Dead Wrong (Jason Justice Mystery Book 2)

by Ralph Zeta

  “Hey,” I said, and headed straight for my desk. “Please tell me you have something.”

  “Then prepare to be disappointed,” he said, and stood up. “Lola’s car was a bust. The prints we found were too degraded to be of use.”

  “Sanitized.”

  “Which should tell us a hell of a lot.”

  “Agreed,” I said as I took off my jacket and sat at my desk. Who the hell are we dealing with here?

  “How about Mrs. Lowry?”

  “Now, that lady is a piece of work,” Sammy shook his head. “Never seen anything like her before. She’s hidden most of her businesses behind layers and layers of bullshit. To say it’s like an endless fun house of corporate fronts and shells don’t even come close. It’s almost impossible to figure out what she owns and how big a piece of anything is hers. You get past one layer only to slam against another layer, then another. She has interests in scores of domestic companies, some with multinational subsidiaries in half dozen countries—shell companies, most likely. It’ll take a platoon of CPAs a year to make sense of it all. And in my experience, when someone insulates themselves to that extent, is because they’re hiding something.”

  “I had an interesting conversation last night,” I said.

  “Oh?” Sammy raised an eyebrow and slid into one of the chairs before my desk. “Pray tell.”

  “I spoke with Jeffrey Daniels, Milton Lowry’s personal attorney, and old friend. He drafted Lowry’s will.”

  “Now, that’s something,” Sammy said. “Was he forthcoming?”

  “Very,” I said. “Our interests seem to align.” I went on to describe my conversation with Daniels, what I learned about Stephen Klein, now deceased, the gloves-off, claws-out sisterly feud between Gabriela and her sister, Klein’s association with Mrs. Lowry, and his subsequent conviction. I asked Sammy to look into Bull Lowry’s illegitimate brood.

  “Interesting,” Sammy said. “People around Mrs. Lowry seem unusually prone to untimely demise.”

  I told him Sheriff Powell had called to set up a meeting. Sammy wasn’t surprised.

  “From what I know about Powell,” Sammy said, “he’s one tough cop. A hard-ass, but a fair cop.”

  Sammy got up to leave, then stopped in the doorway to offer the name of a good bondsman he knew.

  “Just getting in front of the train, J.J.,” he said. “Last thing I need is you calling me to bail you out when Powell throws your lard ass in jail.”

  I waved him off.

  It was close to ten when Rene showed Lola into my office. Rene asked Lola if she would like something to drink; she declined.

  Lola, in a somber dress and dark heels, joined me in the sitting area. She wasn’t wearing much makeup that I could tell. She seemed more anxious than the day before.

  “I shouldn’t have come,” she blurted.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “What if it’s bad news? I don’t think I’m prepared for that.”

  “Your sister?” I asked, and immediately kicked myself. Who else, Einstein? Sometimes I marvel at the inane things that spring unbidden from my mouth.

  She nodded and kept her lips pressed together as if to force herself not to say another word. It was obvious she was living with an awful burden, doing what she could to prepare for an outcome that looked bleaker by the hour. I studied her face. She seemed different: the gaunt look, the puffy eyes.

  When I remarked that she looked a little tired, she said, “I haven’t slept well.” Even the timbre of her voice had changed. “Terrible nightmares. I keep seeing my sister’s face. Lisel covered in blood, screaming my name.” She paused, composed herself, then said, “I don’t know how much more I can take.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. The words sounded woefully inadequate.

  “You never stop to think something like this can happen to you. You think, if you live a decent life, respect others, and play by the rules, that somehow you’ll be spared.”

  “Spared from what?”

  “Becoming a statistic. One more victim in a sea of faceless victims no one will ever remember.”

  * * *

  Consuelo showed Sheriff Powell into my office. He hadn’t come alone. With him was a balding man in a dark pinstriped suit perhaps a size too large for his thin frame. Rene asked if they cared for coffee or water. They didn’t—a clear indication the visit would be brief. Powell introduced his companion as Todd Hamm of the State Bureau of Criminal Investigations. I introduced Lola, and as I was about to point out that it was not her but her twin sister Lisel who was missing, Powell cut me off.

