Cold Case Killer

by Dorothy Francis

  “Guess it’ll have to be. I’ll call you if we get a letter from Slone. Mail comes around two o’clock.”

  Punt drove me home, gave me a goodnight kiss at my doorway, and once I was inside, he drove away, leaving me to think about Ace Grovello—and Randy.

  TWENTY-SIX

  My evening client came and went. By that time Gram had retired for the evening and I had no desire for dinner. I picked up an avocado from my kitchen countertop where I had placed it to ripen a few days ago. It seemed soft to my touch, so I cut it open, removed the huge center seed, and peeled one half of the fruit. Pulling a jar of mayo and an almost-fresh croissant from the refrig, I made a sandwich, added a bit of salt and a squeeze of lime juice. Aah! My almost favorite sandwich. My mouth watered, and the tartness of the lime juice along with the bland taste of the fruit told me I had made the perfect snack for this hour of the night.

  Once in bed, I lay awake thinking about Slone Pierce and Ace Grovello, hating it that they had been so uncooperative concerning the DNA testing. How would Randy react to that news when he returned from shrimping? In my mind, both Ace and Slone had clouds of guilt hanging over them. Surely an innocent person would have offered a DNA sample with no reservations. Why hadn’t those men done that? Maybe one of them was guilty. Or maybe they both were innocent. I had ambivalent feelings about Soto. Who could guess what his work in Randy’s behalf might have been covering up? And Beau? I refused to consider the possibility of his guilt.

  Punt called early on Tuesday morning.

  “Bad news, Keely. Nikko phoned last night. That Brighton case I mentioned has taken him to Orlando and he needs a detail person in Miami—me.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Maybe not until Wednesday afternoon. But don’t worry. This’ll give us another day to hear from Slone Pierce, and Randy won’t return until Friday. We’ll still have a couple of days to get the DNA we have retrieved, carefully labeled and ready to submit to Shelley Hubble—if she’s willing to help us. How about my picking you up late Wednesday afternoon? We’ll get Beau’s scuba mouthpiece and have it ready to take to Hubble along with the other specimens. I think the scuba gear will work better than the hairbrush.”

  “Sounds good to me, Punt. I don’t plan to go fishing tomorrow afternoon, so I can be ready whenever you get here.”

  “Good thinking about the fishing. I hate to see you going on the water alone. Play it safe and stay close to home.”

  I hate it when Punt tries to tell me what to do. Reminds me too much of my years with Jude Cardell. But it had been my idea to forego fishing, not Punt’s.

  “I’m not staying home because I’m afraid, Punt. Have you looked at the weather report today? Weatherman’s predicting high winds. Twenty and above. Smallcraft warnings are in effect as we speak.”

  “Sorry you’ll miss your afternoon on the water, but there’ll be better days—days when we can go together.”

  “I’ll miss you while you’re gone. Take care. Are you flying to Miami?”

  “No. Driving. It takes longer, but it’s less hassle—no airport security delays. No last-minute cancelled flights.”

  “You’re driving the cruiser?”

  Punt laughed. “No. I’m renting another car, an unobtrusive car, a car suitable for a private investigator.”

  After Punt broke the phone connection some of the sunshine disappeared from my day. I ate breakfast at Gram’s coffee bar. She snorts and fumes when I try to call a French vanilla cappuccino my breakfast, but that’s all I felt like eating. For lunch I appeased her by bringing us take-out salads from Fausto’s—lots of green leafy stuff that promises good health.

  Tuesday passed slowly as did Wednesday until the moment Punt returned late in the afternoon from Miami. He reported that all was well concerning the case he and Nikko were investigating up north.

  “Any mail from Slone Pierce?” I asked the moment Punt finished telling me about his trip and his business in Miami.

  “Haven’t been to the post office yet. Why don’t we go there now and see what’s in the Fotopolus Ashford box before we drive to Dad’s house and pick up his scuba mouthpiece?”

