Hothouse Orchid (10 page)

24

T
eddy Fay awoke, still worried about how the two police officers had approached his house without his knowledge. He couldn’t have that. He checked the Internet, then drove to a nearby electronics shop where he bought a driveway alert and half a dozen motion detectors, all operated by lithium batteries. Back at home, he installed the driveway alert just inside the entrance to the Walds’ drive, then he planted the motion detectors around the guesthouse. Inside, he plugged in the control unit, ran a test and got a confirmation on all the sensors. The next time somebody turned into the driveway or approached the house on foot, he’d know about it.

He opened the safe and took out the briefcase that held the Czech sniper’s rifle that he had stolen from the Agency before he retired. He assembled it and screwed on the silencer, then he opened a box of paper cups and took a stack of them out onto the beach. He looked up and down the strand for foot traffic and found no one near, so he pressed the cups upside down into the wet sand at the edge of the water, checked again for foot traffic, then walked back to the house.

He opened the kitchen window and the screen, then stood, cradling the rifle, and took careful aim at the first cup on the left. The bullet kicked up sand two inches to the right of the cup, so he made a minute adjustment to the telescopic sight and fired again. Bingo. In rapid succession he fired at the other cups and hit each one. He had not lost his touch.

He disassembled the rifle, cleaned it and returned it to its case, then he inspected his other weapons and relocked everything in the safe. He felt better now.

He picked up volume two of Winston Churchill’s
The Second World War,
which he was rereading, settled into a comfortable chair and began to read, but he could not concentrate. His mind kept wandering to Adele Mason and her untimely death.

Teddy was accustomed to righting what he considered to be wrongs, and without any help from law enforcement. He would have liked very much to deal with Adele’s murderer, he thought, but he was not by nature an investigator, and he had no access to what the police knew. This was a new kind of frustration for him, and he did not like being frustrated.

He put down the book and picked up the local newspaper instead. There was an article about the latest murder and a brief obituary. The funeral was the following day, and Teddy decided to be there.

A
few miles up the beach, Holly Barker was restive, too. The silence of her newly fortified home made her feel that she was a flower in a hothouse, so she opened the sliding doors to the beach and sacrificed air-conditioning for the sound of the light surf lapping against her beach.

Bored, she unlocked her little office, logged on to the Agency computer and began to read cable traffic to Lance’s office. It was a remarkably quiet day out in the stations around the world, and she found nothing worthy of her interest, so she logged off, locked the office and looked for a decent movie on television. A couple of hours with
The Maltese Falcon,
which she had seen at least a dozen times, made her feel better.

T
eddy sat in his parked car across the street from the church and watched the people arrive. Seeing no familiar faces, he locked his car, went inside and took a seat in a rear pew.

The casket was open at the front of the church, and people wandered past it, viewing the corpse. Teddy had always found this practice distasteful; if he had been fond of the deceased, he preferred his last memory of the person to be one in which the person was alive, not dead. Finally, the undertaker closed the casket, and the service began.

Teddy looked at the backs of the heads of the other mourners and wondered if one of them had murdered Adele Mason. It was said that killers sometimes attended the funerals of their victims. Then he looked to one side and saw the female detective, Lauren Cade, standing to one side near the front of the church, facing the pews, and on the other side of the church, the male detective, Weathers, and another man, doing the same. Apparently, great minds thought alike.

Teddy took in the man standing next to Weathers. He was fiftyish, a little over six feet tall, a hundred and eighty pounds and unusually fit-looking for a man his age. Another cop, probably, maybe Weathers’s boss. Weathers whispered something to him, and the man leaned toward him to listen but kept his eyes on the pews.

The mourners were asked to stand for a hymn, and Teddy took the opportunity to leave the church, tucking a funeral program into his pocket. He stood outside on the steps for a moment, and, as he did, Detective Weathers came outside, too.

“Good morning, Mr. Smithson,” he said. “I’m Jimmy Weathers; we spoke . . .”

