by Ralph Zeta
She turned and walked toward the dock to join Klein and Powell. The three cars drove away.
I was confused. She left me with the clear impression she was aware of a potential weak spot in her sphere but not much else. Maybe, after Sammy had some time to sift thought her private life, I would come to understand what she meant.
I shed my sweaty biking shorts and got in the shower.
Absent Milton Lowry’s body, it was reasonable that his wife might be reluctant to accept his death based on a stranger’s uncorroborated word. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder whether her reluctance to accept his death was the product of genuine concern, or if she simply couldn’t afford her husband’s death.
Nine
Sammy was waiting for me outside the judge’s chambers at the West Palm Beach Courthouse. It was noon and the edifice was in the midst of a mass exodus as bodies scrambled for the exits in search of lunch or a long-awaited smoke.
Before heading to court, I had called Sammy and told him about Gabriela Lowry’s unexpected visit. I asked Sammy to look into ASA Klein as well as the disappearance of Lowry’s girlfriend.
I joined Sammy in a quiet corner of the second floor gathering area.
“You got something?”
“Nothing to bang a gong over,” Sammy said. “But this is interesting. Milton Lowry owns a jet. A big one. As far as I can tell, the jet was leased to an outfit out of Fort Lauderdale a couple of years ago. His father also owned a crop-dusting company, which kept a few planes at the Naples Airport. Maybe Lowry’s history with the airport is the reason the cars were left there. Maybe the killers didn’t know he no longer had use of his private jet.”
I nodded but said nothing. Maybe the killers had made another mistake. Still, the scope of the deception to make his absence seem normal spoke volumes.
“You’ll like this.” Sammy handed me a folder. “Lowry’s honeypot.”
I opened the file to give it a quick glance but then couldn’t tear my eyes away. In addition to a sheaf of stapled pages, the file contained a pair of unflattering DMV driver’s license photos of two women with different names but identical birthdates and facial futures. It wasn’t the quality of the pictures that drew my eye. The images were typical government-issue overexposed snaps taken in haste. What drew me were the hauntingly exquisite eyes the lightest shade of green I had even seen. The women were beautiful already, but the dramatic contrast between their deeply tanned skin and dark hair only made the pale eyes seem even more dramatic and alluring. I wondered how many times they had stopped traffic with just a casual glance. I had to force myself to look away from the mesmerizing eyes.
“Aloisia Lisel Appel and Lisel Aloisia Appel,” Sammy remarked, enjoying my initial confusion.
“Twins?”
“Identical, in case you didn’t notice. They own a yoga studio. Twin Powers Yoga in Coconut Grove. Same home address for both. The sisters have clean records, not even a parking ticket.”
“Lowry’s jet—you tracked it down?” I asked after I closed the file.
“London. Chartered two days ago.”
“Any indication Lowry may have chartered or hired another plane?”
Sammy shook his head. “Not that I could find. But there were a few foreign-owned aircraft that departed Naples last night. We haven’t been able to reach them all. One of ’em is scheduled to return this afternoon. If I leave now, I’ll be Naples in time to greet the crew.”
“Do that,” I said. “Show Lowry’s picture around the airport. Maybe someone remembers seeing him.”
“Will do.”
“You check Lowry’s cell phone?”
Sammy nodded. “Last ping places him in Naples last night, then nothing. The phone is off, but we’ll keep checking.”
I placed the file Sammy gave me in my briefcase and closed it, then draped it over my shoulder. I donned my sunglasses. “Let me know what you find,” I said, and turned to leave.
“You’re going after the twins, aren’t you?” Sammy asked.
“Someone has to.” I grinned.
“You can’t fool me, J.J. I saw the way you drooled over those pictures.”
“Keep me posted,” I said.
I left the courthouse, and the swelter of midday enveloped me.