  “It’s a plan.” I locked my office door, stopped for a moment at Gram’s shop to tell her our decisions. When Punt arrived—in the Conch cruiser—we left Duval in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

  Luck smiled on us and we found a fifteen-minute parking place in front of the post office. We eased our way through a throng of business people eager to push the day’s outgoing letters through the mail slot, and the keys on Punt’s key ring jingled as he sorted through them to find the one to his private box. I peered over his shoulder when the brass door opened easily, revealing an assortment of letters and ads.

  “Here it is, Keely!” Punt flashed a familiar envelope at me for a few seconds before he slipped it into his briefcase.

  “What luck!” My nape prickled with excitement. “He fell for it! That gives us one more bit of DNA for the police.”

  “Right!”

  Then a worrisome thought hit me. “Punt, will the authorities toss out a sample that the donor was unaware of providing?”

  “I’m not sure. Guess we’ll have to learn about that later. Maybe Randy won’t think to ask that question.”

  “Slone Pierce could say that someone else licked the flap and mailed the envelope for him. His secretary or…”

  Punt laughed. “I don’t think salvage boat owners can afford secretaries. According to Dad, Slone’s business is strictly a one-man operation and Slone’s the man for all seas and seasons.”

  “He could have asked his wife to sign up for the freebie and mail the coupon. What if he did that?”

  “Keely, let’s not make problems where there may be none. Let’s mark this sample from Slone, give it to Attorney Hubble if she agrees to help us, and let her deal with any complexities. In the meantime, how about taking a quick drive to Dad’s house? I missed checking on it yesterday, so we’ll take care of that detail first and then find his scuba gear.”

  “Okay.” I was following Punt to the cruiser when a new idea popped into my mind.

  “Punt, when people take reflexology treatments, they touch things. Things like sign-in sheets. The portable foot bath. The treatment chair. There’d be several opportunities for a client to leave fingerprints. Right?”

  “I suppose so. But there would be a mingling of many prints even if Maxine didn’t rub them away when she cleans.”

  “Would there be enough DNA in a fingerprint to make it of use?”

  “As I understand it, there could be. When was the last time Maxine cleaned your place?”

  “I can’t remember, but I can look it up on my appointment calendar.”

  “When Ace came in, did he pay cash or by check or credit card?”

  “He paid cash—lots of cash. He paid in full for my special offer of six treatments. But I’ve already deposited the bills. I never leave cash around the office.”

  “If Ace calls for an appointment, schedule it, okay?”

  I hesitated only a moment. I felt torn. I dreaded facing Ace again, but I wanted a chance to get his fingerprints. “Yes. Yes. If he calls for an appointment, I’ll schedule it. After our chat in his courtyard I may never hear from him again.”

  Punt sighed. “Covertly picking up Ace’s fingerprints is probably an idea that won’t work at all. He’s no dummy. He knows that if he’s in your office there’s a strong chance he’ll be leaving evidence, DNA fingerprints or perhaps something else, that we could use. And he knows you’re no dummy either. He knows you might be waiting for the chance to trap him.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  “Let’s forget about Ace right now. Let’s go to Dad’s house and see if we can find a scuba mouthpiece.”

  We drove down Simonton Street, turning left on Truman Avenue until we reached Grinnell and then headed on toward the ocean. On this crowded island, building contractors have no way to go but up. Beau and his second wife dis
liked the high-rise condos near the airport as well as those on the other side of the island with a gulfside view. They chose to buy a picturesque home a century old and decorated a century ago with gingerbread trim hand-carved by Conch sailors whiling away spare hours during long voyages.

  When we stopped in front of the Ashford home, night-blooming jasmine already scented the air. All along the street, bougainvillea vines climbed the palm trees to the balconies of the old Conch houses where they spilled over, dropping pink, purple, and scarlet petals like a rainbow of confetti onto the sidewalk below.

  Punt parked in front of the house and I could sense neighbors peeking from behind their curtains, eyeing the cruiser and no doubt wondering what sort of people were approaching the Ashford home. Punt turned and waved, giving a playful grin to whoever might be watching.

  “I feel the eyes on us, too, Keely. They don’t recognize the cruiser, but I hope they’ll recognize me and go on about their business.”

