Dead Wrong (Jason Justice Mystery Book 2)

by Ralph Zeta

  My eyes settled on Mrs. Lowry. She was an astonishingly youthful-looking fifty-something woman. Her lustrous black hair showed just the appropriate amount of gray strands to give her an air of dignified elegance. Her alabaster complexion said that this was a woman who looked after herself well. Above her small, perfect nose, large eyes the color of burnt honey seemed to miss little. The piercing gaze with which she regarded me, at once probing and judgmental, made me feel uncomfortable, as if I were unworthy of being in her presence at all, never mind that she had come into my home unbidden. It felt as though she believed she could take the measure of my character, or learn some precious insight that would give her some sort of edge over me (although I failed to see why, in my case, she would even care) merely by observing me. The keen eyes, the quiet intensity behind them, left me with the impression that Mrs. Lowry would be a formidable opponent in any negotiation.

  She had a slender build, and everything about her, from her outfit to the way she held her head, leaning slightly to the side, the steady unblinking stare, the thin smile that seemed habitual, radiated an air of vitality and an energetic essence that said this was someone to be reckoned with.

  She remained as she was; sitting primly at one end of the couch, her legs crossed, arms folded over her purse. She was the embodiment of what the perfect middle-aged woman might look like if money weren’t an issue.

  I considered Henry Klein. I had crossed swords with his type before: the impeccable haircut, the porcelain-capped smirk, the tailored suit, the gleaming loafers, narrow shoulders, haughty crease over their prim brow when they crossed paths with anyone they deemed beneath their station in life. My dislike for him was instant.

  Both Klein and Mrs. Benitez seemed reservedly polite but watchful. Something told me their easy manner was veneer and that I would soon learn what lay beneath, and the chance I wouldn’t be pleased with their visit were all but certain.

  I took a seat across the room from them. I glanced at Powell but said nothing. It was their show. What happened next was entirely up to them. The silence grew. It became apparent they were waiting for me to break the ice. I was sure to disappoint them.

  Finally, when the silence became too tedious to maintain, Powell said, “Mrs. Lowry and Mr. Klein would like to talk about what happened at the Lowry farmhouse.”

  “I imagine they do.”

  “Mr. Justice,” Gabriela Benitez said in a soft, almost congenial tone. Her diction was perfect and neutral, with no trace of an accent. “Please tell me exactly what happened.”

  I told her everything but the part about her husband’s belief he was being followed. As I talked, Sheriff Powell watched me intently, no doubt listening for inconsistencies in my story. When I was done, he seemed disappointed. Mrs. Lowry, too, listened intently, her intense gaze never wavering away from me. She seemed to cling to every word I said. At one point, when I described the manner in which her husband was killed, I saw in her eyes a flicker of shock, or perhaps horror.

  ASA Klein chose to remain silent. I did catch him more than once exchanging knowing glances with Powell as if they were aware of facts I wasn’t privy to.

  “Why did my husband want to meet with you, Mr. Justice?” Mrs. Lowry asked.

  And that was the crux of the matter: why indeed? I had a choice to make. Share her husband’s suspicion that he was being followed, or leave it out. I went with the latter. Something told me my interests, as well as the deceased’s, were best served by keeping that nugget out of the narrative for now.

  “I can’t say,” I replied. “We never got that far.”

  She nodded heavily. “I understand Elda Rhodes referred my husband to you.” It wasn’t a question.

  “That is my understanding.”

  “Have you spoken with Elda?”

  “No,” I said. “Have you?”

  “Not yet,” Mrs. Lowry said. “She’s on a cruise in the South Pacific somewhere and out of reach.”

  “You are a divorce attorney, aren’t you, Mr. Justice?” Klein asked, and I couldn’t miss the note of thinly cloaked disdain that he probably also used with personal-injury lawyers.

  “I am,” I said. “But I’m considering expanding into other areas.”

  Again the supercilious smile that seemed to be one of Klein’s tells.

  “At any time, did Mr. Lowry indicate he may have been contemplating divorce?” Klein asked. It was a question straight out of the Good-Litigator Handbook.

