by Tripp Ellis
"Did you get the plates of that car?"
I shook my head. I asked Noonan if he knew who owned the car.
He just shrugged, and an amused grin curled his weathered face. “Can’t help you.” He paused. “Well, gentlemen, I enjoyed the conversation.” It was clear he didn’t. “Hope you find Skyler’s killer.”
“We’ll be in touch,” I said as he closed the door.
JD’s face was red, and the veins in his temples pulsed.
"You want to wait for the driver to come back?"
"I got a better idea." JD marched to the nearest mobile home and banged on the door.
Nobody answered so Jack moved on to the next. Another knock, and no answer.
He moved to a third trailer and hammered a heavy fist, repeatedly knocking.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” a creaky old voice replied.
JD flashed his badge when the annoyed old lady pulled open the door. "You know who drives a beat to shit dark green import with Bondo on the quarter-panels?"
“That eye-sore? That’s Darby’s car. Lives with RayLynn.” She pointed across the parking lot to another trailer. “What’s he done now?”
“Bastard ran into my car. You know his last name?”
“Nope. Don’t know what RayLynn sees in him. Then again, she ain’t no prize, neither.”
He thanked the woman and shuffled down the steps. We marched across the lot to RayLynn’s trailer, climbed the steps, and knocked on the door.
RayLynn pulled open the door a moment later. She was a rail-thin red-head in her mid 40s with a tanned face wrinkled like shoe leather. Pretty blue eyes. Missing a few teeth.
JD flashed his badge.
RayLynn groaned. “If this is about that bitch, Mary Lou, she swung first. It was self-defense.”
JD and I exchanged a quick glance.
“No,” JD said. “It’s not about Mary Lou. It’s about Darby and that green hunk of shit he drives.”
“What about him?”
“He live here?”
“He ain’t got a place of his own.”
“Know where he went?”
“To get some beer and more cigarettes. What’s he done now?”
“What store?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“What’s Darby’s last name?”
“Glick.”
“Thanks,” JD said, then plunged down the steps.
“What’s this about?” she shouted after us.
JD ignored her and called the Sheriff’s Department. He told dispatch to put a BOLO out for Darby Glick and his green trash heap for felony hit and run. He marched back to the parking lot and surveyed the damage again. He frowned and shook his head. Jack was having terrible luck with the car.
We waited around for a while, but Darby didn’t show. I had a sneaking suspicion that RayLynn called and tipped him off.
We headed back to the station, and JD filled out a report. Afterward, we caught up with Denise.
“You’re going to find this interesting,” she said. “I dug into your yoga instructor friend.”
“He ain’t my friend,” JD said.
“His real name isn’t Aaron Pennington.”
JD and I both lifted a surprised brow.
“Who is he?” I asked.
"I went to the yoga website, grabbed his picture from their instructors’ page, then ran it through the facial recognition database. His real name is Aaron Patterson. And, he was a person of interest in another murder."
Denise had our full attention.
"Apparently, he was having an affair with a married woman in Pineapple Bay. Her husband was shot during a mugging, and the woman collected a $1 million insurance policy. I talked to Deputy Hooper, who worked the case. He said they looked into Aaron, but they couldn’t make anything stick. The woman's name was Vanessa Redman, and her husband was Ray. Deputy Hooper said that her relationship with Aaron didn't last long after Ray's death. As soon as Vanessa got the insurance money, Aaron talked her into investing in a startup that went bust."
"Sounds like Aaron might be a con man," I said.
"Ellie is set to inherit a sizable sum,” Denise said. “Factor in her survivor pension, the 401K, the basic life insurance, plus the supplemental policy Chuck bought, Ellie will be well taken care of.”
“And I’ll bet Aaron has his eye on all of that,” JD said.
“So, Aaron staged Ray’s death to look like a mugging gone wrong,” I said.
