Dead Wrong (Jason Justice Mystery Book 2)

by Ralph Zeta

  I first met Sammy through my father’s business, while I was home from school one summer in my youth. That day, Detective Raj of the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office came to my father’s office to investigate a chain of mini-warehouse robberies and the insurance claims that went with them. My dad suggested I help Detective Raj with his investigation of the client’s damage claims, that I “might learn something useful from the detective.” And learn I did. Over several days, we searched the company’s insurance client database and claim records until he found the information he sought: a common denominator that tied the robberies and pointed to the owner of the warehouses—a client of my father’s company, no less—as the perpetrator. Case solved. For my assistance, Detective Raj offered to buy me lunch, although somehow, I ended up paying for lunch that day. We’ve been friends ever since.

  “Pleasure, ma’am,” Sammy said in his raspy voice as he accepted her hand. “This,” he said, nodding to the roundish woman in overalls at his left. At her feet was a large metal case. “Is an old friend, Sandra Koonz. She works for the Sheriff’s Department. She’s here to examine your car.”

  “Pleasure,” Sandra said with a smile. “May I have the keys to the car?”

  “Of course,” Lola’s hand disappeared inside her tote. Sandra, who I judged to be in her early forties, was sweating profusely in the thick heat. Obviously, working in the heat, clad in overalls, wasn’t something she did often. Sandra took the keys from Lola in her blue-gloved hand, thanked her, then hefted her case and moved toward the car.

  “Lola,” I said. “Before Sandra starts, take a good look at your car. Don’t touch anything. See if anything is missing or out of place.”

  Lola nodded and walked off with Sandra in the direction of her car. I asked Sammy if there were any new developments.

  “Still not much,” he said. He fished a small notebook from his back pocket and read from it. “No one—not the charter companies, airport employees, or parking attendants—remembers seeing anyone fitting Milton Lowry’s description yesterday or the day before. And no record Milton Lowry or Ms. Appel booked a flight. So I ask myself, why bother to dump the cars here and not complete the illusion of lovebirds slinking away to some love nest? The first part of the plan—killing Lowry, sanitizing the scene, snatching the girlfriend—that fits. Seems well planned and thorough. But dumping the cars here and not booking a charter or whatever—it don’t fit. It’s careless. It’s dumb and not on par with what happened at the farmhouse. I don’t know about you, but to me, this suggests two different sets of perps are involved. One set, the bad hombres from the farmhouse—they were smart and thorough. They knew what they were doing. But the perps who dumped the cars here, they were careless and maybe out of their element. And nowhere near as smart or as sophisticated of the first set.”

  Sammy was onto something. Dumping the cars at the airport didn’t seem to rise to the same level of sophistication and scrupulous planning as the operation conducted at the farmhouse. Maybe, if there were two sets of criminals operating, communications between them weren’t the best.

  We had to move to allow two cars to drive by. One of the cars, a silver Mercedes sedan, eased into an empty parking spot not too far from us.

  “You wanna know what I think?”

  “Would it matter if I said no?” I quipped.

  “I meant it rhetorically,” Sammy drawled. “Of course it doesn’t matter. Now, here’s what I think. This was a boneheaded move, no doubt there. But are they stupid or arrogant enough to think it would work? Anyone with half a brain had to know this wouldn’t hold water for long. The minute investigators start looking at flight manifests, the ruse is blown. Unless, Lowry had arranged for some unscheduled flight nobody knows about, which ain’t likely. You ask me, all this is just smoke and mirrors. Nothing to it. A distraction.”

  “I agree,” I said.

  Sammy mopped the sweat from his brow with a blue bandanna.

  “But what’s the end game here, J.J.? Are they after Lowry’s billions? Or is it something simpler, like revenge? Or maybe payback?”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t think this is only about money.”

  “The wife?”

  “Maybe,” I answered, and glanced up at the hazy sky. A small plane had just taken off while another circled to land. It was sticky-hot and the sluggish breeze had all but vanished. “But I don’t have the sense Mrs. Lowry is behind this. But she figures in it somehow.”

