“I wish Randy didn’t send out such negative vibes, Punt. I try to believe he’s innocent of the Darby murder because the law now says he is, but his anger scares me. Newspapers are always carrying news about some guy who thinks he’s been shafted by society and who retaliates by shooting everyone in sight. That could happen to Randy—to us. When his scar turns scarlet as a stop light, it’s time to take care.”
“You’re saying we have to protect ourselves from Randy and his temper as well as from Dyanne Darby’s killer?”
“That’s my take on the situation. And I think Maxine feels that way, too. I’m guessing she’s afraid of her own son and what he might do in a fit of rage.”
I peered outside into the waning afternoon. At the end of the block people hurried toward Mallory. Punt set the “closed” sign in his window, pulled the shade.
“Punt, how about going to the dock long enough to see Maxine and Lavonna in action? Lavonna’s her pet iguana.”
“She had it with her?”
“Yes. Caged in her car. She and Lavonna do a candid camera thing.”
Punt rolled his eyes. “Not fond of iguanas, but we’ll go toss her a buck or two.”
I didn’t tell him what Maxine expected of her customers, and when I started to open the door, his serious tone stopped me.
“I did a little research on DNA testing this afternoon, the sort of testing that helped free Randy. Found an interesting fact or two.”
“For instance?” I paused, joining him at his desk where he pulled a file.
“One fact struck me as interesting.” Punt held a sheet of figures before me and I tried to scan it as he continued talking. “I knew DNA evidence was inadmissible in court before about 1984, and it wasn’t until much more recently that Florida authorities began consistently taking DNA samples from convicted burglars.”
“Are you saying Randy has a rap sheet of burglaries?”
Punt shook his head. “Not saying that at all. Research has shown that many criminals convicted of homicide have previously been convicted of burglary.”
“You’ve lost me somewhere, Punt. Are you saying that one crime leads to another? Like burglary to homicide?”
“Sometimes, but not always, of course. My idea’s a long shot and it may lead nowhere. That happens to PIs a lot, but I think it’s worth considering. Randy gave us the names of guys he thinks might have killed Dyanne Darby. We might get a lead by…”
“We?”
“Yes. As in you and me. We. I’ve appointed you my chief assistant. Okay?”
“What can I say?”
“Yes. That’s what you can say—all you can say.”
“Okay. Yes. Reluctantly. I accept, but with many doubts about my investigating ability.”
“As I started to say, we might get a lead by running the names of Randy’s suspects through the police database. If any of them has a burglary on his rap sheet, that’s a person we should give some in-depth attention.”
“But you said all burglars don’t commit murder.”
“Right, but an interesting percentage of them do—or may. I suggest that it’s a place to start investigating.”
“So how do you—we get into the police database? You think the cops are going to give a PI the time of day?”
“I know one who might. Jeff Bremmer. We both know him. I gave him some street-talk info in my beach bum days. It may have saved his life, but for sure, it won him a promotion. He owes me one.”
“Can you call him now? Think he’ll be on duty tonight?”
“He was last night.” Punt picked up the phone and keyed the police station. To our surprise Jeff answered the call and Punt switched the phone to conference call so I could hear the conversation.
“Punt Ashford here, Jeff. And my friend and associate, Keely Moreno, will be listening in.”
“Glad to hear from you, Punt. How can I help you and Keely?” I listened while Punt made his request and gave him four names to check out. “How long will it take you to get some info?”
“A day or so, with luck. Without luck, a little longer. That soon enough?”
“Fine. Give me a call, okay?”
Punt replaced the receiver, turned out an overhead bulb, and snapped on the nightlight and the security alarm. “Guess that’s all we can do for today. But it’s a start. You wanted to go see Maxine’s act?”
“Why not?” When we stepped into the humidity of the late afternoon, a cruise ship hooted its farewell hoot. Punt took my hand while we walked to Green Street, cut through an alley to Front Street, and then through another alley and onto the parking lot that paved the way to the dock. The smell of popcorn hung in the air and the drone of a bagpipe grated on our eardrums. Remembering Maxine’s words about Lavonna and the bagpiper, I urged Punt in the opposite direction.
