Dead Wrong (Jason Justice Mystery Book 2)

by Ralph Zeta

  `Praise For The Jason Justice Crime Mystery Series

  “Lots of unexpected plot twists and for the most part the reader will not be able to foresee what's coming. The back cover states" "Be prepared to read well into the night" and I finished the book at 1:52 am rather than leave it until morning ..."

  — Rebecca'sReads.com

  " ... The stunning, suspenseful, and page-turning debut novel, ... will keep you reading until late into the night, and you won't want to put it down."

  —BookWire Review

  "Cry for Justice is a brilliant balance of subtle humor, satire, and realism. The action, dialog, setting, and complex plot provide the dynamic ingredients of a big screen movie adaptation."

  —ReaderViews.com

  “...gets more exciting with every plot twist and is simply irresistible; the audience will keep turning the pages until they reach the shocking finale.”

  —US Review of Books

  "... is a remarkable thriller that would be impressive if any established thriller writer had written it, but it's all the more impressive as it's Ralph Zeta's debut novel."

  —BestSellersWorld.com

  DEAD WRONG

  A Jason Justice Mystery

  Ralph Zeta

  Blue Iguana Books

  Publishers Notice:

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental.

  Dead Wrong Copyright © 2017 by Ralph Zeta

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  First Edition – November 2017

  ISBN -13: 978-0-9839169-2-5

  ISBN-10: 0-9839169-2-5

  Manufactured/Printed in the United States of America

  www.blueiguanabooks.com

  New York ∙ Palm Beach ∙ Los Angeles

  In memory of my father.

  It may be the devil or it may be the Lord, but you’re gonna have to serve somebody…

  —Bob Dylan

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  Dead Wrong

  One

  He insisted we meet in a secluded location. His farm near Okeechobee Lake sounded perfect. It wasn’t easy to find.

  The sun-baked road cut a straight, flat path through endless fields of towering sugar cane. As I glanced at the odometer, calculating how far I had yet to go, my peripheral vision caught a gap in the green wall.

  A lone black mailbox rose from the shimmering heat. The faded letters on the mailbox read, “M. R. Lowry.”

  I veered off, tires crunching the sandy double track, stirring up the dust. A quarter mile in, the cane opened up to a grassy meadow. Big old oak trees twisted along both sides of the sandy lane that lead up to a well-kept two-story house of yellow clapboard with white trim.

  Drawing nearer, I caught glimpses, in wavering slices through the festoons of Spanish moss, a faded metal roof, gabled windows, and a wide verandah. It was, I supposed, where the farm owner lived, and still kept the understated elegance of a simpler time. A big gambrel-roofed barn, spindly wind vane motionless atop its louvered cupola, sat shuttered some distance behind the house. Utility sheds and outbuildings of various sizes formed a loose periphery.

  I peeked at my watch: 2:46. I was early.

  Traffic out of West Palm had been lighter than expected, allowing a respectable, make that illegal, rate of speed most of the way.

  I clambered out of my 1973 Porsche 911 determined to stretch a kink out of my back, but the wave of heat and humidity that ballooned around me forced me to reconsider.

  I started toward the home. Drips of condensation from the car’s air-conditioner sizzled on the car’s exhaust pipes behind me. A gleaming BMW sedan bearing Florida disabled plates sat in front of the house. We would be alone.

  There was no breeze, and other than the dispirited chirping of a lone warbler, the setting was quiet and serene. I found the stillness a little unnerving. Instinctively, I reached for my cell phone and checked signal strength. One bar. Peachy. Making a call would be next to impossible. No big deal. I wasn’t planning to stay long.

  In my mind, I had planned how the meeting would play out. After the usual exchange of banalities, I would inquire about his concerns. I would listen while he explained, then, with the appropriate show of regret, say, “I’m very sorry, Mr. Lowry, but I can’t take your case.” I had brought the business card of a friend, a capable lawyer, who would be only too happy to handle his case.

  From our phone conversation, I had been trying to make sense of Milton Lowry. I had explained to him that I had my docket full with several cases in critical phases and half a dozen others ramping up. Not that I didn’t want to work with him: I just didn’t have the time. But Lowry didn’t seem to understand the meaning of “no.”

  “I need to see you immediately,” he had said. “It’s a matter that only someone with your skills can handle.”

  When I pressed him for specifics, he said, “When we meet.”

  From the way Milton Lowry spoke, he didn’t strike me as the type of person who would choose to live too far removed from the trendier venues of Bal Harbor or Palm Beach. The old farmhouse had to be a remnant from his childhood, perhaps the home he grew up in. What I knew about the man was limited to fluff pieces I had read in magazines or newspapers over the years. But I knew he was no country boy. His voice and manner on the phone demonstrated the control and mild invulnerable arrogance of someone accustomed to a life of privilege. It takes time basking in wealth to acquire such finesse. Like most members of his lofty circle, Milton Lowry was a well-known philanthropist, real estate developer, landowner, world traveler, and all-around bon vivant, who inherited an enviable family fortune while young enough to enjoy it.