  Punt led the way through the gate in the picket fence and we walked up a sidewalk lined with pots of lavender hibiscus, an eye-catching advertisement for Jass’s tropical plants. At the top of the veranda steps, he paused to insert his key into the brass lock and open the door so we could step inside and look around. The house smelled of a dampness that threatened to turn into mildew, and Punt snapped on the air conditioner, setting it on low.

  “I always check the outside doors first for any sign of forced entry,” Punt said. “Then I take a quick scan of the ground-floor windows. That’s where vagrants might break in.”

  I shuddered. “That’s creepy. Don’t the police patrol empty homes on the lookout for any unusual activity?”

  “Sure they do, but they can’t keep a round-the-clock vigil. During one vacation, Dad paid a full-time guard to sit in the driveway. That was the time someone broke into the back porch and removed any small object good for resale. Druggies take what’s easy and handy—what’ll sell for enough to get them a fix for the night.”

  When Punt found nothing out of place, he snapped off the lights but left the air conditioner on. We headed for the carport.

  “Dad’s scuba gear’s out here in one of these locked cupboards.” Punt fingered the keys until he found one that fit the largest cupboard. The door creaked open, and I backed off as spiders scuttled to hide behind an assortment of scuba tanks, hoses, snorkels, swim fins, dive masks.

  “He could start his own dive shop,” I said.

  Punt picked up two mouthpieces and a snorkel tube. “These should hold enough DNA to be useful.”

  I held the equipment while Punt relocked the cupboard. We left the house and drove to Punt’s office.

  “Now we’ve gotta label all this stuff, right?” I asked.

  “Right. We’ll label and number each object we’ve collected and place everything in a box for safekeeping.”

  I found a pen and paper. “I’ll make a numbered list that corresponds with the objects. We should print out four copies. One for your safe. One for my office. One for Randy and Maxine. And one for Shelley Hubble or Jeff Bremmer—if either of them agrees to help us.”

  We made short work of the task and Punt set the box in his office safe and twirled the knob.

  “Punt, if anyone really wanted something inside that safe…”

  “Don’t worry about that. Only Nikko and I know the combination and it’s complicated.”

  “I’m sure you’re right about that. But if stealing something from that safe was a life or death matter, the thief could take the whole safe, load it onto a truck and drive away.”

  “Do you know how much that safe weighs?” Punt asked.

  “No idea.”

  “Well it’s too heavy for anyone to lift, probably too heavy for two people to lift even if they majored in weight training. I’ve got the exact weight around here someplace, but I’m not worried about the safe being stolen. Besides the deterrents of weight and a heavy duty lock, it’s bolted to the floor.”

  I sighed. When Punt doesn’t worry about a thing, he thinks nobody should worry about it. No point in arguing with him about the safe.

  “Who shall we call to help us?” I asked. “Jeff Bremmer at the police department or Shelley Hubble, the attorney?”

  “Since Jeff hasn’t exactly been a ball of fire when it comes to getting the divers’ rap sheets checked for burglary, maybe we should try Hubble first.”

  Punt had his hand on the telephone directory, ready to look up her number when the phone rang. We both jerked back in surprise, then laughed at our nervousness.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Ashford and Fotopolus,” Punt said.

  “Thought it was Fotopolus and Ashford,” I hissed, grinning and poking him.

  He put his hand over the phone and winked. “Only when Nikko’s in town.”

  “Jeff here, Punt. Sorry it’s taken me so long to get that info you wanted.”

  “Thanks for the effort, Jeff. I know dealing with the department can be time consuming.”

  “According to their rap sheets, only one of the five divers you mentioned had a past burglary conviction.”

  “Gonna tell me which one, or do I have to guess?” Punt, pushed a button, setting the phone for conference call. “Keely Moreno’s here listening in.”

  “Fine with me,” Jeff said. “A jury found Slone Pierce guilty of burglary in December of 1979. He broke into the Boog Powell Marina, made off with lots of cash and diving gear that the police later found hidden at his home. He did some jail time, served a large part of his sentence as an orderly, and then, due to his continued good behavior both as a prisoner and an orderly, the court released him on parole. He’s had no more run-ins with the law since that time.”

