The Butterfly Forest (Mystery/Thriller)

by Lowe, Tom

  SIXTY-ONE

  Five minutes later, Elizabeth returned. She sat back in her chair across the table from me. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Where did you see him?”

  “At the restaurant.”

  “When?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Think, Elizabeth.”

  “I’m trying. My daughter just died!”

  “Did you see him at some point after Frank Soto was taken into custody?”

  “Yes! It was a day or two after Soto was arrested. I remember now. He sat alone at a corner table. From where he sat, he could see the front door, people coming and going. I remember he seemed to linger over his breakfast, and I asked him if everything was all right.”

  “How did he respond?”

  “He said the food was good, and it reminded him of the food his mother made when his family went camping. Then he asked me if I ever went camping. I told him not in many years, it was more my daughter’s thing. She’s the outdoors gal in the family. He smiled and asked where her favorite camping places were. I told him she used to love going to Gamble Rogers State Park because of the beach.”

  “Did he ask you anything else?”

  “No.”

  “He was trying to see what you knew.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Camping. A natural segue would be camping in a forest, maybe it was something that you did with your daughter. He was looking for information, anything that might have indicated you were afraid to enter a forest because, maybe, you could run into a pot farm.”

  She touched her throat with her fingers, looked beyond me to a framed photograph of her and Molly on the wall. In the picture, they were at the beach, tossing bread to seagulls flocking all around them. Their smiles were wide, and behind them the sky was drenched in sapphire blue.

  “Elizabeth, try to remember everything you saw or even felt in the presence of this man. Anything, okay?”

  She nodded. “What does all this mean?”

  “It means that whoever this guy is, he thought Soto was going to be out of commission for a while. So your customer, the guy in that sketch, and the same guy that Luke Palmer says shot and killed Molly and Mark, paid you a visit. He’s got balls.”

  “Dear God.”

  “He must have wanted to get any indication that you might have been apprehensive to have your daughter go back into the national forest because of something she’d seen or heard. He ordered a breakfast, made small talk, played his cards close, and then directed the conversation to see if Molly might have told you something about what she saw or might have seen in the forest. Is there anything else you can remember about this guy?”

  “He’s probably in his late twenties. He has large, dark eyes. His hair is black and he combs it straight back. He uses gel, too. He looked like one of those muscular guys you see at swanky resort hotels setting up cabanas and fetching beach towels for wealthy guests. He wore a gold cross on a chain around his neck. I remember watching him hold a fork and knife. His hands seemed delicate. Long fingers and nails that could have used a clipping. He had very white teeth and a big smile. There is no reason why I would have suspected he was capable of cold-blooded killings.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “No, he paid his bill and left a ten dollar tip.”

  “Dumb on his part. Leaving a tip that large for a seven dollar meal sticks out.” I picked up my cell phone and started dialing.

  “What can we do?” Elizabeth put the sketch back in the folder and closed it.

  “I’m calling Detective Sandberg.” He answered on two rings. “Detective, the man in the composite is not some figment of Luke Palmer’s imagination.”

  “What are you talking about, O’Brien.”

  “I showed the sketch to Elizabeth Monroe. She recognized the man. Said he came into her restaurant right after Frank Soto was picked up. Ordered breakfast, made casual conversation with her, and then prodded around, trying in a covert way to see if Molly enjoyed camping, alluding to state parks and places like the national forests. Elizabeth told him nothing. He finished his breakfast and left.” I heard Sandberg make a long sigh.

  “O’Brien, Miss Monroe may recognize the man in the composite, but it doesn’t mean he killed her daughter. He’s probably complicit with whoever is running the pot farm, and Luke Palmer is most likely the trigger man.”

  “You could find out if that’s true when you release the image to the media. Maybe somebody out there will recognize this guy. You’ll get a name and more leads, and some of them might incriminate Palmer. Maybe they won’t. Now you have another witness, someone who recognizes the man in the picture. And that someone is the mother of a young woman who was murdered.”