A mime with gold-painted skin and clothing stood lighthouse still on a pedestal, only allowing herself the motion of winking when an onlooker tucked a bill into her waistband. Farther on, a tarot reader snapped cards onto a black table decorated with a crystal ball, fanned out a deck of ESP cards, and laid down a witch’s wand.
“Want your fortune told?” Punt asked.
“Not right now, thanks.”
“Some of the old timers aren’t around tonight,” Punt said. “I haven’t been here for ages. Maybe they’ve retired. Remember Will, the guy who walked the high wire? And the Key Lime tart lady? She sold the best brownies on the island.”
“And Key Lime tarts?”
“Yeah. Those too.”
“And where’s Uncle Sam with his twenty-two dollar bills? Remember how he used to fold the bills into rings? I used to have one for each finger.”
We bought hotdogs and lemonades and sat on the edge of the dock, dangling our feet over Key West harbor while we ate. A stray dog snatched my hotdog, but Punt bought me another. After we ate, we stopped to watch a man whose esoteric commands urged trained cats to sit on pedestals and then jump through a burning hoop. Poor cats, I thought. Did they enjoy that act? Where was PETA?
After we’d seen more than enough of the cats, we crossed from the main dock to the bricked patio at the Hilton Hotel where a few other buskers plied their trade—a magician, a contortionist.
“There she is, Punt.” I nodded at a potted palm a few steps from an open-air café. There Maxine’s camera flashed and people oohed and aahed while a plump lady laughed and let Maxine untwine Lavonna from around her neck.
“Want your picture taken, folks?” Maxine looked at Punt and me and grinned. “Good souvenir to send up north to the family.” I backed away. “Another time, thanks.”
Punt stepped forward. “Okay. Let’s see you do your thing.” Punt and Lavonna eyed each other, then Lavonna allowed Maxine to drape her on Punt’s forearm. The camera flashed again, recording Punt and Lavonna for posterity.
Punt bowed and flashed Maxine a ten-dollar bill. I guessed he hoped his overt generosity would set a precedent for other customers who sometimes tended to be notoriously stingy. Easing our way through the crowd, we found a spot where we could watch the sun drop behind the horizon. We clapped at the end of that ritual bit of drama right along with the tourists as if Mallory dock presented the only place in the world where the sun would set this evening.
“How about tonight, Keely? Want to stay at my place again? I’d like to have you where I know you’re safe.”
I wanted to say yes. There’s nothing I would have liked better than to spend the night with Punt. But I knew I’d be giving up a bit of my hard-won independence if I gave in to my fear—and maybe to Punt. Jude had taught me that many men seem to have an inborn need to curb a woman’s feeling of freedom and independence. But maybe not all men. Surely Punt was an exception. I tried to instill that thought in my mind.
“I appreciate your offer, Punt, but I’ll stay at my apartment tonight. Thanks to you, the window’s fixed. I’m not afraid. Got strong door locks plus a grandmother who sleeps with one eye open.”
“I’ll drive you
home, then.” Punt bought us ice cream cones to eat on the walk back to his office and I tried to drown my inner fears in the sweet taste of coconut-pineapple sherbet packed into a waffle cone. Once in the convertible, we took a long route to my apartment. We drove out of our way to pass the beach, knowing there’d be no swimmers at night—only the full moon shining on the silver-tipped waves.
At the White Street Pier, a couple stood, bending to read the names on the Aids Memorial plaques embedded in the concrete. A man approached, carrying a long-stemmed rose. After studying the memorial names carefully, he found the one he’d been seeking. He kissed the rose and laid it down, positioning it carefully three times before he bowed his head as if in prayer. Moments later he turned and walked away.
We, like many of our associates, had lost friends to the HIV virus. We didn’t speak again until we reached my door and Punt parked in the only space available—a tow-away zone. He leaned toward me and we kissed before we parted. I’d closed my apartment door and had headed for the shower when Gram knocked and called to me.
“Keely? Keely, sorry to bother at this time.”
I hurried to open the door. “What is it, Gram? Come on inside.”
“Can’t sleep, Keely.” She put her hand on her chest. “The heart it be aching and I have accident. Drop pills down sink drain. All gone.” She held up an empty pill bottle.
