by Tripp Ellis
By the time we got back to the boat, Buddy had burned off enough energy to settle in for the evening. I crawled into bed in the master suite and tried to push all the chaos out of my brain and calm my mind long enough to get some sleep.
I tossed and turned all night, and when the sun blasted through the portholes in the morning, I felt tired and thin. I had weird dreams that mixed everything together and created an incomprehensible nightmare.
I stretched, yawned, and wiped the sleep from my eyes. Before I could peel myself out of bed, Sheriff Daniels called. "You need to get over to Douglas & Associates ASAP!"
11
JD swung by the marina, picked me up, and we cruised over to Brynn's office. A uniformed deputy had already arrived. The patrol car was out front, and Deputy Gates took a statement from Brynn.
The glass door had been shattered, and sharp shards lined the walkway. The small office was located in a strip center with other professional services. There was an insurance agent next-door and a mortgage broker two doors down.
We crunched over the glass and stepped inside. The desks were conspicuously missing computer monitors and terminals. Papers were strewn about.
Brynn had short, light brown hair, and was impeccably dressed in a gray pantsuit and white blouse. She looked relieved to see me as I stepped inside. She excused herself from Deputy Gates and rushed toward me. "Thank God you're here!"
I nodded to the deputy and told him that we'd take over. Gates was more than happy to move on to other things.
"I came in this morning, and, well, you can see what happened…" Brynn motioned to the chaos. "They cut the phone lines. The security company never got a call. All the hard lines are dead." Her worried eyes gazed at me. "Do you think this has anything to do with Chelsea's death?"
"Could be a coincidence, but it does raise suspicion," I said.
"Tyson, I would like you to meet Marley Bruce, one of my associates."
Marley was a striking brunette with brown eyes and shiny hair that hung a little below her shoulders. She wore a cream blazer and skirt that complemented her tanned skin. We shook hands.
"Nice to meet you," I said.
"Do you think we're safe here?" Marley asked.
"Do you have any rivals? Fierce competitors? Anyone who would want to do you harm?" I asked.
Brynn exchanged a glance with Marley.
"Just healthy competition. I can't imagine another real estate agent would break into our office, steal our computers, not to mention murder one of my associates," Brynn said.
"What about any disgruntled clients?" I asked.
The girls exchanged another glance.
Marley hesitated, then nodded. "There was one client. About a month ago. He barged into the office, ranting and raving."
"What was he upset about?" I asked.
The girls exchanged another glance.
Brynn took over. "He was upset with me and Chelsea because an investment property lost value. I warn my clients that the real estate market can fluctuate. Sometimes areas that we think are up-and-coming fizzle out. If you're late to the speculation bubble, you can end up burned. Sorry, bad choice of words."
"What's the client's name?" I asked.
"Harold Royce. I didn't think much of it at the time. He came in and cussed me out. I apologized to him and expressed my condolences. But at the end of the day, there are no guarantees. He made a few threats, which upset me at the time, and I'm sure it upset Marley and Chelsea as well."
Marley nodded.
Brynn continued, "But the guy is like 74. I didn't think he really posed a threat."
"The older you get, the less life in prison is a deterrent," JD added.
"Was anything else taken from the office? Cash, jewelry, electronics?" I asked.
Brynn shook her head. "There wasn't much in here to take. Just the office furniture, phones, chairs, computers, and a few knickknacks."
"Were you able to find out who Chelsea was showing the property to yesterday?" I asked.
"We have a cloud-based appointment calendar. She was supposedly meeting Benjamin Alexander and his wife. But something tells me that's a fake name."
"We'll look into it. Do you know if Chelsea had a boyfriend?"
The two ladies exchanged another glance.
"Not that I am aware of," Brynn said. "She was a gorgeous girl, I'm sure she dated around. But she was a motivated woman. Very focused on work."
"That's what her father said." I glanced around the ransacked office. "If you can think of anything else, let me know. In the meantime, I wouldn't go on any showings alone."
