Chasing Suspect Three (Sandy Reid Mystery Series #4)

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Emily Dickinson

Addenda

Books in the Sandy Reid series

Also by Rod Hoisington

Chapter One

Were I with thee, Wild nights should be our luxury! ~ Emily Dickinson

The day of the Florida murder dawned bright and shiny. The woman didn’t notice. Her days dawned nearer to noon. Life was too complicated any earlier. Things that can’t wait until afternoon are usually obnoxious.

Even so, on that particular morning, she opened her eyes earlier than usual and tried to jump-start her brain with coffee to tolerate her incredibly boring brother coming to her apartment. Actually a half-brother—same mother. They had grown up living in Florida with their mother; their fathers were God-knows-where. Did they see each other now as adults? Not much. Did she wish she were closer to her brother now? Not really. Did she realize what he told her that morning would take her to a dark place? Not until it was too late.

He showed up late as usual. They took their coffee into the living room. She couldn’t believe she had prepared coffee for him, yet it was better than his messing around in her kitchen. Before she sat, she noticed a razor-thin shaft of morning sunlight thrown across the floor from a living-room window. She adjusted the blinds to do away with the intolerable intrusion.

She chose the orange leather armchair and motioned him to the couch. You look worse than usual. Been up all night?

Almost, just got in.

So why’d you phone? she said almost nicely, meaning—spit it out and leave, so I can get on with my life. I’m guessing you caused some disaster somewhere, but go ahead and pleasantly surprise me.

Didn’t cause no disaster.

Why, are you slipping?

Will you just listen? I can’t go back to my job in Miami.

Oh yes, you’re a messenger boy at some embassy.

It’s not an embassy. A consulate, the Salvadoran Consulate. And I’m not a messenger boy. I’m a diplomatic courier.

That’s what I said, you’re a messenger boy… hey, watch it! She aimed a long, manicured fingernail at him. You spill one drop of that coffee on my couch and you’ll be a dead messenger boy.

I don’t dare go back, he continued. Vice-Consul Ramirez got busted for trafficking in drugs using diplomatic couriers.

What’s that got to do with you?

He stared hard at her.

Sonafabitch.

Exactly.

She held up a hand. Stop right there. I’m not touching anything going down with drugs. Don’t want it in my life. Don’t even want to hear about it. I’m a respected businesswoman here in Park Beach. So, end of story. Drink up, say goodbye. I’ll go back to bed.

I wasn’t carrying drugs. I was carrying cash to buy drugs. I was at the airport on my way to El Salvador to make the buy, when all hell broke loose, and the FBI busted Ramirez. They walked right past me. I was left standing at the gate with cash in the diplomatic pouch.

Are you saying you kept the diplomatic pouch full of money you were supposed to exchange for drugs? That stopped her with the coffee cup halfway to her lips. So, the consulate, the feds and probably a drug gang are looking for you. She set the cup down and unconsciously scanned the room, half expecting some wild-haired thug with a knife in his teeth to come crashing through her door. I’m so proud of you, Bro, and all this time I thought you were a dumbass.

What was I supposed to do? I wasn’t going to go ahead and get on the plane. Can’t take it back to the consulate. The place is crawling with feds. I guess I could have thrown it away. He chuckled.

No, you’d have screwed up throwing it away. Cash would still be blowing everywhere around the Miami airport, and you’d be on the evening news.

I’ve decided to keep the money. No one knows I have it. The drug guys didn’t know the cash was on the way, the feds think it was already delivered, and Ramirez’s people think the feds took the money at the airport. He put his hands behind his neck and leaned back on the couch. I’m telling you it’s perfect.

The voices in your head tell you that?

I understand how these deals work. No one’s looking for me. The feds had their chance at the Miami airport.

Wouldn’t those TSA people have found the money anyway?

He shook his head. They can search me personally, but the consulate pouch has diplomatic immunity. Plus, it’s lined with lead.

And you want me to do what? Cover your tracks so you can disappear? You leave and I sit here with a large target on my back. Being chased by a ripped off drug gang isn’t the excitement I’m looking for. She tucked a piece of long blonde hair behind her ear and asked, How much are we talking about here?

Never mind.

From childhood, she knew whenever he said ‘never mind’ he held a winning hand. She reconsidered, No, it’s perfectly fine. I’ll help you. She could always back out later. Leave the money here with me and go do your hiding thing. I’ll look after it until things cool down. She expected him to burst out laughing.

You know, something tells me handing you $300,000 might not be a wise move.

Her eyes widened as she repeated the words. You walked off with $300,000 in a little leather bag? Is that what you’re saying? Where is it?

