Dalton, Tymber - Red Tide (Siren Publishing Classic)

by Tymber Dalton

She wanted more from the relationship than he was willing to give,

  She wanted a commitment, wanted to get married, and we’d only been seeing each other a short time. She was obsessive.

  She seemed devastated when he told her Sunday night, and he tried to find her, to make sure she was okay.

  I’ll have to remember to call her apartment from my phone.

  Nodding to himself, he double-checked to make sure the ID card was in his pocket. He spied her laptop on the counter and for a brief second considered penning a suicide note on it. He negated that idea and was about to leave when he reversed his decision. Using the hunt and peck method with the middle knuckles of his index fingers, he imitated women he’d seen with exceptionally long fingernails who couldn’t type conventionally, leaving no fingerprints. He kept it simple, to the point.

  And the time/date on the computer file would correspond with the call on his phone, backing up the time of death and throwing investigators off the trail.

  “Dear John…”

  He had to force himself not to laugh at the irony of the salutation and decided to scrap that, substituting, “To Whom It May Concern,” instead.

  “There’s no reason for me to go on. I love John, but I know in my heart he doesn’t share those feelings and never will. He just had me fooled. I thought he was special, but I guess I was wrong. I’m tired of keeping up this charade, of pretending I enjoy my life alone. After having someone, the emptiness is that much greater—and it’s intolerable. Please tell my family I’m sorry, but I just don’t have the energy to go on anymore—Jenna.”

  He read it three times, closed his eyes, counted to ten, and read it once more. It sounded genuine, although a little melodramatic. He saved it and left it up on the screen for someone to find. He would be called a bastard by many, but better that than a murderer.

  Besides, he was used to being called a bastard.

  One final trip around the apartment showed nothing else. Using the handkerchief one last time, he let himself out and locked the door behind him. The garbage bag appeared totally innocent, but fortunately for John, he met no one on the stairs or in the parking lot. He tossed the bag onto the passenger-side floor of the Porsche and carefully drove away, watching for any witnesses. If there were any, he didn’t see them.

  He drove in the opposite direction from his condo and dumped the trash bag into a nearly full Dumpster behind a Holiday Inn approximately ten miles from Jenna’s apartment. By this time, it was nearly four o’clock.

  He stopped by Jenna’s office again, found the secretary, and pulled her to the side.

  “Are you sure Jenna hasn’t called in or anything?” he asked, fixing her with his blue eyes.

  She shook her head, concerned. “What’s going on? Did you two have a fight? She just wasn’t herself this morning.”

  He put on as shameful a face as he could muster. “I guess she didn’t tell you.”

  The secretary shook her head again.

  He sighed. “I’m afraid I have to admit this was my fault.” He looked her in the eye. “She wanted a commitment out of me I wasn’t ready to give. She pressured me, and when she saw me at a bar last night, well…”

  “She exploded.”

  “Well, that was part of it. I told her I thought we should back up a few steps, see other people, that she was getting more serious than I was ready for right now.” He sighed again, hoping he wasn’t laying it on too thick.

  The secretary, Karen, he finally remembered, looked upset. “You men are all alike, you know that?”

  “I deserve it,” he meekly admitted. “I know this hurt her, but I had to do it now. It would have been worse to lie to her and lead her on.”

  Karen fixed him with a steely glaze of her own. “Well, thank God you had enough sense to realize that. She’s crazy about you. How could you do this to her, you son of a bitch?”

  “I know. I feel horrible about it, but I didn’t have a choice. I stopped by her apartment right before I came here, but I guess she either wasn’t home or she was ignoring me, because there wasn’t any answer when I knocked, even though her car was outside.”

  He looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to run. I have to get back to Tampa. I’ve got a meeting in the morning. Next time you see her, please tell her to call me. I’m worried about her.”

  He thought she mumbled some less-than-kind words at his back when he left, but that didn’t concern him. Everything added credence to his story.

  He stopped at a park on the way to his condo and parked away from the few people there. Rummaging around in his briefcase, he came up with a lighter he rarely used. Melody’s ID card didn’t burn exactly, but it melted beyond recognition on the parking lot asphalt. He waited for it to cool and picked it up with his handkerchief, throwing it all away in the bathroom of a fast food restaurant he stopped at for lunch.

  There were probably quite a few land speed records set during his whirlwind visit to his condo. Within ten minutes of arriving, he had everything he needed packed and sitting by the door, waiting to be loaded into the Porsche. Back in Tampa, he would make sure to detail and thoroughly clean the car.

  He quickly checked his answering machine—no messages. The Caller ID showed Jenna’s number, among others.

  Perfect.

  The last loose end to tie up would be Mitch. She would have to be killed. Without her, their case should fall apart.

  Not that he intended to be caught in the first place.

  Contingency plans were very important in his line of work. All it took was the DEA or Coast Guard to capture the wrong person—or the right one, depending on your point of view—and the entire network would crumble. Although he would admit it was partially his own pride that led to this situation. It would not have progressed to this if Mitch had not involved herself.

  He would take care of her himself this time.

  Good help is so hard to find.