I threw a leg over my red Ducati 1199 Corse Superbike and put on my helmet. With the bruise to the back of my head, sliding my jug into a confining helmet required meticulous care. But I was headed to a city notorious for its abundance of reckless and inattentive drivers, so the hard hat wasn’t optional, it was a necessity. Sammy was right, though. My eyes did linger on the pictures too long to be anything else but ogling. The twins were indeed beautiful. But despite their unfair endowment of good looks, my focus was elsewhere. Not that I didn’t find the twins enticing—hell, I wasn’t even sure I could keep from melting the moment I stared into those eyes. But my mind was on Milt Lowry and his killer’s grin. Maybe talking to Lisel Appel might get me some of the answers I needed.
I punched the start button. The powerful engine growled to life under me. I kicked the bike into gear and roared off.
* * *
Coconut Grove is located south of the Rickenbacker Causeway in the City of Miami. The Grove, extending from Biscayne Bay on the east, west to LeJeune Road, is one of the oldest continuously inhabited neighborhoods in Miami. It exudes an air of tropical sophistication that attracts well-heeled hipsters and young professionals alike. There is a certain aspect of unreality to cities within cities, like the Grove is to Miami, maybe because, when you cross from one to the other, nothing really changes, yet you are aware that something is different. Perhaps the change is in the people on the street, how they dress or the easy, time-is-of-no-consequence way they carry themselves. Other subtle differences—the architecture, the tasteful street signs, the quaint restaurants with cozy sidewalk dining areas, the profusion of tropical greenery that screams “South Miami”—stand out even before the brain registers that we have crossed an invisible boundary.
I made it to the Grove in a little more than an hour. Setting aside the inherent dangers of riding a motorcycle, it allowed me to skirt in and out of traffic and bypass areas of heavy congestion with relative ease. Lunch was in full midweek swing in the Grove. It’s one-way streets sizzled with snarled traffic and impatient drivers hunting for scarce parking spaces.
I had no problem finding the yoga studio. I eased my bike between two parked cars and flicked the engine off. The studio was on the third floor of a large brick shoe box that I was sure dated back to the construction boom that overtook Miami after the Second World War. The building retained a certain gentrified grace that was pleasant to behold.
I bypassed the diminutive elevator car at one end of the building’s garden foyer and trotted up the stairs. Five levels of open hallways faced the interior atrium. Clutches of seemingly content sweaty women in tight yoga outfits or casual wear—jeans, tank tops, tennies—moved with purpose perhaps headed to a tennis match or to join others at one of the many watering holes in the area. Some exuded a nervous urgency that reminded me of an anxious child in the late stages of a game of musical chairs.
The yoga studio occupied the western half of the third floor of what had to be a highly sought-after address in a pricey part of town. The Appel twins had done well for themselves.
I pushed through the door and entered Twin Powers Yoga. I was suddenly in a different world: recessed lighting, the sweet essence of incense and patchouli permeating the cool air. The sparse furnishings in warm colors combined with the soft raga music emanating from unseen speakers, transported me at once to a gentler, less harried world. I basked in the moment.
I approached the reception desk, where a tall, lanky woman in dark tights greeted me with a polite smile.
“May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Ms. Appel.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry,” she said guardedly, “but she is
not in.”
“Will she be in later?”
She glanced at me sideways as if I had asked the wrong question, then asked, “In reference to?”
It was time to level with her if I wanted to get anywhere near the Appel twin.
“My name is Jason Justice. I’m an attorney. I recently met with Mr. Milton Lowry. I understand Ms. Appel’s sister may be missing. I have some information that may be of interest to her.”
The receptionist studied my face for a moment, lifted the handset from her desk, and dialed. She spoke briefly, then said, “Ms. Appel is at home. She’s agreed to see you.” She scribbled two lines on a notepad. “Her address.”
* * *
Lisel Appel’s home was on the northern edge of the nearby community of Coral Gables.
