Killer Listing (15 page)

“She told me she’d met Tag Gunnerson at some charity event. He said that he wanted to sell his island property, and he asked Kyle to list it.” Peter Janssen crinkled his brow as he spoke, trying to remember the details of the conversation. “I told Kyle I had spoken to Tag’s assistant a year ago, but that no commitment had been made. I congratulated her on what would undoubtedly be a fabulous listing.”

“Kyle put down her fork and tossed her napkin onto the table. She said it wasn’t fair that they’d consulted with me but weren’t going to use my services. I reminded her that I was a big boy and that real estate sometimes worked that way, but she didn’t seem to be listening. She insisted on writing up a referral agreement, said it was the only way she’d be able to take the listing in good conscience.”

“I wasn’t sure what to say. I told her a referral fee was unnecessary, that I appreciated her concern but that I could handle it. She seemed to believe me, and we enjoyed the rest of our lunch, chatting about the market, new happenings in the city, and the like. When we got back to the office, I left my file on her desk so she could see the comparables I’d used. Later that day, there was a copy of a referral agreement in my box.”

He paused. “That’s the kind of girl Kyle Cameron was.” The words sounded choked, and Darby felt for the man. He made an effort to control his emotions and continued, lifting the folder in his hands. “But things have changed. It’s ludicrous for Marty to think you owe me anything now. Kyle was leaving Barnaby’s. She wasn’t going to finalize this listing until she was part of your company.” He sighed. “She’d seemed happy at Barnaby’s, but who really knows for sure? Marty can be tough to work for, and they had definitely had some misunderstandings over the years.”

Darby’s interest was piqued. “Such as?”

“The usual squabbles over commissions. Kyle was busting her butt on the McFarlin properties, and she didn’t want to give Marty half of what she earned. She was a star for the company, and I think she wanted to be treated like a star. Instead, Marty was on her case, pushing her to travel further down the coast and pick up clients in Naples, Venice, and Verona. That girl was already going 24/7. I don’t know how she could have given him any more.”

“Will you keep working for Marty?” Helen asked.

“If that’s a job offer, I thank you but I have to decline,” he said. “I’ll stay at Barnaby’s until the bitter end.”

“Does Marty treat you better than he did Kyle?” asked Darby.

“No,” he said with a sad grin. “But I don’t have the guts to make a change.” He rose. “I appreciate your time, Helen, and it’s nice to see you again.” He turned to Darby. “Good bye and good luck.”

Helen saw Peter to the office door. When he had left, she turned to face her friend.

“What an interesting meeting. His story and Marty’s are so different.”

Darby nodded. “Peter seems to grasp that—Kyle’s leaving the agency, and her death, negates any kind of referral agreement, while Marty is pretty insistent that you owe it.”

Helen sighed. “I’m going to speak to the state commission, see what they say. Whatever I do, I don’t want Marty Glickman on my case.”

“Just how much money are we talking, anyway?”

“Well, just say the estate sells for forty million dollars, that’s a fifty thousand dollar referral fee. That’s not chump change.” She pushed the chairs back where they belonged and gave Darby a long look. “This is my take on it. Giving it to Peter is one thing, but I’ll be damned if I’m handing anything over to Marty Glickman if I don’t have to.” She looked at her watch. “I’m off to St. Andrew’s Isle and bag that listing. What about you?”

“Off to take my exam.”

“Shoot! That’s right. Well good luck, girl. I just know you’re going to ace it. How about I call you when I finish and we grab a grouper sandwich?”

“Super. Just call and I’ll meet you at the Dive.”

_____

Jack entered the water alone, leaving the other divers chatting and eating orange slices on board the
Seeker
. “Have a good dive,” Tank said, looking into his friend’s eyes with what seemed like concern.

“Always do,” answered Jack.

Now, as he let the air out of his buoyancy compensator and descended slowly to the bottom, he thought again about his plan. Swim to the wreck, find a jagged piece of metal, entangle his breathing apparatus in the metal, and drown. It sounded so easy.

