“You look at the current wife?” Joel asked.
“Yep.” He tossed the cap on his workbench and picked up a folded red bandana. He used it to mop up the sweat on his brow. The breeze had died down and it was hot, even in the shade. “She got all the money, along with their big-ass house in Laguna Estates. We took a good look at her, but she had an airtight alibi.”
“What was it?”
“She was at the grocery store when it happened. Some other errands, too. We got her on videotape in and out of different stores in town.”
Joel waited, hoping he’d keep going so Joel wouldn’t have to ask questions that would come across as insulting.
“Course we also checked out her bank records and poked around to see if maybe she hired it out.” Henry walked over to a wall switch and turned on the ceiling fan, which hung from the rafters. “Nothing there. We checked over and over and couldn’t make anything of it.”
“Who else was high on your list?”
Henry blew out a sigh. “Kid number four, Reed Randall. He’s a mess.”
“Oh yeah? How old is he?”
“Nineteen at the time, so twenty now. He’s got a rap sheet, and he hated his dad.”
“Any idea why?”
“Never did pin it down, but it started around the time of the divorce, when Randall was screwing around on wife number two. Anyway, kid got into drugs, apparently, racked up a few DUIs. We brought him in a few times for questioning, but nothing ever came of it.”
Joel sipped his lemonade. “What would be his motive? If wife three got all the money, what would he have to gain by killing his dad?”
“Who knows. Revenge? Like I say, the pieces didn’t come together, but we took a hard look at him.”
“How about the physical evidence?” Joel asked, circling back to what had brought him here.
“You want to know about the feather.”
“Yeah. Any idea what that was about?”
“Damned if I know. I took it to a bird expert down at the nature center y’all got there.”
“Daisy Miller.”
He nodded. “She ran it through her computer program and said it was some kind of rare toucan from the rain forest in Peru or someplace.”
“We recovered a feather from an endangered parrot at our crime scene. An indigo macaw.”
“Indigo, huh?” Henry shook his head. “Our feather was green with some red on the tip. I’ve got a picture of it in the file up in my office, if you want to see.”
“You have the file in your office?” Joel didn’t hide his surprise.
“I’ve got the whole damn case box up there. Copies, anyway. I copied all the reports before I left. I still work on it when I can.”
Joel watched him, wondering how his department felt about a retiring detective taking home cold-case files. Joel didn’t know the brass over there, but he knew that they were tight on money and manpower, like everywhere else. So maybe they didn’t mind if one of their veterans spent time on a case that was collecting dust.
“That feather was strange.” Henry finished off his lemonade and plunked down the glass. “But it wasn’t the only thing strange about the case. The murder happened right on that boat dock, in full view of the neighbors, on a clear summer evening. But no witnesses. No one heard a gunshot.” He shook his head. “It was bold, I’ll tell you that.”
Joel subtly checked his watch. He needed to wrap up.
“Back to the feather,” Joel said. “Any chance it somehow got there by accident?”
“No.”
Joel waited for him to elaborate.
“That feather was put there.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know. It was tucked in his pocket like some kind of calling card, maybe. It was deliberate.”
Joel pictured the victims in the canoe, locked together in an embrace. They’d been posed that way deliberately by someone. Joel couldn’t say how he knew that, but he did.
Henry looked out toward the water and his empty boat slip, and his expression turned pensive.
“You ever get a case that stuck with you afterward, eating away at your guts like battery acid?”
Joel nodded. He knew this case had the potential to be like that.
“I can’t get rid of it. This thing happened almost a year ago. And I been retired—what is it?—five months now.” He looked at Joel. “Still, I wake up every morning thinking about that prick on his boat dock with his eyeballs pecked out.”
* * *
* * *
Joel didn’t talk much as they drove into Corpus Christi. Miranda was burning with curiosity, but she resisted the urge to pump him for info and instead navigated him to the camera shop. She made quick work of her errand and also purchased a new memory card, and then they got back on the road.
When they started seeing signs for Lost Beach, Miranda couldn’t contain her curiosity any longer.
“So, what did you think of Lind?” she asked.
Joel waited a beat before answering. “He misses the job.”
“Oh yeah? Retirement doesn’t agree with him?”
“Healthwise, it probably does. But I could tell he misses it.”
Miranda felt a twinge of sympathy. She knew how it felt to be floundering. Adrift. At a loss for motivation after years of driving hard.
“He had some interesting thoughts about the case, too, so I’m glad we came.”
Now they were getting somewhere.
“Any new leads?” she asked.
“Possibly.”
Joel walked her through their conversation, ending with Henry Lind’s certainty that the feather had purposely been left at the crime scene by the killer.
“He have any idea why?” she asked.
“No. And neither do I. But it has to mean something.” Joel looked at her. “Those feathers aren’t just floating around.”