  “Well,” Sammy said, “if it ain’t the wife, then who? ’Cause someone close to the Lowrys has to be in on it. The perps know things an outsider wouldn’t.”

  “Agreed. Which is why we should focus on those closest to the Lowrys.”

  Lola approached. “I didn’t see anything unusual,” she said. “Even the driver’s seat and mirrors were left exactly as Lisel and I keep them set. I don’t get it.”

  Sammy and I exchanged a look.

  There was no doubt they had been careful about Lola’s car. The perps were good. But as good as they were, they had made mistakes. Their biggest mistake was letting me live.

  Twelve

  I scanned the parking lot, searching for Lowry’s blue Beemer sedan. I wanted Lola to have a look and see if anything stood out to her. But I failed to spot the sedan.

  “What happened to Lowry’s car?” I asked Sammy.

  “Forgot to tell you,” Sammy said. “Gone. Parking attendant said two guys came this morning in a pickup bearing Lowry Land Company logos, paid the fee, and drove it away.”

  “Gabriela,” I said out loud which surprised me. Something about her haste in removing the car rubbed me the wrong way. Why remove the car if, as she said, she believed her husband was still alive? It was as if she knew Milton wouldn’t need it anymore. Was she trying to hide something? The questions mounted.

  “Surprise, surprise,” Sammy said.

  “The wife again.”

  “Maybe Mrs. Lowry is just preparing herself for the inevitable,” I offered and immediately regretted it.

  Lola peered at me through her aviator shades. “If that’s true, then my sister won’t be coming back, either.”

  “We don’t know that, Lola, “I said. “I mean, they let me live. Anything is possible.”

  Her jaw tightened and her eyes welled with moisture. She pulled a tissue from her tote and dabbed at her eyes. I allowed her a moment.

  Sammy touched my elbow and said, “I’m gonna check up on Sandra.” He headed toward the SUV at a faster pace than normal.

  I knew Sammy. Expressions of emotion were not his thing. Tears were especially hard on him. Almost an allergy. I couldn’t blame him. I don’t do so well with them, either.

  It was uncomfortable standing there in the heat of late afternoon. As I was about to suggest we go in the terminal building and wait for Sandra, Lola said, “You’ve lost someone close before, haven’t you?” she asked me.

  “I have.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “Your father.”

  I nodded but said nothing else. My father’s death isn’t a subject I categorically refuse to discuss, but it isn’t one I eagerly broach, either. My childhood didn’t leave me with a lot of fond memories. My parents’ marriage ended in a bitter dispute. My father moved out of the house when I was twelve. My mother suffered from bipolar disorder, which was bad enough. Later on, the psychotic episodes got worse as she refused to take medications. Things went downhill when she started self-medicating with vodka. Life at home became unbearable. After her second stint in rehab failed, I moved in with my dad. My spirits, as well as my grades, improved dramatically.

  My father and I developed a strong bond. My achievements and failures became his to share, and he didn’t judge—unless I asked, of course. Despite the rigorous demands of the sizable insurance company he owned and ran, somehow he always found time to attend most of my endless string of football, baseball, basketball, and lacrosse games—even some of the out-of-towners. And when I chose to attend the U.S. Military Academy
at West Point, he beamed with pride. Some guilt over that decision still lingers in me. I told him I was sorry I wouldn’t be around for a long time. But I had no interest in my father’s business. I was eager for new experiences. I wanted to see the world. And he respected my decision. To say my father was the most significant influence in my life overlooks the real point. I will always miss his company and his counsel.

  Lola and I drifted into a silence. When I couldn’t stand the heat any longer, I said, “Why don’t we get out of the sun while we wait for Sandra to finish?” She agreed.

  I checked in with Sammy and told him of our plans and left him to roast with Sandra in the soggy heat.

  There was a small coffee shop in the terminal, where I got bottled water for her and iced tea for me. We sat at a table by the windows facing the runways. We were alone except for the cashier and a guy in golf clothes sitting several tables away. Outside, a twin-engine Piper taxied noisily in preparation for takeoff. Another plane rolled out behind it.

