by Terry Odell
Back at his desk, he read more carefully. Vasquez had summarized the autopsy nicely. Graham set those sheets aside and began studying correspondence connecting Townsend and Gravely. In the e-mails, everything was terse and cryptic.
From Townsend: “Thursday is fine. Make it ten.” From Gravely: “I need it right away. Double the usual?” Only the last message, from Townsend, seemed to send up the slightest hint of a flag. “I can’t do it for you. Not this time. The others were nothing, but this one is pushing too far.”
Graham ran through possible scenarios, most of them with innocent explanations. Setting up a meeting. Could be nothing but a lunch date. Odds were, given Erica had said Townsend had done consulting work for Gravely, it was a job, but nothing in these messages proved that.
He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his eyes. At a faint whiff of perfume, he looked up into the face of a civilian clerk. She pulled a folder from the top of a pile in her arms, flopped it on his desk and walked away. “Thanks,” he muttered to her back.
The lab report on Townsend’s truck. Fully alert now, he opened the folder and waded through the jargon. Even though someone had tried to clean the truck, the techs had been able to match some prints, hairs and blood samples. The Gainesville lab had actually talked to Orange County, and he gave a silent prayer of thanks to the law enforcement communication gods.
He scanned the report. Two gas cans, five gallon, both empty but definitely used for gasoline. Large footlocker filled with normal camping gear. The lock had been intact. Townsend was a field biologist. Nothing unexpected.
Questions whirled through his mind. Okay, you’ve killed someone. You dump the body, clean the truck and leave it at the airport. Why the airport? Because nobody notices a vehicle left in long-term parking? Or did you know he was going to leave town? But if you did, then why not dump the locker? He’d let the questions marinate for a while.
Turning back to work, he got out his index cards and started adding information to existing cards, making new ones for new information, highlighting them with different colors. His desktop was covered now, and as he rearranged things one more time, he sensed a presence behind him.
“Looks like you’ve been busy, Harrigan,” Schaeffer said. “I’ve been tied up in a meeting with the brass this morning. You got something?” He touched individual cards, picked one up, set it down, started sliding them around. “Nice system.” He shifted a group of cards over and hiked a hip onto the desk.
Graham recapped, and Schaeffer listened in silent attention, nodding from time to time. “You think Walters is in here somewhere?” Schaeffer asked when Graham had finished.
“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to get a handle on who owns the Crystal Shores property. I can trace it to Walters, but can’t tie it to Gravely in the public records, yet it’s Gravely Enterprises on the sign. There’s got to be a link somewhere.”
“Can you tie Walters to Gravely Enterprises?”
Graham gave him an exasperated stare. “Maybe, if I could look at their files.”
“When Peterson gets back, have him walk you through some of the financial databases. He knows where things can hide. See if you can find holding companies, anything in the public record to tie them together.”
“Right.” Schaeffer seemed to have put the faked report behind him, and Graham was trying to. But he wondered what would be happening if the body had been discovered in Orange County, not St. Johns. Would he be allowed to play, or be left on the sidelines to watch while the real detectives called the shots?
“You still tracking unidentified bodies? The state, not only tri-county?”
“Yes. Seven new ones since Friday. Waiting on the reports.”
“Add Alabama. Can’t hurt.”
Graham suppressed a smile. Schaeffer had given him another turn at bat.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Good morning, Colleen,” Katie called from the counter at the Y. “Have a good weekend?”
Colleen felt herself blush. She was certain she had This woman has just experienced her first great sex emblazoned on her forehead. She tried to keep her face neutral, with a quick friendly smile, but she knew she was grinning from ear to ear.
At the weight room door, she cast a quick glance for Tracy. Glad when she didn’t spot her friend, Colleen headed to the machines. What she and Graham had done was something she needed to savor privately for a while. But one thing was certain. She had no regrets. Absolutely none. She adjusted the seat and weights on the leg extension machine and began lifting.
