Dead Wrong (Jason Justice Mystery Book 2)

by Ralph Zeta

  Powell nodded sagely, as if the revelation wasn’t news to him.

  “So, how does Paula Jumper figure in?”

  “Paula lived in the Lowrys’ home in Miami. Worked for them. When Milton became ill, Mrs. Lowry accused Paula of theft. Had her arrested. Charges were later dropped. And if accusing someone of a crime they didn’t commit and then firing them isn’t enough to piss a body off, when Mrs. Lowry was awarded guardianship over her husband’s affairs, she stopped the money Milton had been sending to those families. Think about it, those families had come to depend on those checks for years, and then one day, suddenly and inexplicably, they found themselves cut off. No more checks. That’s a lot of pissed-off people.”

  “So you think this is about some money Lowry was paying these families?”

  “I think that money may have played a role. But ultimately, this about Mrs. Lowry.”

  “Someone looking to even an old score?”

  “I think so.”

  “You got anything besides wild theories?”

  “Not yet.”

  Powell cast his glance down, then, with some resignation in his voice, he said, “I’m going to be honest here. I don’t like what I’ve heard so far. I’ve got enough on my plate already. Besides, this is Miami-Dade County. Not much I can do. Not my jurisdiction.”

  “You’re right.” I smiled broadly and walked away.

  “Where are you going?” he asked behind me.

  “To tell Mrs. Lowry she may be in danger.”

  “You keep me posted, you hear?”

  “Now why would I do that, Sheriff?” I said as I unlocked my car. I held the door open.

  He glowered at me.

  “This is Miami. Not your jurisdiction, remember?” I gave him one of my best smiles and slid into the driver’s seat.

  Nineteen

  I had to wait for a group of distracted pedestrians to clear the entrance to the underground parking garage of the high-rise located along trendy Brickell Avenue in Miami Beach. Waiting for a break in the foot traffic, I felt the back of my neck bristle again. It was the second time that day I had felt it. Coincidence? Or was it paranoia? Not likely. But whatever the case, I learned long ago not to ignore my internal alarms.

  I surveyed the visible slices of the world around me in the rearview and side mirrors of the car. Spotting a tail amid the thick crowds moving about on both sides of the busy boulevard would be next to impossible.

  Brickell Avenue, with its row of gleaming skyscrapers reflecting the azure hues of Biscayne Bay, is a rich, vibrant multicultural area of Miami. In the past twenty years, the area has become the hub of the city’s banking and finance culture, and the fastest growing area of the city. In the 1970s, Brickell was a sleepy amalgamation of low-rise residential buildings dotted here and there by small clusters of stately mansions and a handful of international banks. The area remained substantially unchanged for decades. But with the arrival of the new millennium, an era of rapid development transformed the once tranquil beachfront area into a bustling commercial zone boasting a multitude of banks as well as a wide assortment of insurance, real estate, and finance companies. The lively area, with its enviable list of fine restaurants, bars, and nightclubs, has surpassed downtown Miami in cultural significance as well as tourism and has been dubbed the “New Miami.”

  Once inside the shelter of the garage, I exchanged my keys for a parking stub. The scorching afternoon heat had mellowed to something akin to a Finnish sauna. I made a casual appraisal of the unfolding street life beyond the garage entrance and saw nothing of concern. But the bristling, edgy sensation persisted. What was I missing?

  I walked out onto the sidewalk.

  Brickell was ensnarled with the usual late-afternoon traffic. An endless stream of footloose tourists and harried businesspeople filled the sidewalks. I scanned the faces coming at me. Nothing. I then walked north for half a block, crossed the street, and walked back on the opposite side. Again, nothing stood out. Still, my alarms kept blaring. It is rare, but sometimes those flags go up for no discernible reason. Maybe that was the case this time. I gave up.

  I rode the elevator to the top floor. On the way up, my mind drifted back to my conversation with Powell. I felt a certain degree of unhappiness with myself. My way of dealing with a sharp, by-the-book cop who, against his best judgment, had granted me considerable leeway to delve into matters normally off limits to a civilian like me was not the smartest move.

