Serendipity (Southern Comfort) (33 page)

What the hell?

Bobby Lee tucked the goggles back into his duffle, shaking his head over the situation.

At least Wellington had compromised the scene at the park by touching the sausage can to get it off his dog’s nose.  Bobby Lee had been relieved to learn the fingerprints weren’t useable.  And he had a good excuse for his van being there – he left it there a lot – because there just wasn’t enough parking at his uncle’s.

But Bobby Lee knew they’d taken an impression of his boot print.

Those boots might be housing some fish at the bottom of the river right about now, but the whole thing had still cut too close for comfort.

   So the prosecutor had to go.  The cops would believe whoever’d gone after him before had finally made good on – what was it again?  The implied threat against him. And the woman… well, they’d figure her for collateral damage, wouldn’t they?  He might not be able to take her in what you might call the way he’d become accustomed, but a smart man knew how to adapt.

A smart criminal knew how to improve.

And above the rest, a smart
serial
killer knew how to eliminate people without getting caught.

JORDAN wasn’t exactly whistling when he strolled out of court, but his step was certainly lighter than it had been a day or two before.  He’d just kicked the defense team’s collective ass on a pre-trial motion, thank you very much. And as the defendant was an upstanding citizen, businessman – rotary club member and church deacon, for pity’s sake – who just happened to knock his wife around on a regular basis, Jordan figured he was allowed the spring in his step.  Maybe the man did shoulder most of the burden of caring for his seventy-six year old Alzheimer’s-suffering mother, but using the woman as an alibi when he’d actually been fracturing his wife’s skull wasn’t going to fly.  

Jordan had had it with lowlife scum who got their rocks off by hurting women.

So many did, he mused with the familiar sense of disgusted bafflement, and not nearly enough of them ended up behind bars.

As if to bring that point home, Jordan spotted Chip Coleman leaning against the wall in the hallway.  His step slowed momentarily, as the image of Leslie as he’d last seen her pounded into his head like a dirty hammer.

No, not nearly enough of them.

“Chip.”  He forced his feet forward, resigned to the loss of his brief sense of euphoria.  “How are you?”

“Overworked.  Underpaid.  Caught the tail end of that motion.” He jangled his loose change, something that Jordan was coming to recognize as a habit.  “Guy seriously expected the old lady to testify on his behalf?”

“The old lady would have testified that little green men play pinochle in her parlor if we would have allowed it.  She can’t remember who her son is half the time, let alone if he was with her on the night of September nineteenth.”

“Damn defense lawyers,” Coleman muttered, and then grimaced when Jordan smiled.  “Yeah, yeah.  Your brother.  I always forget you’ve got a barracuda in the gene pool.  No offense.”

“It would take a hell of a lot worse than that.  You know, Jack actually has a barracuda – the freshwater kind – in a tank in his office.”

“No shit?”

“Absolutely none.  And as much as I enjoy hearing people take potshots at the opposing counsel, I’m guessing you didn’t come down here with that in mind.”

Coleman reached inside his jacket, produced an envelope that he passed over.  Jordan slid out prints depicting the burned-out shell of a car.  “Let me guess.  This was at one time a dark blue domestic with a chain-link holder around its Florida tag.”

“There’s a photo of it passing through a toll station on the Florida turnpike before Sumter County deputies found it like this.  Got your brother to thank, I guess, for getting this as quickly as we did.  He knows how to throw his weight around when he needs to.  The, uh, plate numbers matched up with the partial you gave us – the same make, same plate we were able to place on Bay Street the night you were assaulted – but it looks like the tag was stolen.  The woman who reported it checks out – no connection to you or to Ms. Fitzsimmons that we could see, and a rock solid alibi for the times in question.  No reason to believe she was involved in any way.  But the two bodies inside the trunk…”

Coleman pulled out another print, and this time Jordan grimaced.  “It’s circumstantial at best, which is unnecessary for me to point out because I’m talking to a lawyer.  Circumstantial at best, but going purely on those circumstances, on my own instinct and speculation, I think you’re looking at what’s left of the men – and the ME down there confirmed they were males – responsible for your concussion and for Ms. Fitzsimmons’ murder.”       