He slowly shook his head. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the money. You just cover me so I can disappear. Move into my condominium and act like everything’s normal. Make like I’ll be back at any time. Don’t let the mail pile up, shit like that. Anyone asks about me make up some story. Say I went to South America to be with my father’s family.

Where are you in fact going?

"Better for you if you don’t know.

No, better for him, she thought. Once he walks away with the money, she’d never see him again. There must be a way to work this. Some way where he gets the grief, and she gets the money. Trying to sound cool she said, You can’t wander around the world carrying that much cash in your back pocket. Take some and leave the rest with me until you need more. That would be the smart way to do it. You can trust me. You trusted telling me your nefarious story. So trust me with holding the money for you. After all, I am your sister. She wondered if he was dumb enough to go for it.

Half-sister, so I trust you only halfway.

"In any case, you are going to give me some, aren’t you? Suddenly, she dropped her used-car salesman smile and screeched, Get your damn feet off my coffee table."

He straightened up. Why should I give you anything?

After all the times I’ve saved you?

Name three.

You say I haven’t helped you, but who do you come running to every time you screw up that so-called life of yours?

Yeah, you step in, confuse everything and then disappear! He squirmed in his seat. Telling you about the money wasn’t such a great idea.

Cheer up. We have the money, and we’re going to make certain we keep it. I think we should split it.

We, we, we. We think you should go screw yourself.

Yeah, like you’re not worried about a gang of Miami goons running around shooting off automatic weapons. I certainly hope Ramirez’s people in Miami don’t find out you have their money?

He narrowed his eyes. You wouldn’t rat me out.

Of course not, you’re my loving, generous brother who always takes care of me.

Do you ever discuss anything without making threats? Doesn’t being a bitch ever bother you?

I enjoy every minute of it. It’s the secret of my charm. You’d better keep this bitch on your side.

He gave a shrug. Okay, I’ll give you $10,000.

That’s an insult. I want half.

Only half? Anything else? Don’t you also want my left nut or something?

Now that you mention it, I would like a pony for my birthday.

"Screw you. When the bad guys get here, I’ll tell them you’ve got their money."

They stopped yelling and were quiet for a minute. Then she said, I thought you had a pretty cushy job flying official papers back and forth down there. How long have you delivered money to El Salvador and brought drugs back in a diplomatic pouch?

He hesitated and dropped his head down as though being scolded, A couple of years.

She stared at him, shaking her head.

Hey, they have a very nice health plan.

How did you keep all this from your ex-wife?

We’re only separated. Anyhow, Margo knows what I was doing.

What! She threw her hands in the air. Margo knows about this?

I used to work three weeks on and three weeks off—same as all the couriers. After the drug stuff started, they’d call me in when they needed a run. Took her only two of those special runs to catch on why I was running around. I haven’t seen her in weeks. At least she’s out of my condo now. I need to change the locks, but she’s out.

You can’t leave it at that. You must do something about her. I’d be more worried about Margo than Ramirez if I were you. When she figures out you took off with the money, she won’t call Ramirez and bring the drug gang down on her. She’ll call the feds. How much does she know?

She kept a log of the exact dates and times I went down for each run and the amount of the bonus.

Holy shit, that’s everything. Why was she keeping a log on you?

She suspected I was seeing someone in Miami and spending money on some little honey. He turned so he didn’t have to face her. I know, I know. That’s why I’m here. I need to disappear.

No, Margo is the one who must disappear. You’d better get her out of your life fast. Drug gangs are pussycats compared to a divorcing wife. As long as she’s around, you can’t run fast enough or far enough. She saw the look on his face and knew he got the message.

He said aloud to himself. Yeah, as long as she’s around.

She read his mind. $100,000 for me, and I’ll help you do it.

He was thinking the whole deal through. Help me do what?

Paint your condo, stupid. What the hell do you think we’re talking about? I’ll set her up for you nice and clean. You do the easy part and pull the trigger.

I forgot there are people like you walking around loose.

Get wise, it’s the only way to shut her up. You’ll be rid of her permanently. Think of it as a discount divorce except you’re the rare husband who keeps all the money. All except my $100,000, of course.

He stared at her. His half-sister was serious. Still, $100,000 to her was not going to happen. How would we do it?

First, you have to say, yes.

I’ll say yes to only $50,000, $10,000 now, and $40,000 when you help me get out of town. And you get my condo.

I get the condo!

Yeah, I’m leaving. You can have my beautiful condo with the pool and all. He raised his head and squinted at her. "And you do the shooting."

She frowned. Not me. You have any idea what shooting a gun would do to my nails?

Any other way, you’ll hold it over my head and blackmail me for the rest of the money.

Of course, she’d blackmail him for the rest of the money. "All right, $50,000, with $10,000 up front and I get the condo, except you do the shooting. I’d never talk since it would be obvious I had conspired with you. She put on her most innocent face. I’d be a fool to say anything." She smiled reassuringly.

