Dead Wrong (Jason Justice Mystery Book 2)

by Ralph Zeta

  Walking back to my car, I studied the gravel patch where Lowry’s sedan had been parked, hunting for tire tracks in the dry, sandy dirt. Other than mine, there were no other tracks. Not anywhere. That was a concern. All evidence said only one person had been in the house today.

  Me.

  It was getting late. Nightfall would make it all but impossible to find evidence of the killer’s presence. I had to find something to back up my story before it was lost to night critters and the elements.

  I remembered the kitchen door. It had been wide open when I arrived and closed the last time I saw it. I rushed to the kitchen and found the rear door closed, the dead bolt set. Using a kitchen rag to avoid smudging any latent prints, I unlocked the door, went outside, and searched the bougainvillea-laden trellised porch.

  Nothing.

  I expanded the search, and even despite the nagging headache, I found something. In a grassy area under the shadow of a sprawling oak fifty yards east of the house, I came upon two patches of flattened grass. Someone had lain there for some time. I glanced back at the house. Past the gnarled, moss-draped branches of the oak tree, the home, and the driveway were clearly visible. I also found a faint trail in the baked grass, leading to the thick palmetto and scrublands beyond the barn. I debated whether to set off after them. But I had to consider I was unfamiliar with the area, and the way I was dressed—loafers, no socks, lightweight khaki slacks—I was ill equipped for the task. Besides, the killers had at least an hour’s head start and sunset was barely an hour away. Time to call in the cavalry.

  A call to the sheriff’s office under such circumstances was not something I relished. It wouldn’t surprise me if the sheriff regarded me, a stranger reporting a murder with no evidence of the crime, let alone a dead body, as a delusional wack job in need of straitjacket, or even a person of interest.

  But I had no better option.

  I ran to my car.

  Four

  I drove as fast as the uneven dirt road would allow without bottoming out the suspension and damaging the drive train or, worse, tearing out the engine oil pan. Despite my best efforts, I cringed a few times as the car bottomed with a hard thump. As soon as I was back on smooth pavement, I put the car through the gears, the engine howling behind me. I remembered driving by a church and a body shop on my way in. They had to have a working phone.

  Although I had never met Milt Lowry, I had recognized him. I had seen his picture enough times plastered on magazines and newspapers to pick him from a crowd. I wondered about his car. Where was it? What the hell happened in that house? A home invasion gone wrong? Robbery? Neither seemed likely. For some reason, the whole thing reeked of something far more complex, involving a bigger agenda. But whose agenda?

  I couldn’t shake the image of the killer’s grin. The contempt and delight in those eyes spoke of hate. It felt personal. But why sanitize the scene? To conceal the murder? But that would work only for so long. People as well known as Milton Lowry don’t just disappear without someone taking notice. Was the scene sanitized to prevent something else from occurring? But if so, what? And more importantly, who stood to benefit? Whatever notions were congealing in my battered brain, at this stage they could be only tiny slivers of truth. Far more elaborate layers of truth lurked just beyond my grasp.

  The cleanup of the study, the removal of the car, the skillful erasing of tire tracks, said that in the end, whatever I knew was only what the killers had allowed me to glean. Lowry had said he was being followed. Was he followed to the farmhouse? Or did they have advance knowledge he would be there? And, I wondered again, why on earth was I allowed to live? Florida is a death-penalty state. Loose ends in a capital murder case are a sure ticket to death row. I racked my brain for answers. Nothing made sense.

  I was on my way to announce myself to the local authorities as the last person to see Milton Lowry alive. Given his ultrahigh profile and connections, what I was about to do would land me in the middle of an unmitigated shit storm. No one ever comes out clean from one of those. So I busied myself with crafting the statements I was about to articulate to the authorities. I imagined the barrage of questions I would face: where’s the body? Why meet here? What did Mr. Lowry want with you?

  I glanced at the speedometer: 115 miles an hour. At least sixty miles over the posted speed limit. I was asking for it. Not a good move for someone leaving the scene of a crime. But circumstances justified the risk. A man was missing, and it was possible, however unlikely, Lowry was still alive.