  He took a last look at the condo. Probably would never see it again. Not as John Tyne, at least. Quickly loading the Porsche, he sped toward Tampa.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Sam sat in his office Monday morning and studied the case file. His gut told him Mitch was right, that John was behind not only the Emmerand, but the bombing as well. Yesterday’s interview with him only served to confirm the suspicion, but he had no proof, and the problem was he couldn’t get a warrant or an indictment on gut instincts.

  “Dammit!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Sam started at the voice and looked up. Jim McGuiness leaned against the door frame.

  “I know John Tyne is our man. Problem is tying everything together to convince the State Attorney’s office and a judge to get a warrant.”

  His partner nodded. “I’ve been thinking that, too. I want to go out there and take another look at the scene before we go ask for a warrant this afternoon. Out in Aripeka.”

  Sam shrugged. “What the hell. I’m certainly not doing any good here. You drive.”

  * * * *

  There were only a few cars in the lot. They parked next to the dive shop. Sam noticed Ed’s truck was missing.

  Dan looked up from the computer when they walked in. “Hi, guys. What’s up?”

  “Ed and Mitch playing hooky today?” Sam asked.

  Dan laughed. “I’m sure they’re playing something, but I don’t know if it’s hooky.”

  It was Sam’s turn to laugh. “Probably more like slap and tickle from the way they looked the other day.”

  “With a lot more tickle than slap,” Dan chimed in.

  Jim shook his head. “All right, you two, quit picking on the lovebirds. Dan, you told us about a guy who came into the shop looking for Mitch on Friday, before the bombing. Can you remember anything else about him?”

  Dan turned away from the computer and thought about it. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t. I really didn’t pay that much attention to him at the time.”

  “Do you know where he was parked?” Sam asked
.

  “I think he was over by the trees, but I can’t swear to it. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay, Dan,” Jim reassured him. “You had no way of knowing.”

  “Jim, let’s go walk around over there again. I know it’s probably a waste of time, but it certainly won’t hurt.”

  “Okay.” They left the shop. With their footsteps crunching in the shell lot, they walked over to the stand of trees where the Bronco met its demise. A few remaining, charred palm fronds on the trees rustled slightly with the breeze coming off the Gulf.

  Sam took a deep breath. “I know this was pretty well gone over, but let’s try one more time. We know Mitch parked here.” He sidestepped into the center of the blackened spot. “That would leave room for at least two more vehicles to park here.” He sidestepped toward the Gulf. “And here.” He moved over one more space. “And nobody was parked next to her on either side. Ed’s truck and Dan’s car were up by the dive shop.” He pointed over his shoulder. “And everybody else was either in front of Bob Keith’s store or over closer to the docks.”

  “Point being?” Jim asked.

  “Point being, if you’re going to rig a car to explode, you’re not going to park all the hell away from it and tote stuff back and forth from your car. So you’re going to park as close as you can to it. Especially if you need your own vehicle as a shield to keep people from seeing what you’re doing. So chances are, he parked here.” Sam walked to the space between where the Bronco had been and the shop and scanned the area. “Mitch’s Bronco would have shielded him from the water side.”

  A chain-link fence separated the parking lot from the property next door. Spanish needles and knee-high grass grew unhindered on the property. Inspiration struck Sam.

  “Jim, are you sure they searched over there?”

  * * * *

  Three hours later, a crime scene team brought Sam a plastic evidence bag.

  “How far in?” he asked.

  The technician checked his notes. “Twenty feet.”

  Sam looked at Jim. “An easy throw from this side of the fence for a lazy hit man.”

  Jim smiled. “Pray for prints.”

  * * * *

  They returned to the office after lunch. Sam sat at his desk and studied a couple of reports that arrived while he was gone. One was from Hillsborough County, about the serial killer they had working the area, listing particulars to look for and the appropriate contacts through their department and the FDLE. Kenny Schoenborn was listed as the lead officer. The next detailed a murder near Orlando that was tentatively being connected to the same case. The autopsy showed the victim died in the same manner and her stomach contents revealed boiled peanuts.

  Great. Just what I’d need on top of everything else going on right now. A serial killer.

  Jim stuck his head in the door a couple of hours later. “Good news, they fit Mitch’s Bronco. Bad news, no prints.”

  “None?”

  “Nada. Must’ve wiped them clean and used gloves for the job.”

  Sam sighed. “Well, that makes sense. Figures we wouldn’t get that lucky.”

  “But it does add credence to Mitch’s theory. Her own keys were still in the ignition when it blew.”

  “It’s not going to be enough for the State Attorney. I’ll have to talk to them. I know I don’t want to lock John up and have him skate on the charge. We have to come up with something more solid than this.”

  “Patience, my friend, patience. Something will happen. It always does.”

  Sam snorted. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  The phone on his desk rang.

  “Sam Caster.”

  “Sam, it’s Mitch.”

  Jim started to leave, but something in the tone of her voice made him motion to Jim to stay. “What’s up, Mitch?”

  He listened as she told him about her conversation with Jenna and how she’d heard no word from her. Instinct told him John had probably got to Jenna first. “Hold on.” He rifled through papers on his desk, looking for his investigation notes about Jenna Stephens. “I’ll call the Orlando PD and have them send a car over. I’ll call you back.”

