Chapter TWENTY-TWO
The sun was high and bright, but the lack of humidity and the breeze off the bay made for a pleasant day. Jock and I were led to a table under the roof that had recently been added to the Dry Dock’s bayside dining area. The space was open on three sides, giving us a panoramic view of Sarasota Bay and the city beyond. The green water shimmered, the occasional ripple as bright as an emerald. The tables were mostly taken, some locals, a few snowbirds and tourists, all enjoying a peaceful day in the sun. Servers hustled about their business, filling glasses, bringing food, clearing plates.
The great white egret that lived on the property ambled along the sea wall, seemingly oblivious to the funny-looking humans who sat in the shade. I saw J.D. making her way to our table. She was wearing her usual cop attire, dark slacks, white polo shirt, and sensible pumps. She’d left her equipment belt in the car, but I knew she would have her .38 police special in an ankle holster, hidden by the slacks. Her hair hung loosely to her shoulders, and a smile of recognition lit up her elegant face. “She’s a beauty,” I said under my breath to Jock.
“She’s also armed and dangerous,” he said, smiling. “Be careful, podna.”
I watched her walk toward us, her gait relaxed, the smile radiating good cheer. My heart did that thing it always does when I see her, a little jig of joy at the prospect of spending time with her.
I had been in love only once in my life and I had managed to screw that up. While I was working so hard at being a lawyer, I forgot that a marriage takes a little work, too. My wife Laura gave it her all, but it wasn’t enough. Not when she had to deal with a husband who was so intent on climbing the success ladder that he didn’t realize that without Laura, nothing else would matter.
She finally gave up, divorced me and left with nothing but her car. She’d found happiness with a widowed doctor in Atlanta and was raising his two daughters as her own when she died. I had never filled the hole left in my life when she moved out, and her death taught me that some things cannot be remedied; that sometimes a hole just gets bigger and bigger until it consumes you.
J.D. had slipped up on me. We had become friends, and one day I realized that the hole in my life was being filled ever so slowly by this lovely cop. I was falling in love, but so far our relationship had remained platonic. I was afraid to push it, as I’d had almost no indication that she had feelings for me that were more than casual. There had been one or two moments when I thought something might break, that we might take that next step and become more than friends. But those moments always slipped away, and our connection had remained that of friends, nothing more.
She reached our table, took a seat, and ordered an iced tea from the server. “We found the boat,” she said. “They beached it behind a condo at mid-key. The crime scene techs are working on it now, but it looks clean. No prints at all, nothing.”
“Anything on the shooters?” asked Jock.
“A condo owner saw a man beach the boat and walk away. Like he was just strolling the beach. A couple of hours later the boat was still there and was getting some pretty rough treatment. The wind had swung the stern around and the outboards’ lower units were banging on the beach. She called us.”
“Just one man?” I asked.
“Yes. He might have dropped his partner off someplace else. We’ve got our guys and some Bradenton Beach cops canvassing all the condos along our beach.”
“That’ll take forever,” said Jock.
“Not many of the snowbirds are here yet,” said J.D. “A lot of condos are empty. We’re talking to the managers of each complex and asking them to contact the owners who are in residence. That saves a lot of time.”
“Was the boat stolen?” I asked.
“The registration numbers said it belonged to some people who live on the bay over in Cortez. Nobody’s home, but the boat lift in back of the house was down in the water. A neighbor said the owners are visiting family in Chicago, but he noticed that the boat had been on the lift last night when he took his dog for a walk.”
“And,” she continued, “there was a car in the lot across the street from The Seafood Shack that was stolen in Tampa yesterday. The techs are going over it now.”
“Did we get an ID on the victim?” Jock asked.
“She was a forty-five-year-old drug addict named Audrey McLain who worked as a prostitute to feed her habit. Bradenton P.D. knew her well. She worked the same few blocks for years. She was a confidential informant for one of the detectives, and as long as she provided them with good information on the drug dealers, they left her alone.”
“Another random victim,” I said.
“Probably,” said J.D.
“Did the crime scene folks find anything at Leffis Key?” I asked.
“A lot of shells from an Uzi, some shoe prints, but nothing that’ll help us nail the bastards.”
“Is there anything about the murdered women that stands out? Similarities?” Jock asked.
“They’re all a type,” she said. “White, middle aged, blonde, but those were the only similarities. They came from different backgrounds, had different jobs. We couldn’t find anything that would have connected the women in Miami to each other. We’re following up on that with Nell and Audrey. I doubt we’ll find a connection, but we have to cover the bases.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
J.D. nodded, her face tightening. “Audrey was killed with the same .22 pistol that killed Nell Alexander and those women in Miami.”