Coral Gables, the country’s first fully planned community, is a masterfully designed city that harmoniously mingles residential enclaves with commercial areas inspired by elements of Mediterranean architecture. The twins’ home was one of two dozen similarly styled two-story stucco houses with barrel-tile roofs, appropriately aged copper gutters, double chimneys, and lush tropical landscaping, clustered on a gated enclave away from the main traffic areas. I rode up to the gate and rang the buzzer.
I didn’t wait long.
“Mr. Justice?” said the tinny female voice through the two-inch speaker.
“Yes.”
“Please drive in.”
The Spanish Revival homes that lined the curving cul-de-sac street were arranged in zero-line diagonal lots that maximized privacy. I got off the bike and walked toward the relative shelter of the foyer. I was wearing a light wool business suit and long-sleeve shirt and was ready to be out of the sun.
The iron and glass entry doors parted as I reached the foyer. A welcome blast of cool air greeted me. Coming out of the bright sun, I couldn’t see much but the lime-green eyes staring at me from the shadows. I couldn’t help but stare back, then, remembering myself, did my best to appear nonthreatening—not so easy for someone my size. I flashed what I hoped was a friendly smile.
The lithe woman emerged from the shadows and crossed her arms, her brilliant eyes taking my measure, scrutinizing me and instantly drawing a boundary.
“You wanted to see to me?”
The DMV picture in Sammy’s file did her little justice. She was far more striking in person than I had expected. Perhaps her dark skin and long brown locks did not fit the image of some idiotic feminine ideal, but the woman before me was nothing short of astonishing. She had the posture of an athlete or a dancer, someone serenely comfortable in her own skin. She wore a muted blue sundress, leather sandals, and no jewelry except for a pair of golden bangles encircling her left wrist.
“I do,” I said. “My name is Jason Justice. I’m an attorney.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Justice?”
“I’d like to talk to you about your sister.”
“Do you know my sister?”
“No.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“No.”
“Then we have nothing to discuss,” she said, and turned to close the door.
I placed a hand on the door. Her eyes settled on my big tanned hand on the door.
She raised her pale gaze at me. A hard glare that said I had worn out my welcome.
“Good-bye, Mr. Justice.”
“Your sister is missing,” I said. I paused and waited for her to say something. When she didn’t, I plowed on. “Her car was found in Naples. At the airport. Police believe she may be traveling with Milton Lowry.”
“And?”
“What if I told she isn’t with Milton Lowry?”
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
“May I ask a personal question?” I said, taking my hand from the door. I had the feeling I was less than a syllable away from getting the door slammed in my face.
“What would that be?”
“Your sister and you are close?”
“We are twins. Of course we’re close. Why?”
“Then tell me, would she disappear for two days and not mention it or call?”
She watched me through narrowed eyes. “No.”
“What if I told you it was only supposed to look that way?”
Her brow knitted further; her eyes bored into mine. Her arms, which she had kept defiantly crossed before her, fell to her sides. I had her attention. Maybe I wouldn’t be asked to leave. At least, not yet.
She considered me a moment. “What is it you’re after, Mr. Justice?”
“The truth. And I seem to be the only one certain that Milton Lowry is not with your sister.”
Those pale green eyes studied mine, probing, I supposed, trying to gauge my sincerity.
After a moment, she asked, “You have ID?”
It was hot and humid. The midday sun incinerating my back made a strange contrast with the refrigerated air pouring over the front of me. I felt uncomfortable in my court suit, which I knew would soon sour my mood. And I’ve never much liked people demanding proof of who I am, especially when I’m trying to help them. But I couldn’t fault her for being cautious. I plucked my driver’s license and a business card from my wallet. She took them in her slender fingers and studied them. I felt like saying something clever but quickly nixed the idea. Whatever private hell Lisel Appel was enduring, she shouldn’t also have to suffer a smart-ass remark.
She returned my ID and stood aside. “Please, come in.”