   “Shit.”  Jordan studied the grisly photos. “Were they able to get anything at all from the car?  Because if my memory, your instincts, our speculation is correct, this is the trunk I was in, too.”  And wasn’t that image enough to make him shudder. 

“They’re sorting out what’s left of the blood evidence, and you know how long that can take after a fire.  We’ll need a buccal swab from you, in case, but the way that car burned…” he shrugged.  “You know there’re no guarantees.”

“They’re in the trunk,” Jordan tapped the photos, looked at Coleman.  “It’s significant.  I’m no psychologist, but I’ve spent enough time dealing with this stuff to figure whoever did this was making a statement.  An eye for an eye kind of thing.  Or like when the mob cuts out a snitch’s tongue.  These guys messed up when they took me.  I don’t believe I was supposed to make it out of that trunk alive.”

The change jangled again.  “This is the third party theory you were talking about.”

“I think this is more support that the theory’s correct.  But this is a hell of a lot bigger than we expected, Chip.  We’ve got six dead bodies – four at the Pine Bluff site and now these two.  A serial killer doesn’t have people working for him, people he punishes when they make a mistake.  And a hell of a mistake it was, because now there’s a multi-agency task force involved.  This smacks of somebody significant covering his ass, not a petty criminal with a grudge.  We’re not looking for some disgruntled, small time ex-con.  We’re looking for a serious operator.” 

Chip sighed and rubbed a hand through his sandy hair.  “We’re going to need to go through all your files, see who might benefit from you being dead.”

“Cheery thought,” Jordan said lightly, just as thunder rocked the building.  Others in the hallway jumped, raising their brows and looking around as people tended to do given the circumstance.  A couple women scurried over to the window.  Lightening speared like a cloud had simply gotten pissed off and hurled an electric pitchfork, and one of the women let out a scream.

He checked his watch, saw it was nearly five.  He guessed the weatherman had been on target.

“Well, hell.”  Chip looked as nervous as the two women.

“Don’t like storms?”

“Do tourists know how to drive?”

It felt good to grin, despite the conversation. “Oh, I meant to ask you if anything had come from the canvass of the park.”  He handed the envelope of photos back to Chip.

“You know how it goes, nobody saw nothin’.  The boot print is solid, but until we have a suspect to match it against, isn’t doing us much good. The thing is, we’ve got a timing conflict.  The suspects’ car was documented in Florida the night this happened.”

“If whoever is behind this could hire two people, there’s nothing stopping him – or her – from hiring another.  Wait,” he held up a hand when Chip started to speak.  “I realize there’s no evidence showing the two things are connected.  It could have been anyone in the park that night.  But just like you trust your instincts, your intuition to tell you those dead men are the same ones we were looking for, I can tell you that whoever was in the park that night was up to no good.  Could be a completely separate matter, but given everything else that’s happened I still believe it bears checking out.”

“I’m not planning to shirk the job.”

“And I’ll apol
ogize if it seems that’s what I was
implying.  You’re a good cop, Chip.  I wouldn’t want anyone else handling the case.”

Mollified, the detective blew out a breath.  And Jordan could see that underneath the gesture, he was pleased.

“The silver Taurus checked out clean, as did the van.”

“The van had some kind of commercial writing…”

“Glass Doctor,” Chip acknowledged, but Jordan saw something shift in his eyes.

“If what you’re not telling me is none of my business, or not relevant to the investigation, just say so and I won’t push.  Your case, your discretion.”

“You make it difficult to be a hard ass.  Look,” Chip glanced around, nodded Jordan toward a more secluded corner.  “Turns out the van belongs to the relative of another detective.  Kid lives in the basement apartment of the detective’s house, couple blocks over, leaves the van at the park sometimes because he can’t always get parking along the street.”

