Dead Wrong (Jason Justice Mystery Book 2)

by Ralph Zeta

  “Tell me about your time living with them.”

  “Six years I work there,” she said and took a deep breath.

  “You didn’t like her, I get that. But what about Milton?”

  “When Junior home, everything right. When he gone, and she home, boy, it was hell. I stayed far away. Didn’t leave my room, didn’t show my face nowhere. Never far enough.”

  “Why did you stay so long?”

  She averted her eyes. “’Cause Junior took care of us. I took care of him.”

  “By ‘us,’ you mean you and your sons?”

  She sighed heavily. “More.”

  The vagueness of her response caught my attention. “Can you be more specific?”

  She glanced down at the hands folded on her lap. “Junior’s daddy, Bull—he wild. Wild Bull, my momma used to call him. He good to my mother. To all of us. Took care of everything.”

  I must have unwittingly regarded her differently. The realization must have shown in my eyes.

  Her face darkened. “That be right. I’m Bull’s kin. Oldest daughter, if it can be called that. Not many folk ’cept Junior knew. Not even the wife. And Junior never told no one. We was a secret.”

  “How many others besides you?”

  “You mean by-blow?” I nodded. She shrugged. “Don’t know.” She regarded me with those dark eyes before she went on. “My mother said nineteen. Maybe more. Bull got around. Seven now gone. Dead. Two crippled. Four in jail. The rest, they scatter. I’ll scatter soon, too. ‘Nuthing for me here no more.”

  “Because Milton is gone?”

  She nodded. I could sense the bleak enormity of her circumstances weighing down on her.

  “If Junior gone, then there ain’t no hope. The wife gets the money. And us, we don’t get ‘nuthing. This here work—the nails and cleaning houses—that don’t pay enough.”

  “You think because Milton is dead you’ll never get any more money?”

  She gave me a hard, bitter glance. “I know it. The wife, she done it before. When Junior in the hospital, she told lies. Put me in jail. Now that Junior dead, who’s gonna stop her? You?”

  I smiled. “You know what a will is?” She shrugged. “It’s a legal document—a last will—that people like Milton, people with a lot of money and many relatives, have a lawyer prepare. It has instructions about Milton’s wishes for the distribution of his money and property after his death.”

  “So?”

  “Milton’s last will calls for the creation of a foundation—like a separate bank account that can’t be touched by anyone. Not even his wife. The foundation’s only purpose is to provide financial support for all of Bull’s children. That includes you. So you can rest easy. Soon you’ll be able to provide for your son.”

  Her face showed a mix of relief and confusion. She glanced at Sammy. “He say true?”

  Sammy smiled. “Every word.”

  “You have my word,” I said. “I promise you, Milton didn’t forget you or the rest of the families.”

  She didn’t speak. I had the impression she didn’t know how to respond. Or whether she could trust me at all. That was understandable, but I still hadn’t learned much from her.

  “But the fact is, nothing will happen until Milton’s body is found,” I said. “For now, all the police know is, he’s missing. For the terms of the will to take effect, we need to find him.”

  She eyed me carefully. “What you want from me?”

  “Information.”

  “What information?” she asked.

  “While you were working at their home, did you see anything unusual?”

  “Like what?”

  “Milton told me he thought he was being followed. Ever see anyone you didn’t recognize lurking around? Anyone that seemed out of place?

  “No. Nuthing like that.”

  “Your brothers or sisters live near you?”

  “No. Like I said, we scatter. Some in Oklahoma. West Virginia. Louisiana. I stayed put.”

  “What about your sons? They left, too?” I asked as politely as I could.

  “They . . .” She caught herself as if she had a sudden realization. “Why you ask?”

  “It’s only a matter of time until Milton is found. And when it happens, Milton’s lawyer will need to know who to send checks to.” Not an outright lie, but rather a deliberate bending of the truth in order to pry vital information from a reluctant informant, if not an outright accessory to murder.