Sunday morning, Graham had brought her breakfast in bed. Memories of his creativity with the maple syrup sent heat to her face. They’d spent much of the day working side by side on his Harley, lingering over every touch as each tool changed hands. By mid-afternoon, after a long, hot shower to wash the grease off, plus a little more exploration, she and Graham had admitted they’d reached a satiation point. At least temporarily. For dinner, he made some fantastic scones and heated more of his wonderful chicken soup. No question. Graham cooked on all burners.
She owed him. Damn, she wished she’d never been a cop. She’d trod very near the legal boundary when she’d snooped through Jeffrey’s house before. As a civilian, she could turn anything she found over to the cops, as long as they hadn’t sent her. Once. But to do it a second time would be pushing it, even though Graham hadn’t asked her to. And even if she did, Graham would never accept it. She knew better. He knew she knew better. And a judge would damn sure toss it out of court. She could hear the defense lawyer now. “Your witness had training and expertise above and beyond that of a citizen, and was acting as an agent of the state.”
She increased the weight on the lat pull machine and did another set of reps. What had Graham said? Crystal Shores? She could definitely look into that, and it wouldn’t cross any lines. She waved to Katie as she left the Y on a high as good as any endorphin surge.
Fortified with a berry smoothie, Colleen walked home at a moderate pace, letting her brain run free. The best ideas often showed up when you weren’t looking too hard. She slurped the last of her drink as she reached her apartment. Doris stood in the entry, key in hand, a perplexed expression on her face.
Great. Another la-la land day. “You need anything, Doris?” Colleen asked.
Doris whined, “My key doesn’t work.”
“I don’t have one for your house. Can I call someone for you?” Colleen slipped her key from her pocket and unlocked her door. She stepped inside, Doris on her heels.
“No, I’m fine.” Doris walked past her into the kitchen and opened the fridge. She gave Colleen a warm smile. “Would you like to stay for lunch? I made some chicken salad yesterday.”
Good grief, Doris thought she still lived here. This was way beyond la-la land. Colleen took Doris’ hand. “Why don’t you sit on the couch. I’ll get it.”
Colleen got Doris settled, turned on the television, and handed her the remote. Maybe a familiar show would bring her back. Because no way was Doris going to find chicken salad here. Maybe some Herbal tea? She put the kettle on and wondered if Doris had left her own door unlocked. Dare she leave her long enough to run up and check? The thought of being a captive in her apartment with a locked-out Doris was all the motivation she needed.
Doris had found a channel and was in the zone. Colleen lowered the burner and dashed to the main house. Turning the knob on the front door, she was relieved to see it opened. She squelched the rising temptation to go inside. But shouldn’t she check the kitchen? Make sure Doris hadn’t left the stove on? That was the responsible thing to do.
Colleen pushed the door open. She strode quickly to the kitchen and made sure everything was turned off. Shouldn’t she look for a phone number for one of Doris’ friends? They knew her, could sit with her until she came back to planet earth. That wasn’t violating any laws. That was being a good Samaritan. And if she just happened to run across something that might lead Graham to Jeffrey, there had to be a way to dea
l with it, right?
But she was stuck between the proverbial rock and hard place. She might not be a cop, but she’d been a cop, so she was expected to obey cop rules. And this was Orlando, not small-town Pine Hills, where everyone knew everyone’s business anyway.
She swore under her breath and found a small cork board by the phone. A list of names and numbers. Elizabeth caught her eye. Wasn’t she one of the ladies Doris hung with? Colleen hunted for something to write with.
“Colleen? What are you doing here?”
Colleen snapped her head at the sound of Doris’ voice. “Um…looking for a pencil?”
Doris shuffled across the room, pulled open a drawer and handed Colleen a pen. Doris’ eyes had lost that spacey look, but there was still an air of confusion in her expression. “I’m sorry. Lunch isn’t ready just yet. You should have time to change.”