Once at the bottom, Jack adjusted his buoyancy so that he hovered just above the sand. He loved this feeling—the point where he was neither sinking nor rising. It was what being in outer space must be like, he thought, as he watched a huge amberjack swim slowly by. Beautiful spiny oysters littered the bottom, and Jack could not help but be impressed by their symmetry.

The gray hulk of the four-hundred-foot-long freighter loomed through the green water in front of him. Now laying upside down, her back broken in half, the once mighty
Bay Ronto
had been transporting wheat bound for Marseilles when she foundered in a hurricane in 1919. Jack remembered hearing that the entire crew managed to squeeze into two lifeboats before the freighter went down. Collecting rainwater and eating raw fish, the men on the lifeboats had somehow survived.

As wrecks went, the
Bay Ronto
was not particularly exciting. There was no chance of finding china, or a ship’s bell, or any artifacts at all for that matter. But it was a wreck, and beginners and more experienced divers alike appreciated the thrill that swimming through its sunken passageways afforded. It was the chance to imagine you’d discovered the
Andrea Doria
or the
Titanic
.

Jack squeezed through a crack in the hull, startling a group of nearly two dozen large jewfish. His eyes roved, looking for the right place to tangle his breathing apparatus, but there was nothing but smooth edges. Perhaps on the outside of the boat, he thought.

Using slow, graceful kicks, Jack swam slowly out of a cleft in the hull and began circling the vessel. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the movements of a school of panicked smaller fish, and idly wondered what was causing them distress. He rolled slowly to his side for a look. In the corner of his mask, at the very edge of his peripheral vision, swam a large gray shark.

He knew instantly from the wedge-shaped head and faint dark stripes that it was a tiger shark, one of the ocean’s top predators. Fear clenched his stomach, while at the same time, his heart surged with appreciation for the magnificent hunting machine. The shark was all muscle, all muscle and sinew, and it evaluated him with a sweep of its tiny black eyes.

Jack hung suspended in the water, as still as he could possibly remain. He knew the fish could smell him, could see him, and definitely hear him, but he was not quite sure what it might do. Sharks were primarily nocturnal hunters—everyone knew that—and yet daylight attacks on humans, although infrequent, did occur. Jack tried to stay calm. He heard the pounding of what sounded like jungle drums in his ears, a noise he quickly realized was the beating of his own heart.

The shark turned to face him head on. It seemed to consider a moment, and then, with a sweep of its powerful tail, hurtled directly at him. Jack held his breath as the huge creature brushed by him, rubbing the neoprene of his suit with its flank. The fish was “bumping” him, testing to see what Jack was made of, and possibly what his reactions would be. He’d heard from divers who’d survived encounters with sharks that this type of behavior could go on for hours.

Jack willed himself to stay immobile. Seconds later, the fish turned abruptly and began swimming once more in his direction, the muscular undulations of his body making ripples through the water. Jack was terrified, holding his breath, and yet he felt a sense of exhilaration he had never experienced before.
If I am going to die,
he thought,
let it be at the hands of a magnificent creature like this. If by some miracle I survive, let me take with me some measure of this shark’s strength
…

Thud. His hip was smashed by the shark, which seemed to be curious as to what it would take before this dark creature split into pieces. Jack watched as the shark turned again, his vacant eyes boring through him, gathering speed with every move of his body, rocketing toward his gut …

Jack braced for an impact that didn’t come. He opened his eyes and saw the shark swimming by, having apparently veered off at the last second. He watched as it disappeared into the shadowy depths, until all he could see was a faint flicker of tail. He took a deep drag on his regulator and got nothing. He was out of air.

Jack fought the panic that threatened to rise in him once more. After all, this was what he’d planned to do, wasn’t it? Run out of air and drown on the bottom?

But the encounter with the shark had changed him. He’d faced off against the apex predator of the ocean, and somehow he’d survived. It was the first successful thing Jack Cameron had done in a long, long, time, and he wasn’t about to die without savoring it.