  “Let me save you some time, Mr. Justice,” Powell said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll get straight to the point. The lab boys found trace evidence at the Lowry farm that seems to back up your story.”

  “Is that right?” I allowed myself a small smile. I suppressed the I told you so at the tip of my tongue. There was nothing to celebrate.

  Powell nodded. “Mr. Lowry’s absence may not have been . . . voluntary.”

  “What about my sister?” Lola asked.

  “The status of your sister, Ms. Appel, I’m sorry to say, is unknown at this time. But I’ll say this: every law enforcement department in the state has been notified of her disappearance. Rest assured, plenty of people are actively on the lookout for your sister. As soon as we know something, I’m sure you’ll be notified immediately.”

  I saw Lola’s shoulders slump. Three days had elapsed since her sister disappeared. Odds that she would be found alive were slim at best, and she seemed to understand that. We all watched in silence as she sank back into the couch’s soft embrace.

  “What kind of evidence?” I asked, ending the silence.

  “I’ll let Lieutenant Hamm tell you,” Powell said.

  Todd Hamm cleared his throat before he spoke. “We found spots where blood had collected between the gaps in the floor planks of the study,” he said in an even, clinical tone. “The blood we recovered was degraded—most likely the result of strong cleaners. But one spot yielded enough material to determine that the blood was B negative. This is significant. Milton Lowry was B negative. It’s an extremely rare blood type. Less than two percent of white Americans are B negative. For African Americans and Hispanics, it’s less than one percent. The probability the blood belongs to Milton Lowry is fairly high, but we’ll have to wait for DNA results to know for certain.”

  I looked at Powell for a moment, and he gave me a long challenging look. It seemed that informing me that the blood evidence backed my story would be the extent of his apology.

  “Thank you, Sheriff, Lieutenant Hamm,” I said. “I appreciate you taking the time to tell me personally.”

  “Just doing my job,” Powell said. A veiled grin crossed his lips. It was a smile I didn’t particularly care for. It was the sort of smile that might cross a hunter’s lips when he realizes he has been outmaneuvered by his prey.

  “Well, then let me share a few things I’ve recently come across,” I said.

  “Hold on just a minute,” Powell said. “Have you been investigating on your own?”

  “I have,” I said, with my best friendly smile.

  “Why?”

  “Several reasons,” I said, opting for a certain amount of transparency. “Most importantly, I have decided to represent Lola Appel and her sister in this investigation. Then there is Milton Lowry, who had expressed an interest in retaining me.”

  “Getting in the way of a police investigation is not a good idea,” Powell said, punctuating his words with a withering glance.

  “I’m sure you’ve checked me out,” I said, and held his gaze. I wanted him to know he shouldn’t expect me to watch from the sidelines.

  Powell remained silent; his inscrutable gaze never wavered from me.

  “Then you shouldn’t be surprised I’ve been digging. I was there. I witnessed a murder—a murder you were reluctant to believe had occurred. And a woman with close ties to Lowry is missing. And if t
hat weren’t enough, I believe the killers knew that Lowry would be there that day. Maybe they even used me to get him there.”

  I paused to let that sink in. But Powell wasn’t much for pregnant pauses.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Just so we’re clear, Sheriff, I don’t intend to interfere with your investigation. But I’m going to keep digging. I give you my word, I will keep you informed of anything we may uncover.”

  Powell nodded sagely. His lips creased with a thin smile that seemed to evaporate upon contact with the air. My assertion that I would keep digging didn’t seem to be much of a surprise. I wondered whether Powell might even privately welcome my involvement. As a private citizen, even though an officer of the court, I could do things the rule book prevented law enforcement from doing.

  “Okay,” Powell said, and sat back. “What about that PI you got working with you—he come up with anything?”

