Killer Listing (19 page)

Darby perched on a cantilevered cane chair and nodded appreciatively. “This is a Mies van der Rohe design, isn’t it?”

Candy gave a small nod. “That’s right. I see you know something about modernism.”

“Not much, I’m afraid, but I’ve always been a fan.”

“The man was a genius. Skyscrapers, houses, furniture … I love his work. I love his whole philosophy.”

“Less is more?”

“Exactly.” She settled herself on a red velvet sofa shaped like a kidney bean and pursed her lips. “Less is more.” Her face hardened. “Let’s talk about why you’re here.”

“Jack Cameron.”

“Yes. And how do you know him?”

“I’m here visiting an old family friend, and she is Jack’s godmother. I don’t know how much you know about what’s been happening …”

“Oh, I know everything. The diving accident, his arrest … I’m well aware of Jack’s situation.” She leaned forward. “Are you looking for some sort of alibi?”

“For Jack?”

“Well, I thought that was who we were talking about. Look, I’ve got a very busy day so let’s get to the point. I was with Jack on Monday, right up until he headed for home.”

“He said he was on a fishing trip.”

“He was.” She gave a smirk at Darby’s quizzical look. “I sometimes make house calls.”

“You mean you met him on his fishing boat?”

“Yes, I did, and I listened to him ramble for hours.”

“Could you tell what he was saying?”

She shook her head. “It was a long, convoluted story about his wife.”

“Why would you drive out to the bayou and sit on Jack Cameron’s boat?”

“Why do any of us do anything?” Candace Sutton asked, arching an eyebrow. “Look around this room, my dear Darby Farr. I’ve got a lifestyle that I value, and to support it takes money. That’s why I’d sit for hours in the hot sun keeping a wasted client company. Money. Pure and simple.” She rose from the sofa and Darby followed suit. “I’m afraid I must show you out.” From his spot on the couch, Fang lifted his head, looked at the door, and yawned.

Darby’s gaze lingered on a brochure that was tossed on a hall table.
Barnaby’s International Realty.
“Where will you go when your lease is up?”

Candy Sutton pursed her lips. “I’ve been looking at property.”

“Who is your broker?”

“That’s none of your business.” Candy opened the door. She seemed to study the building’s chipping paint for a moment. “Kyle,” she said softly. “I was working with Kyle Cameron.”

Darby left Candace Sutton’s
apartment, her head swirling with thoughts.
Candy knew Kyle! And yet I asked her nothing about her
. She reached the parking lot where she had left her car. She thought about Candy Sutton’s claim that she had joined Jack on his fishing expedition. It was strange, but perhaps it was possible. No stranger than having looked at property with his estranged wife.

Darby arrived at the lot and found her car. Less is more, she said beneath her breath, repeating the design philosophy of Mies Van der Rohe. The adage did not seem to apply to Kyle Cameron’s murder investigation, where precious few clues represented more confusion instead of clarity.
And then I have a good lead, and I blow it,
she thought
.

In the corner of the parking lot, a car door slammed. Darby glanced over and saw a tall, powerfully built man striding away from a glossy black Lexus. Something about him seemed familiar, and Darby watched as he exited the lot and vanished around the corner. Finally, she peered into the window of his front seat. Tossed on the leather cushion was a news magazine, the subscription label clearly visible. “McFarlin Enterprises.” Darby sprinted out of the parking lot and peered down the street, just in time to see Foster McFarlin disappear into Candace Sutton’s building.

_____

Helen was happy to hear that Darby was headed back to Serenidad Key.

“I called Peter Janssen,” she said. “I told him I’d pay him a 20 percent referral fee from the listing side of the St. Andrew’s Isle transaction when it sells. I know I don’t have to, but I want to. He was a good friend to Kyle, and I think it’s what she would have done, had she lived.”

“What about Marty Glickman?”

“Ugh. Well, he’ll get his share of course, but there’s no avoiding that. I made it clear to Peter that it was his relationship to Kyle that I was recognizing, nothing to do with Glickman at all.”

Darby heard a pan clatter in the background.

“I’m making us some dinner and I’m hoping you’ll have some good news.”

“Such as?”

“Such as your Mr. Kobayashi is ready to buy St. Andrew’s Isle. Come on, Darby, you were there for three hours and he wants to go back in the morning.”

“How did you know that?”

“Justin Fleischman. Remember him? He manages Tag’s guest house.”

Darby smiled. “Of course. The fledgling real estate agent. Okay, Helen, you’ll get your report at dinner.” She had pulled off the highway, into the breakdown lane, to make her call. Now she surveyed the rush hour traffic and sighed. “I’ve got to go. See you in about an hour.”