  “The youngest boy lives with me. One boy—the oldest—he in Oklahoma. He a mechanic. The two other—Sam and Jesse—they move ’round some.”

  “You don’t see your boys much, do you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Must be hard.”

  She shrugged but said nothing.

  “When was the last time you saw them?” Sammy asked.

  “Oldest gone long time,” she said. “Five years. Jesse and Sam, they showed up. To visit. . .” She seemed suddenly distracted by something behind me.

  I followed her gaze.

  Two burly men of dark skin and hard faces and wearing dark overalls walked past our table.

  Paula slid out of her seat. Before walking away from the table, she hesitated, faced me, then said, “Find Junior.”

  And she was gone.

  I took a moment to scan the faces of the lunch crowd at the restaurant but didn’t find the two men whose presence had rattled Paula. I stood up and scanned the restaurant, as if looking for the restrooms. The two men were nowhere to be found.

  Martha left soon after Paula’s hasty exit. I paid the bill, and we left the restaurant.

  “You catch sight of the two men that startled Pula?” Sammy asked as the soggy blanket of midday heat enveloped us.

  “They were hard to miss.”

  “Where they did go?”

  “They went into the kitchen. Must’ve gone out the back.”

  As we crossed the parking lot, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck bristle. I slid into the front passenger seat and closed the door.

  “I have the feeling we’re being watched.”

  “That right?” Sammy looked at me for a moment, then said, “Well, I damn sure hope so.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “If someone is watching us, then it means we’re on the right track.”

  “It also means Paula was less than forthcoming.”

  “Oh, no doubt,” Sammy said, turning up the AC. “She was holding back. She’s involved. We just don’t know how she figures in this.”

  We sat in the parking lot with the air conditioning on high and the radio muted. We took inventory of the comings and goings at the strip mall, studying every face, every motion, however innocuous looking, and every vehicle that came and went. A few minutes later, after failing to spot any signs of surveillance, we left.

  It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes, especially when venturing beyond my normal comfort zone, I feel restless and unsettled. It’s the subtle but relentless gnawing of unwarranted introspection entering my thoughts, asserting itself. Sometimes, the feeling can get strong enough to trigger what I call my tactical defense mode, even if I’ve failed to identify a physical threat. This was one of those times. I had the sense the killers were close, perhaps watching us and we just couldn’t see them.

  “Let’s see if we catch us a tail,” Sammy said as he steered into traffic.

  After fifteen minutes of driving down random streets of suburban Fort Pierce and failing to spot signs of surveillance, we gave up and headed back home.

  I felt mild disappointment that we weren’t followed. Perhaps my sense of disappointment was born out of frustration over the slow progress we were making. What we had learned thus far resembled the scattered pieces of a vague and complex puzzle that becomes increasingly cryptic with every added piece. And I couldn’t shake the notion we were missing something significant.

  A question kept coming to the fore: who was the objective in all this? If Milton wasn’t capable o
f earning deadly enemies, his wife was just the opposite. I was sure she had earned a fair number of enemies on her way to billionaire row. Perhaps even an enemy or two bold enough to do the unthinkable.

  “You mentioned you know someone who runs a personal protection company,” I said.

  “Yeah. Spencer.” Sammy’s eyes stayed on the heavy traffic ahead. “Spencer Tillman. We go way back. Why?”

  “I’m thinking that whatever the killers’ plan was, it started to unravel when I showed up at the farm. They could have killed me and dumped my body along with Lowry, but they didn’t. I think the only reason they let me live is because someone in that crew is smart enough to understand criminal procedure.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “That Lowry wasn’t the target.”

  “Who, then?” Sammy asked. “The wife?”

  “What if I’m right?”

  Sammy dialed Spencer Tillman’s private line. I was relieved to hear Tillman offered to arrange security for Gabriela Lowry personally. I dialed her number. I had no idea how she would react to the news that she was getting a security detail. I didn’t expect it to go smoothly.