"That's the theory. Hooper thinks Aaron was working with an accomplice. I told him I'd keep him posted about the situation here. And before you ask, I double-checked ballistics. There is no connection between the Ray Redman murder and Chuck."
“I think Ellie needs to know who she’s dealing with,” I said.
“I hate to say it, but she may be in on it,” Denise replied.
I frowned. I didn’t want to think that way about Ellie. “You got the number for Vanessa Redman handy? I think we need to have a little talk."
"I sure do. Also, Brenda tracked down the shipping info of that barrel Skyler was found in. The sodium hydroxide was shipped to a soap company here in town that went out of business in the ‘90s. It was owned by Randy Murdoch at the time, then later sold. The warehouse they operated in is now vacant. Randy still lives here in town. I'll send you his address along with Vanessa's contact information. Randy Murdock is close to 80 now.”
I looked at JD. Randy could be our married man. He was the right age.
We left the station and grabbed a bite to eat at Gators before heading over to the Breakwater Estates to speak with Randy Murdoch. It was a nice community filled with French Colonial houses in pastel colors with plenty of palm trees and picket fences. It wasn’t Stingray Bay, but it was nice.
On the drive over, I called Vanessa Redman.
25
Vanessa didn’t want anything to do with me. All I could get out of her were a few unsavory words about Aaron before she hung up. Hell, if I conspired to have my significant other murdered, I wouldn’t want to talk to a deputy either.
Randy Murdoch lived in a villa with a Spanish tile roof. A 6-foot wall surrounded the property, and there were wrought-iron gates at the pedestrian entrance and driveway.
A carport kept the sun off a black Mercedes. Palm trees and other foliage shrouded the house. He’d clearly done well for himself in the soap business. The two-story home had a pool out back and was a little oasis just two blocks from the beach.
We parked at the curb, pushed through the wrought-iron gate into the courtyard, and climbed the steps to the front porch. I rang the bell and waited for a response.
Mrs. Murdoch peered through the distorted privacy glass in the door and asked, “Who is it?"
I flashed my badge. "Coconut County. Is Randy available?"
She pulled open the door and eyed us with suspicion. "He's not here right now. He's at the country club, playing golf. Might I ask what this is in reference to?"
She was a frail woman, close to 80, with a slight hunch to her back. She had a narrow face, bushy grey hair, and thick glasses. Her skin hung on her bones, spotted with age.
I didn't want to give away everything just yet. "We think your husband might be able to help us solve a cold case."
That seemed to pique her interest.
I pulled out my phone and showed her a picture of Skyler from the yearbook. "Do you happen to recognize this girl?"
She studied the image, looking down her nose through her multi-focal glasses at the image. "I can't say that I do."
The remote gate opened, and a white Mercedes drove inside the compound.
"That's Randy now," Mrs. Murdoch said.
Randy parked the car, killed the engine, and climbed out. He gazed at us with curiosity. He walked around the trunk and ambled down the path toward the main steps.
"Randy, these gentlemen are here from Coconut County. They want to talk to you." She had an uneasy tone in her voice.
Randy grabbed ho
ld of the handrail and climbed the steps to the porch. He was pretty spry for a man of his experience.
We made introductions and shook hands.
"What seems to be the trouble?"
"No trouble," I said. "As I was telling your wife, we're just trying to wrap up an old cold case."
Randy smiled. "Anything I can do to help."
I showed him Skyler's picture. He squinted and studied through multi-focals of his own. I watched his face carefully for any hint of a reaction or recognition. He kept a stone face. "Nope. Don't know her. Who is she?"
"Skyler Locke?"
A wave of recognition washed over his face. “That’s the girl they found in the barrel, right?" He looked at the picture again. “Now she looks familiar. I just saw that on the news the other day. But I didn’t have my glasses on when they showed it on the screen. It never ceases to amaze me what people are capable of."
"That's what brings us here. We tracked that barrel to the manufacturer, then to the chemical company, and onto its final destination."
"I'm not sure I follow."