Jordan started adding, found the two and two.  “Simpson’s nephew.”

“Shit, Jordan.”

“He was at the bar that night, sitting with Simpson and Miller.  I didn’t recognize him, but he addressed Simpson as Uncle Jeff, when it looked like we were about to get into it.  You think it was him?”

“I don’t know.  It’s a theory. Maybe.”  Chip looked pained.  “Maybe the kid leaves the bar, parks his van, and just happens to see you and your dog in the park.  Hey, it’s the asshole ADA who just dressed down my uncle in front of the whole bar. Maybe he’s pumped up, just a little buzzed, thinks he might confront you.  Maybe stands behind some bushes to observe until he works up the nerve.  Then hey, the ADA has a gun, and suddenly confronting you doesn’t seem like such a good thing.  Better to cause a distraction, get the hell out of Dodge.”

It made sense.  It pissed him off, but it made sense.  “You’re not going to question him.”

“Jordan –”

“No, no.  I get it.  I do.  There’s already enough tension between me and Simpson.  You haul his nephew in, interrogate him, it’s just going to stir things up even further, with the added pain-in-the-ass factor of putting you in the middle.  More tension, more trouble than it’s worth for something that was basically harmless.  There’s no crime involved, unless you want to pop him for littering.”

Jordan nearly smiled again when more thunder made Chip jump.

“Damn storm. And you pretty much summed it up.”

“Well,” Jordan blew out his own breath.  “Here’s to hoping I scared the kid out of trying anything that stupid again.”

“If it was him…. he lied, and smoothly, when I talked to him about the van.”

“Must be a family trait.  Look, thanks Chip.  I appreciate you looking into it.”

“Doing my job.”  The man looked warily out the window.  “I better get out of here before the sky opens up.  You will too, if you have any sense.  And we’ll need that buccal swab, ASAP.”

“I’ll stop by the station tomorrow.”

When the detective had darted out the door, Jordan stuffed his hand into his pocket, banged his briefcase against his leg.  Jeff Simpson seemed to be a thorn that just wouldn’t get out of his side.

With the idea of clearing up his desk before he left for the weekend, Jordan started toward the elevator, then swung around and headed to the stairs.  He wouldn’t be getting a run in, in this weather, so the six flights would have to do.  He’d just gained the fifth landing when his phone began to vibrate in his pocket.

Juggling his briefcase to his left hand, he slipped the phone out and surveyed the number.

And felt a tingle along his spine that had little to do with the ozone in the air.

“Hello, Evan.”

“Jordan.”  His voice was a hollow plop, like a penny dropped into a well, so Jordan took the last flight two steps at a time.

“Hold on a second.  I’m in the stairwell at the courthouse and the reception’s for shit.”

“They have elevators there, you know.”

“I’m masochistic.”  He pushed through the door to the suite of offices the DA occupied, a little winded but able to hear.  “You have something for me on Sheppard?”

“He’s clean, Jordan.”

Jordan halted just outside the door to his office.  “What do you mean by clean?”

“As in squeaky.  Clean as a whistle.  Zestfully clean.  Pick your descriptive term.”

Jordan edged his door open with his shoulder, and tossed his briefcase onto his desk.  The sky had indeed opened up, and rain pounded against his window.  “That can’t be.”  He watched the water slide down in silver curtains.

“It can.  It is.  Aside from the fact that I could find nothing to indicate the man has had access to, or knows anyone who has access to, a black Ford Thunderbird, the real deal-killer is that he’s been out of town for nearly a month.  You know he’s a photographer, right?  That magazine he works for sent him out on an assignment in California.  Some kind of piece about forest fires and their aftermath.  I got confirmation of his flight, his credit card’s been used regularly at numerous locations, and the thing is, he wasn’t traveling alone.  Seems the man has himself a serious girlfriend, and her parents are out there, so it was a two birds with one stone deal.  The man just got engaged, Jordan.  If someone’s been harassing your girl, I think it’s safe to say it’s not him.”