Quickly he groped for his pony bottle, an additional small cylinder of air strapped on his back, while kicking upwards toward the surface of the water. Where the hell was it? He reached with his other arm. Had the shark knocked it loose?

Panic stabbed him like a knife. His lungs were burning but still he swam steadily upward. Normally he would be planning a stop to avoid decompression sickness; now he was simply trying to stay alive.

In desperation Jack sucked once more on the regulator. Nothing.

Blackness was dancing around the edges of his vision. A thought drifted into his brain:
I decided to live, but I’m gonna die anyway
. It was the last thing Jack Cameron contemplated before everything dimmed and went dark.

The Dive was unusually
quiet for a hot Thursday afternoon. Only a few tables were occupied, and the smiling waitresses Darby remembered from her earlier visit were not present. Darby chose the same table she and Helen had eaten at before and waited for her friend. A tall, lanky man signaled from behind the bar that he was on his way.

“So? How did it go at St. Andrew’s Isle?” asked Darby as a flushed Helen collapsed into a chair. “Did you land the big listing?”

“I surely did,” she beamed, flashing a brilliant smile.

“What did you sign for? Forty five?”

“Actually, we are listed for a cool forty million. Tag wants a quick sale, so let’s hope your Mr. Kobayashi can step up to that plate.” She took a sip of water and nearly spit it out. “Jeez—I nearly forgot! How’d the test go? Are you a Florida broker now?”

“Sales associate, but yes, I am now licensed and ready to sell Tag’s property.” She grinned. “Believe it or not, I actually knew someone else in the class.”

“Really? Who?”

“Justin Fleischman.”

Helen looked surprised. “Well, you better hope he doesn’t bring a buyer for St. Andrew’s Isle first, because that property is red hot.” Helen gave a wicked smile and looked up as the bartender leaned over them, a questioning look on his chiseled face.

“Hello, Marco. We’ll take grouper sandwiches, and two beers.”

“Actually, I’ll have an iced tea,” said Darby.

Marco nodded and turned on his heel.

“I’ve always thought he was awfully cute,” Helen giggled, wagging her eyebrows suggestively. “He’s got that sultry Mediterranean look, you know?” She hushed as Marco returned with their drinks.

“Here you go,” he said, his dark eyes darting around the restaurant. He straightened up and hit Darby’s glass in the process.

“Dammit! I’m sorry.” He mopped up the liquid with a bar towel and sighed. “Let me get you another drink. Be right back.”

Helen watched him retreat to the bar and frowned. “Marco isn’t usually so flustered,” she commented. “Wonder what’s on his mind?”

He returned with the replacement drink and plunked it down. “My apologies.” His cell phone buzzed and he yanked it out of a pocket. Glancing at the number, he frowned and shoved it back.

“Not the person you wanted to speak to?” asked Helen gently.

Marco shook his head. “I was hoping it was …” his voice trailed off.

“Jack?” prompted Darby. “Were you hoping the call was from Jack?”

He gave her an incredulous look. “Have you heard from him?”

“Not since yesterday,” said Helen, her face growing anxious. “Why? Is he in trouble?”

The tall man scowled and shook his head. “Nah.” Darby noticed he was shifting the bar towel back and forth between his big hands.

“Marco, we might be able to help,” she said quietly. He gave her a long look.

“I don’t see how.”

“Why don’t you try us and see?”

Marco ran a hand through his curly brown hair He exhaled and pulled up a chair.

“I know you’re friends with the Camerons,” he said, nodding in Helen’s direction, “otherwise I wouldn’t be talking.” He glanced around the restaurant and lowered his voice. “It’s this.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his apron pocket. “Jack left it in the cash drawer. I think he’s planning to hurt himself.”

“What?” Both women were on their feet.

“Why haven’t you alerted anyone?” Helen exclaimed. “Every second counts!”