  I blazed down the quiet country road, well aware that if I was picked up by police radar, I would be hauled off to county lockup, and my car impounded. But I had to set those concerns aside. I was going to do everything I could to help a man I had never met. Milton Lowry deserved at least that much. The longer it took to begin the search, the colder the trail. Every minute lost worked against Milton Lowry. I spotted the church and the yellow body shop in the distance. I leaned on the gas.

  I stomped on the brakes and veered screeching into the parking lot. A dusty pickup truck was parked before the small church and its burly driver fired an inquisitive, though not disapproving, glance in my direction. I got out and took a gander at the nondescript stucco box occupied by the body shop. Not a light on, roll-down doors locked in place, the employees gone for the day. I hurried toward the church.

  The small rural church, probably dating back to the mid-twentieth century, was a Gothic recreation of shingles that at one time had been painted a shade of white, with stout buttresses supporting a faded black roof overhanging the main entrance. Inside, the nave’s two rows of wooden pews were divided by a wide aisle leading to an altar and religious figures at the opposite end. Except for a stocky middle-aged woman lazily sweeping around the pews, the church was deserted. A pair of large tats on her forearms made the woman look almost menacing.

  “Is there a phone I can use?” I asked her. “It’s an emergency.”

  “Outside,” she said without ever glancing at me. “By the bathrooms.” She kept on sweeping.

  I spun around, headed for the door, and stopped when I realized I didn’t know where I was.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s this place called?”

  “A church,” she said drily, eyes resolutely on her broom work.

  Another underpaid comedian.

  “I mean, how do I tell someone where this church is located?”

  “This person local or city folk?”

  “Local.”

  “Tenmile Bend.”

  I went outside, found the phone, and dialed 911.

  Someone picked up on the first ring. “Sheriff’s Department. What’s your emergency?”

  “I’m calling from the white church at Tenmile Bend.”

  “Sure,” the man interrupted me. “Blessed Trinity Lutheran. Know it well.”

  “I want to report a crime. A murder.”

  “Murder? At the church?”

  “No. Not here. But not far.”

  A beat of silence, then, “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t,” I said. “Look, Deputy . . .”

  “Clark,” He said curtly. It was obvious I had his attention.

  “Deputy Clark. My name is Jason Justice. I’m a lawyer from West Palm Beach.”

  Suddenly aware of a presence behind me, I whirled around. It was the same man who had been sitting in the pickup in the parking lot. He eyed me wearily and when I squinted at him, he mouthed, “Bathroom.” I was blocking his access.

  I moved out of the way, and the man went inside and closed the door.

  “So where did this happen?”

  “Farmhouse. About ten miles west.” I glanced at my watch. It was almost seven p.m. Darkness wasn’t far off. “Well over an hour ago.”

  “You say your name is Jason Justice, a lawyer out of West Palm, and you witnessed a murder, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Victim’s name?”

  “Milton Lowry.”

&nbs
p; “Holly shit!” The deputy exclaimed. I heard some rustling noises in the background. “Junior Lowry’s murdered? You sure ’bout that?”

  “I am.”

  I heard the deputy say something I couldn’t make out. When he spoke again, it was in a commanding tone. “You wait right where you are, Mr. Justice. Sheriff’s units are coming your way right now.”

  I ended the call, and then called my investigator and friend, Sammy Raj. He answered on the second ring.

  “Sammy Raj.” His raspy voice had the formal manner he reserves for business calls. Samuel Raj Desai, the son of Indian immigrants that settled in New Jersey decades earlier, is my secret weapon. I entrust most of the investigative work generated by my office to him alone.

  Before setting off on his own, Sammy had been a detective with Miami-Dade Police. Before that, he worked for the FBI, followed by a long stint with the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office as a detective in the robbery-homicide division. He took early retirement from the force and decided to give private practice a try. Sammy, thin as a whip, with a fondness for Western regalia, from his black ostrich Tony Lamas to the Texas longhorn belt buckle and the moss agate bolo tie, had dedicated well over two decades of his life to law enforcement. The lessons learned as a lead investigator, and his wide network of associates, contacts, and informants were instrumental to his success in private practice. I was one of his first clients. If I need to locate someone or find out their most deeply held secrets, Sammy is my guy. As far as I’m concerned, there is no better investigator anywhere.