He wasn’t buying it. Do you have a gun, dear sister?

Come on, you’ve got your own damn gun.

Answer me. Do you have a gun?

She screwed up her face impatiently. Yes, I have a gun, but I hardly ever shoot anyone with it.

What is it?

A .38 Police Special.

"Oh really? How nice. $50,000 total and I use your gun."

Why my gun?

"In case something goes wrong, or you cause something to go wrong. The cops will find your gun, trace it to you and you’ll be on the hook."

She shrugged her agreement.

So, it’s a deal. You plan it all out, where and when, and let me know.

I can give the plan to you right now. Margo does Yoga at the Community Center until seven tonight. There’s an overgrown lot next to the parking lot. Hide in there, and shoot her when she walks back to her car.

What? That’s not a $50,000 plan. Not worth fifty cents. He paused; maybe it wasn’t so bad. Fifty and he’s rid of his bitchy wife and gets dear sister off his back at the same time. Maybe plant the gun, so they blame dear sister for the murder. After considering a moment, he said, Maybe it is that simple, if it goes down that easy. Tonight, huh? Yeah, that’s good. Get it over with. I’ll get her in the parking lot.

I’ll phone her and make sure she’s going tonight. She was thinking, no way would she phone someone who’s about to be killed and leave a record of her call somewhere for the police to find.

Where’s the gun?

Where’s the $10,000 up-front money? she asked.

First, you give me the gun, then I’ll go get the money and bring it back.

I don’t like that. Where’s the money now, in your condo? She was thinking he’d be foolish to reveal the location.

He hesitated too long. She knew it was there.

How’s this? she said in her nicest voice. I’ll get my gun and follow you in my car. You go in, bring out the money, and we’ll swap. That sounded good. She’d keep the gun in her hand and follow him in. She wondered if $300,000 would fit in her handbag. You’re sure the money is in your condo?

I’d hate to put you to all that trouble. He knew she was plotting something. You wait here. I’ll go get your money. When I come back, I give you the $10,000, and you give me the gun.

Wouldn’t it be easier if I…

He reached over, grabbed her jaw between his fingers, and squeezed tightly smearing her lipstick and distorting her face into an oblique grimace. Forget all your double-crossing thoughts. Let’s get serious. Here’s the deal my little half-sister all bitch. You set up Margo. I shoot her. But with your gun. If that doesn’t prove you’re the killer, it’s at least enough to prove you’re in on it. We’re going to play this my way, sister. So, none of your cute tricks.

She jerked away from his hand, her eyes ablaze. She pushed her long blonde hair back off her face and rubbed her jaw thinking of all the ways she’d pay him back for that outburst. Yet, he’s talking $50,000 for her, and he does the heavy part. She could set up an alibi for herself for the time of the killing and say he stole her gun. If in fact, he does get away without being arrested, she’d definitely go back and blackmail him for more money. She’d own him for the rest of his life.

Okay, I’m out of here, he said. You sit here and wait for me.

After John went down to his car, Claudia took the revolver from her nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed wiping the gun clear of fingerprints. She then made a phone call to Detective Chip Goddard of the Park Beach Police Department.

Chapter Two

The following morning, Sandy Reid stood in the front doorway of Detective Chip Goddard’s house and watched as he waved and headed his black unmarked Crown Vic out into the balmy Florida morning. She had come over the previous evening expecting him to have the morning off. Expecting to be serenely in his bed at this hour drowsily waking beside his warm body. However, that morning they had called the city detective in on some newly discovered body. Now he was off into his mysterious law enforcement province of miscreants and their misdeeds.

They had met over a year earlier, after Chip had arrested Sandy’s brother, Raymond, on a murder charge. She had sacrificed her job as a field investigator for a law firm in Philadelphia to hurry down to the small Florida oceanside town, to look into the situation and defend her brother as best she could, even though she had not yet completed her law degree. Some shameless flirting with the detective had led to a few sneaky meetings over coffee. Eventually, she succeeded in convincing the detective to lose interest in her brother as a suspect and to gain interest in her as a lover. After she had cleared her brother of all charges, their romance had progressed steadily. Recently, she finished her law studies and passed the bar exam in Florida.

Once back in his kitchen, that morning, she finished her coffee, rinsed the carafe and tossed the coffee grounds into the trash. That’s when she noticed she had thrown the grounds on top of a small book laying in the container meant for garbage. Chip, apparently, had tossed it in the wrong bin.

