Ulrich stood in front of Shelton’s trophy wall, hands clasped behind his back. He was reading the framed certificates and commendations.
“You wanted to see me?” I asked.
Ulrich turned and I was struck by how small he was, barely five foot three, a Napoleonic figure with thinning hair styled in a comb-over, paunchy stomach and an aura of self-importance. In his early sixties and retired from a corporate career in the automotive industry, he’d made no secret of his political aspirations. Helping the county’s dominant political machine move one step closer to a metro-style government by having the sheriff’s department police Pelican Bay would garner heavy clout for his move up the ladder. He had his eye on the Pelican Bay seat in the Florida senate, a mere stepping-stone to the governor’s office.
He waved me toward a seat in front of the desk and settled in the chief’s special ergonomic chair as if it were his own. Clasping his hands, mottled with age spots, on a file folder lying closed on the blotter, he considered me with the look of a predatory animal analyzing his prey. “I understand there’s been another murder.”
“Bad news travels fast.”
“That’s four in a matter of weeks. Not good for the department.”
“Even worse for the victims.” I had no idea what Ulrich wanted, but I doubted his intentions were good.
“Have you ever been the subject of a lawsuit, Detective?”
“You don’t know much about police work, do you?”
“Enlighten me.”
“The better a cop does his job, the more likely he is to be shot, injured, complained on, investigated, subpoenaed on his day off or sued.”
“You’re avoiding my question. Have you ever been sued?”
His out-of-the-blue curve ball had caught me by surprise, making me wonder if someone had filed charges I didn’t know about. “No. Why?”
“No?” He opened the folder. “According to your personnel file, an action was filed against you in Tampa, claiming you used unnecessary force, resulting in the death of one Tyrone Taylor.”
“That was twenty-two years ago. Taylor, who was out of his mind on drugs, was attempting to hack my partner with a machete. The review board took the charge under advisement and I was cleared. Subsequently, Mrs. Taylor, herself the victim of Tyrone’s domestic abuse, dropped the lawsuit.”
Ulrich didn’t blink and tapped the paper in front of him with his index finger. “Lawsuits against police officers cost the city unnecessary taxpayer dollars.”
My first thought was that Isabelle Weston had taken action, but I couldn’t figure what grounds she’d have for dragging me to court. Not that a lawyer needed grounds if his retainer was hefty enough. “Has there been a suit filed that I don’t know about?”
“Not at the moment.” Ulrich frowned. “And if we disband this department, the city will no longer have to pay to defend lawsuits against police officers, not even frivolous ones.”
Noting his deadly serious expression, I stifled a laugh at his twisted logic. “You don’t really believe that sheriff’s deputies are never sued?”
“Of course not.” His mouth curved in a feline grin. “But the county picks up the tab for their defense costs, not the city. That fact will be a major element in my argument to disband this department. The city has paid over a million dollars in attorney’s fees over the last decade to defend lawsuits against its police officers. I intend to stop the fiscal bleeding.”
My mouth gaped, and I shut it quickly. “Who do you think pays to defend sheriff’s deputies? The Tooth Fairy?”
“County legal fees are not my problem.”
“The people of this city aren’t stupid. They’ll figure out that what they save in city taxes by disbanding the department will eventually come out of their other pocket in increased county assessments.”
“Again, not my problem. I will have saved them money, and they will rise up and call me blessed. Any wrath over county taxes will be aimed at county commissioners, not me.”
“This is all about you and your political ambitions, isn’t it?” Anger loosened my tongue and I plunged ahead, oblivious to consequences. “I’ve done the math, Councilman. By disbanding this department, you’ll save most citizens on their city taxes slightly less per year than the price of a dinner for two in a good restaurant. Initially. Within a few years, the subsequent increase in county taxes will far override that. And Pelican Bay will lose control over their own police force and suffer a reduction in services. Your proposal will also cost a lot of good men and women their jobs. All for the sake of your political aspirations.”
