Nobody Knows (12 page)

“Okay, thanks. I’d appreciate it.” Cassie paused, not knowing the man’s name. “By the way, I’m Cassie Sheridan.”

“Jerry Dean,” muttered the man, not looking up from his work.

“Thanks again, Jerry. I’ll see you later.”

Good. That was a step in the right direction
, Cassie thought as she headed back to the hotel. Now she could tell Leroy that she had lined up an interview.

CASSIE’S CONSTANT
hotel room companion was the television. She watched
KEY to America
as she peeled off her running clothes and left the set running while she went in to take a shower. With her makeup applied and hair blown dry, she came out just in time to hear the local news report in the affiliate cutaway section of the network broadcast.

“Murder at the Ringling mansion. The body of a prominent Sarasota businessman was found at Cà d’Zan early this morning. Forty-two-year-old Leslie Sebastien, a jeweler with an exclusive shop on St. Armands Circle, was discovered in the mansion’s rose garden by a groundskeeper. Sebastien’s throat had been slashed. Sebastien had attended the fund-raising
concert by the Boys Next Door on the Ringling grounds last night.”

That was the man who had complimented her on her ring.

She stared at the video of the rock group that ran on the TV screen. What was
with
this town? Yesterday a hand on the beach. Now a murder. A murder of a man Cassie had met just hours ago.

“The stench coming off that hand was un-freakin’-bearable, and it was so waterlogged that it was tough raising a readable print. The skin was soaked, and the tissue underneath was really bloated. But I was able to remove the outer layer of skin intact, put it on my own finger, and roll it in the ink. The good news is I got one solid print. I hope it’ll be enough, because we don’t want to have to go around to every manicure joint in Sarasota and check who had spiderwebs painted on their nails.

“Look, Danny, I got to go. I got to go look at the body of the guy from the Ringling place. We need this, right? A freakin’ hurricane’s coming. I should be home gettin’ my house boarded up.”

Deputy Gregg hung up the phone, encouraged by the prospect that the forensic guys could have an ID on the fingerprint from AFIS by sometime later today. That is,
if
the print was on file with the Automated Fingerprint Identification System.

Danny picked up the framed picture of a smiling
Colleen holding a drooling Robbie from its spot on his office desk. He gazed at it with love. He treasured his young family and wanted to keep them safe. Sarasota was where he wanted his son to grow up. Robbie and any other kids he and Colleen were lucky enough to have. He didn’t like what the last twenty-four hours had brought to their town.

Thoughts of the pretty pediatric nurse were pushed, for now, from his tortured mind. He had gone to the fundraiser because it was expected of him, with no idea of how important it would be for him to be there. He believed in destiny. There were no accidents. Eventually the reason for everything that happened in life was revealed. Even Merilee’s death, though painful and unplanned, was, ultimately, the way it was supposed to be. And if Leslie Sebastien had to die, that was unfortunate but necessary as well.

Yes, he was
meant
to go to the party last night. Now he knew the ring was out there, and he had to get it back. If the police got their hands on it, the Sebastien hallmark stamped inside the band would lead to the jeweler’s sales records, which would, in turn, lead to him.

Sometimes the shameful things he had to cover up overwhelmed him. It had been that way for as long as he could remember. Being caught by his mother with the lingerie he had stolen from his sister and her teenage friends when they spent the night, a neighbor
complaining that he was peering into her windows, a teacher finding him hidden in a stall in the girls’ bathroom. Those were the things he had been caught at.

There were so many others that no one knew about.

No one knew he was responsible for the attacks on those young women. “Attacks” was what the media called them anyway. He didn’t view them that way. He had hoped that those girls secretly enjoyed the time he spent with them, and that they would fall in love with him. Maggie Lynch hadn’t killed herself because of their time together. Maggie had killed herself because the media had exposed their most personal shared moments for all the world to see.

He had followed the news coverage, somewhat mollified when Maggie’s mother decided to sue KEY News and Cassie Sheridan, the reporter who had bared the intimacy he and Maggie had shared. That wasn’t enough for destroying a beautiful, young woman; nevertheless, it had brought some comfort.

But now, Cassie Sheridan was right here in Sarasota.