“Yes, I remember,” Teddy said, and the other man joined them.

“This is my chief, James Bruno,” Weathers said.

Teddy shook the man’s hand and found that he had too strong a grip. He didn’t like gym rats who tried to prove their manhood by crushing others’ hands. “How do you do?” he said.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Smithson?” Bruno said. “Weren’t you enjoying the service?”

“Was I supposed to?” Teddy replied.

“Well, no, but . . .”

“Do you think Ms. Mason’s murderer is inside?” Teddy asked.

“You never know,” Bruno replied.

“No, I guess you don’t. I’m new in town, so I don’t know anybody—except Adele, of course—so I’m not into guessing who it might be. I hope you get the bastard.”

“So do we,” Weathers said.

“Good day to you,” Teddy said, then walked down the steps of the church, crossed the street and got into his car. When he drove away, Weathers and Bruno were still standing there, watching him.

Teddy took the funeral program from his pocket and looked at the back page. Burial was to be at a local cemetery, and there was a map. He began to follow it.

He found the cemetery with no problems. He parked the Toyota and walked toward the hearse, where the coffin was being unloaded, and people were starting to gather. He stood perhaps fifty yards away and watched the brief service. He saw Lauren Cade and the two local cops standing apart, viewing the gathering as he was.

Finally, the coffin was lowered into the grave, and the group started to walk back to their cars. Teddy watched until Lauren Cade and the two cops moved, too, then he walked back to his car and drove away.

25

T
eddy stopped at the Vero Beach Book Center and went inside. He needed a book more absorbing than a second reading of Winston Churchill to take his mind off Adele Mason, now lying in the sandy Florida soil.

He was impressed. It was a very large bookstore, with everything he could have asked for in reading matter. He bought a
New York Times
and, after half an hour’s browsing, a new biography of Andrew Jackson. A review of the book had stirred his interest, and he didn’t know a lot about Jackson’s period of American history. When he walked up to the counter to pay for his purchases, he was surprised to find Lauren Cade ahead of him in line.

She bought a novel, and when she turned was equally surprised to see him. “Hello, Mr. Smithson,” she said.

“Good morning, Ms. Cade.” He laid his purchases on the counter, along with some cash.

“I saw you at the funeral,” she said, “and again at the burial. Why did you stand so far back?”

“For the same reason you did,” Teddy replied.

“And what would that be?”

“To see if I could spot the killer in the crowd.”

She smiled. “Well, you never know. It was worth the effort, I think.”

Teddy took his purchases and walked with her to the parking lot. “Did you spot him?”

“No,” she said. “Did you?”

“I’m afraid my instincts misled me,” Teddy said.

“How so?”

“I saw a man who struck me as a possible suspect, but he turned out to be a police officer—the chief, in fact.”

Lauren looked at him sharply. “Why do you say that?”

“I can’t explain it; I just didn’t like the look of him, and when Detective Weathers introduced him to me outside the church, I liked him even less.”

“That’s very interesting,” she said.

“You suspect him, too?”

“I shouldn’t talk about it,” she replied.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I suppose you consider me a suspect as well.”

“Off the record, I don’t,” she said. “Everything you told us turned out to be true when we checked. Much of it was confirmed by Ms. Mason’s diary.”

“Are there any suspects besides this Bruno character?”

“No,” she said, “and I can’t concentrate too much on him, because I have personal issues with him that might cloud my judgment.”

Teddy didn’t ask what they were. “Ms. Cade, as long as I’m not a suspect, is there any reason why you and I couldn’t have dinner this evening?” He looked at his watch. “It’s past six, and I don’t mind dining a little early.”

“Neither do I,” she said. “There’s a very good restaurant called Carmel’s just over there,” she said, pointing across the parking lot.

T
hey had no trouble getting a table so early, and soon they had drinks and were perusing the menu. Teddy wondered how old she was: midthirties, he guessed. He also wondered how she felt about older men.

