Red Mist (19 page)

“Have you been here during the day?”
I ask.

“Not inside.”
He takes a noisy swallow of water.
“I’m not sure
going inside would tell you anything nine years after the fact, and the house has been bought and sold a number of times,
lived in by different people and probably changed a lot.
Besides, I think it’s pretty obvious what happened.
Dawn Kincaid
busted the glass out of the door back there, reached in and unlocked it easy as pie.
I guess Jaime told you the key was in
the deadbolt, which is one of the stupidest things people do.
Installing a deadbolt near glass panes or windows and then leaving
the key in it.
You know, take your choice.
Get trapped if there’s a fire or make it easy for someone to break in and kill
you in your sleep.”

“Jaime also said you’ve been looking into the question of why the alarm wasn’t set.
Who installed it?
Did the Jordans routinely
use it?
She says that they stopped setting it because of false alarms.”

“That’s the story.”

“I can tell you one thing from where we are on the street right now,” I add.
“You can’t see the kitchen door.
If you were
walking or driving by, you wouldn’t know from casual observation that there’s a kitchen door or any door on the right side
of the house.
It’s out of sight because of the carport.”

“But you can see flagstones leading to something in the back that might be a door,” Marino says.

“Or the flagstones lead to the backyard.
You’d have to look to know.”
I twist the cap off my bottle of water.
“What’s important
is the kitchen door isn’t visible from the street, which would suggest to me that whoever broke in nine years ago either knew
about the side entrance back there and it had glass panes and a deadbolt that required a key that often was left in the lock,
or this person had gathered intelligence on some earlier occasion.”

“Dawn Kincaid sure as hell’s the type to gather intelligence,” Marino says.
“She probably knew a rich doctor lived here.
She
probably cased the place.”

“And it was just her good fortune the key was in the lock and the alarm wasn’t set?”

“Maybe.”

“Do we know anything about where she stayed when she was in Savannah nine years ago, or how long she was in this area?”

“Only that fall classes at Berkeley ended on December seventh and the spring semester began January fifteenth,” Marino says.
“She definitely completed her fall semester there and was enrolled in classes for the spring.”

“So she might have spent her holiday break in this area,” I decide.
“She may have been here for several weeks before she visited
her mother for the first time.”

“During which time she might have met Lola Daggette,” Marino suggests.

“Or become aware of her,” I reply.
“I’m not at all convinced they knew each other.
Maybe Lola knows who Dawn Kincaid is now,
because of the Massachusetts cases and whatever Jaime or perhaps someone else has said to her.
Lola may even know that Dawn
had something to do with the Jordan murders, because I don’t care what Jaime says.
You can’t know what’s been leaked about
the new DNA test results.
But regardless of what Lola knows right this minute, we can’t assume she connects Dawn Kincaid with
anybody from nine years ago when the Jordan murders occurred, at least anybody she knew by name.
Do you know what courses
Dawn was taking at the time?”

“I just know it had to do with nanotechnology.”

“The department of materials science and engineering, most likely.”
I stare at a mansion where four people were murdered in
their sleep, as it’s been described, and I continue to be perplexed.

Why wouldn’t they set the alarm?
Why would they leave a key in the deadbolt lock, especially during the holiday season, when
burglaries and other property crimes typically are on the rise?

“Were the Jordans known for being careless or cavalier?”
I ask.
“Were they hopelessly idealistic and naïve?
If nothing else,
people who live in historic homes in historic neighborhoods usually are extremely careful about securing their property and
their privacy.
They keep their gates locked and their alarm systems armed.
If nothing else, they don’t want tourists wandering
into their gardens or up onto their verandas.”

“I know.
That part bothers the hell out of me,” Marino says.
His dark shape inside the dark van leans closer to me as he looks
out at a mansion that wouldn’t appear remotely foreboding if one didn’t know what happened there nine years earlier at around
this same time in the morning.
After midnight.
Possibly between one and four a.m., I’ve read.

“There’s a big difference between 2002 and now in terms of security awareness.
Especially here in Savannah,” Marino continues.
“I can guarantee you that people who might have been slack about not setting their alarms or leaving keys in locks probably
don’t do it anymore.
Everybody worries more about crime, and they sure as hell have it on their minds that an entire family
was murdered in their own beds inside their million-dollar mansion.
I know people do stupid things, we see it all the time,
but it strikes me as unusual that Clarence Jordan was known for having family money and was gone
a lot because of all the volunteer work he did, especially during the holidays.
Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s were his
busiest times helping out in clinics, ERs, homeless shelters, soup kitchens.
You would think he might have been a little bit
worried about the safety of his wife and two little kids.”

“We don’t know that he wasn’t.”

“It appears he went to bed that night and the alarm wasn’t set,” Marino repeats the detail that continues to tug at my attention.

“What about the alarm company records?”

“They’ve been out of business since the fall of 2008.”

A light blinks on upstairs in a window of the Jordans’ former house.
“I talked to the former owner of Southern Cross Security,
Darryl Simons,” Marino says, “and according to him, he doesn’t have the old records anymore.
He says they were on computers
he donated to charity after he went out of business.
In other words, the records were deleted or thrown out three years ago.”