Destiny.

Banyan trees, their aerial roots dripping with Spanish moss, and statues of cherubs and lions, preening on their pedestals, lined the long driveway leading to Cà d’Zan. The car carrying the KEY News crew drove slowly, observing the hubbub on the Ringling grounds. Yellow police tape cordoned off the perimeter of the rose garden while a news camera-man recorded Sarasota police detectives combing the area around the bloodstained concrete bench under which Leslie Sebastien’s body had lain. A couple of hundred yards away, workers broke down the stage where the Boys Next Door had played.

“Too bad this murder is a local story,” offered Leroy, as he parked the car next to a WSBC-TV News van in the Circus Museum parking lot. “This would be great video.”

For their purposes, however, the plan was only to get some pictures of the mansion’s bayside windows being boarded shut in anticipation of the looming storm and conduct a short interview with the Ringling
docent. Leroy had made contact with him at the party the night before.
Evening Headlines
wouldn’t care about the murder of Leslie Sebastien, and Leroy hadn’t even bothered to mention it to New York. From the network news point of view, the murder had no national significance.

As Felix and Leroy unloaded gear from the trunk, Cassie walked across the already steamy parking lot in the direction of the rose garden. A boy, his legs straddling his bicycle, had stationed himself just outside the police tape, craning his sun-bleached head to get a better look at what the police were doing. Cassie recognized him from the local news report. “Hey. You’re the one who found the hand on the beach, aren’t you?”

The boy looked at her, taking her measure. “Uh-huh.”

“That must have been creepy.”

“Not really.”

Cassie paused to consider the boy’s nonchalance. She could play along. “Mmm. Maybe not. Maybe you’re used to things like that around here.” She nodded in the direction of the bloody bench behind the police tape.

The boy shrugged his thin shoulders beneath his blue Nike T-shirt.

“Hey, Cassie, let’s go,” Leroy’s voice called from the parking lot.

The boy turned to look at the two men, his eyes growing wider when he saw the large black and silver camera. “You with TV?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Doin’ a story on the murder?” It was less a question than a statement.

“As a matter of fact, no,” said Cassie. “We’re here to cover the hurricane.”

The boy looked puzzled. “Why would you do a story about a storm that’s not even here yet when there’s a cool story like this right in front of you?”

“Because I work for the national news. This isn’t the sort of story we do. It’s kind of complicated, kiddo. But I’ve got a question for you.”

The child waited.

“The news story reported that you were out on the beach with your metal detector when you found the hand, right?”

Vincent nodded.

“Well, I’m wondering what made that detector go off.”

“You sound just like my mother,” muttered the boy.

“Well?”

“A bottle cap. There was a bottle cap under the seaweed that was on the hand. That’s what made the metal detector go off.”

“I see,” Cassie murmured. She turned to check on Leroy and Felix. “Well, I’ve got to go, kiddo. Take care.”

Vincent couldn’t quite tell whether the news lady believed him, but he tagged along behind her, stopping to prop his bike against a banyan tree. She sure was pretty, like all those ladies on TV were. Not like his mother, who looked so tired and messy sometimes.

He followed the news crew around to the back of Cà d’Zan, where Anthony was waiting on the terrace. Carpenters on ladders and scaffolding were nailing sheets
of plywood over the stained glass windows. Felix busied himself getting pans and push-ins of the activity.

“I see you’ve met Vincent,” said Anthony, nodding in the boy’s direction. The child had stopped at the edge of the terrace, far enough away that he was out of earshot. “He’s mad at me because I had to cancel on him again this morning for a lesson on clown makeup. You should probably interview him, he’s around here so much. He knows everything.”

“Does his mother know he’s out here, hanging around a murder scene?”

“I doubt it I get the impression Vincent is pretty much on his own when he leaves home in the morning.”

If my kid had found a human hand on the beach, I’d damn well keep him with me the next day
, thought Cassie. But then she realized that she shouldn’t make judgments without knowing the situation better.

“You all set?” Cassie called to Felix.

The cameraman gave the thumbs-up sign.