  “Should we talk to the police again?” she asked. “Try to convince them to take another look at my sister’s disappearance?”

  “Not a bad idea,” I said after a long sip of my ice-cold tea. “But we don’t have anything new to offer. As far as they’re concerned, two consenting adults may have traveled out of town together and didn’t tell anyone, and that’s it. ”

  “So what should I do?” she asked, her voice rising. “I can’t just sit around and wait for something to happen. My sister could be alive somewhere.”

  “I understand,” I said. “But we’re doing something. We’re following every lead we have.”

  “What about the TV networks?”

  “What about them?”

  “I’m sure if I call to tell them Milton Lowry was murdered and my sister kidnapped by the same people, every news outlet in the state will run with the story.”

  “Not a good idea.”

  “Why not? What’s there to lose?”

  “A lot,” I said. “Think about it. It is possible the kidnappers haven’t figured out they snatched the wrong twin. We go public, and they’ll realize they made a mistake that could torpedo their whole scheme. It may prompt them to cut their losses and disappear. If they do, we may never know what happened to your sister or Milton.”

  Her shoulders slumped and her eyes drifted back to the window.

  “Lola, tell me something,” I said. “You said Milton wanted to regain control of his affairs.” She nodded. “When did he mention that?”

  “Since I met him. It was a frequent topic.”

  “He may have spoken to a lawyer. He ever talk about it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He did. An old friend of his.”

  “Did he ever mention his name?”

  “Yes, he did.” She thought for a moment then said, “Jeffrey. Jeffrey Daniels.”

  Thirteen

  We were back on the westbound lanes of the Tamiami Trail by five o’clock. Before leaving the airport, I talked to Sammy. I wasn’t surprised when he said Sandra reported that aside from a few partial or smudged fingerprints—an indication the driver might have worn gloves—her survey had provided little in the way of clues. She promised to run the partial prints and hair samples collected from the car’s interior and get the results to Sammy as soon as possible. I asked him to arrange delivery of Lola’s car to her home, and he agreed, but not before reminding me that the cost would be added to my mounting tab.

  By the time we reached the western fringes of Miami, the sun was blinding me from the rearview mirror. Traffic was heavy with the mad dash home in full swing. I got off Route 41 and drove south on Palmetto Expressway, toward SW 40 Street. I was headed east toward Coral Gables. Earlier I had placed a call to my office and asked Consuelo, my office assistant, to get me a number for Jeffrey Daniels. She had no problem finding it.

  Jeffrey Daniels was a partner at a well-established boutique law firm in Miami Beach. It was fairly late in the day to find a guy like him still at his desk, but I gave it a shot anyway. The woman who answered my call said he was gone for the day and so was his assistant and to please call back in the morning. I told her it was a matter of urgency.

  “Do you know where I might find him?” I said. “I need to talk to him on behalf of an old friend, Mr. Milton Lowry. Do you know of him?” I dropped Lowry’s name on the off chance that it would elicit her cooperation. It worked. She rattled off a cell number and clicked off. I punched in the number, and Daniels picked up on the fifth ring.

  “Yes?” he said amid the din of animated conversation, laughter, and silverware clinking on china.

  “Jeffrey Daniels?” I said.

  “You’ve found him.” I couldn’t tell whether he was miffed at the interruption or just playing hard to get.

  “And you are . . . ?”

  I introduced myself and quickly mentioned my brief relationship with Lowry. I told him it was critical I speak with him. Immediately he wanted to know my location. I told him.

  “I’m at a place called Keye Grill on Grove Isle Drive,” he said. I heard him take a sip of a drink. “Do you need the address?”

  “I’ll find it,” I said, and ended the call. I didn’t know the restaurant, but I was familiar with Grove Isle Drive. It wouldn’t be hard to find.

