Killer Listing (17 page)

“Who is this?” Darby indicated a beautiful woman standing beside Kyle, whose striking dark looks were oddly familiar.

Mitzi Cameron gave an amused little laugh.

“You don’t recognize her? To my eyes, she’s hardly changed at all.” She gave a fond smile as if remembering the long-ago evening. “If Miss Florida should be unable to perform her duties,” she intoned, “this contestant shall replace her automatically.” She smiled, her imitation of a pageant announcer apparently finished. “That’s my daughter, the first runner-up.”

Darby looked into the strikingly beautiful face of Alexandra Cameron. Her head was tilted toward Kyle’s, her gray eyes cast downward, as if she was noticing for the first time who was wearing the coveted sash. A strange smile twisted the corners of the young woman’s face, a smile that made Darby shudder. Was it her imagination, or had the camera caught the runner-up giving her future sister-in-law a look of pure malice?

_____

Sensing heat radiating from the parked Corolla, the snake slithered out of the swamp and toward the vehicle. Its cold-blooded body welcomed the warmth, for dusk was approaching and the wet grasses and mud of the mangroves were turning chilly. It wriggled up to a window, seeking entry to the warm metal box, but the tiny crack wasn’t sufficient for its telephone pole-diameter sized girth to pass through. The snake continued along the car’s side and around to the back, making only the faintest rustling noise as it moved.

At the rear of the Corolla, the snake flicked its tongue and found a spot where a chunk of missing metal revealed a good sized hole. Heat-sensitive organs on his snout measured the higher temperature of the car’s interior, prompting the powerful creature to muscle in further, finding small crevices of rusted metal which gave way with the merest push. The reptile’s persistence was rewarded when the floor of the car yielded and the snake glided into the Toyota’s roomy backseat.

The warmth of the leather was enticing, but the 20-foot long Burmese python sensed something even more appetizing at the opposite end of the car. It slithered between the two front seats and onto the recumbent body of a warm-blooded mammal, larger than its usual fare of rats, birds, and juvenile alligators, but tempting nonetheless. With surprising speed and force the snake used its powerful jaws to strike at the animal’s soft skin, sinking in his small, even teeth and encountering the same surprised reactions all prey exhibited: startled noises, futile pushes from paws or hands, and feeble efforts to stop the pain. Screaming assailed the small vibratory bones in the sides of his head, but the snake was not deterred. It kept its vise-like jaws clamped tightly on its prey, diverting attention from the real danger: the powerful coils that were quickly looping around the prostate form.

The python felt its victim flailing and heard him shouting, and yet already it was far too late to escape. Without releasing its jaws, the snake began rhythmically constricting its muscles, squeezing the length of Clyde Hensley in an inescapable embrace. Tighter and tighter it gripped, causing him to wheeze and sputter as air was forced out of his lungs.

The snake constricted until the body stopped moving, at which point it unhinged its jaw and freed Clyde Hensley’s bloodied face. For a few moments it contemplated swallowing its kill. Fatigue won out over hunger and the snake uncoiled from its victim. Exhausted from the effort of suffocating such a large and uncooperative mammal, the python slipped to the still-warm seats in the back to enjoy a well-earned nap.

“Do you really think
Jack Cameron killed Kyle?” Darby was buttering a sourdough roll and waiting for her companion’s response. She and Jonas Briggs were seated at Luna, a Spanish restaurant overlooking the Gulf of Mexico in old Tampa. The sun had just begun sinking into the sea, with promises of a gorgeous sunset to follow.

“You don’t waste any time, do you, Farr?” He thought a moment. “Honestly? No, I don’t think Jack’s our man. And before you ask me why he’s in jail if I don’t think he’s guilty, let me remind you that I’m not the only one making decisions in Serenidad Key.” He glanced around the restaurant and lowered his voice. “I think I’ve filled you in, as much as I can, on the politics involved. Commissioner Conrad and Lieutenant Governor Howe are all over me to get this thing settled. Needless to say, they don’t like the idea of a murderer at large.”

He was quiet as the sommelier approached and presented a bottle of red wine.

Jonas Briggs nodded at the label, waited for it to be opened and tasted it appreciatively. “You’re going to love this wine, Darby.” The sommelier poured them each a glass and withdrew.

“I’m not going to kid you. The case against Jack is substantial. The guy had motive as well as opportunity. I’ve got the note he left for the bartender basically confessing to the crime, as well as numerous witnesses who saw him entering Kyle’s condo plenty of times.”

“She wasn’t killed at her condo.”

“I know,” he said patiently, “but Jack’s easy and frequent access to her place sets him up as the obsessed jilted husband. I’m sure that if we dig deeper, we’ll find someone who heard him in one of his drunken rants, carrying on about Kyle, and that’s all a jury’s going to need.”