Gram takes nitroglycerine for her angina pains, and she’s had these problems often enough that we don’t panic. She’s usually careful to avoid running out of her medicine.
“Let’s take a look, Gram. A pill might be caught right at the mouth of the drain. Maybe I can retrieve it if it’s hanging in the stopper mechanism.” I pumped calmness into my voice. The pills might be caught in the gooseneck pipe under the sink, too, but my plumbing skills were limited. Would the pharmacy be able to replace her prescription this late in the evening?
We hurried to Gram’s shop and I followed her up the narrow steps to her apartment—a sitting room, 2 tiny bedrooms, a kitchen with a small table and chairs. When I had lived with her, I slept in one of the bedrooms. The apartment looked scant and crowded to me now, but during the time I lived there I never remember feeling cramped for space.
Gram snapped on the light in the bathroom and we peered into the sink. No way. No pill there. Maybe she’d placed an extra pill bottle in the cupboard. I opened the rough cupboard that my grandpa had made from the rowboat he and Gram had used to escape from Castro’s Cuba in the early sixties. They’d sent my mother ahead of them to Miami by Pan Am on the Pedro Pan Airlift for children. She’d lived in a Catholic Charities orphanage until they claimed her over a year later. But forget all that now! I needed to hurry, and my heart began to pound. I seldom came up to Gram’s apartment, and family tales, family memories all but overwhelmed me.
“No pills.” Gram said. “I look good.”
“No big problem.” I tried to keep calm to help keep her calm. “Why don’t you let me make you a latte and then I’ll go to the pharmacy for more medicine?”
And that’s what we did. Gram lay down on her sitting room couch and I ran downstairs and mixed the espresso and steamed milk.
“Amaretto,” Gram called from upstairs. “A touch of amaretto, please.”
I added the amaretto flavor and took the latte to her. “Enjoy, Gram. I’ll be right back.” I called the pharmacy first, making sure they had her prescription and asking that they have it ready when I arrived.
I seldom ride at night and my bike has only a dim headlamp. My hands trembled in my nervousness, in my hurry as I unlocked my bicycle. I planned to take a shortcut, to turn and ride a few blocks off Duval, down a seldom used side street that would let me avoid the string of tourist traffic leaving the Mallory sunset activities. I pedaled only a few minutes before I braked to a stop. In my distress over Gram’s chest pain and her urgent need for the nitro, I’d forgotten my own danger. How stupid could I get!
I hadn’t ridden far and I made a fast U-turn and headed toward home. I’d take a Maxi-Taxi to the pharmacy, ask the cabbie to wait while I bought Gram’s pills, and then drive me home. Or, maybe I should have called an ambulance for Gram and headed for the ER. I should have thought of that! Hindsight. Well, I could still call the ambulance once I reached home if Gram would allow that. She hated ambulances and sirens and hospitals. “Too much ado over nothing,” she’d say.
Turning toward home at the next corner, I began pedaling faster. I thought I heard someone shout my name, and for a moment I relaxed. Maybe Punt had tried to phone me and then had called Gram when I didn’t answer. Maybe he’d come looking for me. No need for a taxi or ambulance. Punt would take me to get Gram’s pills. I craned my neck, looking around for the Karmann Ghia, but I saw nobody nearby. Heavy darkness shrouded the trees, the pavement.
The bright lights and crowds on Duval Street lay only a couple of blocks away, and I pumped harder toward home. That’s when a pair of bright headlights flashed on and moved toward me, slowly, relentlessly, threatening to block my path. I honked my horn and tried to pull aside, but the car kept coming.
In another moment I heard a scream. It took an instant to realize the scream had come from my own throat and that the driver of the oncoming car had no intention of turning aside.
FIFTEEN
The sound of tires against concrete grated against my eardrums and I choked on exhaust fumes. When the oncoming car began moving more quickly, toward me, I made a last-ditch effort to save myself. Yanking my handlebars to the left, and using all my strength, I thrust my weight onto the pedals. The car didn’t crash into me head-on, but I felt it thud against my back fender, heard the crunch of metal against metal.