Marco put his face in his hands. “I’ve wanted to, but it’s not that simple.”

“Let me see it,” Darby said quietly. He handed her the note with obvious reluctance. The paper crinkled as Darby unfolded it. Seconds later, she understood the bartender’s dilemma.

“Jack Cameron has written what sounds like a suicide note, Helen, but he’s also penned a confession.”

“A confession?” she asked. “Whatever the hell for?”

Darby held the note between her fingers and grimaced. “The murder of his wife.”

“But Kyle was killed by that maniac, Shank.” An incredulous Helen Near grabbed the note and read it herself. She looked back at Darby with fear in her eyes. “What do we do now?”

Darby had already whipped out her cell phone. “Detective Briggs? It’s Darby Farr. I’ve got some news …”

_____

Chellie Howe ate a salad at her desk and worked her way through a stack of legislative bills, the toughest of which involved creatures she found repulsive—alligators and snakes. “Ugh,” she groaned, feeling as if her very skin was crawling. Reptiles had never appealed to her, not since her brother’s lizard had crawled from the warm aquarium where he spent all day sunning under a light bulb to her closet, to where she found him curled inside her favorite pair of Danish clogs. She shuddered at the memory, even though more than thirty years had passed and both her brother and the lizard were history.

Philip. Normally she remembered him as he’d lived the last few years of his life, wandering the streets of Miami in a haze of drugs, but now she pictured him in his lizard-owning stage, happy to show off his pet, even to a younger sister who couldn’t care less. They had never really been close as kids, prone to the usual squabbles siblings seemed to almost relish—fights over who sat where at dinner, bickering about bathroom privileges—and his obsession with cold-blooded creatures hadn’t helped their relationship. Still, she smiled at the memory of his delight upon finding the lizard, unharmed and alive, while she screamed and pointed at her clog …

A knock at the door. Chellie frowned and shoved the papers to the side. “Yes?”

The door opened and Mindy Jackson entered. “A new development in the Kondo Killings,” she announced.

“What? That’s done, we got the guy.”

“Apparently not. Jonas Briggs has uncovered evidence that seems to suggest Cyril Shank was not Kyle Cameron’s killer. He’s our guy for the other two, but Kyle was murdered by somebody else.”

Chellie hated it when her assistant wore that smug little face like she knew something Chellie did not. “Just tell me the whole frigging thing, Mindy.”

“Briggs is on his way to find Jack Cameron and take him in.”

Jack?
Chellie wanted to exclaim in surprise but would not give Mindy the satisfaction, so she kept her face a mask, a trick she had learned back in law school. “Is that all?”

“Cameron left some sort of note admitting the whole thing, and saying he was killing himself. No word yet on where he is, or whether he’s still alive.”

Chellie Howe gave a curt nod. “Monitor the situation and give me updates.” She gestured toward the pile of bills. “Get me a meeting with Bob Sneed on this exotic reptile importation, and find me one of those vitamin waters. Pomegranate.”

She waited for Mindy to retreat before grabbing her cell phone.
Jack Cameron about to be arrested?
The guy was a mess, addicted to booze and who knew what else, but still … She flipped open her phone and was about to dial when some instinct made her pause. Calls could be traced and she had to be careful. She thought back to her luncheon, only weeks before, and the steely gray eyes of Alexandra Cameron.
She’s poison
…

Chellie felt a queasiness in the pit of her stomach. She bent and pulled open her bottom desk drawer, removing a three-by-five inch black and white photograph. Chellie, Alexandra Cameron, and Foster McFarlin, arms draped around each other, all smiled for the camera. In the background loomed the impressive brick structure that was Florida State University’s Westcott Building. She flipped the photo over and read the scrawled words. “To my dearest friends. Love always, Kyle.”

Chellie replaced the photo and closed the drawer. When Mindy arrived with the vitamin water, she’d take an antacid and get ready to go home. In the meantime, she would try not to think about the past.