  “Sammy, it’s me.”

  “J.J.?” he said. I don’t enjoy being called “J.J.” but it was Sammy. I could complain all I wanted; he would never change. “Where you calling from?”

  “Pay phone,” I said, accounting for the unknown number on Sammy’s caller ID. “Listen, I don’t have much time. I need you to look into something.” I brought Sammy up to speed on the doings at the Lowry farm. I asked him to take a good hard look at everything Lowry, especially those in his inner circle, and ended the call. When I turned around I was face-to-face with Bathroom Man. He regarded me with an expression that could have signified shock or horror or nothing at all. I started back toward the church entrance, wondering how much he’d heard.

  “Did I hear you right, friend?”

  I turned to face him.

  The man’s bloodshot eyes were wide with amazement. “You saw Lowry Junior dead?”

  I had my answer: he had heard enough.

  I nodded.

  “How about that?” he said.

  “You know Milton Lowry?” I asked.

  “Not personally. But ’round here ever’body knows Junior,” the man said.

  I sidled past him headed in the direction of church. I needed something for my nasty headache.

  “Hey!” the man called after me. “Who kilt ’im?”

  “No clue.”

  I opened the door and stepped inside the church. The middle-aged woman done with her sweeping was now seated in a pew reading some sort of magazine. She lifted her gaze, her weary blue eyes regarding me with the same interest she might display for a week-old sandwich.

  “Hey, Martha, guess what?” the man from the bathroom said as he trailed me inside. “This man here just called nine-one-one. Says Lowry Junior is dead. Murdered.”

  “I hate to bother you,” I said to her. My hand over the throbbing lump on the back of my head. “I have a nasty headache. Would you happen to have an aspirin or something? I can pay.”

  “Junior’s dead?” The woman sprang up to her feet. “When?”

  “Ask him,” the man said, and pointed at me.

  “How about those aspirin, ma’am?” I asked politely.

  “Advil okay?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Magazine tucked securely under her beefy arm, she hurried off toward a door marked “Office.” Seconds later, she came out with a water bottle and a packet containing two pills.

  “Here you go,” the woman said to me, her demeanor suddenly friendlier.

  I took a five from my wallet. She refused to take the money. “On the house, hon.” She gave a dingy smile. “Junior really dead?” she asked.

  “I’d better save it for the sheriff,” I said.

  I thanked her, then downed both pills with a gulp of water.

  “You know who kilt him?” the woman asked as I screwed the cap back on the water bottle.

  “No,” I said. Her lips parted to ask something else, so I cut her off. “Like I said, I’d better wait for the sheriff.”

  I went outside the church. A man driving a red Jeep with big, fat tires and an impressive array of spot lamps set high above the windshield pulled in next to the dusty pickup. The new arrival was greeted by Bathroom Man. They conferred briefly near the Jeep, then approached me. The new arrival, a beefy middle-aged man with a generous girth and deep-set eyes studied me briefly. He had the thick forearms of someone who earns a living doing physical work.

  “Is it true?” he asked. “You saw Junior kilt?”

  I couldn’t help but notice the slight twitch of a grin that said he wouldn’t be mourning Milton Lowry. It never fails to surprise me how some people don’t bother to conceal their pleasure at the misfortune of someone they dislike or envy.

  Both men looked at me expectantly. I said nothing.

  “You’re not from ‘round here,” the second man said. Not so much a question as an observation. This guy was a quick study.