My bike tilted to one side, and losing my balance, I fell with the weight of it dropping on top of me, pinning me to the ground. Dirt and grit coated my tongue when my head hit the street, but after the initial shock, I managed to wriggle from the twisted wreckage. Fight or flee? Although I wanted to run, my feet and legs refused all mental commands. Nor could I get a good look at the car that had run me down. Its headlights had blinded me. I had been unable to discern either make or color.
I couldn’t tell if a man or a woman drove the car, but an atavistic voice from within warned me to run. Before my divorce I’d attended a police-sponsored lecture on self-defense for women. I’d never been brave enough or strong enough to defend myself against Jude and his abuse by using any of the life-saving techniques the lecturer suggested. Now I had no choice. I had to act in my own behalf.
Don’t get into a car with a stranger. The words began playing back to me like a recording set on fast forward. Once your attacker gets you in his car, you’re a goner. He’s almost sure to rape and murder you. Fight for your life. That’s all you have going for you—your will to live. Give him a knee to the groin. Bite him. Kick his shins. Stiffen your fingers and go for his eyes. Or his ears. Don’t be afraid to hurt him. That’s your chief goal. Remember it’s your life or his.
If there’s any distance between the two of you at all, even a few inches, your best chance of survival is to scream and run. Attackers hate screamers. Their success depends on your fear, your silence. So scream like hell’s chief devil all the time you’re running away from the crime scene.
What if he has a gun, you ask. My answer remains etched in marble. Run. Scream. Your best chance of survival lies in your ability to run. Run toward anyone you see on the street. No people? Then head for a lighted building. No lighted building? Then head for a hiding place. Any hiding place. What if he shoots? Half of attackers won’t shoot. You have a fifty-fifty chance of making a running escape. If he does shoot, you have a fifty-fifty chance that he’ll miss. If he makes a hit, you have a fifty-fifty chance that your wound won’t be fatal. Run and scream, but don’t get in that car. Never.
Even with all those words skimming through my mind, somehow I managed to wriggle from under my bicycle and crawl away from it. Run? Impossible. Perhaps the driver couldn’t see me. The car drove on,
catching my bicycle seat on its fender and dragging my bike with it. My left shoulder felt numb. My right knee throbbed. Something warm and wet oozed down my right cheek and the rusty taste of blood coated my tongue. Somewhere I found the strength to stand and run. Slow motion. Although I managed to move into the shadows of thatch palm near the roadside, my throat closed like a vacuum, locking a silent scream inside me as the car slowed down.
“I’m warning you and Ashford,” a muffled voice called from the car. “Drop the Darby case. Give it up! You can reason with Punt. Call him off!”
Someone had been waiting for me, watching for me to leave my apartment. Hoping and praying my assailant wouldn’t do a U-ie and turn to run me down again, I peeked from my hiding place and caught my breath—waited for the pain in my side to ease. When the revving of a motor followed by the squealing of tires told me I was safe, at least for the moment, I plopped onto the ground to rest, unsure of where I was. I’d felt rough ground underfoot and now the rising moon illumined scrub palm growing at the side of the road. A salt scent told me I sat close to water—maybe the sea, but more likely low-lying wetlands or perhaps an abandoned canal.
I shuddered. Sometimes alligators wandered onto the golf course on Stock Island, but they dislike salt water. They wouldn’t travel this far. My fear of fire ants loomed greater than my fear of gators. Using both hands against the ground, I pushed myself to my feet. I remembered past episodes of fire ant bites. I forced myself to keep moving and I tried to wipe my face on the sleeve of my jumpsuit. The ripped sleeve hung dangling in the slight breeze like a flag at half mast, making face wiping difficult. I thought blood had stopped oozing from my head wound, but I couldn’t be sure. My knee throbbed, and when I rubbed it, I felt bare skin. The leg of my jumpsuit hung in shreds.
My bike. I had to find it, to pull it from the street before a car hit it and totaled it. I reached into my pocket. No cell phone. I needed a telephone. And who would I call? Not the police. They’d ask too many questions I couldn’t answer—didn’t want to answer. Driver a man? A woman? Make of car? No police—not yet anyway. And I wouldn’t call Gram. She had problems of her own right now. I hoped she’d fallen asleep in spite of her chest pains. Sometimes they eased up when she kept in a prone position.
Cold Case Killer Page 11