  “As I’ve already said, he and I never had a chance to discuss what was on his mind.”

  “How much do you know about my husband, Mr. Justice?” Mrs. Lowry asked with a sudden break in her voice, as though voicing the question caused her pain.

  “To be honest, Mrs. Lowry, I know very little about you or your husband.”

  A silent pause ensued.

  “What my aunt is trying to say,” Klein said, “is that uncle Milton is, um, a player. Someone who enjoys the company of beautiful women and isn’t particularly bashful about it.”

  “Mr. Justice, the truth is, my husband

  is a philanderer,” Mrs. Lowry blurted out. “God knows how many times he’s cheated on me.”

  “Please, Gabriela, don’t.” Klein placed a hand on her arm, a tender gesture that seemed practiced and far from genuine. It was difficult for me to believe that a dickhead like Klein could ever relate to the pain and humiliation his aunt had to endure in her marriage.

  “Milton’s failings are not on you,” Klein said. “It’s unfortunate, but that is who is. And whatever this is, it has nothing to do with you. So please, don’t worry. Let me deal with it, okay?”

  She smiled and patted his hand, much like a parent acknowledging a rare gesture of kindness from a troublesome child.

  “You see, Mr. Justice, the thing is, there are some issues of concern with the story you told Sheriff Powell,” Klein said. He took the time to straighten a crease on his slacks.

  “What sort of issues?” I asked, with a sudden sinking feeling. They had information that likely cast doubt on the events as I had relayed them. The pointed questions said as much.

  “Significant issues,” Klein smirked, clearly relishing the moment. “How about this: you lied. What you reported to the sheriff yesterday is pure fantasy. It never happened.”

  “How would you know? Where you there?”

  No answer.

  “How old are you, Klein?”

  “I don’t see how that’s pertinent.”

  “Thirty? Thirty-two?” I bulldozed on. “So that is what? Your expert assertion based on your many years’ experience as a hot-shot ADA?”

  I came to my feet, all six feet four of me fully unfolded. It was a warning: when in my home, mind how you talk. “Or do you have any evidence to back that up?”

  “Glad you asked,” Klein said, ignoring the implied threat.

  “Mr. Justice, you should know something,” Powell said, standing up. He seemed to sense my patience running thin and wanted to avoid an escalation. “Mr. Lowry’s vehicle has been located. No indication it had been stolen.”

  “Where?” I asked, fully aware that whatever the answer, it wouldn’t jibe with my story.

  “Naples. At the airport,” Powell replied. “Surveillance video shows the car entered the parking lot at 9:18 last night. Same video footage shows an automobile registered to a young woman by the name of Lola Appel, a resident of Coral Gables, entering the parking lot only minutes before. Ms. Appel is a known acquaintance of Mr. Lowry.”

  “Oh, please, Sheriff,” Mrs. Gabriela Lowry said and waved her hand. “Spare me the euphemisms.” She shifted her attention to me and said, “The truth is, Ms. Appel is far more than a mere acquaintance. She is my husband’s current love interest. Although, to her credit, their affair has lasted far longer than most.”

  My internal alarms went off, red flags and sirens. The discovery of Lowry’s car in close proximity to his mistress’s car not only cratered my story, it also raised questions about my role in
what was starting to look more and more like some sort of a charade. I felt the skin in my face heat up and my pulse ramp up. I felt like a complete tool. What the hell was going on? What had I gotten myself into?

  “But that’s not all,” Klein said behind a bemused smirk. “Unfortunately for you, Mr. Justice, there’s more,” Klein shifted his gaze to Powell then said, “Go ahead, sheriff.”

  “What Mr. Klein is trying to say is,” Powell said, crossing his arms across his ample chest, “that Mr. Lowry’s friend, Ms. Appel, appears to be missing. Her sister called Miami-Dade Police and reported her missing yesterday. Apparently, Ms. Appel failed to show up for several appointments. No one has seen her, and her phone is offline.”

  That discovery of the two cars at the same airport parking lot all but dealt a crushing blow to my already discredited story. The evidence suggested that Milton Lowry wasn’t dead or even missing. It said that two lovers eloped and didn’t bother to tell anyone. Only I was sure that wasn’t the case. If Lowry was on a trip, it wasn’t one he would be coming back from. Milton Lowry was dead.