“Mr. Smithson . . .” she began.

“Please, call me Jack.”

“And I’m Lauren. How old are you?”

He smiled. “I’m sixty.”

“I had thought a bit younger,” she said.

“I think of myself as younger. And you?”

“I’m thirty-eight,” she said. “And I think of myself as older.”

“That’s odd,” Teddy observed.

“I suppose it is,” she agreed.

“Have you had a hard life?”

“Not particularly,” she said. “I’ve had some rough moments.”

“So have we all, some rougher than those of others. How did you come to be a state police officer?”

“I came from a family who had little, and I joined the army as a means of getting a college education. I majored in criminology, and I applied for Officer Candidacy School with an eye toward the military police. I served for fourteen years, then left and applied to the Florida State Police.”

“Were you disappointed in the army as a career?”

“On the contrary, I liked it and thought I would do the full thirty years.”

“What happened?”

“Let’s just say I was disappointed in some of the officers I served with.”

Teddy felt he shouldn’t question her too closely about that. If she wanted to talk about it she would. “My life was more mundane,” he said. “I did an apprenticeship as a machinist after high school, and then started inventing gadgets, mostly kitchen stuff. Somewhat to my surprise I was able to make a good living at it. I married, and she died four years ago of ovarian cancer. No kids.”

“I didn’t marry,” Lauren said. “The only men I met were army officers, and they always seemed to be either just timeservers or too ambitious to be promoted.”

They talked on over their dinners and shared a bottle of wine. When they were done, he walked her back to her car.

“Am I too old for you?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” she replied.

“Then may we have dinner again?”

“I’d like that.”

“Perhaps tomorrow night?”

“That’s good for me. I should warn you that sometimes I get called to work on short notice.”

“I’m flexible. May I cook for you at my house?”

“That would be lovely.”

“Seven o’clock?”

“I know where to find you,” she said, getting into her car. She handed him a card. “That’s how you can reach me, should something come up.”

He wrote down his own number and gave it to her. “Nothing will come up,” he said. “I’ll see to it.”

“Until tomorrow evening, then,” she said, starting her car.

He closed her door and walked back to his own car. This had been an unexpected but very pleasant surprise, he thought. And he was curious about her past relationship with James Bruno.

He went home and fired up his computer. He didn’t need to go into the Agency mainframe; there was enough on Bruno through Google. He read about the man’s trial for rape and even found a photograph of Lauren, who looked much younger at the time.

And another surprise: Holly Barker was in the photo, too.

26

H
am Barker sat in his Boston Whaler, a rod in his hand, casting into the shallows of the Indian River. As he reeled in his line, a roar came from the river behind him, and his boat rose alarmingly on the wave from a wake.

Ham turned and watched the sports fisherman as it passed him at about twelve knots, not on the plane but with its stern low, pushing out a small tsunami behind it. He saw the name on the stern,
Party Girl,
and made a mental note to remember it, in case he ever met its owner ashore. Then he caught sight of the man at the helm: one James Bruno. Ham recognized him from his court-martial. A young woman in a bikini sat in the stern, sunning herself.

Ham laid his rod in the boat, pulled in his anchor, started the engine and turned upriver, following
Party Girl.
He crossed half its wake then settled dead astern, where the wake was smooth. Ham felt a flush of anger just at the sight of Bruno. It was a good thing he wasn’t armed, he thought, or he might have put a couple of rounds into the retired colonel.

He followed the boat upriver and watched as it put into a marina where Ham knew fuel could be bought at a discount, then he slowed and stood off a dozen yards while Bruno tossed his lines to a dock man, then hopped off his boat and walked up the ramp to the marina office to order fuel.

Ham put his boat into gear and motored slowly alongside
Party Girl.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said to the young woman, who was applying suntan lotion to her body.

She looked up from her work. “Yes?”