"That barrel was shipped to your facility in March 1988."
Randy lifted a surprised brow. "Really? If you say so. We used plenty of chemicals back in those days, and sodium hydroxide was one of them."
I didn’t mention that the barrel contained sodium hydroxide, but that information could have easily been obtained from the newspaper or TV.
"Do you recall anything about that time?" I asked.
He chuckled. "That was a long time ago, son. I can't seem to remember what I had for breakfast, and you want me to remember the specifics of a barrel of chemicals we got over 30 years ago?"
"I understand, but anything you can remember would be helpful."
"We got a lot of chemicals at that time. Part of the manufacturing process. We weren't regulated as highly back then, so a lot of those barrels ended up in all kinds of places. I paid a guy at the time to haul junk off the lot, and we sold a lot of those barrels to the public. Hell, we practically gave them away. At that point in time, people would wash them out and convert them to barbecue grills, use them as trash cans or rain catches. Hell, I even knew one guy who made a pontoon boat out of those damn things. They’ll float if they’re water-tight. Just because that barrel was shipped to my facility doesn't mean what you think it means."
"True. But it could be somebody associated with your company. How many employees did you have at the time?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe a dozen."
"Do you have any employment records?"
Randy shook his head. "I got rid of that stuff a long time ago when I sold the company."
"Can you remember any names?"
"Let me see… Kenneth was the operations manager. There was George, Edward, Gary, Sam…" He thought for another moment. "I hired kids for the summer. Some of their names escape me. There was one kid named Sean. I believe a kid named Truman worked for me for a while. Marshall worked for me quite a bit. He was part-time during the school year and full time during summers.”
"Marshall Noonan?" I asked.
"Yeah, that's his name."
I described Marshall's appearance just to be certain.
"Yeah, that's him."
I showed him Skyler's picture again. “She was Marshall's girlfriend at the time. Are you sure you never met her?"
Randy shrugged. "It's hard to say. I recall he did bring someone around once or twice. He introduced her as his girlfriend. But I honestly can't say if this young lady in the picture is the same person.”
“How would you describe Marshall’s personality?”
“Typical teenager. As I recall, he worked hard and showed up on time. You think he had something to do with this?”
“Could be.”
Randy frowned and shook his head. “I hope you sort this out. It’s a terrible tragedy.”
“Did you know Skyler was pregnant at the time?” I studied his face for a reaction.
“They may have mentioned it on the news. I don’t recall Marshall saying anything about it at the time.”
He seemed unfazed. If Randy was the married man, I didn’t figure he’d admit to the affair in front of his wife.
I gave him my card. "Thank you. You’ve been extremely helpful. We may be in contact with more questions."
"I'm happy to help.”
We left Randy’s estate and headed back to Sunset Park, hoping to catch up with Marshall. Seems like he had some explaining to do.
26
JD kept his eyes peeled for the green beater as we returned to Sunset Park. There was no sign of the vehicle.
Jack found a place to park that gave him at least one space between other cars. We hopped out and hustled across the lot to the trailer that Heather Wallace rented. We climbed the steps and banged on the door, rattling the windows again.
Heather stomped to the door and pulled it open. A lit cigarette dangled from her thin lips. "He ain't here."
"Where is he?"
"He took my car to get beer." She took a drag from her cigarette and blew the smoke up toward the ceiling. The place reeked of it. "So what's the story? Did he kill the girl? Should I be concerned?”
“Has Marshall ever gotten violent with you?" I asked.
She scoffed. “Yeah, but he found out real quick I hit back. He tried that shit once, and I beat his ass. I ain’t like his past girlfriends."
She looked over our shoulder at the maroon Toyoma that pulled into the parking lot. "That's him now."
We looked at the car, and Marshall looked at us. His eyes widened, and he punched it. The tires did their best imitation of a squeal. More like a chirp. The little four-banger engine rumbled, and the exhaust rattled as he raced through the parking lot.
