Death's Door (21 page)

She glanced down at the retriever. He gazed up at her with eyes that probably couldn’t quite distinguish all of her features and swished his tail across the tile floor. He trusted her, and she refused to disappoint him.

P
AUL TRIED
Madison’s cell phone again. He’d called twice before but hadn’t left a message. He wanted to talk to her, not to her voice mail. This time she picked up. “It’s Paul. Where are you?”

“I’m almost back to the Holbrooks’ guesthouse. I took Aspen to the vet. You were right. He did have a chip. Guess who owned him?”

Uh-oh. “Dicon Labs.”

“Right. I had his chip updated to show me as the owner.”

“Good thinking. Let’s not discuss this over the phone. I have several things to tell you. What do you say about pizza?”

“I love it. With anchovies, please.”

“Anchovies? You’re kidding, right? The world hates anchovies.”

Madison laughed. “True. Eighty percent of people ordering pizza cut the anchovies. I’m different. I like ’em.”

“I’ll have them put on one side only,” he said with a laugh. “I’m with the eighty percent.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Okay, I’ll pick up a pizza and you open a bottle of wine. I’ll meet you at your place—” he checked his Brietling “—in half an hour.” He shut his phone, still mulling over everything he’d discussed with his father. This was shaping up to be one hell of a case.

While stopped at a light, Paul dialed Tobias Pennington’s
number. Wyatt Holbrook’s personal assistant hadn’t returned three earlier calls. Now Paul was pissed. And suspicious. Why would the jerk avoid him? He was beginning to wonder if someone in the Holbrook camp didn’t want Wyatt to receive a lifesaving transplant.

This time he was put through to Pennington. “Paul Tanner,” he said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Pennington was a prissy little prick who got off vicariously on Wyatt Holbrook’s money and power. “I’d like to see the New Horizons files tomorrow morning.”

“That won’t be possible. My staff is reviewing them.”

His arrogant tone made Paul want to slug him. “I’ll work alongside them.”

“I don’t think—”

“I’ll be there at nine.” Paul snapped the phone shut before Pennington could utter another word.

Something was definitely going on, he decided as he inched along in the slugfest of traffic. Of course, he didn’t have any proof, just a tightening in his gut that came with a hunch. Garrison was okay, a bit of a pretty boy, but Savannah and Nathan Cassidy were hard to read.

He wondered about Wyatt Holbrook’s will. Actually, people that rich had trusts, not wills. Still, where would Wyatt’s money go upon his death? A chunk of it would be used to fund his foundation, but would enough be going to his children to make them anxious to see him die?

What about Pennington? He’d been Holbrook’s assistant for years. He might stand to inherit something when Holbrook died.

Paul’s cell phone chirped and he flipped it open. It was Trey Williams.

“They’ve completed the autopsy on that Smith guy.”

“So fast?” Usually it took several days. Cases were processed in the order they were received and Miami had plenty of dead people to autopsy.

“Captain put a rush on it. You know, the succinylcholine chloride angle made it unusual.”

Paul turned west toward Jo’ Mama’s Pizza. “What did they find?”

“Blood alcohol twice the legal limit. He’d been snorting coke.”

Paul wasn’t surprised. Drugs or alcohol figured into half the homicides in the city.

“We know how the killer got to him. There were traces of chloroform in his nostrils, along with the coke, of course.”

“A handkerchief saturated with chloroform held over the victim’s mouth would have knocked him out. Then he could easily have been injected with the deadly drug.”

“Right. The coroner wouldn’t have picked up on the chloroform except we asked for a detailed analysis. It’s kind of an old-fashioned drug. It isn’t used often these days. Couldn’t imagine Smith just letting someone give him an injection.”

“Any idea where he’d been yesterday?”

“He had a box of matches from Lola’s. You know, the pussy bar in Little Havana.”

“No shit? Does he have Cuban friends?” Lola’s was notorious among cops in Miami. Most of Lola’s clients were Cuban. A white teacher like Keith Brooks Smith didn’t seem to fit the pattern. But then, who knew?

“I’m still doing background on him,” Trey replied. “I had to notify his parents of his death and interview them. Know what? They never told their son that he was a donor-conceived child.”

“I’m not surprised,” replied Paul.