If my accusations affected him, he didn’t show it. “What about your own aspirations?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“But it is. That’s why I wanted to see you. You’re a native of Pelican Bay. Your father was a very influential man and your mother is highly respected. If you endorse disbanding the department, people will listen.”
“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?” I shook my head in disgust. “Why would I endorse something I know is wrong?”
“For what’s in it for you.”
“There’s nothing in it for me!”
He reached for the chief’s letter opener, a pewter replica of a Vietnam-era rifle with bayonet fixed, and pointed it at me. “You could be a lieutenant in the sheriff’s CID.”
“That sounds like a bribe.”
“It’s a political reality. One hand washes the other.”
I stood to end the discussion. “Both your hands are dirty. I want no part of this.”
I was halfway to the door when he spoke again. “Not you, perhaps, but someone else will. And, Detective.”
I turned and glared at him. “What?”
“If you’re not with me, you’re against me. Just remember, I have powerful friends—and a long memory.”
“Neither of which will help you sleep at night or enable you to face yourself in the mirror.” I left the office and slammed the door behind me.
Darcy took one look at my face. “You okay?”
Feeling as if I’d rolled in slime, I stomped down the hall toward my office. “Nothing a good hot shower and a barrel of disinfectant won’t cure.”
I slept late Sunday morning and had to scurry to meet Samantha at the law offices of Weston, Dykeman and Bertelli, a Tudor-style complex of brick and dark timbers nestled beneath moss-draped live oaks at the east end of Main Street. Samantha had left a message on my answering machine the previous night, saying her lawyer, Harvey Dykeman, could meet with us at noon.
When I arrived, Dykeman himself opened the door. The tall, thin man, who had an amusing resemblance to a great blue heron with his gangly arms and legs and custom-made blue suit, ushered me into the conference room where Samantha sat. Isabelle, thank goodness, was nowhere in sight.
Samantha looked as if she’d been dragged through a knothole. Her hair, still damp from a shower, was slicked back from a face devoid of makeup, and her slacks and blouse were uncoordinated. The woman’s distressed appearance could have been her actual state or a defense ploy.
She startled me by asking Dykeman to leave us alone.
“You need representation, Samantha,” the elderly lawyer insisted. “Talking to the police without your attorney is unwise, even dangerous.”
She lifted her head and met his gaze. “I have nothing to hide.”
He shook his head. “That won’t keep them from charging you with Vince’s murder.”
“At this point, I don’t give a damn.” Her voice was devoid of all emotion.
“You have to think of your girls,” he said.
“I know what I’m doing, Harvey. Please, leave us alone.”
Harvey turned to me. “Are you bringing charges against Mrs. Lovelace?”
I shook my head. “For the moment, I’m simply gathering information. But, for the record, I have no objection to your staying.”
“Go, Harvey,” Samantha ordered. “I’ll call if I need you.”
“But your mother—”
“My mother isn’t your client. I am.”
“And as my client, you need my advice.” The attorney sat in the chair beside her and nodded for me to begin.
Samantha raised her head and looked at me. I had expected tears and drama, but the woman was obviously numb with grief and shock, her eyes red-rimmed and dull.
“You told my mother that Vince was murdered.”
I nodded.
She stared out the floor-to-ceiling window at the walled patio garden filled with exotic tropical plants. “Why would anyone want to kill him?”
I should have been the one asking questions, but I let her talk in hopes of gauging her true state of mind. “His death makes you a very rich woman.”
“I was already rich. I hated it.”
“You hated having money?”
“Things were better before.”
“Before?”
“Before Vince struck it rich with his cable network.” Light returned to her eyes and the corners of her mouth lifted in an almost smile. “We didn’t have money when we were first married, but we had each other.”
A tear rolled down her cheek and she brushed it absently with the back of her hand. “But once the network took off, Vince didn’t have time for me or the girls. The money was like a drug. The more he made, the more he wanted. I tried everything to get him to spend time with us, but nothing worked.”