“May I ask, how long have you known James Bruno?”

She blinked. “Not long. Why?”

“Are you aware that he has a history of raping women?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she said. “He’s a perfectly nice man.”

“That’s what the women he raped thought, until he raped them.”

“But he’s the chief of police.”

“Ironic, isn’t it? Don’t take my word for it; Google him and read about his court-martial when he was in the army. I tell you this only for your protection.” Ham looked up and saw Bruno walking back down the ramp toward his boat. Ham put the engine in gear and slowly motored out of the marina.

He looked back and saw an angry discussion taking place on the sports fisherman, then he watched as the woman grabbed a duffle, stuffed some things into it, hopped off the boat and practically ran up the ramp. Ham smiled broadly.

Bruno stood in the stern of his boat, shaking his fist. “You son of a bitch!” he yelled. “Come back here!”

“You’re lucky I don’t,” Ham said to himself, then he put the throttle forward and began running downriver again, laughing aloud. At least he had ruined Bruno’s afternoon, and maybe he had spared the girl an awful experience. He felt very pleased with himself.

B
runo came through the back door of the Orchid Beach police station and stalked down the hall toward his office, still white with rage. As he reached the door he looked across the squad room and saw Lauren Cade leaving Jimmy Weathers’s cubicle. She glanced at him, then turned her head and walked out the front door of the building.

Bruno walked down to Weathers’s cubicle and leaned against the doorjamb.

“Hey, Chief,” Weathers said.

“What was that little bitch doing here?” Bruno demanded.

“She’s working on the rape case, too—you know, with Hurd Wallace’s new unit?”

“You’re the detective in charge of the case,” Bruno said. “Why do you need her?”

“Well, nominally, it’s our case, but Hurd’s outfit has authority from the governor to participate in any case they like. I don’t mind, really, since they can get things like lab work done faster than we can. They have priority.”

“I don’t like that,” Bruno said. “Resign us from the case and let them do the fucking work.”

“Excuse me, Chief, but I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“And why not?”

“Well, I’ve put a lot of time into this case, and I think the more hands we have on it the better we’ll do.”

“And when you break it, you want to share the credit with Hurd Wallace and that bimbo?”

“She’s not a bimbo, Chief; she’s a good police officer and very smart.”

“Yeah, I know how smart she is; she worked for me in the army.”

“I didn’t know that, Chief.”

“She was a disloyal officer.”

“Disloyal? How?”

“She was lazy, undisciplined and tried to take credit for the work of others. She’ll try to take credit for your work, too.”

“Chief, I don’t really think she’s like that,” Jimmy said. “That hasn’t been my experience with her.”

“Well, I have a lot more experience with her than you do.”

“You really want me to resign us from this case? These things are happening on our turf, and if we don’t take responsibility for our jurisdiction the local paper will be all over us, and, believe me, the city council members read the local paper.”

Bruno thought about that. “Do whatever the fuck you want to, then.” He spun around and strode back to his office, slamming the door behind him.

The detective in the next cubicle stood up and looked over the partition at Jimmy Weathers. “What’s the matter with him, Jimmy?”

“I don’t know,” Jimmy said, “but I’m going to find out.”

He flipped open his address book and dialed Holly Barker’s number.

“Hello?”

“Holly, it’s Jimmy Weathers. I got a little situation here.”

“What’s up, Jimmy?”

“Well, the chief just saw Lauren Cade here talking to me, and he pitched a fit.”

“I’m not surprised,” Holly said.

“Well, I was. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“There’s a history between them, Jimmy, and I guess you should know about it.”

“What kind of history?”

“Bruno . . . look, just Google him and read about his court-martial. That’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“All right, I’ll do that.”

“But Jimmy, don’t mention what you find out to Lauren; just be aware of it.”

“Whatever you say, Holly, and thanks.” He said goodbye and hung up, then he turned to his computer and typed in Bruno’s name.

He read the news stories with wide eyes.