“Why not? These days we have open adoptions and surrogate mothers up the ying yang—”

“Thirty years ago, things were different,” Paul said. That wasn’t the real reason he claimed he wasn’t surprised. He’d instantly thought of Madison. Her family hadn’t told her, either.

“Whatever. The mother bawled when I told her, but you
know, the father didn’t seem that shook up. I got the feeling Keith Brooks Smith senior didn’t care for the kid. Probably because he wasn’t the biological father. I had the feeling he blamed the kid’s shortcomings on the donor’s genes.”

“Could be. Who knows what goes on with families,” he said, thinking of his own father. He’d left his parenting responsibilities to a military school. “Did the parents know any of his friends?”

“I got one or two names.”

“Take a close look at any women in his life,” Paul told Trey. “This kind of crime doesn’t take strength.”

“There was a struggle, remember? That’s why the old lady in the duplex next door called 911.”

“I didn’t say he didn’t resist when he realized what was happening, but there were no signs of forced entry. An average-size woman who works out a little could easily hold him down while she subdued him with chloroform.”

“You’re right. We’re too quick to assume most murderers are men.”

“Thanks for updating me,” Paul said. He didn’t share his suspicions with the detective because that’s all they were. Suspicions.

T
HE BELL OF DESTINY
had rung. Keith Brooks Smith had answered the call. Given his life, actually. Not that anyone was going to miss him. A lowlife who used teaching as a cover for his gambling addiction.

The killer sipped a can of Red Bull and thought about the murder. Twice now things had almost spiraled out of control the way the Wycoff killing had taken an unexpected turn. Despite careful planning, Keith Brooks Smith had thrashed about harder than expected, kicking the wall while trying to pry the washcloth soaked with chloroform off his face.

Goddamn nosy neighbors. The old biddy next door had
called the police. Luckily the walls had been thin; her high-pitched voice had come through like an alley cat’s screech. There had barely been enough time to give Smith the lethal injection. There had been no time to savor the thrill that was almost sexual in nature. It came with watching life ebb out of another human being.

Intelligent people can overcome the unanticipated, use it to their advantage. That’s what set smart people apart from the pack, with their herdlike minds that refused to allow them to think outside the box.

Getting out the back door had been a piece of cake. Watching from across the street, the killer had seen the police arrive within minutes. That meant the body would be examined in an hour or two. A simple blood test would reveal the succinylcholine.

Well, that wasn’t the way this murder had been planned. Keith Brooks Smith had been scheduled to die of heart failure. After all, succinylcholine relaxed every muscle in your body until your heart didn’t beat and your lungs couldn’t move. Upon examination, hours later, the drug would have vanished from his system. The coroner would assume heart failure. True, Smith was a bit young, but it did happen.

Now the police would be suspicious. So what? They couldn’t link Keith’s death to Erin Wycoff’s. They were completely different crimes. That was the beauty of the plan. No one would suspect the same killer was picking off a select number of victims because the murders didn’t fit a pattern.

Never underestimate the police. A lot of them, like Paul Tanner, were bright guys. But they were overwhelmed by the sheer number of killings in the Miami area. When they couldn’t quickly solve a crime, they were forced to work on those that were easier.

A crack of laughter ricocheted off the walls. Well, it was funny. People got away with crimes all the time because cops were overworked and understaffed. Too bad. That was their problem.

Next up on the list was Madison Connelly. What a piece of work she was! She’d been getting it in spades. No point in killing another person if there was any way around it.

But death might be the only option.

Killing her wouldn’t be a cakewalk. She was living in the home of the great Wyatt Holbrook. Her death would cause a ruckus. No doubt the police would be pressured to solve the crime. The whole scheme could unravel.

Could
being the operative word. If proper precautions were taken, no one would know. Madison wasn’t the type to commit suicide, she didn’t have a history of drug use and her death would put Paul Tanner on the case.

An accident might be best for Madison. Happened all the time. People would be sorry, sad, upset, but they would accept it and move on.

What type of accident would generate the fewest questions? There must be a way to throw everyone off track.