  Mrs. Lowry’s assistant answered. Gabriela was in a meeting and could not be interrupted. I had the assistant tell her boss to expect a call from one Spencer Tillman and it was imperative she take the call, then clicked off.

  To flush out the killers would require a new tack. The little voice in my head kept insisting they were not done, that this was far from over. I had no idea who we were up against or where they might strike next. I hoped the visit with Paula Jumper had been enough to shake the fruit loose from the tree.

  Eighteen

  My cell phone trilled as we exited from I-95. It was a private number.

  “Hello?” I answered.

  “Justice?” said the vaguely familiar voice.

  “Sheriff?”

  “There’s been a development,” Powell said. “A body is been found. Female, Caucasian, mid-thirties. No ID. The body was dumped in a drainage canal two counties away. It’s been exposed to the elements and, uh, local fauna.”

  I felt a vise clamp down on my chest. I had expected the call, but I wasn’t as prepared for the stark news as I had thought.

  “Lisel Appel?”

  “Looks that way,” Powell said.

  “You’ve seen the body?”

  “I have. It’s in rough shape. Visual ID is not possible. But hair, approximate age, height and weight, and so on, match the missing twin. We’ll have to wait on DNA for confirmation.”

  “Any signs of rape?”

  “M.E. says she was. Repeatedly.”

  DNA testing would take time. The chances the body belonged to Lisel Appel were fairly high. I just hadn’t expected the body would be found so soon, if ever. The discovery was another blow to the killer’s carefully choreographed deception. But why leave Lisel’s body where it could be easily found? Most canals, even the ones deep in wilderness preserves, receive some form of regular maintenance to maintain flow and prevent flooding. Was it a careless oversight? Or was it perhaps a case where the left hand wasn’t deft enough to keep up with the right hand?

  The news of the discovery of Lisel’s body soured my mood. That she had been repeatedly raped only made it worse. I had to wonder what kind of monster rapes and kills a young woman and leaves the body to rot.

  The discovery of the body brought a renewed focus on the magnitude of the tragedy. It was no longer a case of possible foul play. Milton Lowry was missing and a young woman was brutally murdered. I thought about Lola. I couldn’t even fathom her reaction to the shocking news. I expected she would be crushed.

  “Has Ms. Appel been notified?”

  “That’s why I’m calling,” Powell said. “Mr. Lowry was taken by force in my county. It appears her murder is connected to Lowrys disappearance, so I’ve taken jurisdiction. I’m on my way to see Ms. Appel. I thought it would be best if you tagged along. Might make things . . . easier.”

  * * *

  Lola opened the door. Her reaction when she saw Powell standing in the shadow of her foyer was expected: uncloaked dread. But her reaction when she spotted me in the shadows beyond Powell’s shoulders came as a shock.

  “No, no, no!” she wailed. Her pale eyes bored into mine, and her expression shifted from dread to horrified shock. Her hands shot up and stopped over her lips as if to contain a scream.

  I felt my heart hit the floor.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Appel . . .” Powell started but couldn’t get through it.

  “No! Not Lisel!” she howled. “Oh, please, God, no!”

  She staggered back into the cool air of her home.

  I closed the door behind me. Her face was a mask of agony. When her knees began to wobble, I was compelled to reach around Powell and help steady her. As I drew closer, her left arm jutted forward, palm out. I stepped back. With her eyes closed and her hands over her lips, she collapsed on the couch.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Lola.” It was all I could muster.

  There were no words or deeds that could possibly ease the pain tearing at her. So, out of respect, Powell and I stood silent and still and watched her crumple into a hell not of her own making. For some things, there is just no near-term comfort to be had.

  Sometime later, after a long while in the bathroom, Lola emerged, looking far more composed and joined us in the living area. The initial shock had subsided enough for her to talk.