"Trust me," Brynn said. "We're being super cautious."
"You might want to get a gun and keep it handy. I don't know if this break-in is related, but I wouldn't take any chances."
"Hey, is everything okay," a man said as he crunched across the glass, stepping into the office.
"Yeah. We're fine," Brynn said. "Xavier, I'd like you to meet deputies Wild and Donovan. This is Xavier King, a colleague of ours."
We shook hands with the dapper man. He wore a Zangari suit, silk tie, and Fanucci loafers. It was a nice suit. Expensive. Custom tailored. His hair was short on the sides, and longer on top, which he slicked back in a way that almost formed a helmet. He was a good-looking man, but he seemed a little too obsessed with appearance. A gold Caspari watch. A gold pinky ring with diamonds. Judging by his tan, he had a lot of leisure time to spend in the sun.
"If you need a home loan, I'm your guy. I can get you the best rates."
“We refer clients all the time,” Brynn said.
"I'll keep that in mind," I said.
"Deputy Wild's sister owns Diver Down," Brynn added.
A wave of recognition washed over his face. "Right. Great property. So much potential. I can't wait to see the re-development plans."
I forced a smile. "I'm not a fan of the re-development."
There was an awkward moment between us.
“Well, I guess we should be moving along," I said. “We’ll talk soon."
The shards of glass crunched under our feet as we left. We climbed into JD’s Porsche. I wanted to talk to Callie Brooks, the agent that had been robbed a few weeks ago. We sat in the parking lot for a moment while I called Denise. "Hey, can you give me information on Harold Royce? 74-ish."
"Sure thing," Denise replied in a cheery tone. "I've got the phone records from Chelsea Jones’s cell. Her last call was made to Brynn's cell. Before that, she received a call from an anonymous burner phone."
"No incoming calls from a Benjamin Alexander?" I asked.
"I don't see the name on the list."
"Let's see if we can track that burner phone down and find out where it was purchased."
"Will do."
I hung up and called Callie Brooks. She was on her way to a showing, but said she could meet us at Tackle Box in an hour.
12
A massive sailfish mounted on the wall was the centerpiece of Tackle Box. The blue and silver creature was an aquatic marvel. Pictures of stunning catches lined the walls, along with reels and nets. The restaurant dished up an array of fresh seafood.
Callie Brooks was a mover and shaker. She was a good-looking blonde with curly hair and a no-nonsense attitude. She waited for us in a booth in the corner. The hostess led us to her, and we slid into the booth across the table from her.
We made introductions after she hung up the phone. She'd been talking to a client through wireless earbuds. This was a girl who didn't waste a moment of her time.
"Thanks for meeting with us," I said.
"Anything I can do to help you catch that guy!"
"What can you tell us about your assailant?"
"I told the deputies everything at the time. I was stupid to show the property alone. I heard about what happened to Chelsea Jones. That's terrible! Do you think it's related?"
"We're not sure. Maybe you can help us figure that out. What can you tell me about the robbery?"
"I w
as showing a home in the Oceanside Estates. I had received a call from a man who was interested in the property. He asked me when he could take a look, and I told him I would meet him that afternoon. I arrived at the property a few minutes early, like I always do. I opened it up, did a quick walk-through to make sure it was clean. The house was a re-model, so it was empty. The developer had purchased it and was trying to flip it.
"About five minutes after the time we were supposed to meet, I got a call from the client. He said he was running a little late, but would be there in a few minutes.
"I'm a stickler for punctuality. I hate it when people are late. I told him I'd wait another 10 minutes before moving on. A few minutes later, I heard the front door open, and I thought it was my client. I was in the kitchen, sending emails. A man in a ski mask entered with a gun. Told me to get down on the floor. He took my purse, my laptop, my cell phone, my jewelry. I have to tell you, I was terrified. I thought he was going to take more than that, if you know what I mean."
"Can you describe anything about him?" I asked.
