Ron Base - Tree Callister 03 - Another Sanibel Sunset Detective (23 page)

35

By the time Tree turned the Rav 4 onto Truman Avenue, the rain had stopped. He got to the turnoff for North Roosevelt Boulevard remembering that would put him on A1A. A1A swept him away from the island onto the interlinked causeways crossing the keys, past Marathon and Big Pine Key and then Key Largo. By now everything was locked up against the dampness of the night, the world plunged into darkness until the lights of Miami International Airport blazed through the post-rain haze.

He turned onto the Florida Turnpike going north to I-75. By five o’clock in the morning, he was speeding through Big Cypress National Preserve, an hour outside Naples. He was surprised he had gotten this far, expecting a fleet of police cars to descend on him in hot pursuit, lights flashing. But then maybe, just maybe, he had done everything close enough to right back at the Hemingway house to get away with this—at least until he finished what he needed to do.

He thought about Cailie who probably believed she would be able to eliminate the competition for the missing ten million dollars, but either she didn’t know about, or hadn’t counted on, Trembath being hooked up with Elizabeth.

Trembath he could understand. It was his job to eliminate Cailie, correctly divining that if they did not take care of her, she would take care of them. Trembath probably hadn’t expected Tree to be part of it, and had little choice but to get rid of him along with Cailie—and make it look as if they had killed one another, not illogical considering their connection to Chris.

What mystified Tree was why Elizabeth stepped in front of the bullet meant for him. Did she care more than he ever imagined? Or was it a spontaneous gesture, an instant of terribly misplaced loyalty to a long-time adversary? Or maybe she had just stumbled at the wrong moment. Whatever it was, it had cost Elizabeth her life—and saved his.

He had briefly considered sticking around to try to explain to the police what had happened, but decided there was no time. Soon enough they would be everywhere and it would be too late to do anything. By now they had discovered the three bodies in the Hemingway compound. Initially, it would look as though Trembath had shot the two women before one of them shot him.

Once they had identified the bodies there would be more questions than answers but if his luck held none of it would lead to him. Even if they were able to connect the dots and arrive at Tree’s doorstep, they would not arrive for a while. That would give him enough time, and right now, time was what he needed.

As he reached the outskirts of Fort Myers, daylight streaked a cloudless sky to begin another perfect Florida morning. It was just past seven when he pulled into the parking lot at the marina adjacent to Doc Ford’s Restaurant. He went over to where he had parked the Beetle, seemingly an eternity ago, found a chamois cloth in the back and spent the next few minutes rubbing down the interior and exterior of the Rav 4, removing any traces of his presence. Then he locked the Rav 4 and got into the Beetle and started the engine.

At this time of the morning, there was almost no traffic coming off the bridge onto San Carlos Boulevard. The Beetle was just about the only car on the causeway to Sanibel Island. He was dead tired as he pulled into an empty space outside the condominium on Sea Bell Road. It didn’t matter. He had to keep going. He opened the glove compartment and reached into the box of latex gloves Todd Jackson had given him. If Tree was going to be a detective and find dead bodies, he should at least be wearing protective gloves, Todd said.

He tried a couple of the keys on Cailie’s silver key chain until he found the one that opened the door to her condo. He spent some time struggling into the gloves before stepping into the dim interior. The closed blinds kept out the morning sun. He shut the door behind him and stood listening to the soft hum of the central air conditioning.

At first glance the apartment, with its flat white walls unadorned with pictures, was as anonymous as the woman who rented it. Slowly, however, as Tree’s eyes became accustomed to the dimness, he began to pick out certain things: the laptop on the desk by the windows; the files piled beside the computer. More papers on the counter forming a barrier between the galley kitchen and the living room.

Something moved through the darkness, causing Tree to gasp. Then he saw that it was a black and white cat. Everywhere he went, cats, he thought. The cat leapt onto the computer desk, turning its fine, feline head to regard Tree, cat’s eyes gleaming out of the darkness.

Tree went over and carefully reached out to scratch its ears. The animal didn’t seem to mind at all. It closed its eyes with pleasure and began to purr.

The cat trailed Tree into the bedroom. Cailie hadn’t made the double bed the previous morning. Gym clothes were discarded on the carpet. Casual, stylish clothing hung neatly in the closets facing the bed. Women’s cosmetics and lotions crowded the bathroom counter. She had left a bath towel on the floor. He opened one of the drawers below the counter. Inside was a .38 police revolver—Cailie never far from a gun. He left it where it was and closed the drawer.

He went back to the living room and sat at the laptop. The cat leapt onto the desk and settled nearby, rubbing the side of its head against the edge of the computer screen. Cailie said that she had a confession linking Chris to the murder of his wife that she had recorded. She would have turned the recording over to the police, but he was willing to bet she had kept a copy for herself. He did not want to know, but at the same time he had to. He had to understand for himself what his son had said, and finally know for certain his guilt or innocence.

As he expected, access to the laptop was password encrypted. He thought of something and got Cailie’s set of keys out of his pocket. Attached to the chain was a miniature metal license plate, Kopper1, stamped into its surface.

He typed Kopper1 into the password box, hit return, and—

That wasn’t the password.

Then a sound—someone attempting to insert a key into the lock of the front door. Tree froze, fingers poised over the keyboard.

Whoever was at the door tried again, and this time succeeded. Tree heard the door open and then close. The cat jumped down from the desk and padded across the carpet. Tree had just time enough to duck beneath the desk before he heard footsteps coming uncertainly toward him.

From his vantage point, he could see a man’s legs move into view. The cat appeared, rubbing against the intruder’s legs a moment before he fell heavily against a wall, swearing. Then he called out, “Cailie? Are you here? Cailie?”

The slurred voice of Sanibel Detective Owen Markfield.