Colleen realized she was still dressed in her workout clothes. She smiled. “That’s what I came to tell you. I…um…can’t make lunch after all. Maybe another time. I…um…I was going to leave you a note.”
“Since you’re here, would you like some lunch? I made a chicken salad. It’s Jeffrey’s favorite.”
Her heart pounded. “Is Jeffrey home?”
“Jeffrey’s in Alabama. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get lunch ready.” Doris bustled around, getting plates and setting them on the dining room sideboard. “Where did I put the tablecloth?” She disappeared down the hall, then came back with a pile of blue linens.
Colleen took them from her. “Let me.” She spread the tablecloth. Doris followed, setting half a dozen plates. Colleen placed a napkin beside each one. “Looks like you’re having quite the party.”
Doris gave her a befuddled stare, then rushed out of the room. “I have to make sure the computer is on.”
Colleen trailed after her. Jeffrey’s office was no different, although the stacks of papers had increased in size. She bit back the urge to offer to sort them.
She wandered to the desk, glancing at the piles of mail. A postcard with a picture of a large smiling molar lay on top. “Time for your checkup” it said.
Bingo. “Doris, I wonder if you could recommend a dentist. Who do you and Jeffrey see?”
Doris tapped a key on the computer keyboard and smiled. The befuddled expression had disappeared. “We’ve gone to Dr. Keller for years. Jeffrey’s known him since their Army days. He’s right over on Apopka Vineland. He’s very good.” Doris seemed to notice the postcard and handed it to her. “Here’s his information.”
Double bingo. “I have another question. It’s about the break-in at my apartment. Do you remember that day?”
Doris’ smile morphed to a scowl. “Everyone’s always asking me if I remember. I’m seventy-eight years old. People my age are allowed to forget things once in a while.”
“Of course. I forget things all the time. But this could be important.”
“Important, important. Everything’s important,” she muttered.
Colleen went on. “I need to know if you were in my apartment that day. Burglars don’t usually make beds and wash dishes.”
“Maybe.” There was a whiny edge to her tone.
Colleen shifted to the tone she used with recalcitrant teens back on her beat. “I need to know the truth, Doris. I won’t tell anyone. But it’s not right to waste the deputy’s time if it was you.”
“You promise not to tell?”
“Promise.” She crossed mental fingers.
“I forget things sometimes. Little things. That day, I was out for a walk and I forgot I’d moved out of the apartment. I went in and straightened up a little before I remembered. I didn’t take anything. Honest.”
Did she remember she’d done almost the same thing moments ago? “It’s okay, Doris. I feel better, knowing nobody broke in.”
“It won’t happen again. I’ll remember.” She sounded so pathetic, Colleen couldn’t find the energy to get mad. Besides, she’d changed her locks.
“Doris! Where are you, woman?” A male voice reverberated through the house. The same voice Colleen had heard yelling at Doris when she’d first moved in.
“I’d better be going,” Colleen said. “I’ll let myself out.”
Doris rushed from the room. “The computer is on. I made sure.”
Colleen gave the papers on the desk one more longing glance. Could she come up with something, anything, that would give Graham probable cause for a warrant?
The man appeared in the office, stopping short when he saw Colleen. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” he growled.
“Nothing. Helping Doris. Just leaving.” Colleen ducked her head and hurried out of the room.
She dashed to the sidewalk, looking in both directions. No black BMW. No cars parked on the street at all, except for a lawn service company pickup and trailer. Two doors down, a man in a wide-brimmed straw hat rode a mower over the grass. But the man in Doris’ house had been wearing slacks and a button-down shirt. Definitely not a yard guy. So much for giving Graham a plate to run.
She went back to her apartment. Back to Crystal Shores. She did a quick Google search. Over seven million results. There had to be a better way. She tried a few more searches, and then the idea hit. Graham might not approve, but no need to tell him until she got some answers. As a matter of fact, no need to talk to him at all until she had some answers.