  “Good work, Jeff,” Punt said. “This information may be a lot of help to us. A big thanks to you.”

  “Glad to be of use, pal, and sorry it took me so long to get back to you. If there’s anything else I can do, give me a call and I’ll give it my best shot.”

  Punt broke the phone connection and started making notes on a yellow pad. “So, I’ll cancel all my negative thoughts about Jeff and his getting back to me. For a while I thought he wasn’t going to make it.”

  “So Slone Pierce may be the guy who threatened me and Maxine.” The back of my neck tightened as I remembered his smoldering eyes, his sleek heavy body. “He may be the guy who murdered Dyanne Darby.”

  “He may be. May is the important word here. The information I read said that a significant percentage of people convicted for murder also had a past conviction for burglary. Slone Pierce’s burglary conviction in no way tells us for sure that he’s the one who murdered the Darby woman.”

  “Maybe not, but in my mind it raises him to the top of our suspect list. A few days ago I read about a study that showed that four people out of every hundred are sociopaths—people born without a conscience, people who can murder with no guilty feelings. Slone Pierce could be one of those. There’s something about that cold look in his eyes that chills me. If he were innocent, why wouldn’t he give us a DNA specimen? Why did he make us go to the trouble of tricking him into leaving his saliva on the flap of an envelope?”

  “I’m asking myself those questions, too, but at the same time I’m reminding myself that Ace Grovello has a cold look about him, too. Ace also refused to let us have any DNA. Just because Ace has no burglary conviction on his rap sheet doesn’t remove him from suspicion. And Gus Helmer used to turn you off, too, until you began working with him as a client.”

  “Okay. I won’t say a negative word about any of Randy’s suspects again. So what do we do now?”

  “Let’s call Hubble. We can offer her the DNA we’ve collected even though we have none from Ace Grovello. We can let her check on Slone’s past burglary conviction—can’t let her know Jeff dug up that info for us. But if Jeff found it, Shelley can find it in the same way.”

  “All right,” I agreed. “Maybe she’ll agree to talk to us about this case, about the possibility o
f helping Randy again.”

  “Maybe she’d even be willing to talk to us tonight. It’s still early.”

  Punt keyed in Shelley’s number, leaving the phone on conference call. The phone rang five times before a man’s voice spoke.

  “Attorney Hubble is unable to take your call at this time. Please leave a message, your name, and your phone number at the sound of the beep, and Ms. Hubble will get back to you as soon as possible.”

  Punt replaced the receiver before the beep sounded.

  “Damn! I wish we could have talked to her right now.”

  “Maybe we should have left a message. She might be listening and breaking in to talk to the callers whom she finds of special interest. Sometimes I do that.”

  “Or if she looks at her caller ID, she may recognize my name and return my call. Let’s wait around a bit.”

  Punt brought us small bottles of sparkling lemonade from Nikko’s refrigerator and found a bag of chips in his bottom desk drawer. For a few minutes we munched and sipped without talking, but the phone remained silent. If Attorney Hubble knew Punt had telephoned, she obviously thought returning his call could wait until tomorrow.

  “Maybe in the morning,” Punt said, sighing.

  I was staring at my drink when a follow-up idea struck me. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? I leaned forward, tapping the bottle with my fingernail and organizing my thoughts.

  “What’s wrong, Keely? Need another soda?”

  “I just remembered something. Our talk about Ace leaving fingerprints in my office and about my booking another appointment for him brought it to mind. Maybe it’s something important. Or maybe not.” I jumped up and started toward the door. “But when I finished Ace’s treatment last week, I offered him a glass of lemonade. Not a bottled drink, but homemade juice from fresh fruit. I do that for all my clients. It was nothing special I did just for Ace.”

  “And he drank it?”

  “Yes. He drank it and set the glass on the bookcase near my desk while he reached for his billfold to pay me. My phone rang, distracting me. That’s when Ace paid and left my office without rebooking. Punt! That empty lemonade glass may be on the bookcase where he set it. It may have his fingerprints on it.”