“Not even Alberto Suarez?”
“You don’t have to answer that,” Harvey chimed in.
“It’s okay, Harvey. I have nothing to hide.” Samantha didn’t seem surprised that I knew about her affair. “I wanted to make Vince jealous. And I needed someone to pay attention to me. The only thing between Alberto and me was hot sex, and I would have given that up in a heartbeat for one evening at home with my husband.”
She took in her breath sharply. “Now I’ll never spend an evening with Vince again.”
“Did Vince know about you and Alberto?”
“I don’t know. He never said anything. I didn’t try to hide the affair, but Vince was so busy working, it could have headlined the evening news and he wouldn’t have noticed.” She lowered her voice until it was almost a whisper. “And I wanted so much for him to notice me.”
“Would Alberto have killed Vince out of jealousy?”
“Alberto jealous?” She shook her head. “He’s sleeping with half the women at the club.”
“What if he thought he could marry you and claim Vince’s fortune?”
“Alberto knows I don’t love him, that I’d never— Oh, God, I hope he knows that.” Her eyes widened with a look of panic. “If he hurt Vince because of me, I couldn’t live with the guilt. I have too much shame already.”
I could tell she’d been trying to hold herself together ever since I first arrived, but suddenly she lost it, crying in huge, shuddering sobs that racked her entire body. Harvey scrambled for a box of Kleenex.
“I didn’t kill my husband, Margaret,” she gasped through her tears and mopped her face with the tissues Harvey handed her. “If I’m guilty of anything, it’s the stupidity of my affair with Alberto, not murder. I would never do that to my girls. They adore their father.” She glared at me through her tears and set her mouth in a hard, thin line. “I’ll do everything I can to help catch the bastard who killed my Vince.”
“I’ll need to talk to your girls. They may know something that will help.”
Samantha blew her nose loudly. “Okay, but, please, not today. They’re in really bad shape. Jet lag on top of grief. Detective Adler called earlier to say we could return to our house today, and I’m hoping being at home will help them cope. Can you meet us there in the morning?”
“Nine o’clock?” I asked.
She bit her lip as if holding back tears and nodded. “I need to make funeral arrangements, but they won’t let me have him. I can’t even see his body.”
The anguish on her face and in her voice was painful to witness. “I’ll check with the medical examiner. Unless she has a problem, the body should be released tomorrow.”
Twenty-two years of police work had honed my instincts, and my gut was telling me that Samantha wasn’t my killer. Body language, the direction of a person’s gaze when she speaks, posture, the tension in her muscles, her respiration rate, and a dozen other tiny gestures and mannerisms that the average person is unaware of tell a trained observer what’s going on in a subject’s head. Samantha’s body was speaking the language of a woman devastated by grief but with nothing to hide.
She continued to sob, and I looked to Harvey. “That’s all the questions I have for now.”
“I’ll take her home,” he said.
I returned to my car. Samantha, who’d topped my list of suspects, had now shifted to last place. She, who stood to gain millions, had had the most compelling motive.
But if Samantha hadn’t killed her husband, who had?
CHAPTER 10
I parked my car at the Pelican Bay Marina later that afternoon and walked through the sunshine toward Bill’s boat. Unseasonably warm weather had daytime temperatures running in the eighties. If I had to partake in a masquerade, I was thankful I could play Mrs. Claus without feeling as if I was at the North Pole.
After leaving the law office, I’d stopped by the station and conferred with Adler, who had been working all morning and had confirmed rock-solid alibis for three of the five people on Elaine Bassett’s list of disgruntled employees. The number of suspects in Vince Lovelace’s murder was dwindling. With Alberto Suarez looking less like a contender, Dan Rankin, returning from Atlanta tomorrow, and only two unhappy network employees left to interview, prospects of charging someone before Shelton’s return were dim. And if I thought today was warm, when the chief got wind of all that had happened while he was gone, tomorrow was going to be a scorcher.