  “I’ll run it by Sheriff Clayton. I see your point, O’Brien. But until things play out, the sheriff might not release the composite.”

  “Detective.”

  “Yeah?”

  “If the sheriff doesn’t… you can tell him that I will.”

  “Don’t go there, O’Brien. You’d be stepping in more shit than you realize.”

  SIXTY-TWO

  After Detective Sandberg disconnected, I set the phone down on top of the file folder with the composite sketches. Elizabeth sat slowly at the table. “What did he say?”

  “Even though you corroborated Palmer’s ID of this guy by recognizing him in the sketch, Sandberg said there’s no guarantee the sheriff will release it to the media.”

  “I heard you say that the detective can tell the sheriff if he doesn’t then you will. Be careful, Sean. If you make enemies of the police, we’ll never bring Molly and Mark’s killer to justice.”

  “If they arraign and try an innocent man, if he’s found guilty, but he really isn’t, what then? What if Palmer’s sent back to prison on not much more then circumstantial evidence while Molly and Mark’s killer or killers walk free?”

  “The deer blood on his clothes. It matches the animal taken out of that hole where they buried my daughter.”

  “That doesn’t mean he shot them.”

  “But he’s an ex prisoner. A man just out of jail. How can we really believe him, Sean? Why do you believe him? He could be conning you as easily as anyone else.”

  “He could be, but he’s not. He—”

  “No! You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You’re not some damn psychic! The dogs tracked him to the river. He was running because he was running from something, the murder of my daughter. You don’t have a child. You could never understand. Maybe the sheriff’s right not to release it.”

  “I may not feel what you’re feeling, but I understand this: no one shoots a deer, cuts the bullet out of its muscle, drops the carcass into a hole, and then keeps the bullet on him. If he did it, he’d have tossed it. I believe Palmer found the deer critically injured, like he said, thought about field-dressing it, but became spooked when he heard them trying to find him, and he ran.”

  “You could be wrong.” She stood and stepped to the kitchen wall and turned on the floodlights. She looked back to me, her eyes welling with tears. “I need to be alone tonight.”

  “I thought you wanted me to stay. It might be dangerous if you—”

  “I’ll be fine. What are they going to take from me now? They’ve already taken my daughter. I didn’t know about the marijuana operation until you told me, so what value am I to these creeps. Palmer’s in jail, and maybe the guy that came to the restaurant worked for Palmer. I’m not going to let fear control how I live my life.”

  I said nothing.

  She swallowed hard, eyes blinking back tears and said, “I just need some rest. I haven’t had eight hours of sleep since that day Frank Soto pulled the gun on Molly and me. Maybe tonight I will.”

  ON THE WAY TO PONCE MARINA, I played back conversations in my mind. Much of it from the things Luke Palmer had told me. He tossed a cigar out the window and almost started a fore
st fire. I put it out and buried the damn thing under dirt. If I could find that cigar, and if the DNA was still intact… just maybe… but if two teams of deputies couldn’t find evidence, and couldn’t find pot plants tall as stalks of corn growing deep in the forest, how could I find a half smoked cigar under some dirt?

  I probably couldn’t.

  But I knew one man who could.

  SIXTY-THREE

  When I pulled my Jeep into the Ponce Marina lot, there was only one customer left at the Tiki Bar. He was a charter boat captain I recognized. He wore a Gone Fishin’ hat, permanently stained from perspiration and faded in color. He sat at the bar in shorts, flip-flops, nursing a sweating bottle of Bud and watching Kim Davis wash and rinse beer mugs while a sit-com flickered silently on the TV screen behind the bar.

  She looked up at me, her smile warm and genuine. “Hi, Sean. Thirsty?”

  I smiled, “Could use a beer.”

  She reached in the ice, pulled out a bottle of Corona and popped the top before setting it in front of me. I sat down and took a long pull from the bottle, the back of my neck tight as a coiled spring.

  “The captain raised up his blonde eyebrows on his sun-scarred forehead. His eyes, crusted and red, looked incapable of opening all the way, a cold sore glistened on his lower lip. He said, “Now she don’t know my beer, and I’m in here least twice a week.”