_____

Officer Kelly McGee and Detective Dave DiNunzio talked about everything they could think of while bouncing down the rutted dirt road—her upbringing in Philadelphia, his favorite type of poker, her undying affection for Philly cheese steaks, his conviction that the fish on Florida’s east coast were far superior to those caught on the west. They’d given up trying to understand why they were nearly out of their jurisdiction—practically in the Everglades, as DiNunzio kept saying—on a trip that seemed like a total waste of taxpayer money. “Detective Briggs wants our department to find Hensley,” explained Kelly, although her explanation was starting to sound flimsy even to her ears. “If the helicopter did see a car way out here, it could be him.”

Finally they both grew quiet, the thick roadside vegetation seeming to muffle all of their words like a dense, green blanket.

“You sound as if you loved the East coast of Florida,” Kelly observed. “Why did you transfer?”

Dave DiNunzio gave a harsh chuckle. “I didn’t exactly choose to transfer,” he said carefully.

“Oh.” Kelly wondered if she should change the subject. “Were you involved in the Kondo Killings investigation in Stuart?”

“Not directly. My old partner was assigned to the case. Pretty gruesome stuff.”

They grew quiet once more. Kelly, who was driving, slowed the police car as they rounded a bend and DiNunzio craned his thick neck.

“What do you see? The Corolla?” He leaned forward. “Shit, that’s it alright. White Corolla. Plates are wrong but he probably changed them.”

Kelly put on the flashers and slowed to a crawl. “I’m going up alongside, see what we’ve got.”

“No.” Dave DiNunzio’s voice was an urgent whisper. “Let me out right here.” His hand was at his side, ready to draw his gun. She recognized the look of focused adrenalin on his fleshy face.

“I’m ready to back you up,” she said.

“You stay with the radio. That’s the kind of back up I’m gonna need.” He opened the car door silently and slid out.

She held her breath, watching his crouched approach to the dusty vehicle. The hood was open, all the windows rolled up. Engine trouble, Kelly surmised, hoping that Clyde Hensley was not watching from the bushes with a shotgun trained on Dave. She hadn’t much liked Dave when he’d transferred into the department just a few weeks before, but now that she’d grown used to his tuneless whistling, ridiculous nickname, and endless accounts of good poker hands, she couldn’t bear to think of his getting injured.

He was at the side of the vehicle and peering into the interior. She saw him glance in the back seat and then turn his attention to the front, recoiling in alarm at whatever he saw. His hand went up to his mouth as if he was going to throw up, stayed there a minute, and then slowly returned to his side. He holstered his gun and glanced at her. Dead, she heard him yell. She nodded as he made a slashing gesture across his throat. They’d driven all this way to capture a dead guy.

Kelly opened the cruiser’s door to stretch her legs a moment when DiNunzio gave a startled yelp.

“Get the fuck back, Kelly,” he yelled, pulling his gun. He shot several rounds through the back seat car window and waited, watching with a look that mingled horror and incredulity.

“It’s a snake as large as a friggin’ tree trunk. I think it ate the guy’s face off!” He took a tentative step toward the Corolla. “Christ, it’s not dead yet!” The sharp sound of the gun firing echoed through the cypress swamps, shattering the late afternoon silence.

Finally it was quiet. DiNunzio took a long, steadying breath.

“Jesus. I’ve never seen anything like it. Must be twenty feet long.” He ran a hand through his bushy hair. “I looked in the back, but I thought it was a rug or something, all rolled up. I don’t know what the hell kind of snake it is …”

“Burmese python,” Kelly said, suddenly at his side.

“How in the world—” began DiNunzio.

“My cousin Todd had one, until it ate the family cat.” She peered over at the body’s mangled features. “So that’s Clyde Hensley. I think he got what was coming to him, leaving that poor girl to die on those electric wires.”

“Yeah,” Dave DiNunzio said, wiping his sweaty palms against his pant legs. “The bastard got exactly what he deserved.”

_____

The ride from Candy’s apartment back to Helen’s house took Darby into the center of Sarasota, past the office of Barnaby’s International Realty. On an impulse, Darby pulled into an empty parking space at the building and headed inside.

A slim woman with a chic, short haircut met Darby at the entrance. “Welcome to Barnaby’s,” she said. “I’m Jolene Sebastian. What can I do for you?”

“I’m Darby Farr, from Near & Farr Realty. I wondered if Marty Glickman was available.”