  More than ever, my story seemed like pure fabrication. But to me, the discovery of the cars only served to reinforce my theory. It spoke of a carefully conceived and executed plan. A plan to make Lowry’s disappearance look like nothing more sinister than an adulterous affair. My mind raced with the implications.

  “Has the sister been interviewed?” I asked.

  “I understand she was,” Powell replied. “It appears Mr. Lowry and Ms. Appel may have taken flight to an undisclosed location. Miami P.D. has closed the Appel missing-persons case, and unless there is new evidence, I’m inclined to do the same with Mr. Lowry’s case.”

  I could almost see the headlines: Palm Beach Lawyer Charged with Filing a False Police Report.

  “So, Mr. Justice,” Klein said, and smirked. It was the kind of smirk I wanted to slap from his face. Permanently. “Anything you wish to walk back?”

  I didn’t reply. I needed a moment to think.

  “Did my husband put you up to this?” Gabriela Lowry suddenly asked, a curious frown creasing her brow. “Did he tell you the same pathetic story he tells everyone? That I colluded with a judge to have him declared mentally incompetent, so I could wrest control of his fortune away from him?”

  “Mrs. Lowry, I’ll say it again,” I said, and held her gaze. “Your husband and I never had a chance to talk specifics. He called me. Insisted I meet him at the farmhouse, and I agreed. When I arrived, I found the front door ajar. I went inside. When I reached the study, I saw a man strangling your husband with a length of twine. When I tried to intervene, I was knocked unconscious. When I came to, Mr. Lowry and his car were gone. That is all I know. But I understand your position. If it were me, considering the lack of evidence, I would be skeptical. But if you ask about me, you’ll find that I am a straight shooter. I don’t play games with people’s lives. Despite how this may seem, it matters little to me whether you believe me or not. I know what I saw, and nothing’s going to change that.”

  For an instant, in what I suspected had to be a rare display of emotion, Mrs. Lowry’s lips quavered for a fraction of a second.

  “Tell me, Mr. Justice,” Klein said, “What is it you are really after? Is it money? Maybe a little publicity for yourself? That’s the one thing I haven’t figured out yet.”

  “You don’t know me,” I said. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be talking smack I didn’t have the balls to back up.”

  Klein flashed a condescending little smile. “I make no accusations, Mr. Justice. The facts speak for themselves quite well, don’t you agree, Sheriff?”

  “I can’t answer that, Mr. Klein,” Powell replied. “The only thing I know, is that right now, I don’t know everything I need to know.”

  Klein’s reaction to Powell’s measured response was predictable enough. His eyes widened and his jaw went slack. Powell’s reply left him deflated. I wondered why the little prick seemed so convinced I wasn’t telling the truth. I fought back a smile. Powell was a better cop than I had thought. The guy was starting to grow on me.

  The room fell into silence again. As far as I was concerned, the visit had outlived its purpose. Time to shoo my visitors away. As I was about to ask them to leave, Mrs. Lowry spoke.