Tree tensed beneath the desk. All Markfield had to do was turn on a light, and that would be it.

But Markfield didn’t turn on any lights. Instead, he straightened himself, and Tree could make out a cell phone being pulled from the pocket of his jeans with some difficulty. Sharp little electronic alerts filled the room—Markfield poking out a number. The ensuing silence was broken by Markfield’s labored breathing. Finally, he said, “It’s me. I’m in your apartment. The cat is here, incidentally. Vienna? Is that its name? Vienna and me, we’re waiting. Where are you?”

He would learn the answer soon enough, Tree mused. But he would never hear it from Cailie Fisk.

Markfield dropped the cell phone a few feet from where Tree crouched against the desk. He bent to pick it up. He only had to glance over, and he would see Tree. But as he bent forward, the cat swished against him, and the detective nearly lost his balance. He swore again, kicking at the cat

“Get out of here!” he yelled, before lurching over to an armchair. Tree heard him fall heavily into it. He groaned loudly, followed by more silence. Tree remained in place, hardly daring to breathe. He peered around the desk, straining to see where Markfield was.

A loud, honking made Tree jump. He rose from behind the desk for a view of Markfield through the dimness, slumped in the chair, head thrown back, mouth hanging open, Sanibel’s most officious representative of law and order at drunken rest, snoring loudly.

Tree slowly let out his breath, before turning back to the laptop. He leaned over the keyboard and typed VIENNA.

A moment later, he was on Cailie’s home screen. A photograph of Kendra Dean smiled at him, luminous, caught in sunlight, the way Cailie undoubtedly preferred to remember her.

An audio file was on the desk top. He stared at the screen. Kendra smiled back from the grave, daring him to play that file.

He shut down the computer and closed the screen before disconnecting the power cord. He picked up the laptop and started out of the apartment. Vienna had returned to her perch atop the desk, taking silent note of Tree’s departure.

36

The sun was already hot, and the humidity had crept across the beautifully manicured lawn running up to the Dayton house, making it hard for Tree to breathe as he approached the front door.

Or maybe it wasn’t the humidity.

He rang the doorbell twice before Vera Dayton answered. She wore a white caftan, her hair pulled back from a surprised face without makeup.

“Tree,” she said. She touched the edges of her jaw, as if aware she wasn’t wearing her mask this morning.

“I need to talk to you,” Tree said.

She stood there, her mouth opening, nothing coming out.

“Can I come in?”

She rallied enough to say, “Is Fredericka with you?”

“No, I wanted to talk to you alone.”

She nodded and stepped back to allow him entry. She led him along a hallway into a brilliant living room as white as an elephant’s graveyard.

“I’m sorry,” she said, fighting to maintain her composure, “I wasn’t expecting company.” As if she would have been different if she was. “Please, sit down.”

He settled on white easy chair while she occupied a white sofa facing him.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” she said.

“No, of course not.”

She reached into a silver box on the glass-topped end table beside the sofa. It was a type he hadn’t seen since he watched his parents smoking in the 1950s. She withdrew a cigarette and then lifted up the silver lighter beside the silver box. He got to his feet, took the lighter from her, flicked the wheel, and was rewarded with a tongue of blue flame. He held the flame to her cigarette until it was successfully lit. He could not remember the last time he had lighted anyone’s cigarette—or how long it had been since he saw someone send gray puffs of smoke into the air.

“I hadn’t smoked for years, but after Ray’s death and all this confusion about the business…” She allowed her voice to trail off.

“Yes, after Ray’s death I imagine things can’t have been easy,” Tree said.

She took another puff and said, “Why are you here, Tree?”

“It’s about Ray,” Tree said.

“He never liked you, you know.”

“Well, I don’t think we liked each other. I don’t think you liked him, either, Vera.”

She gave him a hard look through a veil of smoke. “How could you say that?”

“Because it helps explain why you murdered him.”

She stared at him. The hard look softened. The cigarette did not move. Gray smoke curled into the air. “That’s ridiculous,” she said in a small voice.

“When you found out Ray was having an affair with my son’s wife, you went down to the house in Naples, and you shot him and then made it look like suicide—or did your best to make it look that way, which given the state of Ray’s life at the time, wasn’t hard to do.”

Her face had gone as white as the room. “This is preposterous,” she said.

“That’s why you came to see me at the office. You were worried that if the police thought Chris killed Kendra, it might refocus attention on Ray. If he didn’t kill her, then why would he commit suicide?”

“That’s not true,” she said.

“What I can’t figure out, Vera, is why you told Cailie Dean. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I didn’t tell her anything,” she said, not very convincingly.

“Vera, I’ve got Cailie’s laptop.”

“How do you have that?” Vera sounded surprised—and alarmed.

“Never mind how, but I have it. On the way over here, I listened to Cailie’s conversation with you that she secretly recorded. She lied to me. She suggested she had recorded a conversation with Chris, but it’s with you.”

“I want you to get out of here, Tree. I want you to leave this house.”

“If I walk out, I go to the police.”

“And if you don’t?”

“Then we talk this out. Ray is dead. So is Cailie.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Cailie is dead?”

Tree nodded. “You’ll hear more about it later. It doesn’t matter how I know, but I do. What’s done is done. Right now, I’m only interested in protecting my son and making sure he doesn’t spend the rest of his life in jail.”

Vera rose to fetch a cut-glass ashtray and spent some time mashing the half-smoked cigarette into it.

“That’s what brought Callie to me in the first place,” Vera said. She carried the ashtray back to the sofa. “She had questions about her sister’s murder, and she wasn’t satisfied with the answers she was getting.”

Reseated, Vera placed the ashtray on the sofa beside her and then leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “She didn’t believe Ray murdered Kendra. I told her he didn’t do it.”