Cold Case Killer

by Dorothy Francis

  TWENTY-NINE

  After inserting the key in the lock, I’d opened the door when someone called to me.

  “Miss? Miss? There’s nobody at home there. May I help you?”

  I turned to face a puff-ball of a woman, short and fat and wearing a caftan that flowed around her ankles. Her headband echoed the turtle pattern in the caftan.

  “I’m Keely Moreno.” In the mist of rain and the rising wind, I left the porch and crossed the yard to extend my hand toward the woman. “I’m a friend of the Ashfords and I’ve come to give the house a quick check while Mr. Ashford’s away.”

  “I’m Daisy French from next door,” Puffball said. “We neighbors keep an eye on Beau’s house, too. But we never have problems around here. Glad to meet you, Keely. Give me a call if you need any help. I’ll be right inside.”

  I thanked the woman then I climbed the porch steps again and unlocked the house. I was sorry I’d entertained the thought that Slone Pierce might come here to hide out from the police. I tried to calm my fears by remembering that he was in police custody. Once inside, I checked the three doors that opened to the outside before I examined each window. No smashed glass. All locks in place. I breathed easier.

  I considered placing some markers here and there throughout the downstairs, a thread on a certain spot on the carpet, or an envelope between two couch cushions. Then on another visit, if any of the markers had been moved, I’d know an intruder had been here.

  You’ve been reading too many detective novels, Keely. Finish looking around and go on home.

  I left the house and locked the door, turning to wave toward Daisy French’s house in case she might be watching. In fact, I hoped she was watching. In spite of knowing Slone Pierce’s whereabouts, I still felt uneasy as the early dusk and threatening clouds predicted an early evening. Why not skip the carport check? The thought tempted me, but I discarded it and walked around the side of the house. No point in opening the cupboards. They were still locked. Nobody had been here since last night when Punt and I picked up Beau’s scuba mouthpiece. I started to leave and return to my bicycle when I heard a tell-tale crunch. Whirling around, I saw a man half hidden by a palm tree.

  At first I thought another neighbor had come to check on Beau’s property, but chills playing along my arms and across my nape warned me of danger. I grabbed a deep breath, planning to call to Daisy French.

  “Don’t scream. Keep quiet.”

  I didn’t recognize the guttural voice, and when the person stepped into full view, I understood why. A person wearing a hooded raincoat that blended with the cloudy day began approaching me. A nylon stocking covered his face and head. But nothing covered the pistol in his hand. His? His? It could be a woman. The androgynous outfit made it hard to tell.

  “W-who, who are you?” I stuttered and my voice shook, revealing my fear. “What are you doing skulking around this house? You’re trespassing on private property, and…”

  “Shut up, woman,” the voice ordered. “We’re leaving this property right now. Together.”

  “The neighbors are watching. You won’t get by with this—with whatever you’re planning. Someone will see you and call the police.”

  My captor chuckled. “No. That won’t happen. It’s early and most of the neighbors are still at work.” He held up a cell phone. “I called the French home the minute I recognized you. Told them their daughter had been injured. They’re probably already on their way to the hospital. Come with me now and you won’t get hurt. At least you won’t get hurt right here.”

  A gun barrel prodding my ribs prompted my obedience. It surprised me that I managed to keep talking.

  “I rode my bicycle here. In the morning, Mrs. French will think it strange to find it still padlocked to the palm. She’ll connect the bike to the phony call about her daughter.”

  “We’re taking the bike with us. Where’s your key?” He held out a hand. “Give me the key.”

  I hesitated.

  “Give me the key. Now.” The gun prodded—harder this time—and the person pressed his body closer to mine and linked his left arm through my right arm. “See, we’re old friends walking down the street on a dismal evening. Some people consider walking in the rain romantic. However, I’m not one of them. Hand over the bicycle key.”

  Now he was clutching my arm and twisting it behind my back. It had to be a man, didn’t it? Even through my pain I realized a woman wouldn’t have strength for both holding a gun and twisting an arm.

