Chapter SIX
The terminal at Sarasota-Bradenton International Airport was quiet. The hands of the large clock in the gatehouse moved slowly toward ten thirty. The plane coming down from Atlanta was the last of the day, and the concourse was eerily deserted. A cleaning woman pushed her cart from trash can to trash can, making the last pickup of the evening. An airline employee stood at the gatehouse counter stacking papers.
J.D. and Jock had shown their credentials to the TSA agent at the security desk, explained their purpose, and were allowed to wait at the gate for Gene Alexander and Les Fulcher. Their message would change Gene’s life forever. He was expecting to be met by his wife, but would run headlong into the worst news he’d ever heard.
It was not J.D.’s first death notification, but they never got easier. She paced the small waiting area, while Jock sat dourly, lost in his thoughts. The plane nosed into the gate, and the passengers began to deplane. They emerged from the jetway, hunched with fatigue, carrying their bags, and hurrying to home or hotel or vacation condo. Jock watched them, remembering the many nights when he had trudged off a plane in some town far from home.
J.D. stood quietly, tense, as if gathering the courage to plow unbidden into a stranger’s life and wreak the havoc that she knew her news would bring. She jerked a little as she recognized Les coming into the gatehouse. The man walking with him was stocky with a head full of iron-gray hair and a face burned by the Alaskan sun. He stood about five feet eight, several inches shorter than Les.
She moved toward the line of passengers, Jock following close behind. “Les,” she said quietly as she approached.
“J.D.,” he said, “what are you doing here this late?”
“I need to talk to Mr. Alexander.”
Les was standing still now, his instincts telling him that something was not right. He’d been a firefighter for a long time, and he knew about tragedy. He knew the look on the faces of those who carried bad news. He knew something was terribly wrong. “Gene,” he said, “this is Detective J. D. Duncan, Longboat Key Police.”
“Hello, Gene,” said Jock, moving up beside J.D.
A look of recognition and surprise crossed Alexander’s face. “Jock Algren. My God. What brings you here?”
“It’s bad, Gene. Les, would you mind checking on the luggage while J.D. and I talk to Gene?”
“No problem. Let me know if you need me.”
“Mr. Alexander,” said J.D., “let’s sit.”
They walked to a corner of the gatehouse. Alexander was worried, his face suddenly devoid of color. “What’s up, Jock?”
“Sit here, Mr. Alexander,” said J.D.
He took a seat. She sat beside him. Jock stood, his arms at his side, almost as if he were at attention.
“Mr. Alexander,” J.D. said, “there’s no easy way to tell you this. Your wife died last night. I’m so sorry.”
“What? Died? How? When?”
“She was murdered, Mr. Alexander. We don’t know why or who did it, but we’ll find him. I promise.”
He looked up at Jock, bewildered, the shock setting in. “Why are you here, Jock? Was this related to the agency in some way?”
“We have no reason to believe that, Gene. I was here visiting a friend when I heard about Nell’s death. I talked to the director. He’s put the agency at your disposal. I don’t think it was related, but we’ll do everything in our power to help the police catch the bastard who killed her.”
“Son of a bitch,” Alexander said quietly. He swiped a hand over his eyes, brushing away tears. “Son of a bitch. Where did you find her? I called her when we changed planes in Seattle and again from Atlanta. She didn’t answer. I figured she just left her cell phone somewhere.”
“Her body was in the bay near Sister Key,” said J.D. “She wasn’t killed there, and we don’t know where it happened. When was the last time you talked to her?”
“Last night. About six o’clock Sarasota time.”
“Did she mention any plans for the evening?”
“She said something about going out to eat, but I didn’t get any details.”
“Any idea about where she might have gone?”
“Not really. She would probably have stayed on the key, or maybe the Circle, but I don’t know for sure.”
St. Armands Circle is an upscale shopping and dining area on the next key south of Longboat. The islands are connected by a bridge. If Nell had been to one of the restaurants there or on Longboat, the police could probably figure it out. November was not a big month for tourists or snowbirds, so most of the customers would be locals.
“How did you find her?” asked Alexander.
J.D. told him. About the body in the water, the bullet to the head, the early morning discovery by a Coast Guard auxiliaryman. She didn’t tell him about the connection to the Miami killings.
“She didn’t suffer, then,” said Alexander. More a prayer than a statement.
“We don’t think so, Mr. Alexander,” J.D. said. “We’ll talk some more in the morning. I’d like for our crime-scene investigator to go over your house before you go back in. Would that be all right with you?”
“Why the house? Do you think she was killed there?”
“It’s a possibility. We want to be thorough.”
“You’re welcome to take a look at it.”
“Can you spend the night with Les?” J.D. asked. “I’d like to have our crime-scene guy go through the house first thing in the morning.”
“I’m sure we can work that out.”
“Do you need anything? A ride? Can I call a family member?”
“No. Les left his car in long-term parking, so we’ll make do. And there is no family. We never had children. It was just the two of us.”
They left the gatehouse and walked the empty concourse past security and went down the escalator to the baggage claim area. “Wait here, Gene,” Jock said. “Les and I’ll get the car.”
Jock told Les about the murder as they walked to the lot. He didn’t go into details, nor did he mention the connection to Miami. That would all come in good time. Les said he’d be happy to have Gene as a houseguest for as long as needed.