  After a subtle ding, the elevators doors parted onto an expansive reception area. Gleaming wood floors, sleek leather seating, and an improbably tall wall of corporate glass, and beyond it, a magnificent, dizzying display of intense blues and greens glinted and shimmered with an iridescence I had never before seen. The ocean view was staggering in its sweep, and for a brief moment, I became convinced that the tiny dark speck on the horizon was the little island of Bimini.

  “Good afternoon,” said a female voice

  somewhere ahead of me. “Welcome to Prado Partners.” She was one of four women staffing a long reception desk. “May I help you?”

  “Gabriela Lowry,” I said. Although she was gorgeous, I had to force myself to keep my eyes on her rather than the view.

  She gave me a sideways glance that said, Oh, no, you don’t.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I don’t,” I said. “But she’ll want to see me.”

  She regarded me with a healthy dose of skepticism. Maybe it was my too-casual attire—dark slacks, sleeves rolled up to the elbows of my light blue open-collar shirt—or maybe it was my overly tanned, leathery skin, or perhaps my size, that failed to convince her I wasn’t delusional. Compared to the soberly dressed men and women moving about the space I no doubt looked as though I had wandered into the wrong office.

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Jason Justice,” I said with my patented always friendly and disarming smile. “I’m an attorney.”

  “Purpose of your visit, Mr. Justice?”

  “It’s an important private matter. Please let her know I’m here.”

  Just as the receptionist was about to respond, a voice behind me said, “Mr. Justice?”

  I pivoted toward the voice. Gabriela Lowry. She was dressed in a suitably elegant two-piece outfit that surely set her back several thousand dollars. Standing there, with her ravishing looks, open-toe heels, and quilted purse draped just so over her slender shoulder, she was the very essence of the successful female entrepreneur, Miami style.

  “Mrs. Lowry,” I said, closing the distance. Gabriela wasn’t alone. Two middle-aged suits with dour looks and slim briefcases—office minions, I concluded—flanked her and regarded me with thinly concealed disdain.

  “Well, this is unexpected,” she said. She murmured something to the men, then moved toward me. “Why are you here?”

  Gabriela. The woman sure had a way with words.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Not now,” she said, stealing a peek at the small watch on her wrist. “I’m already late for a meeting.”

  “This can’t wait.”

  She regarded me with mild irritation. Clearly, she was someone unaccustomed to being challenged.

  “I said not now.”

  “Lisel Appel has been found,” I said, and paused for effect. “Murdered.”

  She stood there motionless, her gaze suddenly vacant. Then, as if something had suddenly dawned on her, she brought a manicured hand to her mouth. “And Milton?”

  “Nothing yet,” I said.

  She shifted her gaze toward the expansive ocean views.

  “Have you heard from a man named Spencer Tillman of Tillman International?”

  “A waste of time, Mr. Justice,” she said coolly. “I don’t need bodyguards.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I countered. “But, like I said, I think Milton’s disappearance is only a means to an end. I think it is part of a plan intended to harm you.”

  One of the two suits with her poin
ted at his watch. She raised a finger, then said to me, “Why are you so convinced that’s the case?”

  “A number of reasons,” I said. “Chief among them is the fact that when you stopped the payments to Bull Lowry’s illegitimate children you pissed off a lot of people.”

  Caught by surprise, she took a millisecond to recover. “How did you find out?”

  “I spoke to Paula Jumper.”

  “I see,” she said. “My meeting is only a block away. Walk with me?”

  We walked past the building’s sleek lobby and into the lively movement of early evening Miami Beach crowd. Diners, some wearing casual wear—shorts, short-sleeved shirts or Polo shirts, as well as executive types, mixed freely with scantily clad beachgoers roaming the busy sidewalks, searching for an empty table or a bar stool in the already crowded watering holes along Brickell. Gabriela Lowry’s two suits walked dutifully several paces ahead of us, expertly dodging all contact with others. The whine of a two-stroke motorcycle engine accelerating in the distance echoed over the din of traffic and lively salsa music notes coming from nearby establishments.

  We walked in silence for a while.

  “So you think one of Bull Lowry’s illegitimate children is behind Milton’s disappearance?”