She led me to a comfortable living room decorated in a modern minimalist style: two long gray couches separated by an expansive chestnut ottoman, a pair of Barcelona chairs sat off to the side, large-leafed plants in monochromatic planters, and a pair of large surrealist paintings by someone I should recognize but didn’t.
“Would you care for something to drink? Iced water? Coffee?”
For the first time, my eyes took in the entire face. The flesh around her eyes was a bit darker than the surrounding skin, making her look tired and a bit haggard.
“Water, thank you.”
“Please have a seat.” She nodded toward the couches in the living area.
Her sandals clicked lightly against the hardwood floors as she moved with just enough sway to cause alternating diagonal pulls to the fabric of her dress. Her arms and legs were nicely toned—an obvious byproduct of a physically demanding lifestyle. She emerged from the kitchen carrying two tall glasses and two napkins. She then bent at the waist to fetch coasters from a hidden drawer on the large ottoman. She took a seat on the couch across from me. The tall windows behind her bathed her in filtered sunlight, in a way that obscured her face in shadows and gave her a sort of spectral outline. She slipped off her sandals and folded her brown legs under her.
“You went out of your way to arouse my curiosity,” she said a neutral tone. I understood that I needed to handle her properly and that no amount of superficial charm was going to cut it. “I hope this isn’t a waste of my time.”
“I doubt you think this is a waste of time, Ms. Appel.” She was one cool yoga lady. “I wouldn’t have made it past the foyer if that were the case.”
She nodded touché and said, “What is your role in this?”
“Milton Lowry contacted me a few days ago,” I said, having already decided to level with her.
“Why?”
“He sought my counsel.”
“He wanted to retain you?”
I nodded.
“For what purpose?”
“Truth is, I’m not really sure,” I replied. A partial truth. My instincts told me to keep Milton’s suspicion of being followed off the shelf for now. “We never had the chance to get into specifics.”
“You said you’re a lawyer,” she said.
I just nodded.
“Divorce lawyer?”
Was it that obvious?
“Yes.”
“Do you think Milt wanted to discuss divorce with you?”
“Most likely.”
&
nbsp; “Have you met Mrs. Lowry?”
“I have. Have you?”
“No.
“What can you tell me about the relationship between your sister and Milton Lowry?”
“Are you asking if they were involved in an affair?”
I nodded.
“I can see you’re well informed,” she said, then shifted uncomfortably in her seat. I got the impression she was wrestling with a difficult issue. She took a sip of water before continuing. “People are wrong about the supposed affair.”
“Oh?”
“It wasn’t like that at all.”
A beat of silence ensued. When it became obvious she wasn’t going to say anything else, I pressed on. “How would you describe their relationship?”
She regarded me for a moment and said, “Entirely platonic, Mr. Justice. Nothing else. Friends without benefits, I can assure you.”
“Mrs. Lowry came to see me this morning,” I explained. “She seems convinced her husband and your sister were having an affair. A sexual affair. She believes her husband’s disappearance has a simple explanation and that it includes your sister.”
“Well, I hate to contradict Mrs. Lowry, but she’s wrong. And so are you.”
“How can you be certain?” I asked gently.
“Because I am absolutely certain Lola is not with Milton Lowry,” she said, her voice cracking a bit toward the end. She leaned forward and placed her water glass on the coaster and unfolded herself from the couch. Her fine face acquired a grim mask of determination. I wondered whether I was about to be shown the door.
“The fact is, you, Mrs. Lowry, and the police have it all wrong. Lola is not with Milton.”
“Then where is she?”
“Right here, Mr. Justice,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’m Lola.”
I felt my jaw slacken.
“It’s Lisel—my sister—who’s missing. Not me.”
Ten
I couldn’t have gotten it more wrong if I tried. It never occurred to me I had been talking to the “missing” twin. I imagined the people responsible for Lowry’s disappearance didn’t know any more than I had. It was a significant oversight on their part, and it threw a rather sizable kink in their not-so-meticulously orchestrated plan.