“You’re working with Helen, right? Hang on a second, I’ll check.” Jolene Sebastian glided out of the entranceway and into a glass-walled office. A few moments later, she returned. “You’re in luck, Darby. Marty is free.”

Darby followed her to a large corner office. A massive desk presided over the room, its surface completely clear save for a test tube with blue liquid that was placed on one corner. Behind the desk, framed by a huge picture window overlooking the Gulf, was a man in his fifties, with wire glasses and thick brown hair going gray at the temples. He stood up and extended his hand. Darby could see that he was a slight man whose short-sleeved shirt and tan trousers seemed to hang on his wiry frame, although his handshake was firm.

“Ms. Farr, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Won’t you have a seat?”

Darby looked around the room for clues to Marty Glickman’s personality, but the walls were bare. Where was his computer? Paper, books, pens? She glanced again at the glass tube and noticed there was something green growing inside the vial.

Marty Glickman noted her interest. “Riesentraube grape tomatoes,” he said, pointing at the test tube. “They’re sprouting in a gel. Cool, isn’t it? NASA developed it—who knows why—but I swear sometimes I can see the roots growing right in front of me.” He laced his fingertips together. “So what can I do for you?”

“I want to ask you a few questions about Kyle.”

“May I ask why?”

“I’m interested in finding out why she wanted to leave Barnaby’s.”

Marty Glickman raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Then this will be a short conversation, because I have no idea.” He leaned forward in his chair, his fingertips no longer intertwined. “I don’t have to tell you the perks of working for a company like Barnaby’s. Superior market share, name recognition … You’re in San Diego, right? At Pacific Coast? Then you probably know you’re our only real competition out there.” He paused. “Look around you. Kyle had an office with an even more spectacular view. She had her own support staff, the latest in equipment. Frankly, why she wanted to leave this for a little mom-and-pop brokerage, I’ll never know.” He gave an insincere smile. “No offense.”

“Did you have a good working relationship with her?”

“Me? Definitely. I groomed her for this place and was her biggest champion. Smoothed some ruffled feathers when she started, made sure she got the recognition she deserved—I did everything possible for that woman. Don’t get me wrong—we got into disagreements now and then. Kyle was very opinionated and she didn’t like to be told what to do. But we got along just fine.”

“You must have been angry when she told you she was leaving. After everything you’d done for her.”

“Of course I was! Look, the bottom line in this business is whether you make the deal happen. Kyle did that and more. Did I hate to lose her? Sure. She was a real rainmaker. Was I angry? You bet! But did I stab her to death? No, I did not.” He rose from his chair and came around the massive desk. “Now, if we’re through …”

Darby rose as well. “Did Kyle have any enemies that you knew of?”

“No. She was a competitive person and there were undoubtedly people who disliked her. Enough to kill her, I don’t know.”

_____

Helen was tearing up lettuce for a salad as Darby entered the cheerful little kitchen.

“Helen, I’m sorry to be late. I stopped by Barnaby’s to ask Marty Glickman a few questions.”

Helen groaned. “Now why do you want to ruin a good dinner by bringing him up? I’d much rather talk about something more pleasant, such as your new friend, Mr. Kobayashi.” She smiled as Darby took two plates down from the shelves. “Let’s eat on the patio. This heat’s finally broken some.”

Darby carried the plates outside. A fresh breeze off the Gulf ruffled the leaves of the citrus trees, sending the spicy scent throughout the enclosed area.

“Now who’s Mr. Kobayashi?” Darby teased, laughing at the startled look on her friend’s face. “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you that Mr. Kobayashi does find the property attractive.” She reentered the kitchen to fetch the bottle of Pinot Grigio that was chilling in the refrigerator.

Helen raised an eyebrow. “Finds it attractive, huh? Darby, you and I both know he flat-out loves the place! You watch, you’ll be writing me up an offer by five o’clock tomorrow.”

Darby smiled. She wasn’t going to let on just how much Mr. Kobayashi wanted St. Andrew’s Isle. It was strange, really, how determined the man had seemed about owning the property. He spoke as if he already did own it, a sign, Darby knew, that he was hooked.

She thought back to her time with the courtly gentleman. After they had toured the extensive grounds and buildings, Darby had attempted to find out why her new client found St. Andrew’s Isle such a perfect fit. “As your broker, I want to make sure we’ve explored all the options,” she said. “I agree that St. Andrew’s Isle is exquisite, but perhaps we should see some other listings for comparison’s sake.”

Mr. Kobayashi showed the barest hint of a smile.