  “It’s possible. But I don’t think the answer’s quite that simple.”

  “Meaning?”

  “This whole setup, from the start, speaks of sophistication, careful planning, and intimate knowledge of Milton’s movements. Perhaps even yours.”

  “Impossible. No one in my circle has any form of contact with those people.”

  “And yet, the facts suggest otherwise.”

  She stared at me. “Do you know something I don’t?”

  “Not really. But I have an advantage: I’m an outsider looking in. The view is much clearer for me.”

  She took in a deep breath. “When will this be over?”

  “Hard to say. But now that Lisel Appel has been found, my bet is it won’t be long.”

  “Am I safe to assume I’m no longer the prime suspect?”

  “That’s up to Sheriff Powell, not me. I have a question. You were aware of Milton’s father’s reputation and you also knew about his illegitimate children, didn’t you?”

  “I was brought to my attention long ago.”

  After a few silent steps, I asked, “So, why did you stop the payments?”

  She didn’t bother to conceal her annoyance at being questioned. “I don’t know. Let’s just say I had my reasons. And let’s leave it at that.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to know.”

  She gave a long sigh. “Like most people, I was aware of the rumors. But I always regarded them as innuendo, cheap gossip. When I took over Milton’s affairs and discovered that checks had been going out monthly for years to names I didn’t recognize in four different states, naturally, I became suspicious. It didn’t make sense to me. The subject of Milton’s illegitimate siblings never came up in conversation. I had no idea who those people were, and I still don’t. I figured he was being taken advantage of, that he had fallen victim to some sort of scam. And lying in a coma, he was in no position to explain. To me, those checks were evidence people were taking advantage of his naive, gullible personality. So, I ended it.”

  “Did Paula steal from you?”

  Another sharp look. “It was a mistake. Once I figured out the missing jewelry had been misplaced, not stolen, I immediately notified the police. Paula was released at once.”

  “You still fired her.”

  “So? I didn’t hire her. She worked for Milton, not me. She was in my home at Milton’s insistence. I never cared for her. So when it seemed as though Milton would never leave the hospital, I didn’t see the point of keeping her around.”

  We weaved our way through a loud group of young people—a twenty-something crew─ wearing tight clothes, and shorts and, judging by their smiles, already in full party mode.

  “You and Milton must have been God’s idea of the perfect couple.”

  Slowing her stride to turn and glare at me, she said, “You have no right to judge me. You know nothing about me.”

  “Was divorce on the table?” I bulldozed on, ignoring her indignation. I wanted her to know she couldn’t put me in my place, because this was my place, and nothing but the truth would do.

  “Not for me. I’m Catholic. Milton wasn’t. What does it matter, anyway?”

  “Jeffrey Daniels confirmed Milton was indeed going to file for divorce.”

  “So?” she said defensively. “We had an ironclad prenuptial. Divorce or no divorce, it made little difference to me.”

  “Be that as it may, Milton’s estate remains short over a billion dollars.”

  She glared daggers at me.

  “Give or take,” I added with a bright smile. I wanted to push her buttons. I was serving notice that I would challenge her at every turn, that I wouldn’t coddle her oversized ego.

  She placed her hand on my arm, stopping us there on the sidewalk. “I don’t think you understand my world, the constant pressure I face every day, Mr. Justice. In my world, you must be on the offensive at all times or you’re inviting an attack. Period. Everyone has an angle to play. There’s always some hot new trend. And the hype works. It creates a sense of urgency, a need to act. It’s like a game of musical chairs nearing its conclusion. Greed, fear of missing out, are powerful motivators. But after the hype fades, if you were swept in the feverish moment, you lost a swath of money. It happened to me. I got caught in my own hype. And I overextended myself. So what did I do? I hitched my wagon to Milton Lowry. And I did it while the getting was good. Did I take advantage of my position? So what? Milton knew who I was. And I knew the kind of man he was. We walked into marriage with our eyes wide open. We do what we must to survive. We all do.”

  “Ah, Gabriela Lowry’s Guide to Business Survival.”

  “You’re such an ass,” she said and stalked away. I kept after her.