With the box that held my costume tucked under my arm, I approached the Ten-Ninety-Eight. In the bright light of late afternoon, the Christmas display of Santa’s rattan sleigh pulled by eight prancing flamingos appeared even gaudier than it had in the fog. Bill was waiting at the stern and helped me onto the boat that sat several feet below the dock on the low tide.
“You’re not dressed.” His disappointment was evident.
“No time,” I hedged. “I’ll change in the cabin.”
Even with his rounded belly, compliments of a plump down pillow, he made an amazingly handsome Saint Nicholas with his thick white hair, sun-burnished face and twinkling blue eyes above a fake thick white mustache and full beard. Fast approaching sixty, Bill had the physique of a much younger man, and in his trim Bermuda shorts and short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt that exposed the tanned, well-developed muscles of his arms and legs, he made a very sexy Santa.
“You’re not really into this, are you?” he asked.
I sighed. Bill knew me too well. “I’ve never been a big fan of Christmas, not even as a kid.”
“That’s hard to believe. What kid doesn’t like Christmas?”
“My mother always hijacked the holiday.”
“Your family didn’t celebrate?”
“Oh, we celebrated all right, in Mother’s own inimitable way. Every room in the house, including the courtyard, was filled with expensive designer trees, delivered by the florist and impeccably trimmed in a special theme. Teams from the florist decorated every windowsill, mantel and banister to match. I felt as if I was living in a department store display window. And I tiptoed around the house on eggshells for the entire holiday, afraid I’d disturb or break something.”
I shook my head at the memory. “Caroline loved it, so it must have been me. In addition to missing out on the shopping gene, I didn’t inherit the Christmas gene, either.”
He pulled me toward him and tipped my chin with his finger until our eyes met. “You don’t have to do this—” he nodded toward the box with my costume “—if you don’t want to.”
I hesitated. Part of me wanted to take the out he’d
given me and run. But another part recalled a childhood memory of Daddy, driving me through town and the suburbs to view displays of Christmas lights, with carols playing on the car radio and a stop at the local drive-in for hot chocolate afterward. I longed to reclaim some of that long-lost excitement and sense of wonder. And with Bill so blatantly enthusiastic, I didn’t want to rain on his boat parade.
“You’ve been telling me I need to lighten up and have some fun.” I sucked it up and forced a wide smile. “So I’ll give it my best shot.”
“Good.” His responding grin was like an early Christmas present. “But we need to get moving. Why don’t you wait until we’re under way before changing?”
I started to protest that if I delayed putting on my costume, I might lose my nerve, but he’d already climbed topside to start the engines.
“How about casting off?” he called over his shoulder.
I released the lines and mounted the ladder to the flying bridge. The roar of the powerful engines made conversation impossible, so I settled into a deck chair beside Bill at the controls.
He backed the Ten-Ninety-Eight out of its slip and steered toward the channel of the Intracoastal Waterway to join a queue of other decorated boats sailing south toward the rendezvous point at Island Estates.
I admired the blue-green waters of the sound, the cottonball texture of the mackerel sky and the majestic Washingtonian palms that lined the shore, but my mind wrestled with questions over Vince Lovelace’s murder.
Bill cast a glance my way, then leaned over and shouted above the engines. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Bring your work along for the ride. You’ll miss out on the fun.”
His observation shook me. I was forty-eight years old and had spent almost half of my life in police work. When had I forgotten how to relax and enjoy life?
When Greg had been murdered.
But the rationale for my joyless life was harder to recognize. In fact, I’d never really examined my behavior until now. Cruising along the waterway on a boat decked out with tacky flamingos and a ridiculous Mrs. Claus costume waiting for me in the cabin, I had a moment of epiphany.
Holidays Are Murder Page 10