First, though, she needed to let him know he could stop investigating the break-in at her place. She sent him an e-mail, and added the name of Jeffrey’s dentist and that he’d been in the Army. “Doris volunteered this information. I’m sure she’d have told you too, if you’d asked.”
Next, she went to the phone. “Tracy? I need your help.”
*****
Graham tossed the paper sack that had held his lunch into a trash can and headed inside to his desk. Half an hour of fresh air, a stomach full of turkey sandwich, and he was ready to face his case again. On his way inside, Clarke brushed past him, holding a laptop under his arm.
“You’re still going to wash out, Harrigan,” he said, his voice dripping venom.
Graham ignored him and strolled back to CID.
Peterson was still out on interviews, so he couldn’t show Graham how to trace the financials. An e-mail from Volusia County sent a small burst of excitement pinballing through him. He clicked it open, read through the short message. The fire at Crystal Shores was arson. Scrolling to the officer’s phone number, he picked up the phone.
While he waited to be connected, he opened the attached report and sent it to the printer.
“Do you think this fire had anything to do with the other brush fires?” Graham asked Rivera, the officer who answered the phone. Last report I heard, those were assumed to be arson as well.”
“They were both arson, yes, although I doubt it’s the same guy.”
“How can you be sure?”
“These guys almost always stick to a routine. Follow similar procedures, use the same accelerants, triggers and so on. The signatures on these are different. The first fires were made to look like camping accidents—couple of cigarette butts, fire pits, even an abandoned Coleman stove. But there were too many points of origin not related to the fake campsite. We’ve got a guy in custody on that one.”
“And the other fire? The one I called in?”
“Not the same pattern. I sent you the report.”
Graham tried to decipher the technical jargon on his screen. “I know, but can you give me the nickel version? Did you find anything to tie to a suspect?”
Rivera laughed. “You mean like all the nice, neat television CSI stuff? Tire treads, footprints, hair, clothing fibers?”
“I’m not that much of a dreamer. But I’ve got a possible connection and wondered if there would be anything on the site that would let me get a warrant.”
“Not sure about the warrant, but I’d go talk to the property owner. The fires wiped out any trace evidence. But if you do find this guy, you
’ve got him on a federal offense.”
Graham’s heart jumped. “Federal?”
“You were right about the fires being centered around three points. There were some other minor places where we detected accelerant, but for the most part, those three trees were the targets. We figure the other ones were camouflage.”
Graham tried to picture the site in his mind. The three trees and the piles of burned out branches. “I remember. It looked like some developer had been clearing land and dumping the trash at those points. But it’s not a federal offense to dump and burn trash.”
“It wasn’t trash, Harrigan. Those branches weren’t hauled in by any construction worker. They were flown in. Ever seen a bald eagle nest?”
Shit. Who’d have thought? “Can’t say I have.”
“Huge things. The birds use them for generations. They keep getting bigger and bigger. Someone deliberately burned down three nests and that’s a federal offense.”
Graham thought of Townsend’s empty gasoline cans. “What was the accelerant?”
“Kerosene. Lots of kerosene.”
“Are you investigating?” Graham asked.
“No buildings were destroyed. If the landowner doesn’t give a shit, doesn’t file an insurance claim, there’s not much we can do.”
“But what about the eagle nests?”
“That would be up to the feds. Sorry.”
Graham’s head buzzed as he hung up the phone. Sweet Jesus, he was in way over his head. The feds. He rubbed his neck. Damn, but he was going to prove he could do this job. He punched up a search engine and started hunting for bald eagles.
An hour later, he knew it was a major—and expensive—undertaking to develop land near bald eagle nesting sites. That would not have sat well with Jeffrey, or Stuart Gravely, not with three nests in the middle of their property. A website listed the coordinates of countless known eagle nests in the state, but when he checked the coordinates he and Colleen had found, they weren’t there. Further reading led to a form for submitting other nest sightings. That meant the list wasn’t definitive.