  “You know Sammy Raj?” I said, a bit surprised when I shouldn’t have been surprised at all. Powell was a meticulous cop. He’d done his homework.

  He shook his head. “We know some of the same people.”

  And that was as much as I was going to get from Powell.

  “Unfortunately, we have very little. Mr. Raj had a sheriff’s crime lab investigator scour Ms. Appel’s car at the airport. It had been scrubbed. We interviewed airport personnel and charter companies. No one recalls seeing anyone fitting Lowry’s description. But you should know that Ms. Appel discovered that some of her clothes—bathing suits, shorts, resort wear—and her suitcases and passport were missing from her home. Someone has gone out of their way to make it appear as if Lowry and his girlfriend are away together.”

  Powell considered that briefly. “To what end?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  He gave me a stern look. “What are you not telling me, Mr. Justice?”

  I turned to Lt. Hamm. “Would you excuse us for a moment?”

  The two lawmen exchanged a look. Powell nodded. Hamm stood up, and we shook hands before he stepped out of my office.

  Lola started to get up. I reached out and placed my hand on her wrist. “Not you.”

  She smiled weakly and said, I have a call to make. I’ll be right outside.”

  When we were alone, I asked Powell, “How well do you know Mrs. Lowry?”

  He pursed his lips and said, “I don’t. Met her the morning we showed up at your place. Why?”

  “She a person of interest?”

  He smiled a shark smile. “Can’t comment.”

  “I’ve come across some information that may be pertinent,” I said. “Goes to motive.”

  “Such as?”

  “A few years ago, Mr. Lowry was in a coma for months. After his release from the hospital, according to Mrs. Lowry, he began acting erratically. Out of concern for him, she went to court and claimed mental incompetence. The judge agreed, and she was named his guardian and his personal fortune placed in conservatorship. There is evidence Mrs. Lowry may have abused her position as guardian and improperly appropriated funds from Lowry’s accounts.”

  “How did you come by this information?”

  “I spoke to Mr. Lowry’s personal lawyer,” I said. “When Lowry discovered the discrepancies in his accounts. He asked the lawyer to look into the matter. With the aid of a forensic accounting firm, they discovered the extent of the shortfall.”

  “Explains Lowry’s interest in you,” Powell said. He appeared momentarily taken aback, as if something had suddenly become clear to him. “So your theory is what? A squabble over missing money is the reason Lowry’s missing?”

  “I wish it were that simple,” I said. “But we’re not talking petty cash. The shortfall to Lowry’s accounts exceeds the billion dollar mark.”

  Powell nodded but said nothing. We drifted into silence.

  The sheriff seemed lost in his own thoughts. And he had reason to be. A nine-figure fraud is bad enough, but when that crime also includes the murder of a prominent, well-connected individual, the case takes on a whole new life, and can easily become the kind of event that can make or break even the most promising career.

  “I’ve been in law enforcement over twenty years,” Powell said. “Never seen anything like this. Nothing makes sense. And in my experience, when things don’t add up, it means I’ve got my line in the wrong catfish hole.”

  “I agree,” I said. “But while I don’t believe Mrs. Lowry is directly involved in what happened to her husband, she figures in this somehow. The only question is how.”

  “Maybe you’re right, and maybe not. But whatever way this goes, it’s going to get mucked up quickly. And I hate muck. You may have your reasons for getting involved. Maybe you want retribution for them putting you down. Or maybe you’re in this to score a few brownie points with the good-looking twin. I don’t know and I don’t care. For me, it’s different. This is my job. By all indications, it looks like a man was murdered in my backyard. It is my duty to find those responsible and get ’em off the streets. So I want you to listen to me real carefully. My paycheck is my family’s lifeline. I’ve got one daughter in college and another one heading out next year. I won’t risk their future for anyone or anything. Now, I’m willing to cut you some slack. But the moment you become a problem, I’m bringing the hammer down. We clear?”