“First of all, would you please state your name and spell it?” Cassie was glad that Felix had miked this interviewee. It was awkward enough looking down at him. She was glad she didn’t have to keep holding a microphone down to him.

“Anthony Dozier. D-O-Z-I-E-R.”

“And your position?”

“I’m a Ringling docent.”

“How long have you been a docent here?”

“Twelve years. Since I left the circus.”

“Oh? What did you do in the circus?”

“I was a clown.”

Images of a little greasepainted man running around the circus ring passed through Cassie’s mind. If she let it, the thought could make her feel sad.
Move on
. But, involuntarily, she envisioned the FBI sketch of Maggie Lynch’s attacker.

“Okay, Mr. Dozier. Could you tell me what you are doing to get ready for Giselle?” she asked.

“Well, as you can see, we are boarding up the place as best we can. The mansion here recently underwent a major restoration, and we don’t want all that work and money to blow away.”

Cassie looked out at the green bay water. “You’re all in a pretty precarious spot here, aren’t you, Mr. Dozier? Right on the water like this.”

“That comes with the territory. Today, just as when John Ringling built this place back in the nineteen twenties, waterfront is prime real estate. Most people who can afford to buy or build on the water are willing to take the risk of an occasional storm.”

What else could she ask? This would be just a small part of the story on the storm preps they would offer the
Evening Headlines
tonight. They could use the docent’s sound bite about people willing to risk a storm for the pleasure of living on the water or they could use the one about waiting to see how bad the forecast got. Either way, they had enough of Anthony Dozier.

CASSIE WISHED
she hadn’t walked around to the front of the mansion ahead of Leroy and Felix when she saw Sarge Tucker talking to one of the stagehands breaking
down the Boys Next Door stage set. The promoter spotted her before she could turn back.

As he approached, Cassie noticed that his face didn’t have the revved-up glow of the evening before. “Finished talking to the midget?” Sarge sneered.

Cassie didn’t respond to the slur.

“I got up to watch the KEY morning show at that godforsaken hour, but I didn’t see a damn thing about the boys,” Sarge declared.

Dammit! Leroy should be taking the heat for this, not her. It had been his bright idea. “I’m sorry, Mr. Tucker. But that’s how it goes sometimes. We can never promise that something is going to make air.”

Sarge wasn’t buying it. “I think I was duped. That’s what I think. You never intended to have the boys on.”

He was right, and Cassie didn’t feel like making any other excuses for Leroy’s deception. Still, it was all part of the game. Promoters were forever inviting the media to events in the hopes that their clients, big and small, would get television exposure. Sometimes they got it, sometimes they didn’t. There were no guarantees. Sarge Tucker surely knew that.

“All I can say is I’m sorry, Mr. Tucker.”

There was a momentary awkward silence, and Cassie began to continue toward the crew car. But Sarge called after her. “That’s pretty mean business over there, isn’t it?” He thrust his chin in the direction of the cordoned-off rose garden.

“Yes, it is. Did you know the man who was murdered?”

Sarge fingered one of the gold chains around his
neck. “Not well. But I did go in his shop from time to time. It’s sure a shame he was killed, but it made certain that our concert was on the front page of the newspaper and on local TV this morning. You know what they say,” said Sarge with an arch wink. “Bad publicity is better than no publicity.”

“I’ve heard it, but I really don’t agree with it.”

What a huckster
. Cassie walked away in disgust.

THE BOY
pedaled along beside her. “You didn’t like that guy, did you?”

“What makes you say mat?”

“I could just tell by the way you talked to him.”

“You shouldn’t be eavesdropping on other people’s conversations, Vincent”

The child was not rebuffed. “I learn a lot of good stuff that way.”

They reached the parking lot. Cassie opened the car door to let out the hot air.

“I didn’t like him either,” Vincent offered.

“Oh you didn’t huh? Why not?”

“He looked like a girl with all those gold necklaces. And I didn’t like the way he talked about Anthony.” Vincent looked away for a moment. “And I didn’t like the way he talked to you.”

Cassie smiled. “Thank you, kind sir, but you don’t have to worry about me.” She looked directly into the youngster’s eyes. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Vincent a secret that it took me years to figure out. It’s usually a good idea to trust your instincts.”