“C
OME IN
,” Madison called when she heard Paul ring the bell. She’d left the front door open while she changed clothes. The peach-colored shorts and matching tank top were comfortable, she told herself. Truth to tell, she wanted to change clothes and put on a little makeup. She ducked out of the bedroom and into the hall, Aspen at her heels. Ahead she saw Paul standing just inside the door, a large pizza box in his hand. The aroma of pepperoni pizza drifted through the air.

“Let’s go into the kitchen,” she said.

“Hey, where’s the wine?”

She didn’t want to admit she’d spent the time primping. “I’ll get it.” She opened a small wine cooler built into the cabinetry and pulled out a bottle of Pinot Grigio. She handed it to him along with a corkscrew and let him pop the cork while she set the table.

“Aspen’s chip claimed he belonged to the head of research for Dicon Labs.” She put two glasses on the table.

Paul poured the pale amber wine. “How’d you get the chip changed? I thought only the owner or a vet or animal shelter was allowed to alter ID information.”

“Rob did it for me,” she told him as she sat down and helped herself to a slice of pizza. Her stomach growled at the aroma of pepperoni, anchovies and cheese. When was the last time she’d eaten? “He thinks she stole the dog along with some others from the lab. He wants to help me keep Aspen.”

At the sound of his name, the retriever looked up from where he was sitting beside her and wagged his tail.

“I’m surprised he’d do something illegal,” Paul said after he finished a bite of pizza.

“It’s no big deal, is it? I wouldn’t want to get him in trouble.” Sometimes Rob was just a little too friendly, too helpful. For a second Madison wondered if Rob had been coming on to her, then quickly dismissed the thought. He was merely trying to help her while they both were grieving over Erin.

“It’s a misdemeanor. I doubt anyone would prosecute unless it was being done on a large scale or if it involved a more serious crime like murder. But still, he told investigators he left Erin because of her activities with the EADL. Sounds like a straight arrow who wouldn’t falsify chip info.”

Madison put down the rimmed crust of her pizza. She never ate the crusts. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aspen. She handed him the crust. He gently took it from her, his tail wagging. “I don’t think anyone will find out. Dicon Labs hasn’t admitted they were testing cosmetics on dogs. I doubt they’ll change their story now.”

“You’re right.” He took a sip of wine and studied her over the rim of the glass.

“Did you ask your ex about using your passwords to access your accounts?” he asked.

Madison nodded. “He didn’t do it. I know him well enough to know when he’s lying. Actually, he hadn’t changed his pass
words, either. I could have gotten into his accounts as easily as he could have accessed mine.”

Paul shook his head. “I’m not surprised. Happens all the time. Know where most people keep their passwords?”

“No. Where?”

“Taped to the bottom of their keyboards. That’s the first place we look when there’s a homicide and we want to access a computer.”

“What did you want to tell me?” she asked, suddenly recalling what he’d said on the phone.

“Kirk, my father’s computer security expert, says there’s something called a keystroke logger that could be put on your computer. It records all your keystrokes. That might be the way your password was obtained—and your account numbers, since you do online banking.”

“I’ve never heard of a keystroke logger.”

“Apparently, it’s a small device that takes just a few minutes to install. You wouldn’t be likely to notice it unless you were looking under your keyboard. Tomorrow check your keyboard and let me know. A keystroke logger can enter your computer Trojan-horse-style in an e-mail. Open it, the thing starts recording all your keystrokes and sending them back to a main computer.”

“Who would go to all the trouble…” Luis Estevez’s face appeared on the screen in her mind. She told Paul about the Cuban’s visit and his offer to buy her half of Total Trivia.

Paul leaned toward her, intensity firing his eyes. He dropped his second slice of pizza back onto the plate. “Jesus H. Christ. That’s…weird. Damn weird. I don’t know much about Estevez except his reputation. He hasn’t been involved in a homicide case that I know about. I could check with the guys in fraud and see what they say.”

“I was under the impression his bank financed larger companies. Total Trivia doesn’t seem to be a good fit.”

“No, it really doesn’t. It seems as if we’re missing some pieces of the puzzle.”

Madison took a few bites of her second piece of pizza, decided she was no longer hungry and handed it to Aspen. The dog downed it in one bite. She sipped her wine while Paul silently finished another slice. What was he thinking? He was gazing across the room, seemingly lost in thought.