  The phone call had begun with a quick introduction. His name was Milton R. Lowry III. “My friends call me Milt,” he had offered in the cordial tone of old friends who had lost touch for decade or three.

  His father had been “Bull” Lowry. I was familiar with the name, which carried considerable weight in certain circles within reach of the state capital and beyond.

  In its early days, the Lowry Land Company, founded by Milt’s great-grandfather at the beginning of the last century, owned or had controlling interests in substantial tracts of land in Palm Beach County and even larger tracts in Broward, Okeechobee, Glades, Hendry, and as far west as Collier. In his late-fifties, Milton Lowry married a young Harvard-educated Cuban-born beauty from Miami, whose family had made its fortune draining swamps in Br
oward and Miami-Dade Counties and planting cane destined for refineries that then sold sugar and molasses to cash-rich rum distillers in the Caribbean. Years later, as Florida’s population swelled and sugar lost its luster, Gabriela Benitez saw an opportunity elsewhere. She convinced her father to turn some of the former swampland into sprawling neighborhoods filled with cornrows of cookie-cutter town houses and condos. The new subdivisions were quickly snatched up by eager snowbirds with money to burn.

  But it wasn’t Lowry’s high profile or the hefty fee I could earn from him that convinced me to venture this deep into rural Florida. It was his unexpected response when I said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t take your case at the moment.”

  “I’m not well, Mr. Justice. I can’t fend for myself.”

  “I’m not sure I—”

  “I’m scared, Mr. Justice,” he interrupted. “Terribly scared.”

  “Scared of what, Mr. Lowry?”

  “I’m being followed.”

  Two

  I took the steps to the verandah two at a time. The front door was ajar. In a rural setting where neighbors know each other, an open door didn’t seem particularly unusual. A stream of refrigerated air streaked past my cheeks and quickly dissipated in the steamy porch. I pushed the door and peeked inside. A quaint living room, its furniture cloaked in dustsheets, yawned at me.

  I stepped inside. The temperature was instantly comfortable. The air smelled faintly of dust mixed with the staleness of a forgotten asset. I wondered how long the house had lain empty. Long time, was my guess. Soft music wafted from several rooms away. A leather briefcase and a set of car keys carelessly tossed on the hallway table.

  “Hello,” I called out. “Mr. Lowry?”

  No response.

  I crossed the living room. Called again.

  Nothing.

  With every step, the music grew louder, more distinct, and, unfortunately, all too familiar. It was the wail of a soprano saxophone, an overplayed Kenny G piece I wished I could expunge from memory. Resigned to endure the assault on my ears, I kept after the music. I turned down a dim corridor that led to the back of the house, opening onto a country-style kitchen. The back door was open, the barn doors visible in the shimmering heat. Another sound, a faint rasping, caught my attention. I kept after it. Half dozen doors, all impeccably white, lined the hallway.

  “Mr. Lowry,” I called again. “It’s Jason Justice.”

  I heard nothing but the wail of the sax. I kept going.

  Then the rasping sound again, like the sound a shoe heel makes sliding against a hardwood floor. I moved a little faster, my ears keen on the scraping sound. Maybe it was Mr. Lowry in one of the rooms, fussing with a piece of furniture. More sounds. Different sounds this time. Way different. The sounds were very familiar to my ears. They were sounds from long ago. Sounds I did not expect to hear. Not here. Not in this house.

  I surged past the next door. It crashed noisily against its rubber stop.

  An empty bathroom.

  The sound again, only weaker.

  The sounds were well known to me: they were the rasping sounds of someone struggling for breath. I shouldered the next door. It crashed noisily against the wall.

  I froze.

  My brain struggled to understand the unexpected scene before me: a silvered-haired man lay face down on the floor, a length of twine tight around his bulging neck. A man in camouflage clothing sat astride the older man, pinning him to the floor, his gloved hands pulling the twine, stifling the life from the older man. A distance away, a walking stick lay on the floor, the side table askew, a fallen table lamp, a shattered wineglass, and its contents splashed across the gleaming wood floor. The victim’s eyes were closed, his lips a deep shade of purple, and his flushed skin said anoxia was imminent, with death soon to follow. The victim’s fingers fought against the garrote, but it was futile. The attacker had all the advantages, including leverage and strength. He was clothed in deep woodland tactical camouflage hoodie that enshrouded his face in shadow. Other than the contemptuous grin and the white of his eyes, I could see little of his face. But what really held my attention was the cold, mirthless void of the killer’s eyes. I got the feeling he was enjoying himself, relishing the act of taking a life, slowly.

  My eyes settled on the assailant and he held my gaze without wavering, and then grinned, as if he knew I was powerless to stop him. The supreme confidence I saw in his eyes was unnerving.

  I lunged at him.