_____

“Kyle was pregnant?” Helen looked up from her home computer, where a breaking news story regarding the Kondo Killings had just been posted, and shook her head. “First Mitzi’s call, then your news about the Peeping Tom, and now this. I need a Mojito, and I don’t care if it’s only two o’clock.”

“I’ll make you one,” Darby offered, rising from her seat on the couch.

“No, let me. All that muddling will be therapeutic.” Helen rose heavily from her desk. “I don’t suppose you want one, too?”

Darby nodded. “Sure.”

Everything was in the open now, Darby realized, along with the news of Jack Cameron’s shark attack and arrest.

First Mitzi had called, livid that the police were waiting for Jack at the dock. “He nearly drowned, and instead of getting him into a decompression chamber, the police stick him in handcuffs for the murder of his wife. You can bet our lawyers are going to have fun with that scenario.”

Furious that her grieving son had been subjected to such harsh treatment, Mitzi had sobbed on the phone. “He didn’t kill anyone. How could he?”

Once Helen had finished consoling her friend, she’d hung up and logged on to discover what the press was reporting. After seeing that the case was to be reopened, the only thing she wanted was one of her favorite drinks.

Darby heard the sounds of cupboards closing and her friend fetching ingredients. “You sure you don’t need help?”

“Well, alright. You can get me some ice.”

Darby joined Helen in the cheerful kitchen, where the older woman was already pressing the mint leaves.

“Kyle’s being pregnant makes a lot of sense, when I think about it.” Helen gave Darby a shrewd look. “She was planning to leave Barnaby’s and work in a less crazy environment, one where she could be a good mom.”

“I think you’re right. Given Peter Janssen’s comments about Marty Glickman’s management style, it sounds like Kyle didn’t want to keep tolerating that kind of stress.”

Helen reached for a jar of simple syrup and tried to open it. Sighing, she handed it to Darby who unscrewed it easily.

“I wonder why she didn’t tell me,” Helen mused. “I would have been totally fine with an infant around the office. Hell, it would have been fun.” She smiled sadly and measured out the syrup.

“I’m sure she was planning on telling you very soon. She was still in the early stages, remember?”

Helen shuddered. “It makes the whole thing even worse, you know? Not only was Kyle killed, but so was this little innocent being-to-be. Of course, the killer didn’t know she was having a baby.”

Darby took her Mojito from Helen. It smelled heavenly, the scent of mint and the rum mingling together in a fabulous perfume.

“The killer may not have had any idea Kyle was pregnant,” Darby said. “That’s certainly one scenario. But here’s another: Kyle’s condition may have had everything to do with why she was murdered.”

“What are you saying?”

“If Kyle’s death wasn’t a random act of violence by a serial killer such as Shank, then whoever murdered her planned the whole thing, right down to copying the killings on the East coast. That person may very well have known about her pregnancy, and it could have been a factor in her death.”

“You mean the father of the baby did it?”

“Possibly, but he’s not the only one with motive. What about a man who was enraged because he was not the father? Or that guy’s wife?”

“Chellie Howe? Do you think she—”

Darby couldn’t help but laugh. “Helen, I haven’t got a clue. But I do know one thing: the fact that Kyle was carrying a baby could be important to the killer’s motivation.”

“So whose baby was it? Foster’s? Some random sperm donor’s? Believe it or not, my money is on Jack.”

“Really?”

“Sure.” She nodded her head confidently. “When that guy’s not on drugs or booze, he is irresistible.” Helen took a sip of her Mojito and frowned. “Let’s hope he keeps himself alive long enough for you to actually see the real Jack Cameron.”

_____

Thanks to a favor from Jonas Briggs, Helen Near got her wish. An hour later, she and Darby were seated in the holding cell of the Serenidad Key Police Station. Jack Cameron, on the edge of a metal folding chair, sat across from them.

Darby could hardly believe the difference between the childlike addict she’d encountered in Kyle’s apartment and the focused man sitting before her.