Dead Wrong (10 page)

Benny took a deep breath. “You’re right. But something has changed. I’m sending you to Denver. Come to my room and I’ll explain.”

Forty-five minutes later, Benny completed an online transaction that fattened Albert Getz’s offshore account by $250,000. He confirmed by phone that Getz would be the only passenger flying to Denver on Benny’s private plane. With luck, Albert Getz would be hot on Sammy’s trail before sunrise.

Glades, Florida
Thursday, January 23

Glades police officer Maggie Gutierrez and her partner, Officer Dan Franklin, arrived at Carl Foster’s house a little after three o’clock on Thursday morning. Two calls had come in, the first from Foster’s partner, Sam Jacobs, and the second from one of Foster’s neighbors. As luck would have it, Maggie’s beat included Foster’s neighborhood.

All the information she had so far was station gossip and the dispatcher’s call relaying the duty officer’s report. Foster and his partner had been suspended from duty as of two o’clock Wednesday afternoon. They were on the hot seat for beating up a Puerto Rican kid whose worst offense involved hanging around his no-good brother and his brother’s drugged-up pals.

According to Jacobs, the two men had hit the bars around two-thirty in the afternoon and stayed out until nearly seven. Jacobs said he finally got tired of listening to Foster bitch and moan that he’d be better off dead than jailed on assault charges, so Jacobs decided to go home. Foster had said he planned to go home too, but the last Jacobs saw of Foster, his car was weaving down the street.

After dinner and a couple of beers, Jacobs began to wonder if Foster had made it home okay. He began phoning Foster. When he couldn’t reach him, Jacobs checked with the police and the local hospital. After that, he thought about Foster’s tendency toward rage, and called in a report. Once duly recorded in the log, the call went to Maggie, who sat with Dan in a coffee shop, trying to relieve the fatigue that sets in during a quiet shift.

Before they’d received their carryout refills and returned to their car, a second call came in. One of Carl Foster’s neighbors reported that his dog had started barking around seven. The neighbor brought his dog inside, but it remained agitated all evening, growling and pacing the hall near the front door. The neighbor decided the cops should come take a look in case someone or something prowled around outside the house. The neighbor lived next door to Foster.

Maggie and Dan sat in their squad car a couple of houses from Foster’s place, observing the neighborhood, discussing what to do first. Maggie tapped her fingers on the steering wheel as she peered through the windshield. Foster’s house was dark. The lights were on in the house to the east. She sighed and looked at Dan.

“What? You got the fidgets?” he asked.

“Yeah. I don’t like this. I’ve heard the stories. Foster’s a walking time bomb.”

Dan shrugged and opened his door. “Doesn’t matter. We got a job to do. Want to talk to the guy next door?”

Maggie nodded.

The man opened his front door and stepped outside as they approached. They listened to his story about his dog, and then walked toward Foster’s house.

Mindful of Foster’s troubles and his reputation for losing his temper, Maggie stood to the side of the door instead of directly in front. She used her flashlight to knock. No answer. She rang the doorbell. “Carl Foster, this is Officer Maggie Gutierrez. My partner and I are here on a prowler call and need to check your backyard.”

The dog next door started barking. Maggie knocked a little harder the second time. She pressed the doorbell twice, each time hearing four chimes ring inside the house.

“Check around the side,” she told Dan. “See if his car’s in the garage. Look over the fence but don’t go in the yard until I get there.”

As Dan left the porch, he put his flashlight in his left hand and held it out to his side. He unsnapped his holster and placed his right hand on the pistol grip.

Maggie stepped back and ran her own light over the front windows. The blinds were securely closed. She flashed the light across the front yard, noting one car in the driveway, then shone the light into the shrubs at either side of the front steps.

Dan rounded the corner of the house and joined Maggie near the front door. “One car in the garage. No one out back. All the blinds are closed. There’s one window on this side with a few slats bent the wrong way. All I can see is a man’s feet with his shoes on. The shoes are hanging off the edge of the bed like maybe Foster’s sprawled across it, sleeping off a drunk. There’s a screened-in patio with a sliding glass door. The drapes are pulled.”

“Okay, let’s try this again.” Maggie pounded on the front door and pushed the doorbell several times. “Carl Foster, Mrs. Foster, is anyone here?”

No sound came from inside the house.

“Call it in, Dan. I don’t want to go inside without authorization. Tell the dispatcher we have reasonable suspicion of an occupant in jeopardy and we need to clear it with the super.”

The response came over the radio in less than two minutes. “We can check the backyard while we wait for backup,” she said.

They headed for the gate. Maggie stood by the fence and watched Dan while he checked the bushes and the shed inside the yard. He turned and watched while Maggie shone her light into the patio room, then on the sliding glass door. A twelve-inch wide space gapped between the door and the doorjamb.
Nobody leaves a door unlocked and cracked open in South Florida, especially at night.

Slipping on a sterile glove, Maggie tried the screen door into the patio room and found it unlocked.

Taking three slow steps backwards, she ended up with her back pressed against the wall just to the side of the tiny patio. Dan joined her. She explained about the doors and told him to continue checking the perimeter of the yard. When he finished, Maggie sent him to the front of the house to wait.

In a few minutes, Maggie saw the beam from a flashlight bobbing through the gate. One of the two officers from the backup cars accompanied Dan. Maggie instructed the officers to take a position at the front door.

“It’s quiet,” she said. “We’re going in based on the barking dog, the unlocked door, and Foster’s statement to his partner that he might as well be dead. Get dispatch to call Foster. If he’s sleeping, maybe the phone will wake him up.”

She then opened the screen door, crossed the patio, and waited beside the sliding glass door for Dan to catch up. He maneuvered his elbow into the space between the door and the doorjamb. With the force of his upper arm, he slid the door all the way open without touching any part of the door with his hands.