  “The dead man—Junior—he was Bull Lowry’s son. My daddy worked for Bull for a long time. Been to the Lowry house plenty. But not recently. Back when we was kids. I knew Milton. I really did. Junior, that’s how folks around here know him. Thin, scrawny-looking kid, he was. Never amounted to much. Not like his daddy. Or his grand.” A pause. His eyes studied me briefly. “Junior knew me. Not well, but we used to talk. Never had much to say, on account o’ my daddy was day labor, and all. We didn’t have money to burn like them. Nobody ’round here does. But if you ask me, that’s the problem. When you got more money’n God, you can do what you want. And Junior sure did. He got the hell out, that’s what he did. Went to some fancy school in Palm Beach. Us reg’lar folk, we had us the public school—Glades or Clewiston, ’at’s it.”

  The “Glades” he referred to had to be nearby Belle Glade, a small town along the southern shore of Okeechobee Lake.

  “Junior was something else, I tell ya. The boy was rich and had enough good looks to be in movies. But ask anyone, that was his problem. He knew he was a pretty boy. And he sure wasn’t shy about flauntin’ his rich ass. But don’t you dare speak ill of Junior, Oh, no. Bull Lowry’s pride and joy? No, sir. The old man got wind of it, you’d find yourself run out of town.” He paused and spat.“Back in the ol’ days, The Lowry Land Company owned everything ’round here. Hell, they owned everything in three counties. Including, some say, every sheriff and every damned judge. Ask me, that’s too much power in one man’s hands. It ain’t right.”

  “Lowry,” I said. “Any siblings?”

  The roar from a speeding tractor trailer on the two-lane road smothered the conversation. When the noise had faded the man said, “Nah. Junior was it. I mean, he was the only legitimate child Bull would recognize. Ol’ Bull married late. Sixties he was, when he got hitched. That old man was something else. Slippery as a pit viper. Messed around plenty, that one. Ask anybody, you’ll hear the same thing. Hell, there’s gotta be at least half a dozen juniors this side of Lake O alone. And God knows how many skirts ol’ Bull got under. Didn’t much matter what woman it was. Black, Indian, Cuban, Mexican. She wore a skirt, she was game. It made no difference to him. And I hear Junior was his daddy’s son, all right. An apple don’t fall far, and all?”

  I ignored the slight. I wanted to keep the conversation focused. “Can you think of anyone with a grudge against Milton Lowry?”

  He smiled incredulously. “You mean ‘round here?”

  I nodded.

  The man let out a heart
y chuckle. “That’d be one long list, friend. Everyone had some bone to pick with them Lowrys.”

  That didn’t exactly narrow the field.

  The woman in the church, apparently unable to resist the promise of juicy gossip, joined us. As she approached, a white-on-green sheriff’s cruiser rolled up, it’s red and yellow strobes bright in the growing darkness of night. A second cruiser rolled in form the opposite direction and parked facing the first.

  I walked over toward the cruisers. Two deputies emerged from cruisers, donned their Smokey hats and strutted toward me, the thickness of the Kevlar vests noticeable under their uniform shirts.

  “Matt, Sam,” the taller of the two deputies said to the locals trailing me. “Judith,” he said to the woman.

  “Hey, guys,” the woman said cheerily.

  The deputies nodded but said nothing. Their countenances conveyed that they weren’t pleased about something.

  The taller deputy and, judging by the two golden chevrons on his shirtsleeve, the senior of the two, fished a piece of paper from his pocket and gestured at me with his chin.

  “Mr. Justice? You called nine-one-one?”

  “That’s right,” I replied.

  “ID?”

  I handed him my driver’s license. He took it in his large pale hand and handed it to the junior deputy, who inspected it briefly under the light of his flashlight, then took it back to the cruiser.

  The ranking deputy glared at the trio gathered around me. “You people been talking to this man here about things that don’t concern you, haven’t you?”

  “Wren,” Judith said, “if you want us to stay mum all you gotta do is ask. No need to yell ‘bout it.”

  “I know how much you people like to talk. But you best not breathe word about this to anyone, Judith, or we’re gonna have us a problem. Now, all of you, move ten paces back. We need to talk to this man.”

  The group reluctantly retreated, but their eyes remained glued on us.

  Wren turned to me. “Mr. Justice, I’m Deputy Wren Southwood. My partner is Deputy Jesus Martinez. We’re waiting for Sheriff Powell. He’s on his way.”