Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN
I was buckling myself into the Explorer when my phone rang. Jock.
“You still at the police station?”
“Just leaving.”
“Meet me at Gene Alexander’s house.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Maybe nothing. I’ll see you there in five minutes.”
Gene lived in a small ranch house dating to the 1960s in a neighborhood known as Emerald Harbor, about five minutes from the police station. His house was perched beside a wide canal that emptied into Sarasota Bay. The yard was dominated by an ancient gumbo-limbo tree and spotted with beds of flowers that bloom in the fall in Florida. Begonias, impatiens, and geraniums provided splotches of red, pink, and white, less brilliant than usual as they hunkered down under the low clouds that dripped rain. The lawn was slightly overgrown, as if no one had mowed it in a couple of weeks. Jock was pulling up just as I arrived. We met on the sidewalk leading to the front door. “What’s up?” I asked. “It’s a bit wet out here.”
“Gene’s not answering his phone. I’ve been trying to get hold of him for the past two hours.”
“Maybe he’s sleeping in.”
“Maybe. But he always has his phone on. Old habit.”
“The battery could be dead.”
“So could he.”
Jock knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again. Nothing. “Can you look in the garage?” he asked. “There’s a door on the side that has a small window.”
I went to the side of the garage and looked in. There were two cars in the garage. That wasn’t good. I reported back to Jock, and he tried the door. It wasn’t locked. It swung open to reveal a living room that opened to French doors facing south to a patio overlooking the canal. A kitchen with a breakfast bar open to the living room was to my left. A short hall ran to what I assumed to be a door to the garage. A conversation area with a sofa and two club chairs was grouped at the middle of the room, providing a view across the patio to a pool and the wide canal. The floor was a rich wood, probably oak. Expensive-looking Oriental carpets were spread about. A fireplace took up most of the west wall, bordered by a hallway that must have led to the bedrooms. At right angles to the fireplace, a large flat-screen TV sat on a table to my right, against the north wall. Two identical recliners were placed in front of it. One of the recliners was in the open position, footrest even with the seat, the back all the way down. Gene Alexander was lying in the chair, as if he’d fallen asleep watching television. But he wouldn’t be getting up.
We were looking at his right side. His temple had a large hole in it, black around the edges. His right hand was in his lap, clutching a pistol that looked like a .45 caliber. Blood and brain matter had splattered the chair to his left.
“Shit,” said Jock. “Call it in, Matt.”
We didn’t move, standing as if we were rooted to a single spot on the hardwood. I took out my phone and dialed 911, identified myself, gave the operator Gene’s address, and told her there was an apparent suicide, the body still on the premises. We backed out the way we’d come in, not wanting to contaminate the scene. We waited for the cops on the front stoop. Neither one of us had much confidence that Gene had taken his own life.
“I’m sorry, Jock,” I said.
“Thanks, podna. You know Gene didn’t kill himself, right?”
“Doesn’t look that way.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Jock.
“The hand holding the gun was in his lap. That big a pistol will have some kick to it. It would have thrown his arm outward, away from the path of the bullet. It would have been hanging by his side, the pistol on the floor.”
Jock was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t even think about that, but you’re right.”
“What were you thinking?”
“Gene isn’t the kind of guy to kill himself.”
“I don’t know, Jock. He just lost the only family he had.”
“Yeah, but he’s a tough guy. He would’ve handled it. And if he’d killed himself, he’d have called somebody before he did it. So that we’d know. He wouldn’t have left a note. He’d have called.”
Sirens came whooping into the street leading to Gulf of Mexico Drive. A patrol car was followed by an ambulance and an unmarked. A uniformed officer, a captain, crawled out of the cruiser. J.D. and Martin Sharkey got out of the unmarked and walked toward us, a fire department paramedic close behind. “What’ve we got?” asked Sharkey.
“Gene Alexander’s in there, dead,” said Jock. “Looks like a suicide, but I don’t think it was.”
“Why?” asked J.D.
“You guys take a look,” said Jock. “See what you think.”
Sharkey turned to the police captain. “Set this up as a crime scene. I’ll get the forensics people out here, but that’ll take a while. They’ve got to come from Bradenton. And get me some more uniforms to keep the gawkers away. Let’s take a look, J.D.”
They went to the front door and looked in. They didn’t enter the room. They stood there for a few minutes, talking quietly. They walked back to Jock and me. “Gun’s in the wrong place,” said J.D. “It just wouldn’t have fallen into his lap, and when he died his fingers would have let go of it. Somebody tried to set this up.”
“I agree,” said Sharkey. “What do you guys think?”
“Matt thought the same thing you did, J.D.,” Jock said. “I agree. I think if Gene was going to kill himself, he’d have called somebody first. Just to let them know. I’ll check with my director, see if he called any of his old friends. If he did, they would have called it in. Martin, can you check with the 911 operators, just to be sure?”
Sharkey nodded. “Let’s get J.D. under cover. I don’t want a repeat of that fiasco at Leffis Key.”
“I’m fine, Martin,” said J.D. “This is what I do. Investigate murders.”
“I know,” said Sharkey his voice tense, “and as soon as forensics finishes, I want you on top of it. But for now, just until we have a better handle on the situation, I want Matt to get you the hell out of here.”
“But—”
“But nothing, J.D. I’m not going to have you shot while we stand around with our thumbs up our asses. I’ll call as soon as the forensics guys have anything.”
J.D. was steaming. “Damn it, Martin, what’s the chief going to say about this?”
“He’ll back me up. He’d say my first job was to keep you safe. He’s at some kind of meeting at the sheriff’s office over on the mainland. Dispatch called him and he’s on his way here.”
“Right,” J.D. said. “Protect the girl.” Her voice had taken on that edge that I recognized as repressed anger.
“Get her out of here, Matt. J.D.,” Sharkey said, his voice softening, “you’re the toughest cop I know. But you’re not invulnerable. I’d send any of my people, man or woman, out of here under the circumstances. I’ll call you as soon as we’re sure there’re no shooters lurking around.”
She turned on her heel and walked toward my car. I followed. I thought I could see steam coming out of her ears, but it was probably just my imagination.