The drapes, which had been pulled closed, were the only obstacle between them and the inside of Foster’s house. Dan reached out with his flashlight and caught the edge of the fabric, slowly pulling it to the left as he shone his light around the room.

“Carl Foster? This is Glades P.D. Are you okay?” Maggie waited a minute. There was no response. “We’re coming inside now. Your partner called and said he was worried about you. You in here?”

Maggie slipped through the opening as Dan continued to hold the drape aside and light the way. When she saw the floor lamp a few steps from the door, she stepped further into the room and turned it on.

The hum of the refrigerator and the faint ticking of a clock on top of a bookcase were the only sounds she heard.

“It’s freezing in here,” she said.

“Yeah, weird. Hey, Foster’s married, right?” Dan said.

“Yeah. Got married last Saturday. That waitress from the bar you got kicked out of last month.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

Maggie raised her eyebrow. “Getting wasted and smarting off to a homicide detective wasn’t your fault?”

“He started it.” Dan took a step into the living room and called out, “Hello? Anybody home?” He paused, waited, then spoke again. “Carl Foster, you here? Glades P.D. Got a call you might be in trouble.” Dan looked at Maggie. “Newlyweds, huh? You don’t suppose they’re down there going at it?” He indicated the hallway with the tilt of his head.

“You yelled loud enough. They would’ve heard.” She opened the front door. One officer stepped inside and one stayed outside. “We think he’s in the bedroom,” Maggie told them. “His partner said he was in bad shape, talking how he’d be better off dead than in jail. He might have tried something, or he might be waiting to blow our heads off. You guys stay alert.” She glanced at the officer standing inside. “Stay here and watch that patio door. Cover me, Dan.” She checked behind the couch and entered the hall, standing aside for him to pass.

When he reached the kitchen, Maggie watched him inspect two large cupboards, a pantry, and the door into the garage.

“Hey,” he said, pointing out the car keys hanging on pegs over the counter and the bottle of wine and the glass sitting next to the sink. “Guy’s probably just wasted.”

From the doorway Maggie saw a large wooden knife block on the counter. One knife was missing, probably a paring knife judging by the position and size of the empty slot.

It crossed her mind that Foster might have taken the knife to the bedroom and slit his wrists.

“Dan, check out that piece of paper on the table.”

He read the note and frowned, then walked to Maggie’s side, leaned closer so his lips were near her ear and whispered, “His new wife? Looks like she took a hike.”

“Probably didn’t like the idea of being married to someone who beats up kids.”

Maggie edged along the hall toward the remaining rooms. All the doors were closed. She turned the door handle on the first room. A bathroom. She led the way to the next door, and hesitated when she caught a whiff of foul air. Sharp, worse than rotten eggs. The smell of someone who shits his pants and then pukes all over the mess. She made eye contact with Dan, then sniffed the air and grimaced.

He nodded.

She opened the door, saw the man sprawled across the bedspread, the blood, and walked to the other side of the bed.

No pulse.

“Call it in,” she said. “I think this is Carl Foster. He’s dead. Tell the guys out front.”

After Dan had left, she studied the room and its contents. Blood had splattered on the walls and carpet and pooled around the body. Foster lay on his back, a gaping wound running across his throat. A paring knife, also covered with blood, had been stabbed into his hand.

Whoever did this was one angry man.
Maggie remembered the note on the table.
Or one angry woman.

Two police cars showed up first—Maggie’s sergeant and the shift lieutenant. Crime scene investigators. Medical examiner. The place turned into a madhouse within twenty minutes. Thirty minutes later, Maggie watched Detective Mark Prince climb out of his unmarked car and survey the scene. He frowned as he spotted Dan, then strolled over to Maggie as though Dan didn’t exist.

“It was a homicide,” she said.

“Crime scene crew says yes. You first on the scene?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me.”

Maggie began with their arrival and gave Prince every detail she could remember.

He maintained eye contact as she spoke, then said, “Good job.”

She liked that.

“Come with me,” Prince said as he turned toward the house.

“Sure.”
Holy cow.

She followed the homicide detective. He strode past Dan without even a glance. Maggie ventured a quick look, saw Dan’s face, decided she’d best keep her grin to herself, and simply nodded at her partner as she passed.

Denver, Colorado
Thursday, January 23

Lynnette woke to the sound of a food cart’s squeaky wheels and the smell of coffee. She lay on her side and had used her lumpy purse as a pillow. She stretched one arm across the carry-on and tucked her fingers through its handle.

“On your feet, ladies. Time to rise and shine. Coffee’s ready. Food’s in the back. Don’t forget to wash your hands.”

An unappealing odor of urine and vomit drifted through the shelter. Lynnette sat up and looked around. Women pulled their possessions together and shuffled toward the restrooms. Most stared briefly at Lynnette, their gazes lingering on her hair, before moving on without comment. She reached up to check her wig and realized it sat askew. She tugged it into place.

“You’re on the run, ain’t you?”

The voice came from behind her. Lynnette turned. A young woman sat on a folded blanket and leaned against the wall. Lynnette shrugged and looked away.

“Me, too,” the girl said. “My pimp caught me skimming the take.”

“Oh.” Lynnette didn’t know what else to say.

The girl was stick-thin and wore jeans and a dirty T-shirt. Stringy brown hair hung around her face in a tangled mess. Lynnette glanced around the room and saw half a dozen women she figured must be prostitutes from their low-cut blouses, extra-short skirts and high heels. This one didn’t seem the type.

“How long you been on the street?” Lynnette asked.

“A long while,” the girl said. “Long enough to know those that belong and those that don’t. What are you doing here?”