A False Dawn

FIFTY-FIVE

Turning the street corner, I could see the hue of pulsating blue lights above the tree line. Bastard!

I raced down Leslie’s street, taking out a large plastic garbage can near the curb. At the end of the cul-de-sac, all hell was breaking loose. Dozens of police and emergency vehicles were parked. Blue, white, and red emergency lights whirled and flashed sending an eerie color spectrum across yards, houses, and trees. The blur of lights and wide-eyed stares were like a slow-motion parade of the arcane.

Neighbors, some in bathrobes, stood in the shadows pointing and whispering. I gunned the Jeep and pulled to a stop on the sidewalk near Leslie’s front yard. I jumped out and ran through the bystanders, emergency crews, the crackle of police radios, TV reporters rehearsing lines before live shots, finally reaching the crime scene tape like a marathon runner.

A uniform stopped talking into the radio microphone on his shoulder and barked, “You can’t go in there!

I ignored him and ran to the front porch just as the body was coming out. Two grim-faced members of the coroner’s staff pushed a gurney with a white sheet over it. I could see a blood stain about the size of a quarter on the sheet in the head area.

“Leslie!” I shouted, my voice sounding strange, like foreign language coming out of my throat. Please God…

“Stand back, sir!” an EMT ordered. “Out of the way!”

Two strong hands clamped down on my shoulders, pulling me backwards.

“This is a crime scene! Stay outta the house!” one square-jawed officer yelled.

“Take your hands off me!” Blue uniforms charging.

“Put the cuffs on him!” ordered an officer.

Dan Grant stepped from inside the house. “It’s all right! Let him go.”

The officers released my arms. Dan frowned and motioned for me to follow him. We walked a few feet away from the porch, near a flower garden Leslie had planted. Dan’s eyes were wet, tearing. “Sean…she’s gone.”

My stomach burned, the taste of rage raising though my esophagus like a sulfurous gas. I stared at the roses in her garden and pictured her face, heard her laugh, and felt my eyes moisten. “What happened?”

“Shot once in the head. Professional hit. No sign of entry anywhere. Nothing broken. Looks like she was going out the door and was surprised. Somebody was waiting in the bushes for her. Probably stuck the gun in her face and backed her into the foyer. That’s where the body was found. She had her car keys in her hand.”

“She was coming to meet me for dinner. No answer on her cell.”

“Whoever killed her stomped on her cell. Crushed it right next to the body.”

I said nothing.

Dan looked towards the coroner’s van. “Can’t believe she’s gone…” He paused to compose himself. “I was just talking with her earlier. She told me a joke she heard on talk radio. She filled me in on the questioning of the mother in Tampa. She told me about your trip to Jacksonville, and the Miami connection, this guy called Santana who may have put out a hit on club owner Tony Martin.” He exhaled pent up air. “Who’d do this, Sean? Hit Leslie? Why? The perp didn’t even take the time or initiative to make it look like a forced burglary. Nothing seems out of place.”

“Any idea what caliber of bullet?”

“Not yet.”

“See if it matches ballistics in the shooting of club owner Tony Martin. Who reported Leslie’s death?”

“A neighbor. Man two doors down. Out walking his dog. Said he saw a jogger running down the road—”

“And?”

“Jogger had slipped on a sprinkler head. The neighbor tried to see if he was okay but the jogger just took off running. Neighbor walked his dog a littler farther. When he came to Leslie’s house, he noticed that the light was on in her car. He was worried that the car battery would be dead in the morning, so he went up to Leslie’s door. He said when no one came to the door, he stuck his head in and called Leslie. Saw the body in the foyer.”

“Where’s this neighbor?”

Dan pointed toward an elderly man standing behind the yellow tape with two dozen other onlookers. I approached him. “I understand you saw a man, a jogger, leaving the area.”

He pushed black-frame glasses up on his nose. “Yes, sir, he took off running after he tripped on a sprinkler head.”

“Were you watering your lawn?”

“Leslie’s yard. She has the sprinklers come on the same time every night in the summer, eight o’clock sharp. I felt bad for the feller. He took a nasty spill. Hit the grass and the sidewalk. Had to hurt like the dickens. He comes up all wet, probably grass in his mouth, and he starts running.”

“Running or jogging?”

“He was running. Coming around third and heading for home.”

“Could you identify him?”

“Not his face.” He nodded toward a utility pole. “That street lamp isn’t working. Told the county about it. They can’t be bothered. Meantime, poor Leslie is killed.”

“You said, not his face. Can you identify anything else? His build? Clothes?”

“I’d just started walking my dog toward Leslie’s when I saw a man running, trip and fall. The sound was like what I’d hear when I used to play football. This jogger had just taken a fall right near the sidewalk towards the front of Leslie’s yard.”

“Can you show me where?”

“Sure,” he said, walking to the sidewalk. “Right there.” He pointed to a spot with a few pieces of grass blades on the concrete. “The jogger tripped on the irrigation head. He was running across Leslie’s yard. Looks like he got a good soakin’ before he could run off. For a jogger, he dressed a little funny. Had a hooded sweatshirt. Didn’t have the hood on his head, but as he ran the opposite direction from me, I could see it bouncing around his shoulders. You know how a woman’s ponytail bounces?”

I knelt down and looked at the sidewalk. “Are you on county water out here?”

He laughed. “Hell no. We’re on well water. I spend a lot of my pension just putting salt and chemicals in the tanks to keep the rust outta the water.”

“Thank you.”

“Is that all? Think the jogger did it?”

Dan said, “Thank you, Mr. Boone. We’ll probably talk with you again.”

I walked toward the house with Dan and said, “Put the tape up immediately around the spot where he tripped and fell. Keep people off the sidewalk!”

“Okay.” Dan turned to a uniform and ordered the crime scene tape around the sidewalk. Then he turned to me. “I wish I could let you in Leslie’s house to go over the place. Slater’s in there. Probably wouldn’t appreciate my inviting you in.”

“Maybe I’ll just go in, crash his party.”

“He’ll have you thrown in jail.”

“He’s done it before.”

“Yeah, but why play his game? He’ll mess up, and when he does, we’ll be there.”

“Because the bodies keep piling up. As a cop, Slater has the perfect alibi, the perfect cover, and the perfect opportunity to take people out. Even cops.”

“He’s coming out of the house right now. Maybe you ought to go back home. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Can’t do it on this watch,” I said, walking up to Leslie’s house.