  I wear my bicycle key on a lanyard around my neck. With my free hand I jerked it off and handed it to him.

  “That’s more like it, Keely. I thought I might be able to make you see things my way. Now come with me and we’ll collect your bike.”

  “Someone will see us. I’ll shout for help.”

  He nudged me with the gun again. “You think I won’t shoot?”

  “That’s right. I think you won’t. You wouldn’t dare. You wouldn’t dare risk revealing yourself. The sound of a gunshot would bring neighbors on a run.” My words sounded phony even to my own ears and I knew he didn’t believe me.

  Walking side by side, we entered the front yard and headed toward my bicycle. I wondered how he’d manage to unlock it with a gun in his hand. I needn’t have wondered.

  “Unlock it,” he ordered. “Right now.” He chuckled. “You didn’t think I’d risk doing it, did you? Unlock the bicycle.”

  I moved as slowly as I dared, dropping the key as if by accident, but I retrieved it, followed his orders, and unlocked the bike.

  “Pull it into riding position,” he said. “My car’s parked around the corner. Place both hands on the handlebars and wheel it straight ahead and then around the first corner to your left. Forget about escaping. I’ll have my gun trained on you every second. You try to ride away, and you’re a dead woman.”

  Could this man be Slone Pierce? Had the TV announcer said Slone was under arrest? Or maybe he’d said the police were holding him for questioning. I wished I’d listened more carefully. Fear-driven thoughts raced through my mind. Why would Slone Pierce come after me? Maybe because Punt and Randy were off island and I was available? How I wished Punt and I had never gone to his house to talk to Nicole!

  Again, I forced myself to recall safety rules from the past. Don’t let him get you in a car even if he has a gun. Huh! I wondered how often that lecturer had run while someone held a gun to his ribs. Of course, if I tried to escape on my bike, I’d be a moving target and moving targets are hard to hit. I wondered if this man had practice in shooting at moving targets. And I wondered why all these crazy thoughts were rushing through the turmoil of my mind. I was about to be kidnapped, and who knew what else my captor had in mind—yet all I could think of were safety rules that wouldn’t do me any good.

  Talk, I told myself. Show some spunk. You talk to clients all day, so talk, now when your life depends on it.

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked. “If you want something from the Ashford house, go back and take it. But let me go.”

  “I warned you not to nose into the Randy Jackson case. But you’re a dumb broad. You didn’t pay attention. Now you’ve caused me trouble.”

  “I really can’t cause you any harm. I’m no detective. I’m no PI. If anyone gives you trouble it won’t be me. It’ll be the police who’ll soon have information that’ll bring the Randy Jackson case back into their thinking “

  “You’re wrong. You might say you’re dead wrong. When the police find your body, they’ll face a hot case that’ll make them forget about a decades-old cold case.”

  “Cops may slide unsolved murders to a back burner, but they don’t forget them. And in this case, they’ll have Randy Jackson and his mother to remind them of Dyanne Darby.”

  “Hah! The news media will be screaming about the murder of Keely Moreno. Or maybe I can think of some way to pull this off and make your death look like an accident—or a suicide.”

  “You’re not that smart.”

&nbs
p; “I’m smart enough to want to get the police involved in a new homicide. I found a patsy to take my place in prison for twenty years, didn’t I? I call that plenty smart.”

  “You won’t get by with such a thing again.”

  “Of course I will. There are people on this island who think you should be doing a little jail time yourself.”

  “Nobody ever charged me with a crime.” My whole body grew hot and I guessed how Randy must have felt when he heard himself accused of a murder he didn’t commit.

  “You may never have been charged with homicide. But that doesn’t make people believe you’re innocent. Many folks still wonder what Margaux Ashford might say if she could speak from the grave. And others wonder what Jude Cardell might have said if he’d had a chance to confront the police. Keely Moreno, if you should happen to die—accidentally—some folks would say, serves the broad right.”

  THIRTY

  When we reached the car, I thought it was the one that had hit me the night I’d been trying to find Gram’s heart medicine, but I couldn’t be certain. On a rainy day, gray cars tend to look alike. My captor kept his gun trained on me, and held a handlebar on my bike.