  * * *

  Keye Grill was nestled among groves of towering palms on one side and the lush vegetation of an oceanfront boutique hotel on the other. I pulled up to the curb, where a young valet attendant wearing crisp livery and a friendly smile held the door open for Lola. After I exchanged my car keys for a parking stub, two more attendants dutifully parted open the restaurant’s ornate entry doors and welcomed us in. Inside, we were greeted by cool air, polite conversation, and an expansive view of Biscayne Bay, and in the distance, a slice of Miami Beach’s glittering towers set against the deepening night.

  I gave my name to one of the women at the reception desk, and one of them politely informed us Mr. Daniels was expecting us and asked us to follow her. The elegantly casual restaurant’s mellow recessed lighting and strategically placed flora gave it an air of sophisticated tropical charm.

  We found Jeffrey Daniels in the seaside garden area of the restaurant, sitting alone at a candlelit table with unimpeded views of the bay and city lights beyond. Daniels was a rather large man in his sixties. He wore the typical attire of successful Miami barrister: tropic-weight suit, with a colorful tie against his white shirt. Thick silvery-blond hair to the tops of his ears, tortoise-shell glasses mitigating a bulbous nose. His skin had the tan and deepening grooves of someone who had spent much time outdoors. Daniels had a tumbler in his freckled hand, something amber on ice, and nearly gone. The hostess announced our arrival with a cheery smile. Jeffrey Daniels pressed his napkin against his lips, stood, and graciously introduced himself. His sharp hazel eyes took my measure at once. It was one of those quick, not-so-interested-in-you glances. His attention was squarely on Lola, and I couldn’t fault him. She was a striking sight, a woman whose presence commanded the attention of any straight male in sight.

  He offered his hand to Lola. “Pleasure. Jeffrey Daniels.”

  “Lola Appel,” she said, shaking his hand.

  Then we shook hands. He invited us to join him and asked if we cared for a drink. House Shiraz for Lola, margarita on the rocks for me, we informed the waiter.

  “Tell me, Mr. Justice,” Jeffrey said as soon as the waiter had gone. “You’re an attorney, are you?”

  “I am.” I nodded. “Jason, please.”

  “Jason it is,” Daniels said as he repositioned the napkin on his lap. “My friends call me Jeff.” He turned his attention to Lola. “May I ask, Ms. Appel—”

  “Lola, please.”

  “Very well,” he said, smiling. “Lola, may I ask, are you the same Lola Milton likes to brag about so often?”

  “Oh, my.” She tilted her head visibly embarrassed by the revelation. “Milton was a very dear friend to us.”

  “Pardo
n me?” Jeff said, putting his tumbler down. A frown of confusion creased his brow. “You spoke of Milt in the past tense. Has something happened to him?”

  Lola eyed me. “I have reason to believe Milton Lowry may be dead,” I said.

  Daniels’s body stiffened. His manner became slow and deliberate. Like someone surprised that his gun has accidentally discharged, and hence questions his judgment.

  “Milton Lowry dead?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “How?”

  “Murdered,” I said. “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “Impossible.” His eyes narrowed. He was looking at me differently. “I spoke with him just yesterday morning. He was headed to the old farmhouse. Besides, I haven’t heard a word about it. And believe me, if Milton Lowry were dead, everyone would know.”

  “That is because someone has gone to great lengths to make it seem as though Milton is away with his girlfriend. Which, of course, isn’t the case.”

  Jeffrey eyed Lola for a long moment, then leaned his back against his chair. He then turned to me. “How do you know he was murdered?”

  “You spoke to him yesterday?” Jeffrey nodded. “Did he say why he was going to the farmhouse?”

  “To meet someone.”

  “Did he mention who?” I asked.

  “No. He did not.” He thought for a moment before speaking again. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “I was at the farmhouse,” I said. “His meeting was with me.”

  “With you?” Jeffrey’s jaw went slack and his expression turned to one of disbelief. “Tell me what happened.”

  I told him. I also told him that Lowry’s car and Lola’s, too, were left at the Naples airport. “Lola’s twin sister, Lisel, was driving Lola’s car that day,” I added. “She is missing.”

  “Are you certain?” Jeffrey’s frown of confusion deepened.