“Any reasonably reputable businessperson holds on to records for at least seven years in case of a tax audit, if for no other
reason,” I reply.
“And he’s telling you he didn’t have backups?”

“Busted,” Marino says, as the porch lights blink on next.

We drive off loudly and conspicuously as the front door opens and a muscular man in pajama bottoms steps out on the porch,
staring after us.

“You can understand why this guy Darryl Simons doesn’t want people calling about the Jordans’ alarm system,” Marino says,
as the van bucks and roars.
“If it had been armed and working, they wouldn’t be dead.”

“So why wasn’t it armed and working?”
I ask.
“Did he say if it
was installed by Dr.
Jordan?
Or perhaps by the previous owner of the home?”

“He didn’t remember.”

“Right.
Hard to remember something like that in a case where four people were murdered.”

“He doesn’t want to remember it,” Marino says.
“Kind of like being the one who built the
Titanic.
Who wants credit?
Have amnesia and ditch the records.
He wasn’t happy to get my call.”

“We need to find out what happened to his company computers, where they were donated.
Maybe they still exist somewhere or
he has disks in a safe,” I suggest.
“It would be helpful to see his monthly statements.
It would be very helpful to see a
log.
You would think that investigators might have looked into this at the time.
What exactly did Investigator Long tell you?
Jaime says you talked to him.”

“Did she mention he’s old as dirt and had a stroke since then?”
The van backfires.
It sounds like a gun going off as we struggle
past movie theaters, cafés, and ice cream and sub and bicycle shops near the College of Art and Design.

“Two thousand two wasn’t all that long ago,” I say to Marino.
“These aren’t even cold cases by my definition.
Cool, lukewarm,
but not cold.
We’re not talking about unsolved murders that are fifty years old.
There should be plenty of documentation and
plenty of people with good recall in a case as big and infamous as this one.”

“Investigator Long said whatever happened is in his reports,” Marino says.
“I said, ‘Well, that doesn’t seem to include anything
about the Jordans’ burglar alarm.’
He claims they’d had trouble with false alarms and quit setting it.”

“If he knew that, he must have talked to the alarm company,” I answer, as we wind around Reynolds Square, dark and wooded
with benches and a statue of John Wesley preaching, near an old building once used as a hospital for malaria patients.

“Yeah, he must have, but he doesn’t remember.”

“People forget.
They have strokes.
And they have no interest in reopening an investigation that might prove them wrong.”

“I agree.
We should see the log,” Marino says.

“There must have been quite a number of people around here who’d had alarm systems installed by Southern Cross Security.
What
happened to those customers?”

“Obviously some other company took over their accounts.”

“And maybe that company has the original records.
Maybe even a hard
drive or computer backups,” I suggest.

“That’s a good idea.”

“Lucy might be able to help you.
She’s pretty good when it comes to electronic records that supposedly have vanished into
thin air.”

“Except Jaime won’t want her help.”

“I wasn’t suggesting she help Jaime.
I’m suggesting Lucy help us.
And Benton might have some interesting insights to offer.
I think we could use any informed opinions we can get, because the evidence seems to be pointing in different directions.
It’s a good thing we’re not very far away, because this thing sounds as if it will quit any second or seize up or explode,”
I add, as the van stutters and shudders north toward the river.

Most of the restaurants and breweries we pass are closed, the sidewalks deserted, and then the Hyatt is just ahead on our
right, huge and lit up, illuminating an entire city block.

“It’s feeling like we’re being stonewalled,” Marino says.
“People forgetting or records that are gone.”

“What Jaime is doing in Savannah is recent, and the alarm company went out of business and supposedly got rid of its records
at least three years ago,” I reply.
“So it doesn’t sound like you’re getting stonewalled, at least not on that front, because
of what’s happening with the case now.”

“Well, it sure seems like there might be something else certain parties don’t want anybody snooping into.”

“You don’t know that for sure, either,” I reply.
“It’s typical that once people have been through the ordeal of a homicide
investigation and a trial and all the publicity that goes with it, a lot of them want to be left alone.
Especially in cases
as gruesome as these.”

“I guess it’s easier if Lola Daggette gets the needle and then it’s all over with,” Marino says.

“For some people, that would be easier and emotionally satisfying.”
Then I ask, “Who is Anna Copper?”

“I sure as hell don’t know why Jaime would mention that to you,” Marino replies, as we loudly creep to a halt in front of
the hotel.

“I’m wondering who or what Anna Copper or Anna Copper LLC is,” I ask again.

“A limited liability company she’s been using of late when she doesn’t want her name on something.”

“Such as the apartment she’s rented here in Savannah.”

“I’m really surprised she would mention it to you.
I would figure she’d assume you’re the last person who’d appreciate hearing
about that LLC,” Marino says.

A valet cautiously approaches the driver’s window, as if he’s not
sure what to make of the chugging, backfiring van or if he wants to park it.

“It’s better I drive this thing into the garage myself,” Marino tells him.

“I’m sorry, sir, but no one is allowed to drive anything in there.
Only authorized personnel can access underground parking.”