  A sharp blow at the base of my skull stopped me in my tracks. The world spun, and the hardwood floor swung up and smacked against me with a bone-shaking thud. At the edge of consciousness, gravity loosened its grip, and a velvet blackness closed in.

  Three

  Sudden brightness hurt my eyes. I found myself on the floor. My head throbbed as if someone were kicking it to the beat of a metronome. My first attempt to move ended with a bout of nausea. I lay my head down again and remained still for some time. Eventually, slowly, I managed to pry myself off the floor. It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t quick. I wanted to keep my head from exploding. I sat cross-legged on the floor, waiting for the world to settle down and the pain to ebb and the haze to lift. Another wave of nausea crawled through my viscera. I fought the sensation back. Finally, when the queasiness had subsided enough, I surveyed my surroundings. There was a couch before me, a coffee table, pair of wood chairs, a side table, a lamp, and beyond, a long bookshelf. I tried to puzzle out where I was and why I had woken up on the floor with the mother of all headaches. A fall? I didn’t know.

  My neck felt stiff. I reached back, fingers probing my scalp for the source of the pain. On the back of my head I felt a hot lump beneath a sticky thatch of matted hair. I glanced at my fingers. Blood? And then I remembered. The blow to my head. The killer’s grin.

  Lowry!

  I sprang to my feet and instantly regretted it. A curtain of pain descended, clouding the world. I staggered sideways, grabbing the wall to keep upright. Another bout of nausea set in, this time almost having its way with me. I squinted in the fading daylight, probing the shadows for Lowry. My eyes went where I last saw him. But there was no body.

  What the hell?

  I surveyed the room. Nothing seemed out of place. But I had seen the shattered wineglass, the lamp on its side, the coffee table angled away from the dust-covered sofa, the walking stick. I inspected the area. Nothing there. It was obvious the mess had been tidied up. Why?

  Negotiating the staircase wasn’t a pleasant experience. A few seconds’ pause after each step helped with the queasiness. I searched the second level. Nothing but dark rooms, dim halls, and stale air. So where the hell was Lowry? Had he even been here at all? Was it my imagination? The lump on my head said otherwise.

  I make it a point not to regret the things I do on instinct. But my predictable reaction had made me an easy mark. The assailants must have heard me come in, and set up a trap. And like a giddy girl scout, I walked headlong into the ambush. I had failed to assess the situation, and this was the price. My hardwired impulse to butt in and help had to rank near the top of my growing list of regrets. It also made me question my instincts.

  I returned to the study. Despite the almost blinding headache, I got on all fours and scoured the floor. Not the tiniest glint of broken glass or moisture of spilled wine anywhere my eyes or hands could go. The place had been sanitized.

  I went to the hall and checked the entryway table. The briefcase and keys were gone. I went outside.

  My car was as I had left it. But the big BMW sedan was gone. It was as if Lowry had never been there at all. Nothing made sense. The little voice in my head kept telling me to proceed with caution, to slow down and consider everything. In my fuzzy condition, it would be easy to overlook the inobvious. There had to be evidence there but I wasn’t so sure I could find it. Though I had no intention of taking on Milton Lowry’s case, I had inadvertently become part of something else, probably something much bigger than I at first had reason to expec
t. Time or no time, I had become involved in Milton Lowry’s disappearance. Was it supposed to play out that way? Was I being played? Or was Lowry being played? I had no answers.

  Whatever the case, I had to consider my options. From the moment I called in to report what happened, I would be ensnarled in a criminal investigation. And being a material witness in a murder case involving the rich and powerful is not something to be taken lightly. I had better become acquainted with all things Milton Lowry, and the sooner, the better. That meant a call to Sammy Raj, my private investigator and longtime friend. I reached for my cell phone, but my hand came up empty. My phone was gone. And so where my car keys. To my relief, my wallet was still in my pocket. I inspected it. All there. The questions mounted.

  I went back inside the house, in search of a phone. I found a 1970s-era Cinderella phone in the kitchen, but the line was dead. No doubt disconnected long ago. I went back outside and checked the tires on my car. No flats. With some luck, maybe I could hotwire my car and get to a phone.

  The sun was lower and the easterly breeze made the thick air feel slightly less like a steam broiler. As I reached for the car door, I spotted my cell phone on the dirt by the rear wheel. Even before I picked it up, I knew it was useless. The screen was shattered. I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and went to work hotwiring the car. No small matter considering my six-four, two hundred thirty pound frame in the cramped confines of a Porsche cockpit. As I lay my head on the steering wheel and bent my hands in unnatural angles to fish for the ignition wires, my eyes caught a glint in the dirt some distance away. I went after it. My key fob, the ignition key in one piece.

  Destroying my phone and tossing my keys were intended to slow me down, not cripple me. But why? Only one answer made sense. To buy time. Time for what? To dump Lowry’s body and ditch his car? Something else occurred to me, which made my headache worse: why was I allowed to live?