"It all happened so fast, and I was so terrified. I couldn't tell you if he had brown eyes or blue eyes. He was Caucasian. Probably about 5'10" to 6’ tall. Athletic build."
"What about the gun?"
"I really don't know anything about guns. It was black and scary.”
“Was it a revolver? A semi-automatic?"
"I wouldn't know the difference."
I pulled out my phone and looked up a picture on the Internet, then showed her one of each type of gun.
Callie pointed to the revolver. "Yeah, like that. The old-timey gun." She looked frazzled. "I'm sweating just thinking about it. That man could have killed me. I'm so thankful."
"Be careful out there," I said.
"Trust me, I am thoroughly vetting all of my appointments now. You hear about this kind of thing happening, but you never think it's going to happen to you."
"What time of day was this?"
"Early afternoon. 2 o'clock was the appointment. This had to be around 2:15 PM?"
Callie's phone rang.
She looked at the display. "Listen, I've got to run. If you have any more questions, just call me."
She slid out of the booth as she answered the phone. She talked on her headset as she scurried out of the restaurant.
JD slid around to the other side of the booth, and we decided to order lunch. Tackle Box had great seafood.
After we ate, we headed over to Harold Royce's home. He lived on the west side on Sunset Dunes Court.
It was a nice area. Newer builds with old-style colonial houses. They were painted in soft pastel colors. Palm trees swayed overhead.
We parked the Porsche at the curb and strolled up the walkway to the front door. After a few knocks, a cranky voice grumbled through the door. "What do you want?"
"County Sheriff's Department. We'd like to speak with Harold Royce."
"How do I know you're really cops?"
JD and I exchanged a glance.
"You can call the Sheriff's Department and verify our employment," I said.
"What's this about?" Harold asked.
"We'd just like to ask you a few questions."
"You got a warrant?"
"We are not here to arrest anybody. We just want to talk."
"Well, we're talking right now, ain't we?"
I exchanged another glance with JD.
"Yes, I guess we are," I conceded.
"So, ask your questions," Harold barked.
"This is about Chelsea Jones," I said.
"I can't stand that bitch. You ought to arrest her!"
"What for?"
"Lying, for one."
"What did she lie about?"
"She and Brynn both lied about how much money I would make on that property."
"Can you tell me more about that?" I asked.
The deadbolt unlatched, and Harold pulled open the door, aggravated. His angry eyes flicked between the two of us, then he grumbled, "Damn right, I can tell you more!"
Harold was tall. He had rosy cheeks and a rosy nose. More broken capillaries in his skin than he would have liked. He had a full head of gray hair, and his neck and jowls sagged. Steam was almost coming from his ears. "Let me see your badges."
We displayed the shiny gold things.
He surveyed them closely, then continued his rant. "I put damn near my entire retirement in that property. $750,000. Cash. She told me home values had doubled in the area over the last year and was certain I could expect the same over the following year. She made it sound like a sure thing. I'm so mad at myself. I've been around long enough to know better. But damn, doubling your money in a year? That's hard to resist. Especially with the trouble we've had."
"What kind of trouble?" I asked.
"My wife was diagnosed with cancer." A heavy breath escaped his lips, and his face went long. His eyes misted.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Damn insurance found a way to wiggle out of just about everything. The medications were so expensive. All the office visits, scans, assisted care facilities… We burned through my savings in no time. Vicki passed at the end of last summer. When the investment opportunity came along, I thought it would be a good way to rebuild my savings. In case you haven't noticed, I ain't no spring chicken no more. I got nobody left to care for me."
"My condolences on your loss," I said.
Harold sneered at me. "It's more than just a loss. You know what it's like to have your world turned upside down?"
Everybody's pain is their own, and can't be compared, but I knew what it was like to lose everything.
"You work your whole life. You save. You do without. All to build a nest egg. These are supposed to be the golden years. Ha!" he scoffed. "Golden years, my ass! Every morning I wake up and something else hurts. It's bullshit if you ask me."
