. Guess what?”

  “Bonolo’s not Bonolo.”

  “What you thought all along, right?”

  “Not all along, but for a while. The only thing that surprises me is how he’s managed to fly below the radar so long. So give me the details.”

  Moody did. Bonolo’s real name was Robert “Big Bob” Farina. He’d done serious time on three occasions, once for assault and twice for distribution of pornography. The Mafia was known for its marketing edge in the porn trade, but there was no evidence that Farina was connected. Moody had managed to track down his parole officer, who had seen Farina exactly once before he vanished four years earlier. A warrant was issued, of course, but except for a rare and unverified sighting, Farina seemed to have become invisible. He’d apparently survived by hiding in the open and assuming the identity of someone who really was named Bill Bonolo. The genuine Bill Bonolo, however, was in a Georgia nursing home, where he’d been stashed by the state after a traffic accident left him a quadriplegic. He had no known relatives. He had no money—nothing that would leave bread crumbs for investigators to follow.

  According to the parole officer, Farina worked porn as a distributor for small studios that usually survived only long enough for starry eyed actors to cut their teeth in the industry and move onto bigger pornography enterprises that were mob-connected. Farina stayed away from those, and to supplement his modest income from blue movies worked as a bouncer in seedy nightclubs or as a bodyguard to businessmen who cared less about his history than his size. He’d buddied up to Dell Martinlow in prison, their dealings in porn an obvious bond.

  “Farina’s no ace in the deck, but he pulled off a good racket with this,” said Moody. “He picked the right guy to clone as himself, he picked a nondescript job to make things look good and give him access to distribution points, and apparently he uses cash for everything—just some of the ways he’s managed to stay hidden so long.”

  “Try not to admire him, Mitch.”

  Moody laughed. “Not to worry, Lieutenant.”

  They batted the Bonolo-Farina deceit around for a while. Although it made sense for Farina to hide in a little-noticed town like Indian Run, it wasn’t a perfect fit. Even before the Hemmer situation, he’d attracted attention by participating on the Willow Whisper homeowners association. Moody attributed it to the arrogance of a criminal mentality, but Claudia thought it went beyond that.

  “The question, Mitch, is who’s giving Farina enough cash to live the lifestyle he’s been enjoying and what’s he doing for it? His goodies didn’t all come from the porn gig he’s got going now. That can’t be more than a little side action.”

  Claudia heard Moody pop the top on a soft drink. She tamped down envy by reminding herself that if she had a soda in her hands right now she’d only attract bees. She asked what he was drinking.

  “Mountain Dew,” he said. “You’d think someone would create ‘Flat Dew’ for Florida.”

  “You’d think. Meanwhile, when you’re done enjoying that, put some uniforms in plainclothes and see if you can pick up Farina on the outstanding warrant. Try for quiet. Let’s see if he’s stupid enough to be available.”

  “If he’s not?”

  “We’ll see if he’s stupid enough to show at the bookstore tonight.”

  * * *

  A crime scene tech named Levine won the bet at six-thirty when he unearthed a skull less than a foot from one of the original holes he’d expanded with a spade. Its burial place lay beneath the dead tree limb, and Levine let out a whoop when he found it. The rest of the technicians would have to pony up ten bucks each.

  Suggs had already left, but Claudia hurried over. Richardson’s “trespassers” had
been close. If not for the downed tree limb, they probably would’ve found it. She crouched for a closer look. The skull lay in a cavity about a foot deep, maybe less. Levine had immediately stopped probing when his spade encountered it, so the skull was only partially uncovered. But it appeared intact and with luck, the rest of the remains would be as well. Claudia stood and backhanded a beetle from her pant leg. Hours of work lay ahead. After they moved the tree limb, technicians would need to stake the site and lay a grid of string over it. They’d have to photograph and measure it, and then sift every inch of dirt as it was removed. The remains wouldn’t be handed off to the medical examiner until all of that had been completed.

  Claudia stared at the skull. Someone had buried a body here. And then someone wanted to retrieve it. Surely, though, someone else must have missed the victim. She thought about that, then put in a call to Carella and told him to start checking missing persons reports for the last five years, beginning with locals. The body could’ve been buried earlier, but five years seemed a plausible starting point. For one thing, the Evans woman hadn’t instantly turned the farm into wilderness upon her husband’s death; more than likely the body had been shoveled underground a few years later, after field had taken over. On a more practical level, though, only the last five years of Indian Run’s missing persons records had so far been computerized.

  She talked with Carella for a few minutes, disconnected and looked from the grave toward the trees that hid Willow Whisper from the undeveloped land. The she turned back to the dark hollow in the ground where a body lay forgotten, bowed her head and whispered a clumsy prayer.

  Chapter 26

  Philby’s grocery store closed at nine o’clock. Claudia made it there with fifteen minutes to spare. Other than half of Carella’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich, her only meal had been a handful of pretzel sticks at the crime scene. By now she craved something substantial and maybe even nutritious. She trolled the store aisles, eventually settling on a salmon fillet, a broccoli crown, and a small red potato. All of them could be nuked, leaving her with time to relax before getting in place for the Bonolo takedown at eleven-thirty. Claudia shook her head. Farina. Not Bonolo. Farina.