  Kim smiled. “That’s because you switch between Bud and Miller. Sean stays with the same thing, Corona.” She turned back to me. “I saw the news, the funeral and all of those people who turned out for that poor girl. Saw you on TV, too. Was that the mother of the dead girl, the woman walking next to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I feel so bad for her.”

  I said nothing. Sipped the beer and thought of Elizabeth back at her house, checking windows, double locking doors, turning on floodlights and turning off her judgment, which now was emotionally short circuited.

  “Are you okay, Sean?”

  I looked across the bar at Kim and smiled. She leaned in closer, a strand of dark brown hair falling over one eye. I said, “I’m okay. Have you seen Max tonight?”

  “She sat on Nick’s lap earlier, during happy hour. I fed her a burger patty. She likes cheddar more than Swiss on her burgers.”

  I shook my head. “Max has dog food on Jupiter, and I have more in this grocery bag, so it’s not as if she’s food deprived. Hanging out here, she’s going to start looking more like a pot roast than a wiener dog.”

  “A tiny tummy and some curvy hip padding could be a sexy thing.”

  “Just don’t pierce Max’s ears.”

  “Does that mean I get to baby-sit my gal pal?”

  “I might take you up on that. Dave always asks, but somehow Nick dognaps Max and brings her down here.”

  Kim grinned. “That’s because the tourist chicks stop and talk to the nice man with the brown-eyed doggie. I’m not sure if Nick’s using Max or if it’s the other way around. I’ll walk her tonight for you if—”

  “Kim, turn the volume up on the television.”

  She looked over her shoulder, found the remote and raised the volume. A reporter stood in front of a home with police and emergency vehicles in the background, lights flashing, police officers moving in and out of the frame.

  The reporter said, “… and police say she was unconscious and not breathing when they arrived. Paramedics did find a weak pulse, and she was resuscitated then rushed to Memorial Hospital where she is listed in critical condition. Earlier today, Elizabeth Monroe’s daughter, Molly, was buried at a funeral attended by more than three hundred people. She and her longtime boyfriend, Mark Stewart, were shot to death in the Ocala National Forest. A former San Quentin prison inmate, Luke Palmer, is being held as a suspect in the case. Police are saying Elizabeth Monroe’s situation may be the result of a suicide attempt. Just outside of Lake Mary, this is Steve Eldridge reporting.”

  “Oh my God,” Kim said, turning back to me as I was walking out. “Sean!”

  I’d left a few dollars under my unfinished beer and ran toward Jupiter.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Jogging down the long dock towards Jupiter, I could see lights glowing from Dave’s boat. A smaller light illuminated the salon of Nick’s boat, St. Michael. I had no idea which one Max had picked for her sleepover. I stopped halfway there, dialed directory assistance and asked to be connected to Memorial Hospital emergency room. A woman answered. I said, “I’m calling in reference to Elizabeth Monroe. How is she doing?”

  “Are you a family member?”

  “Yes.”

  I was placed on hold for more than a minute, and then another woman, an ER nurse, came on the line. “The patient’s in IC right now. She’ll be in there all night.”

  “Can she speak? Could you put the phone to her ear for me?”

  “I’m sorry, she’s not conscious. I’d suggest that you call in the morning. Tonight she needs rest… and…” She stopped

  “And what?”

  “Prayers wouldn’t hurt.” I heard paging on an intercom. “I need to go now.”

  As I got closer to Gibraltar, I saw the glow from two cigars. Dave and Nick were sitting in the cockpit, smoking cigars and drinking Jameson. Max was stretched on her side in a deck chair fast asleep. She raised her head when I said, “Max, are you chaperoning these two guys?” She jumped off her chair and scampered to the dock.