  Fifteen

  A half hour after Powell and Lt. Hamm left, Lola remained on my couch, hugging her knees, huddled in her misery. The sheriff’s visit had struck a nerve with her. She peppered me with more questions than I had answers to. Mercifully, a call from Sammy interrupted the barrage.

  The conversation with Sammy was brief. I updated him on what Lieutenant Thompson had said, and we ended the call. Two client calls in quick succession consumed a good billable hour of time. Done with the calls, I turned my attention back to Lola. She was sitting in the same spot, staring out the window, lost in her thoughts. It wasn’t an easy thing to do, watching her sink under the unimaginable burden of pain and guilt.

  When I called her name, she turned toward me, her pale eyes red and glistening.

  “I don’t get it,” she said. “Why leave my car and Milton’s at the airport and not bother to complete the illusion?”

  “Forced error,” I said.

  She frowned confusion at me.

  “I think the killers knew that Milton would be at the farm that day. But I arrived early and surprised them. It’s possible they concluded that killing me would only complicate their plans, so they improvised and concocted a ploy to cast doubts on any statement I might give the police. And it worked—for a while. Now, dumping the cars at the airport, to me, has some significance. It says the killers may have known enough about Milton to know his movements, but weren’t aware that he no longer had use of his jet.”

  Her head bobbed with impatience. “So what are they after, then?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I don’t think it’ll be long before we know more.”

  She nodded absently, then pried herself off the couch, slipped on her shoes, and stood tall before me. Her neat ponytail was gone, her thick hair a bit disheveled.

  “I must look terrible,” she said, reading my thoughts, and ran her fingers through her hair.

  I smiled. “I’m sure I wouldn’t have to go far to find plenty of guys only too happy to disagree.”

  I got a sad smile for my efforts. She asked to use the restroom and left my office.

  Watching her walk away—the sway of the hair, the graceful gait—reminded me of the exceptional people that once in a great while, if we are fortunate enough, unexpectedly enter our life. Their unrelenting resolve, their unyielding spirit, makes them shine above the rest.

  She returned about ten minutes later, her hair back in a tight ponytail, her eyes dry. She was going back to her shop—to take her mind elsewhere, she said. I promised to keep her in the loop, and she left.

  Around three in the afternoon, Renée informed me I had a call from a wo
man named Charlotte Aguirre, Gabriela Lowry’s executive assistant. I took the call. Charlotte asked if I would be available to meet her boss around eight at her home in Coral Gables, and out of sheer curiosity, I agreed.

  * * *

  Gabriela Lowry lived deep within the desirable residential enclave of Gables Estates. I drove up the long date palm lined driveway to a Spanish Revival house at the center of a verdant lot bordered on two sides by a navigable canal. The house was large, but not in the overdone style so prevalent of the new-money tract mansions now endemic to southern Florida. The home’s architecture had an understated style that reminded me of century-old estates along the Catalonian coast of Northern Spain. Discreet lighting bathed the stucco exterior in warm hues, darkened windows on the second level made the place look unoccupied. I parked on stone pavers and walked up to the large foyer.

  Before my finger reached the bell button, the front door opened and a severely blond woman of about fifty appeared. She wore a black dress and a broad smile on her roundish face.

  “Mr. Justice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Welcome. My name is Maria.” She spoke with a noticeable accent—Slavic, from the few syllables I had heard. She stood aside and held the door open. “Won’t you come in? Mrs. Lowry is expecting you.”

  Maria led me across a spacious vestibule to a nearby study. A bohemian sanctuary. Off-white couches facing a glass-and-bonze coffee table the size of a single bed flanked a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that offered an expansive view of the canal, moored boats, and peer-group homes across the waterway. Tall bookshelves brimmed with books and framed mementos of trips—Rio, Venice, Paris, the Arctic, East African savannas, and lush Polynesian waterfalls perhaps in Hawaii and many others—were scattered among the shelves, along with random pieces of art.