She carefully lifted the book out with two fingers and brushed it free of trash. She smiled at the charming Old English, lavender and lace design of the book jacket, heralding a collection of Emily Dickinson love poems. Where did this come from? Chip must have been cleaning out his college bookshelf. Love poems? Really? Although far from an uncultured dolt, he wasn’t likely to play Cyrano to anyone’s Roxanne. Although she could count on him to come up with a romantic gesture at just the right time, reading Emily Dickinson’s rapturous love sonnets to her wasn’t in his playbook.

For a moment Sandy stared at the book thinking it would be nice to keep it. Then she shrugged and tossed the poetry book into the correct recyclable container— she shouldn’t be scrounging around in his trash anyway. She glanced at her watch. Might as well open her law office early. Even though she had scant work to do at the office, she didn’t want to waste the day sitting around his empty house.

That evening, the small book had left her mind until she had closed her office for the day and was back over to Chip’s. They sat side by side on the screen-porch that ran across the back of his house, sipping wine and looking out on the back yard rimmed with full blooming Hibiscus bushes in shades of tropical red. The sun had set earlier, yet evenings are seldom cool during a Florida summer. No breeze that night. Yet, they were comfortable wearing shorts and sitting under the breeze of the slow-moving wicker blades of the porch ceiling fan.

Your dead body today... homicide? she asked.

Nasty. Guy shot in his shower. Not my case—it’s Jaworski’s. He joked if his wife ever shoots anyone, it’d be in the shower stall so the blood wouldn’t get all over the room.

There you go, she said. You have a clue already, the murderer was a woman.

Yeah, normally I’d bet on the wife, however, this has a different sense of viciousness about it. Cold-blooded like the perp just opens the shower door, blasts the guy and walks away.

Was the water still running and the shower door found open?

How’d you guess?

I changed my mind. More likely a man did it. Jaworski’s wife had it right, a woman would take time to close the shower door after shooting him, so water wouldn’t drench the bathroom floor.

A flimsy clue, but I’ll mention it to Jaworski. He smiled and fell silent.

Enough sharing of his job for one day, she figured. She didn’t want him describing details anyway. She could tolerate most crime scenes, and dead bodies didn’t bother her as long they were all cleaned up and under a nice white sheet. Hear that cicada? she asked.

That’s a male vibrating for its mate.

Save the innuendo for later, please. I’ll let you know when to start vibrating. That thought brought the discarded book of love poems back to her mind. With a slight laugh, she asked about his interest in poetry. Did you find an old poetry book laying around from your college days? I wonder how many old English Lit books have made the journey from the bookcase to the attic, yet never to the trash? How many homes have at least one old textbook that somehow just can’t be thrown away?

He glanced over at her not catching on.

Emily Dickinson... Love Poems. In the trash.

Oh, that. He went on, matter-of-factly. It seems a woman he once met had phoned yesterday with the usual, how was he, how had he been doing? And could they meet sometime for coffee? He brushed her off politely saying he was sorry he didn’t really remember her; he was quite busy on the job and didn’t really have time for any socializing. I was still trying to place her, when she said she understood, nevertheless they should meet briefly anyway, as she had something of mine that should be returned.

Sandy couldn’t help raising an eyebrow.

They had met for coffee yesterday evening, he explained. When he saw the woman, he remembered she had been a participant in a safe-driving class he once instructed. The woman put the book of poems on the table saying she wanted to give it back to him. He protested, saying he’d never given her such a book and didn’t want it. She insisted that he had forgotten, it stirred too many painful memories for her, and she couldn’t bear to throw it away. He took it as he left to placate her and tossed it when he got home.

That was bad, right? I should have donated it to the used book store.

A former girlfriend had called? And they met yesterday? What’s her name? Sandy tried to make it sound casual.

It didn’t work with the detective; he dealt with human nature all day long. He caught her meaning and smiled. It’s old news, Sandy, before I met you. Never a girlfriend. We stopped after class one time for a couple of drinks. I believe it was only once. I barely remember her. I certainly never gave her a book of poems. We never got it on, which is what you’re asking. He reached over and squeezed her thigh reassuringly. Forget it. Her name is mud. End of story.

It might be the end of the story for him, Sandy thought. Yet, she doubted an unimportant casual acquaintance would arrange such a reunion pretending to return a book.

Sandy recalled her own fondness for Emily Dickinson. She told Chip, "I remember: ‘Wild nights, wild nights. Were I with thee, wild nights should be our luxury.’ How does the rest of it go... I can’t remember?"

What does it mean?

Whatever you want it to mean. I wonder if that poem is in that old book.

Poets have it made, he said. What they write doesn’t have to have rhyme or reason.

"I loved that poem. I typed it out and pasted it above my study desk in college. To tell the truth, I had a little unrequited love thing going with this hot drama major at the time. Some of the liberal arts girls were changing their majors, so they could audition and get close