Darby took a sip of the wine, trying to block out the image of Jack Cameron in the holding cell. She knew Jonas Briggs was right—it did not look good for Jack, and yet where was the physical evidence? There was none, at least none that she knew about.

“Is there any evidence linking Jack to the crime?”

Jonas Briggs gave her a long, level look. “No. Not yet anyway.” He pointed at her glass. “Isn’t this delicious?”

Darby took another sip of the spicy red wine. He’d chosen a Rioja from Spain’s oldest and most famous vineyard, and she recognized it immediately.

“The Muga Rioja Reserva, right?”

“Exactly! How the heck do you know that?”

Darby smiled. “I have what is called ‘exceptional palate memory.’ It is an odd gift that comes in handy identifying wines, teas, things like that. Linked to it is a keen sense of smell. It’s how I was able to notice Clyde Hensley’s little camera.”

“You knew he had been there because of an odor, right?”

Darby nodded ever so slightly. “I know it’s strange …”

“Strange? It’s freaking amazing!” Jonas Briggs lowered his voice and continued, a smile on his face. “You’re like a secret weapon, Darby Farr. And you’re going to help me catch this killer.”

“I’m willing to try.”

“Okay, here goes. Ready for the lowdown?”

She nodded.

“Like many serial killers, Cyril Shank took a souvenir from each of his killings. We kept it out of the press because we hoped it would help us in catching him, and it did. When we arrested Shank we found a small collection of items taken from his victims. Two pieces of ‘memorabilia’ were from the so-called Kondo Killings, and the rest have yet to be identified.”

Darby felt her stomach roll. “I’m listening.”

“Shank’s particular ‘thing’ was to slice off the smallest digit from his victims’ left hands.”

“Pinkie fingers?”

“That’s right. Some guys chop off all of a victim’s fingers, but often that’s to slow down identification of the body. With Shank, I think the one-finger fetish has some kind of sick significance for him.” He took a roll and tore off a chunk, popping it into his mouth with a vengeance. “It’s pretty common for these wackos to keep a little something. Fingers aren’t very original, but there you have it.”

“Just one finger?”

“That’s right. One pinkie, from the left hand.”

“And Kyle?”

“Kyle was missing a pinkie as well.” He leaned back and regarded Darby.

“Why do I feel you’re not telling me everything?”

“Okay. Here’s the thing that aroused my suspicions: hers was cut from her right hand. The two victims on the East Coast were missing their left digits. And yet Kyle’s right pinkie was the one that was severed. Why? These guys don’t screw up when it comes to their signature moves.”

He chewed the piece of bread thoughtfully, and then continued. “I decided it had to be one of two things: either Shank was starting a new pattern, or he was not Kyle’s killer. I talked to a couple of experts and they suggested the new pattern could have something to do with the coasts. Left pinkies were the Atlantic; right pinkies for the Gulf. Makes sense in a sort of sick way, right?”

Darby nodded. “But you didn’t quite buy that explanation.”

Jonas Briggs shook his head. “No. My gut told me that a different guy killed her, a guy who somehow knew about the pinkie, but didn’t know which hand.”

“And then?”

“And then we got lucky and caught Cyril Shank. Sure enough, there were the missing fingers, tucked away in a plastic Marshmallow Fluff container. They matched the victims on the East Coast alright, but there was no missing pinkie from Kyle.”

A waiter appeared to take their dinner order.

“Ready?” asked Jonas Briggs of Darby.

She gave a pleasant smile and looked at the waiter. “Just give me one more minute,” she said. He bowed his head and backed away.

“Jonas, you can’t expect me to order until I know.”

“Know what?”

“Whether you’ve found it.”

“The pinkie? Not yet. But if Jack Cameron has it …”

“He could be the killer,” finished Darby.

“I’d say in all likelihood
would
be the killer,” said Briggs. They were quiet a few moments, both of them thinking. The waiter returned, eyebrows raised.

Jonas Briggs looked at Darby. The basket of rolls was empty and the poor guy looked famished.

“I’ll have the snapper paella,” she said. She waited for Jonas Briggs to order and the waiter to leave.

“So this is a copycat crime?”

Jonas grimaced. “Yeah, although how this guy learned about the pinkie, I don’t know. I was in the dark about it until Kyle was killed and we started working with the other police departments. It was never in the paper, never in the news. The only thing I can think is that someone close to the investigation leaked it.”

“What about Shank himself? Couldn’t he have bragged about it to someone? Or put it on a website, or an internet chat room?”

“We thought of that. His computer was checked and nothing like that was found. We’ve asked him, and he denies it of course, but he can’t be trusted to tell the truth.”

“What about Clyde Hensley? Where does he fit into all this, and why was he collecting photos of Kyle?”