  “Open the trunk,” he ordered. He placed the key in my hand. “Open it. No funny stuff.”

  I opened the trunk, letting the key hang in the lock as the lid inched up.

  “Now lift the bike inside the trunk.”

  “I can’t. It’s too heavy.”

  “Can’t be much heavier than a bag of coffee beans now can it? Lift it front wheel first into the trunk”

  So this guy knew I’d helped Gram lift bags of coffee beans. Where had he been hiding while he watched? And what other of my activities had he found interesting enough to monitor?”

  “Do it now. Move.”

  The bicycle felt awkward—more awkward than heavy. I managed to get the front wheel onto the rim of the trunk, twist the handlebars and shove the front half into the storage space. After that, the seat and the rear tire slid in with only some hard shoving. I didn’t know if I was gasping for breath from exertion or from fear. Maybe both.

  “Now crawl in there with it.” He grabbed my arm, forcing me closer to the trunk.

  “There’s not enough room. There’s barely room to close the lid on the bicycle.”

  “These old Lincolns are known for their roomy trunks. Now get in beside the bicycle and shut up.” He goosed me with the gun barrel.

  It took me a few moments to get into the trunk. A pedal bit into my shin, and I hit my head on the trunk lid hard enough to bring tears. But that was nothing compared to the head blow when he closed the trunk lid. I lay entwined with the bicycle, feeling blood running down my shin, feeling numb and nauseous from the blow to my head, wondering if the blow had broken my neck. But no. I could still move fingers and toes.

  In moments the car started and we eased along the street. My stomach churned from the smell of gasoline and motor exhaust, but I managed to free one arm from its cramped position and grope for a trunk release lever. No luck. These old trunks had no safety devices.

  I tried to keep track of our route, and from the traffic sounds around us, I knew when we reached the highway and turned toward Miami. We had gone only a short distance when the car made a sharp turn that butted my stomach against a bike pedal. I thought I might vomit, but I clamped my teeth against the rising gorge. Shortly after the turn, the car stopped, the driver’s door slammed, the trunk popped open.

  Is this where he planned to kill me? A storm howled around us and darkness blacked out the surroundings, leaving me with no idea of our location. Rain poured into the trunk. I closed my eyes and lowered my head. Would he shoot me in the trunk? No. Wouldn’t want my blood on his car. The bike pedal scraped my shin again, but I lay beyond caring.

  “Help me, you dumb butt. Push on that bike. Push and lift. We’re dumping it. Nobody’ll come nosing around this scrap heap anytime in the next few days—or weeks.”

  I heard a scraping as he jerked my ID tag from the bike.

  “Even if anyone finds it, they won’t be able to identify it. It won’t take long for rain and salt air to turn it into a rust heap. Wish I could leave you right here beside it, Keely Moreno. That’d make my job easier. But finding your body would give the police too many clues. I’m taking you where nobody’s likely to find you or your remains.”

  I wondered where that place might be, but I wasn’t about to ask. A lot of crime takes place in the Keys. According to Punt, much of it’s never reported. And the local police get so many missing-person reports they don’t consider all of them emergencies. Kids run away from parents. Husbands run away from wives. Wives run away from husbands. But if I went missing, I knew there’d be a fuss. Gram. Punt. Consuela. My clients. There’d be a police search for me—or my body.

  My captor managed to lift the bike from the trunk without my help. It clattered as if it hit concrete when he threw it down. Then turning quickly, he yanked me from the trunk. My legs were so cramped I could hardly stand, but he didn’t expect or want me to stand. Pulling a bandana from his back pocket he folded it into a blindfold and tied it around my eyes. Then I heard tape peeling from a roll and he grabbed my wrists and taped them together. Once he finished that job and taped my ankles together, he lifted me and threw me back into the trunk.