JD and I plummeted down the steps, sprinted across the parking lot, and hopped into the Porsche. Just as we did, Darby's green trash can pulled into the lot.
JD gave a glance in Darby’s direction, then decided to go after Marshall instead.
JD’s foot mashed the pedal, and we raced out of the lot and onto the road. He floored it, and the flat-six howled. The tachometer redlined, and the wind swirled around the cabin. Exhaust rumbled.
Marshall banked a hard right, screeching around the corner, the small tires barely holding traction.
I called dispatch and told them we were in pursuit. I gave a description of the car and plate number.
We kept after Marshall as he raced down the road, doing 70 miles an hour in a 35 zone. We caught up to him in no time, but he blasted through a red light.
Cars screeched, and horns honked as he careened through the intersection.
Marshall took a hard left at the next corner, and the back end swung wide, tires squealing. He managed to straighten out the vehicle and plow down the neighborhood street.
I held on as JD followed. The Porsche cornered like it was on rails.
Marshall barreled down the narrow street. There were cars parked on either side, and palm trees shrouded the lane. There was a stop sign ahead, and a guy in a white truck pulled out.
Noonan was going too fast to do anything about it. He slammed on the brakes, and tires squealed billowing white smoke. Marshall twisted the wheel to avoid the truck and plowed onto the shoulder, knocking over the stop sign, smashing into a tree.
The airbags deployed, the hood crumpled and crinkled, the grill shattered, and bits of plastic and glass from the headlights scattered the area. Steam billowed from under the buckled hood, the radiator cracked.
We pulled behind the vehicle, and I hopped out with my weapon drawn. I advanced toward the driver’s side and shouted, "Out of the car! Now!"
The airbag had punched him in the face, and he looked dazed and pissed off. He raised his hands, kicked open the door, and staggered out.
“On the ground! Now!"
He complied and put his hands behind his head, his face against the hot asphalt that had been baked by the sun all morning.
JD slapped the cuffs around h
is wrists and yanked him to his feet.
I holstered my weapon, called dispatch, and gave them our location.
"Why did you run?" I asked.
"Why did you chase me?"
"Guilty people run," I said.
"I don't like cops."
"You forgot to mention that you worked for Randy Murdoch."
"You never asked."
"Is that where you got the barrel to dispose of Skyler's remains?”
His face crinkled, and his eyes narrowed at me. "What!?”
"We know the barrel was shipped to Randy Murdoch’s soap company. You worked there. You had access.”
“So?”
“Your girlfriend turns up in one of those barrels, and you don't think that's odd?"
"I think that's fucked up. That's what I think."
"Not looking real good for you right about now, Marshall."
"I don't care how it looks. I didn't kill Skyler. I loved her."
"How about you give us a DNA sample?"
"What’s that gonna prove?”
"Paternity. You want to know if it was your kid, don't you? If my girlfriend was murdered, and my child along with her, I'd really want to find the son-of-a-bitch who did it. Unless I was the one who did it.” I glared at him.
"I really do want to find out who killed her. It sure as hell wasn't me. And no, I ain't giving no DNA."
JD patted Marshall down and pulled out his wallet, keys, a pocket knife, a lighter, and a pack of cigarettes.”
“So, what now?" Marshall asked.
"We wait for a patrol car to take you to the station.”
“What are you arresting me for?”
“Reckless driving for starters.” I read him his rights.
"How about a cigarette while I wait?"
It was like music to my ears. I nodded to JD. He pulled a cigarette from the pack and stuck it in Noonan's mouth. JD used Marshall's lighter to strike it up, and the perp took a deep drag, glowing the cherry-red. The cigarette dangled from his lips while he inhaled on one side of his mouth and exhaled on the other.
That cigarette butt would give us all the DNA we needed to establish paternity. I thought it would be a useful bit of evidence somewhere down the line. It would turn out to be more useful than I had first imagined.