  Powell reached into his shirt pocket. He unfolded a piece of paper. It was a color image of what he said was a leather bracelet the victim wore around her left ankle.

  Lola studied the image. She pressed her eyes closed and nodded.

  “Do you recognize it?”

  She kept nodding, and new freshets of tears streaked her face. “It’s not leather,” Lola said in a low raspy whisper as she resettled on a corner of the couch. She took a moment to wipe her nose with a tissue. “It’s braided camel hair. I have one, too. We bought them together last year.”

  Lola said she wanted to make arrangements and have the body taken to a mortuary. Powell explained that the medical examiner wouldn’t release the body until his work was completed, that it would take as long as a week.

  Not much else was said after that. Finally, after a long silence, Lola asked us for privacy.

  Before we left, I gave Lola a business card—something I had neglected to do earlier. I scribbled my cell number on it.

  She accepted the card but said nothing.

  “Call if you need anything. A friendly ear. Whatever. Just call. Anytime.”

  Her head bobbed up and down.

  Before I could reach my car Powell intercepted me. “Justice.”

  He regarded me with the mildly concealed interest of a cat considering a meal it may have to work hard to get.

  “There are certain things about this job that really set me off.”

  I had no idea what he meant. “Such as?”

  “People keeping me in the dark.”

  “I’m keeping you in the dark?”

  “We had an arrangement.”

  “Sherriff,” I said with as much deference as I could manage. “I’ve told you everything.”

  “Sure doesn’t look that way to me.”

  “What is it you think I’m keeping from you?”

  Powell just stared at me, obviously waiting for me to say something. When I didn’t play along, we drifted into an awkward silence.

  I realized Powell was in a tenuous position. The location of Lisel’s body had to present significant jurisdictional issues. And a man with powerful connections may have been killed in his county and the case remained unsolved. Powell had to be feeling the pressure. A mishandled case could easily torpedo his career.

  “If you expect me to say please, you’re out of luck,” the sheriff said. “I’m the law here. I expect you to keep me in the loop or you’re done.”

  “I don’t know what it is you think I’ve kept from yo
u,” I said, “but can I offer a suggestion?”

  Powell’s hard countenance gave way to a faintly bored look. “Should I feel overwhelming joy or something?”

  “That’s up to you, sheriff.”

  Another beat of silence while I allowed Powell to steam a little.

  “What kind of suggestion?” He finally asked.

  “Gabriela Lowry.”

  He cocked his head, but his face remained impassive. Russian would be easier to read.

  “What about her?”

  “I think Lowry’s disappearance, Lisel Appel’s murder, the cars at the airport, all of it is a ploy to make it seem as if Lowry went away with his girlfriend—something we both know never happened.”

  “What are you saying?” He crossed his thick arms before him. “That Mrs. Lowry is behind it?”

  “I don’t think so. To me, this looks like a set up, ultimately to shine a light on Mrs. Lowry and perhaps harm her by making her look as complicit or directly responsible for her husband’s disappearance.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s the best-case scenario”

  Powell eyed me. “And the worst?”

  “Getting rid of her entirely. As in killing her.”

  “Why?”

  “Payback.” This drew another skeptical glance from Powell. “Come on, Sheriff,” I said. “I’m sure you’re aware that Mrs. Lowry has a habit of pissing people off. Maybe she pissed off the wrong person.”

  “And you know someone who fits the bill, don’t you?”

  “A woman named Paula Jumper. She’s Milton’s illegitimate half sister.”

  I paused and waited for a reaction from Powell. He gave me nothing.

  “Paula is not the only illegitimate sibling in the Lowry family tree. It appears Bull Lowry was very, um, very active in the community.”

  Powell regarded me with a vacant expression. “Is there a point?”

  “According to Milton Lowry’s lawyer, Paula is one of maybe twenty illegitimate children by the old man. But Milton’s father never abandoned those children or their families. And after his father died, Milton continued looking after the families. He sent money regularly.”