  “I agree, Sheriff,” she said. “Much remains unknown. But I’ll say this, Mr. Justice. While I do not understand what is going on, I wish to make something very clear. My husband may be a womanizer, and God only knows what else, but what he’s not is a cruel man deserving the kind of death you described. Anyone who knows Milton will tell you as much. A few years ago, he became ill. He was in a coma for months. The doctors thought he wouldn’t be able to function. Given his prognosis and his extensive business holdings and interests, I petitioned the court and was granted power over his affairs. Which, in retrospect, proved fortunate. Milton is a dreamer, an eternal optimist. His illness changed him. He became as gullible as a child, predisposed to believe any sad story and throw money at it, as if money were the cure for all things. And he loved giving it away. Word of loose purse strings travels fast. So I had to intervene again, for his own good. It wasn’t something I wanted to do. But it had to be done. We went to court. I was acting out of concern for him. But he didn’t see it that way. Milton became livid. I think he came to hate me. And I can understand why. But I don’t regret my actions. My actions were warranted. He wasn’t acting rationally. He had given away millions to total strangers. And for what? Anyway, the court sided with me. I suggested he set up a charitable trust, hire qualified individuals to oversee his charitable giving. But he wouldn’t listen. After the court ruling he moved out of the house. He lives alone now. Well, mostly alone. That worries me. He’s not well, and I doubt he’ll ever be the man he used to be. When he lost control over his affairs, he grew depressed. His therapist suggested he try yoga and meditation. That’s when he met Ms. Appel. The rest, you already know,” she said wearily, and inhaled deeply as if marshaling the resolve to continue. “So yes, Mr. Justice, Milton had many flaws, but I cannot think of anyone who would want to hurt him. If such a person existed, it would be me. But even if I thoroughly hated him—which, for the record, I don’t—I could never harm him. Milt needs to accept that he depends on me. For everything. I want him back home. With Ms. Appel, if it must be, but I want him safe and back in the care of his doctors.” Her eyes turned to ice. “So why don’t you level with me and tell me where my husband is?”

  Her question caught me off guard. I knew she had to be clever; her success in business proved that much. But was she a cold, calculating bitch who could order her husband killed and then play the concerned wife? I didn’t know. My gut wanted to believe she had no part in her husband’s disappearance, but there was something—perhaps the jaded, skeptical lawyer in me—that said not so fast, Jason. I had to remind myself that whatever the truth was, it lay buried under layers of wealth and familial insularity and that it was still early in the game, so I had better keep an open mind.

  “Mrs. Lowry, I appreciate your candor,” I said. “I’ll be equally frank. I don’t care for the institution of marriage. Seen far too many times just how ugly marital discord can become. From what you’ve said, it appears your marriage is just like many others: a private disaster. Be that as it may, I can’t understand why you would ask that question, and I don’t want to know. But if your husband is still alive, as you say, and this is nothing but a charade, then more power to you. But if I’m right and your husband was the victim of foul play, then do yourself a favor and consider very carefully the people closest to you. My instinct tells me someone wants something from you or your husband and, as you’ve seen, they’re willing to do anything to get it.” I turned to Powell and said, “Now, if I’m not under arrest, Sheriff, we’re done here. I’m due in court in an hour.”

  To reinforce the point, I opened the door and held it wide. A wave of warm, humid air rolled in and clashed with the cooler air inside.

  Mrs. Klei
n and Sheriff Powell were slow to leave. Klein, nonplussed at having been summarily dismissed, buttoned his coat jacket and started for the door.

  “Mr. Justice,” Mrs. Lowry said, “may I have a word in private?”

  I nodded.

  To Klein and Powell, she said, “Gentlemen, do you mind?”

  When we were alone, she said, “I won’t take much of your time. You’re very insightful, Mr. Justice.” She paused and glanced at the forest of sailboat masts outside. “It occurs to me that if Milton is dead and, as you say, someone close to me is involved, then I need to watch my back at all times. Do you understand, Mr. Justice?”

  “I do,” I replied.

  “I’m in a quandary. I am involved in a number of projects in critical phases of development. I can’t afford any distractions. And I can’t exclude anyone in my circle without affecting my business. They all play critical roles in what we do.” Her eyes drifted to the portside window. She stared vacantly at the neighboring yacht.

  “Mrs. Lowry,” I said. “If you wish to talk, I’d be happy to meet later, but right now I need to get ready for court.”

  Her brown eyes turned on me. She gave a thin smile. “I won’t take any more of your time, Mr. Justice.”

  I held the door open for her. As she steeped over the doorsill, she turned back to me and said, “Something tells me you’re not the type to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  I smiled. Guilty. The woman was sharp.

  “Do you gamble, Mr. Justice?”

  “I dabble.”

  “My bet is, my husband confided in you. Maybe not everything, but he shared something that made you drive all the way to the farmhouse, didn’t he?”

  I smiled again but said nothing.

  “Very well. If you come across anything that may be of interest to me, call me.”

  “Like what?”

  A skeptical look. “Seriously?”

  “You have me at a loss.”

  She considered me. “Perhaps you’re not the man I think you are.”