  We were walking past a busy sidewalk café, the line of patrons snaking from the concierge’s desk and out to the busy street corner. By the curb, a couple of parking valets scurried to keep up with a growing queue of waiting vehicles.

  As I hustled to catch up with Gabriela, I noticed a tall figure wearing a beanie cap and a dark windbreaker. He was standing near the end of the line of patrons. The windbreaker was odd. It was way too warm, and not a cloud in the sky.

  As Gabriela walked past, the man pushed off the wall and casually fell into step behind her. Young judging by his trim, muscular build, he wore dark jeans and work boots. His easy, purposeful gait caught my attention. Beanie Man had cut the distance between himself and Gabriela to six feet.

  A tapered object appeared in his gloved hand. I recognized the profile of a knife. And not just any knife—a US military-issue Ka-bar, a knife that had probably taken more than its fair share of lives in combat.

  Adrenaline coursed through me, all the way to my fingertips. Gabriela was only seconds from being impaled by seven inches of hardened steel. I’ve had seen the damage such a knife can do in capable hands.

  “Gabriela!” I bellowed at the top of my lungs as I surged forward, knowing it may already be too late.

  Twenty

  Beanie Man hesitated, then whirled around, his dark eyes finding me in the crowd. The set jaw reset into a familiar grin.

  Lowry’s killer!

  His instant of hesitation bought me a second. My open hands slammed into Gabriela’s exposed back. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a blur as the blade flicked uncomfortably close to my ear. A sudden stab of pain exploded up my left arm as I shoved Gabriela out the path of the blade.

  We crashed on hot, grimy pavement, and I felt Gabriela’s chest compress under the impact of my two hundred plus pounds. She yelped in pain. But as long as her pain wasn’t the result of a stab wound, I wasn’t all that concerned. The odds were better than even she would live to piss
off someone else.

  My left arm burned with intense pain as I sprang to my feet, expecting another charge but it never came. Instead, I found myself surrounded by unfamiliar faces filled with either bemusement or disbelief that I had just tackled a much smaller, well-dressed, middle-aged woman to the ground for no apparent reason.

  I stood on the bumper of a parked car and levered myself high enough to scan beyond the little throng of people that had congregated around us. I searched feverishly in both directions, but Beanie Man had vanished into the crowds, no doubt shucking the cap and windbreaker.

  My mind wandered off into foolish scenarios: what if I had lost a kidney to the killer’s knife? Would I suffer from frequent urination syndrome even on days when I didn’t drink excessively? Would the need to remain close to a bathroom at all times force me to live attached to a piss bag and turn me into a crotchety old man? I pushed the musings aside and looked around us at the growing knot of people looking back at us, wondering, I supposed, if we were part of some strange street performance ensemble or if I had lost my mind. Whatever the case, I wondered whether Beanie Man lurked nearby, hiding, waiting for another shot.

  I turned in a full circle.

  Nothing.

  I helped Gabriela to her feet. The look of absolute horror in her face said she was now ready to listen.

  Twenty-one

  A brigade of helmeted Miami-Dade police officers, some carrying long guns, cordoned off the area and kept inquisitive bystanders at bay. An ambulance, with its siren blaring and multi-colored strobes flashing, arrived scant moments after the initial police response, stirring the crowd of onlookers. Excited voices surrounded us on all sides and the already slow traffic moving on Brickell slowed down to a painful crawl.

  I sat on the back of the ambulance while a paramedic tended to my left arm. Gabriela, looking a bit disheveled and visibly shaken by the experience, stood about ten yards away. She was speaking to a middle-aged man of ample girth, in a rumpled suit. The gold shield of a police detective hung from a lanyard around his thick neck. Another detective, a lieutenant, peppered me with questions. Did I see the killer’s face? Did he say anything? Did I recognize him? I responded in a measured manner. I told the lieutenant the attack appeared aimed at Mrs. Lowry. My wound had occurred when I tried to intervene. I shared selected facts about the attacker without ever mentioning he was the same man I had seen strangling Milton Lowry. I wasn’t interested in being dragged to police headquarters and scanning thousands of mug shots. The detective’s interest in me faded quickly after that.