Miranda looked out the window, frustrated. They’d come all the way to the mainland to pursue her lead, but Joel was no closer to solving the case than he’d been before.
“Hey, you mind if I stop for gas?” he asked.
“Sure, go ahead.”
“You’re not late?”
She didn’t want to tell him that her time limit hadn’t been about work, really, but her reluctance to spend the entire day with him. She was determined to put their relationship back on professional footing, and spending too much time alone together wouldn’t help.
“It’s fine,” she said.
He pulled into a gas station, and she went inside the store to buy a drink. She returned with a water for herself and a Dr Pepper for him.
He hitched himself behind the wheel. “How’d you know?” he asked.
“I noticed your empty one.”
They got back on the feeder road, and Miranda spied a sign up ahead.
“Look. That’s the neighborhood,” she said.
“What?”
“Laguna Estates. Where Randall was murdered. You have time to take a look?”
“We’ll make time.”
He changed lanes abruptly, earning a honk from another car, and turned into the subdivision. At the entrance was a giant water fountain set against a backdrop of king palms. The palm tree theme continued as they proceeded down Laguna Boulevard, which was divided by a landscaped median.
In contrast to the homes in Rippling Shores, these two- and three-story houses stood shoulder to shoulder, maxing out their spacious lots. Even the small homes had to be five thousand square feet. All the houses had manicured landscaping, and many of the arc-shaped driveways showcased luxury cars.
“Wow,” Miranda said.
“He lived on a point, apparently. Can you pull up a map?”
Miranda was already on her phone looking at the layout of the neighborhood. “We’re coming
up on an intersection. Looks like . . . Sunset Cove? Hang a left there and it curves around to a point overlooking the bay.
Joel followed her instructions, passing one mansion after another, all with bay views.
“These homes aren’t on stilts,” she said.
“The whole development is elevated to protect against storm surges,” Joel said. “They used thousands of tons of sand. I read about it when it was happening.”
“That’s a lot of sand to bring in. There have got to be what, a couple hundred houses in here?”
“They didn’t bring it,” Joel said. “They dredged it up when they carved out this cove here. Another selling feature—the neighborhood sits on its own private harbor.”
They curved around until the street ended in a wide cul-de-sac. The house at the very end looked like a Tuscan villa, with beige adobe walls and a tile roof. All the upstairs windows had ornate wrought-iron balconies.
“It’s for sale,” Joel said.
She skimmed the yard and noticed the understated wooden sign beside one of the flower beds. Even the sign looked expensive.
Joel rolled to a stop. “Let’s look around.”
“What if someone’s home?”
“Then we’re prospective buyers.”
Miranda grabbed her camera and got out. She walked over to the FOR SALE sign, which had a covered container that held a stack of flyers. She fished one out. Luxury waterfront estate, 9,500 square feet. New hardwood floors. Italian marble. Updated finishes throughout . . .
“How much?” Joel asked, coming down the cobblestone sidewalk toward the street. Had he just rung the doorbell?
“Doesn’t say. I guess if you have to ask, you can’t afford it, right?” She folded the flyer and tucked it into her pocket.
“No one’s home,” he informed her.
“You rang the bell?”
“Come on. I want to see the boathouse.”
“But we’re trespassing.”
“Police business.”
She followed him up the driveway of embossed concrete made to look like cobblestones. A separate path led to a vibrant green lawn that sloped down to the water. The concrete bulkhead started with Randall’s property and continued in a graceful arc around the man-made cove. All the homes facing the water had sloping green lawns and impressive boathouses, some big enough for two or three boats.
Randall’s had four slips, all vacant at the moment.
“I don’t think anyone’s living here,” Joel said. “The house was dark, and one of the porch lights by the door was burned out.”
They reached the boathouse. Each slip had an electronic boat hoist. The only boat, though, was a flaccid rubber dinghy stashed in the rafters alongside a rusty crab trap.
“So, looks like the third Mrs. Randall is either selling the house, or she already sold it, and someone has it on the market again,” Miranda said.
“Looks like.”
Miranda turned to look at the neighboring lot. That house was definitely occupied. A game of croquet was set up at the top of the green lawn. Water toys, including an inflatable banana that could probably seat three or four kids, sat on the wooden dock beside a gleaming white Boston Whaler. Above the boathouse was a spacious deck with a pair of Adirondack chairs that faced west.
“It’s not that far away,” Joel said.
“What’s not?”
He was staring at the neighbor’s property with a furrowed brow.
“The next-door neighbors. Hard to imagine no one heard a gunshot.”
“Maybe they weren’t home.”
“They were. Lind showed me copies of the police reports. Two adults and four kids home that night, and no one heard a thing. It’s weird.” He looked at her. “No one heard any gunshots Monday morning, either.”
“No one you’ve been able to find.”
He nodded, conceding the point.
“But you’re right—it is weird.” She lifted her camera and took several pictures of the dock. She didn’t have a reason, really, except that it had been a crime scene. “Have you considered maybe the assailant used a suppressor?”