  I picked her up, stepped down into the cockpit and sat in the chair that she’d been occupying. Nick said, “No matter how much luvin’ I put on hot dog, she says her heart’s for Sean. In a way, Max reminds me of those lovely brown-eyed ladies I used to meet crusin’ into ports. They’d be serving you drinks all night, big smiles, big boobs. I had big ideas. But come closin’ time, their hearts belonged to some sailor they fell in love with while he was on leave. Always some guy who promised he’d return one day. In the meantime, he’s gettin’ laid in Hong Kong.”

  Dave said, “I’ve been following the news. The killings and the stories around them are all over CNN and the rest of the news outfits.”

  I said, “Molly’s mother, Elizabeth Monroe, is in IC tonight. Cops say it may be a suicide attempt. I’d gone to the funeral with her, and then left her at her home a few hours ago.”

  “What’s her prognosis?” Dave asked.

  I told him what the nurse told me and added, “Elizabeth was depressed, which is natural, but she didn’t seem on the verge of trying to take her life.”

  Nick said, “That is not good news. I pray for her recovery. Inside the woman’s mind, it’s complicated, you know?” Both of Nick’s thick eyebrows arched.

  I said nothing.

  Nick sighed. “Even you, Sean, a man who looks into eyes and sees things most people don’t, even you can’t know what makes a woman tick.”

  Dave shook his head, “You’ve got more to tell us, Sean, right? You look like a man who was left at the station and his luggage is on the train leaving him behind.”

  I pulled out one of the sketches. “I want to find this guy.” I went over everything Luke Palmer had told me. Dave and Nick listened without interruption.

  Dave puffed his cigar, his mind crunching the implications. “So, in addition to the Midsummer Night’s Eve fairy fest, Palmer says he ran across devil worshiping, two guys out of the movie Deliverance running meth labs, some fairy girl’s grave and the shooting of Molly and Mark, all while pursuing a story from Ma Barker’s 1935 shootout in a house on the edge of the forest.”

  “Yes,” I said. “He’s in county lock up. Molly’s in a grave and her mother’s in the hospital.”

  Nick said, “But he didn’t tell you where the loot is buried.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Dave sipped his Jameson. “Palmer told you that the fraternity of Lucifer lovers was led by a guy dressed in all black clothes that night. Maybe he’s part of the three men present when Molly and Mark were killed.”

  “Maybe, but I’d think that Palmer woul
d have mentioned that.”

  “Could be there wasn’t sufficient light. Palmer told you that the top warlock wore a hat similar to the farm hats the Amish wear.” Dave picked up the sketch. “What if this man is the same one that killed the goat and touched the knife to the girl that was tied to the posts? Palmer couldn’t have seen his features nearly as well as he could see the shooter in broad daylight.”

  Nick said, “At night, nobody but cats and owls see things well.”

  I said, “Palmer’s got a good eye. You’re right, it was dark and he did, no doubt, fear for his own life watching a goat being sacrificed and pissing off a bunch of devil worshipers. In my former career, I’ve interviewed a dozen witnesses who saw or didn’t see a dozen different things at the same moment a crime happens. But something tells me the guy in the drawing isn’t in any of the circles Palmer observed in the forest. The sketch isn’t of the two meth guys. Palmer would certainly know that. The man in the drawing probably wasn’t part of the hippie rainbow people because Palmer was there and saw most of them fairly close. He made a positive ID of Frank Soto. We saw Soto in the picture from Molly’s camera. The guy whose face we can’t see in that picture might be the same one that’s in the composite sketch. We do know the man in the photo wore a gold watch and a wedding band.”

  Nick took a puff off his cigar. “I think we need to send a priest into that fuckin’ forest. He needs to sprinkle holy water over every tree. Sean, this is some deep shit, the devil people, the rainbow people, the story you told about the crazy old lady and her son shootin’ it out with the FBI. This whole damn thing is nothing but a bunch of friggin’ crazies. You better not go back in that forest unless you take an army with you.”

  I smiled. “How long have you been puffing that cigar?”

  Nick looked at his cigar, his eyebrows rose, he shrugged. “Maybe forty-five minutes.”

  “Plenty of time for lots of saliva to soak into the leaves and tobacco. Lots of Nick Cronus DNA leaving its mark.”