  He broke the connection and immediately called the Orlando PD. They would take lead on the case since her listed address was inside city limits. He gave the information to a detective and was put on hold while they sent a unit to investigate.

  Jim sat down across from him, his eyes questioning. Sam gave him a brief outline of what Mitch said.

  After ten long minutes and several repeats of public service messages that played while people were on hold, the detective returned to the line.

  “She’s dead, apparently a suicide. There’s a note on her computer. She slit her throat in the bathtub.”

  “That doesn’t sound right at all,” Sam said.

  “Tell me about it. But that’s all the info I have right now. I’ll head out to the scene and call you back when I’ve got more information. In the meantime, give me this man’s name and I’ll put out a BOLO on him.” Sam relayed John’s vitals and tag number and description of the Porsche.

  “I’ll put out one here in Pasco. I’ll also contact Kenny Schoenborn in Hillsborough in case this guy shows up at his house there.”

  Sam ended the conversation and sat back, filling Jim in on the details.

  “Shit,” Jim swore, rubbing his face with his hands. “Want me to call Mitch?”

  Sam shook his head. “No, I’ll do it.” He dialed the phone.

  * * * *

  When Mitch didn’t hear from Jenna two hours after she talked to her, she called her and left a message on her voice mail.

  It wasn’t necessarily a reason to worry. There were many reasons—all innocent—why Jenna might not return her call.

  She didn’t believe that for a second.

  Finally breaking down, she called Sam and relayed the entire conversation to him.

  “Hold on, Mitch.” She heard papers rustling. “I’ll call Orlando PD and have them send a car over. I’ll call you back.”

  When her phone rang thirty minutes later, she snatched it up. “Hello?”

  Sam’s voice sounded grim. “They found her, in the tub. Looks like a suicide. She slit her throat.”

  Mitch felt the phone slip from her hand, and somehow, almost magically, Ed was there, taking it from her, walking into the kitchen to talk to Sam.

  She looked up at him after he hung up.

  “There was a note typed on her computer. Apparently, John broke up with her,” Ed explained.

  “People don’t kill themselves over John, Ed. He kills people.”

  “Mitch, you don’t know that.”

  “The hell I don’t.” Her fury drove Ed back a step. “He’s a cold, ruthless son of a bitch!”

  “You didn’t make him that way.”

  Tears rolled down her face. Ed took her into his arms as she sobbed. “Why didn’t she listen to me? Why didn’t she call the police from her office? I told her not to go home first.”

  Ed held her at arm’s length. “Listen to me. The first thing is that you are not responsible for what’s happened. You did everything humanly possible. John is a psycho. The second thing is, we have to get out of here. He’s had enough time to get over here from Orlando. He might be on his way here now. He tried to kill you once. What’s to say he won’t try again?”

  Mitch looked lost, uncertain. “Call Ron. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Mitch, I know what to do. We’re getting the hell out of here. Sam said he may try coming for you again. They found the spare keys to your Bronco in the lot next door to the marina.”

  * * * *

  “Get her out of there, Ed,” Sam told him. “Go now. He’s had a couple hours’ head start on us. He might be over here by now. Just get the hell out of there.”

  “Okay, Sam. Thanks.”

  When he hung up with Ed, he put out the BOLO and called Kenny Schoenborn to update him.

  Kenny wasn’t any too thrilled either.
“I’ll get someone over to Tyne’s house now, but I don’t think we’ve got enough for a search warrant. A judge’ll give me a hard time with nothing more than circumstantial evidence.”

  “I know. That’s the bitch of it.” Sam thought about the computer records Mitch had and reconsidered. “We’re working another angle right now, though. I might be able to get you enough to sway a judge.”

  Kenny perked up. “Well, why don’t you let me in on this?”

  “I can’t just yet. It’s got to pan out. Hopefully, it will.” He hung up and ordered a car over to Ed’s house, then called Ed back.

  “I’ve got a unit on its way right now. Uniformed. We need that computer evidence. Forget what I said about moving. You just got yourself a new houseguest.”

  “Who?” Ed asked.

  “Me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  John wasn’t sure how long it would be until someone discovered Jenna’s body, but he figured he had at least an hour head start. He jumped off I-4 in Plant City and drove through Zephyrhills, down State Road 54. He connected to Dale Mabry Highway from there, which led him right into his subdivision.

  His first pass by the house showed nothing amiss. With a mental list of items he needed, he called a cab on another throwaway cell phone and was assured it would arrive in twenty minutes. On his second pass, he used the garage door opener and parked inside, making sure the door was down before getting out. He worked fast.

  Early on he knew there would be too much risk if he didn’t diversify a little, spread his funds out. It seemed now it proved to be a wise choice. He took two large suitcases from the closet and put them on the bed, filling them with basics he’d need. From the wall safe Mitch didn’t know about, he pulled a large, bulging manila envelope. Inside were credentials for four different identities and several bankbooks for various offshore accounts. Next, he pulled five bundles of bills out, over twenty thousand dollars in cash. The suitcases he placed by the front door while the cash and envelope went into his briefcase.