“I hadn’t. Until now.”
“So, you think the crimes are connected?”
“Maybe.” He turned to face the other side of Randall’s lot, which looked out over a marsh. In the distance, a small skiff was anchored in the bay with a fisherman at the stern, casting a line.
“Pays to be the developer,” Joel said.
“How do you mean?”
“He got the best lot in the neighborhood. The biggest house. An unobstructed view of the wetlands.”
“It’s a shame the place is sitting empty now.”
Miranda turned back to look at the neighbor’s deck again. There was something charming about the red Adirondack chairs. She pictured a couple sitting there together and watching the sun go down over the water. For a fleeting moment, she felt a pang of envy.
Miranda turned away and spotted a tall white crane at the edge of Randall’s property. Slowly, so as not to spook it, she walked over and lifted her camera.
The crane paused to look at her as she neared it. She took another step. And another. It was a beautiful bird, nearly four feet tall.
Click.
It didn’t move.
Click, click.
It dipped its head down, almost like a nod, then flapped its wings and took off, soaring over the water.
Miranda snapped another picture. She turned to look at Joel as he walked over.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
He stepped closer. “I was just thinking that.” He reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
Miranda’s heart skittered, and she stared up into those mesmerizing eyes. She held her breath, waiting for what he’d do.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and she remembered how it felt and tasted. Warmth flooded her. She looked into his eyes and could tell he knew exactly what she was thinking.
He stepped back. “Let’s go,” he said. “You need to get back, remember?”
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Nicole strode into the bullpen with a Whataburger bag in her hand and a pissed-off look on her face. She dropped the bag and a manila folder on her desk and slumped into her chair. Then she got on her computer and started muttering at it.
“Missed you at the press conference,” Joel said from his desk as he typed an email.
“I was at Lighthouse Point.”
The smell of French fries drifted over as she unloaded the bag.
Joel went over and leaned against her cubicle. “You’re sunburned.”
“Really? You’re kidding. I hadn’t noticed that.”
He stole a fry off her pile. “Any leads today?”
“No.” She blew out a sigh. “I spent five freaking hours canvassing all three parks, interviewing everyone and their grandmother, and nobody spent any time with this couple. I only talked to one person who even saw them at all.”
Nicole’s auburn hair was up in a ponytail, revealing sunburn on her neck, too. The burn on her nose looked even worse up close. She was going to blister.
“Most of the people I talked to weren’t even there last weekend,” she said. “I found a retired couple who’s been at Laguna Vista Park all month in their RV, but they don’t remember them.”
Joel noticed the photograph peeking out from the manila folder. “These the pictures you’ve been shopping around?” he asked, opening the file.
“Yeah.”
He recognized the photos from Elizabeth’s social media posts. She had several individual pictures, along with a selfie she and Will had taken together at the beach. From the angle of the light, Joel could tell it was a sunrise shot. She took a lot of sunrise shots, he’d noticed, and may have been taking one when she was killed.
> But that was speculation at this point. He didn’t know for sure what they’d been doing out in that canoe, and they still hadn’t recovered the cell phones, which might give them a clue.
“Then I talked to one guy at Laguna Vista who was there last weekend and remembers two people in a green canoe. But he didn’t have a conversation with them or even get a look at them up close.”
“What day?” Joel asked.
“Friday.” She picked up her drink and sipped from a straw. “And that part was interesting, actually. This guy says they took the canoe out around sunset, which matches up with that picture they posted where you can see the lighthouse reflected in their sunglasses.”
Nicole leaned her arm on her desk and winced. Even her elbows were burned.
“How’d it go with Henry Lind?” she asked. “Any links to our case?”
Joel gave her the highlights of their conversation, including how—just like with their case—no one heard any gunshots, even though people were nearby.
“So, does Lind think he used a suppressor?” she asked.
“He thinks it’s possible.”
“You think our guy used one, too?”
“He could have.”
Nicole shook her head. “Damn. Sounds like organized crime. Who were their suspects?”
“They never arrested anyone, but they took a long look at the third wife, who inherited about six and a half million dollars, as well as one of the grown sons, who has a rap sheet. His name is Reed Randall.”
Nicole picked up a fry and popped it into her mouth. “Interesting. So that’s two possible links to our case.”
“Three. The location, which is just over the bridge. The feather. And the type of gun used.”
“Possibly with a suppressor,” she added.
“Maybe, maybe not.” He nodded at her computer. “What else did you find with their social media?”
“That’s one area I did make headway. Look at this.” She scooted her chair in and brought up an Instagram page for Elizabeth. “You saw some of this before, right? Kissy pictures, cartwheels on the beach, their cat, their cat, their cat”—she rolled her eyes—“more sunset and sunrise pictures. Okay, now look.”
Flight Page 12