"I hear you," JD said.
"I'd be angry too," I said, genuinely sympathizing. "Did you go up to Brynn's office and express that anger?"
"You're damn right I did! You know what that piece of property I bought is worth now?"
I shrugged.
"$275,000. I don't know what to do!"
"When you expressed your anger to Brynn and Chelsea, did you make any threats?"
Harold's face tensed. "I don't know. Maybe. I was mad."
"Mad enough to kill?"
Harold scowled at me. "I may have said a few things, but they was just words. What are you getting at?"
"Are you aware that Chelsea Jones was murdered?"
Harold arched a surprised eyebrow. He frowned, then grumbled. "I can't say that upsets me. She was easy on the eyes, don't get me wrong, but she's the one who really filled my head with dollar signs. The two of them took advantage of me."
"Do you own any guns, Mr. Royce?"
"Sure do. A 12-gauge shotgun. I got a .243, a .270, a .30-06, and a .300 Winchester Mag."
"Do a lot of hunting?" I asked.
"I used to. Hell, my knees are so bad now, I can't climb up into a deer stand. Used to lease a ranch in South Texas back in the day."
"You own a .22?" I asked.
"Yeah."
"Do you mind if we take a look at it?" I asked.
His face crinkled up. "Why?"
"Chelsea was shot twice with a .22-caliber weapon."
"You don't think I did that, do you?"
"Where were you yesterday afternoon?" I asked.
"I think I'm done talking to you."
"If you don't have anything to hide, then you won't mind us taking a look at your gun," I said.
"Come back with a warrant," Harold said.
"If that's how you want to play it," I replied.
He gave us a dirty look and slammed the door in our faces. The windows rattled, and the whole house shook. Harold twisted the deadbolt.
JD shot me a doubtful look.
As we walked back to the Porsche, he said, "You gonna tell me that guy shot Chelsea twice, lugged multiple 5
gallon containers of gasoline through the house, and set her on fire?" Jack shook his head dismissively. "I bet it takes that guy 15 minutes to get from the sofa to the kitchen."
I had to admit, Harold didn't seem like a promising lead, but he had motive and opportunity.
I called Sheriff Daniels to see if we could get a search warrant for the premises.
"You want me to get a search warrant for a 74-year-old man who lost money on a real estate deal and made some vague threats?"
"He admitted to owning a .22-caliber pistol," I said.
"Do you really think he's a credible suspect?"
"I'm just following the leads."
"Harold Royce has no criminal history. No parking tickets. No moving violations. He pays his taxes, and he served honorably in the military."
"You're right," I snarked. "Let's blow it off. I don't want to be an asshole about it."
Daniels let out an exasperated sigh. He didn’t much care for my sarcasm. "Okay. I'll see what I can do."
We climbed into Jack's car and drove to the rehearsal studio. It was almost time for his band practice. We pulled into the parking lot, and Jack found a suitable space. We climbed out of the car, and Jack set the alarm as we strolled toward the warehouse.
There was a group of rockers out front, smoking cigarettes.
"Nice car, dude," a metal-head said.
Jack smiled and nodded.
We pushed inside and made our way down the dim corridor and stepped into the practice room. The band greeted Jack with smiles, handshakes, and high-fives.
There were a few more groupies on the couch today.
"You ready to rock 'n' roll?" Styxx asked with a grin.
"Hell yes!" JD replied.
Styxx pulled a pack of cigarettes from a vest pocket and snatched a pre-rolled joint stuffed inside. He let the joint hang from his lips as he fumbled for a lighter. "You burn, dude?"
Jack shook his head.
Styxx struck the lighter, and the flame ignited. He lit the joint, took a deep inhale, and the cherry glowed red. He filled his lungs, held the smoke for a moment, then blew out a cloud that hung in the air and made the room smell sweet.
He passed the joint around to his bandmates.