“I don’t know. I do think I have a pretty good idea of what he was up to this morning.”

“At Helen’s?”

“Yeah. Filming you to add to his collection. We found compact disks in his apartment with multiple images of women undressing. Doesn’t seem like he ever progressed beyond the Peeping Tom stage, but who knows.”

“Do you think Kyle’s murder was one of his little photo shoots gone wrong?”

“No. Kyle’s killing was premeditated. Someone wanted that girl dead and went to that open house to do it. Now that we know it was not Cyril Shank, we have to look at those close to her with motive. Was it her husband? Her lover? His wife? Or someone we’re completely ignoring?”

“Have you looked into Chellie Howe and Foster McFarlin’s whereabouts?”

“Foster was driving between his various developments, speaking with his subs, but there’s quite a bit of time unaccounted for. Chellie was speaking at a fundraiser at the Ringling Museum. Her assistant, Mindy Jackson, was with her.”

The waiter arrived with their dinners and placed them down with a flourish. Jonas regarded his miniscule portion of
lomo adobado
, a pork dish, and sighed.

Darby slid him some of her paella on her bread plate and he grinned and said thanks. Taking a bite, he chewed and regarded her carefully.

“It all comes down to one question, Darby: who wanted Kyle Cameron dead?”

She nodded and took a sip of the Rioja, the memory of Miss Florida’s First Runner-Up lingering in her mind.

_____

Chellie Howe left Mindy sitting at her desk and walked the three blocks from her office back to the condo. It was a mild night, the heat of the past several weeks having broken somewhat, and a hint of a breeze was in the air.

Chellie looked at her cell phone, checking her incoming messages with irritation. She had the usual annoying reminders from Mindy, even though Mindy had been only an office away, and a few calls from staffers alerting her to upcoming legislation and concerns of the Governor. She sighed. Nothing important; nothing from Foster.

She swallowed, tasting acid in the back of her throat. Why had she thought Kyle’s death would make any difference in Foster McFarlin’s behavior? With Kyle safely out of the picture, Chellie had imagined … She shook her head. It seemed so stupid now. Stupid and naïve. She’d imagined he’d return to her and that they’d once again have a real marriage.

Fuck him
, she thought with a bitterness born of years of humiliation.
Fuck him to all hell.
She exhaled deeply, trying to rid herself of the sour taste of defeat.
How do I get beyond this? What do I do?
She bit her lip, heard her heels clicking on the pavement, and then another sound …

Wham! It was too late for Chellie Howe to react, too late for her to avoid the handle of the pistol as it smashed into her cranium. She collapsed to the ground, her arms flung wide, waiting for an embrace that never came.

_____

Darby lay in bed in Helen’s guestroom, unable to sleep. Her evening with Jonas Briggs had not clarified anything: instead, she now had the additional puzzle of the severed pinkie to ponder. Without a sound she rose from the bed and opened a window. There was a slight breeze in the air and the curtains gently billowed.

Darby looked out over the lawn at the street bathed in moonlight. Clyde Hensley had passed her line of vision directly in front of Helen’s massive palms, his baseball cap pulled low and his arm extended. Why the outstretched arm, she wondered. He’d pulled it back into the vehicle a second later.

Darby pulled on some shorts and a tee shirt and made her way quietly through Helen’s house. She opened the front door and crept across the lawn, looking at the black asphalt with curiosity. Had Clyde Hensley tossed something out the window? And if so, had the police already found it?

In a gutter on the other side of the street, Darby saw a white paper bag with red lettering. She knelt and examined it, using a stick she found nearby to peer inside. A styrofoam cup, its contents most likely coffee, bore the logo of a nationwide donut chain. A few napkins with the same red lettering were crumpled alongside. Darby lifted the bag using the stick, feeling foolish as she carried it back to Helen’s house.
My big discovery is a discarded coffee cup. Who knows if it even belonged to Hensley?

Back at the bungalow, Darby laid the bag on Helen’s porch and poked inside with the stick. There was a crumpled piece of paper in the bottom, most likely a receipt. Darby regarded it with interest. There was writing on it.

She grabbed a corner of the paper and carefully opened it up.

Donald Bergeron.
The name was scrawled in ink on the back of a receipt dated several months earlier. This was old trash, discarded by Hensley that morning, whether on purpose or accidentally. Darby said the name out loud. It meant nothing, and yet she felt a strange sense of excitement. It was a clue, in a case where there were precious few such scraps.

She carried the bag into Helen’s and placed it in her bedroom. Booting up her laptop, she punched in Donald Bergeron and came up with a wide range of contacts across the country. Typing in the name and Hensley’s yielded nothing, so Darby turned off her computer and climbed back into bed.