  He hadn’t gagged me, but I lay in shock, unable to muster the energy to scream for help. He slammed the trunk lid shut and drove off, turning onto the highway and easing into traffic. How could I bear this! I couldn’t see. I couldn’t move my arms or legs. If I screamed nobody’d hear me.

  Gram and I seldom leave Key West. Like many of the locals, we’re content to stay where we’re planted. But now I remembered my trip with Punt to Big Pine Key. I began to recall a ride to Marathon and Key Colony Beach last year, but so what? What good would remembering do? I couldn’t recall more place names except Key Largo and then Homestead which really isn’t a Key.

  I wished I hadn’t tried so hard to remember because now Punt’s words replayed through my mind—words about a place where the deer refuge workers buried the deer that died or that had been killed in traffic. He said one time the police had found human bones mixed with the deer carcasses—bones that nobody ever claimed or identified. Was that where I was headed right now—the deer boneyard?

  My head ached and I curled myself into a fetal position. All I wanted to do was to close my eyes and sleep. But no. I might be able to do something to save myself from this guy if I stayed awake—if I stayed alert. After a few minutes rain stopped pelting on the trunk lid. I could hear water hitting the underside of the car as we splashed through puddles, but the rain had stopped.

  In a few seconds I heard that fact announced from a microphone.

  “Okay, folks. The rain’s over and the night’s young. Who’s going to be the first one on the bull? Don’t be shy. Step right up.”

  The voice faded into the distance, but I knew where we were. Ramrod Key. The Boondocks. Punt and I passed here on the way to talk to Shrimp Snerl. But where to now? When I felt our speed slow and remain slow, I remembered the night-time speed limit on Big Pine Key. So we were on the Key Deer Refuge. A national refuge. An area where cops strictly enforced the speed limits. I guessed we were traveling a bit below the thirty-five mph limit. My captor would take no chances of being pulled over for a traffic violation.

  When the car stopped, I knew we’d reached the one traffic light between Big Pine Key and Marathon. Moving forward again, we took a left turn. Were we heading toward the road prison? The Blue Hole? Was there a place nearby where this guy might dump my body? I remembered the vast expanses of scrub palm and mangroves between the stop light and the Lion’s Club. I also remembered desolate country with paths and trails going off the main road, trails that led into nothingness.

  We drove on and on and on. I knew Big Pine Key was the largest of the keys in land mass, but surely it couldn’t cover as many miles as we had traveled! For a while the road felt smooth, th
en suddenly we turned sharply to the right. We jounced and bumped over ground rough enough to blow out tires. Maybe this guy was blazing his own trail through the scrub brush. I braced myself against the top of the trunk with my bound hands and against one side of it with my feet.

  At last the car stopped. I waited. Nothing happened. Maybe he planned to desert his car along with me? How long would it take someone to find a car with a body in the trunk? What if I screamed? Would there be anyone around to hear? Maybe I could work my hands loose, find a car tool, and beat on the inside of the trunk. Again, I wondered who would hear me.

  At last the trunk lid popped and I felt a rush of cooler air. Taking his time, my captor unbound my ankles, but he left the tape on my hands and the blindfold in place.

  “Get out.”

  I can’t, I wanted to scream, but I didn’t dare. If I couldn’t get out of the trunk under my own steam, he might leave me there—forever. I flexed my fingers and my toes. I took some deep breaths.

  “Get out. Now!”

  From somewhere I found the strength to push myself across the bottom of the trunk, to reach for the side of the opening even with my hands still bound, and to pull myself to a sitting position. Then he grabbed my arm and hoisted me from the trunk to the ground. I sank to my knees with cramps in both legs, but he jerked me upright, not noticing that my blindfold had slipped askew.

  I glimpsed a ray of moonlight playing across the rooftop of a small house in front of the car, then a cloud covered the moon, blacking out the area. He pushed me ahead of him to the house, unlocked the door, flung it open. Pulling a flashlight from his pocket, he shone it around the room, and then pushed me toward a bed and flung me down on it while he taped my ankles together again. I dreaded what might be coming next. How could I fight him off with my hands bound? His next words surprised me.