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Authors: Jonathon King
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makeshift office and I pulled my canoe up into the pool of light knowing that tomorrow he’d recognize it and keep it safe until I returned.
Billy didn’t see me until I walked into the light, and then he came over to help me with my bags.
“Will handling evidence get you in trouble?” I asked, holding out the GPS bundle.
“Only if w-we go to c-court. And if this is w-what I think it is, w-we better not go to court.”
As we drove east to the ocean I filled Billy in on my discovery of the footprint and the unit. We were both thinking, “Setup.” But who? The cops or the killer? We ground out the possibilities.
Hammonds’ crew was under tremendous pressure to find a suspect. But no matter how I rolled it, I couldn’t see them getting desperate enough to plant the GPS. The feds could be jumping the gun to try and snatch credit away from the locals, but why not just let Hammonds fall flat on his own? Either could have gotten a GPS unit easily enough. And they pretty much knew the location of the shack from Cleve. But how do they get out there and slip in and leave the thing without being seen or without leaving a trace? Cops are not the most subtle actors on their feet, I knew from experience. They also don’t like to muck up the chance of making a clean case against a suspect that they still have on the hook. And when you put my discovery of the body, the psych report from Philly and my canoe access to the wilderness Glades together, they already had a pretty good barb in me.
On the other hand, if the killer planted it, he was taking a hell of a chance.
He could easily know the water. Might even have known the shack. He could have come in from the west out of the Everglades, but he would have had to be watching to see me leave. So why hadn’t he called in an anonymous tip right away? If he’d planted it after I left this morning, he could have called Hammonds’ group and they could have escorted me back from their offices themselves.
“W-Warrants are hard to g-get signed on a Friday,” Billy said, working the puzzle with me. “Even f-federal warrants. But they c-c-could be there now.”
As we drove over I-95 on the Atlantic Boulevard overpass I caught a glimpse of the moon opening up over the ocean through the clouds. If the killer had put the cops on to me, he would have been there too, watching from somewhere in the forest, waiting, like a good hunter, to see his trap sprung. Was he still there? Or would he have followed me out? Was he following now? As Billy pulled onto A1A and headed south to his oceanfront apartment building, I cussed myself for being paranoid but looked back at the traffic behind us as we pulled into the entrance of the Atlantic Towers.
CHAPTER 7
I had spent two weeks in Billy’s penthouse apartment when I first moved to Florida. But a place like this never fails to amaze.
The elevator stopped at the twelfth and highest floor and opened onto an alcove that was all his own. A handsome set of double oak doors stood at one end. Billy snapped down the European brass handles and pushed the doors wide to swing my bags through. He punched a single button on a wall panel and the huge, fan-shaped living area glowed in subdued recessed lighting. The thick carpet and textured walls were done in subtle shades of deep greens and blues. The wide leather couches and chairs were dark but offset with some kind of blond wood tables that kept the place from feeling heavy. Sculptures in onyx stone and brushed stainless steel glowed in the indirect light and several paintings adorned the walls. On the south wall was my favorite, an oil by the seventeenth-century Flemish painter Hieronymous Bosch called The Wanderer, which I had pondered for hours during my first stay.
But the dominant feature of the place was the bank of floor- to-ceiling glass doors that spanned the east wall and opened onto the ocean. Billy opened the center panels knowing I couldn’t resist. I stepped out onto the patio and
Billy didn’t see me until I walked into the light, and then he came over to help me with my bags.
“Will handling evidence get you in trouble?” I asked, holding out the GPS bundle.
“Only if w-we go to c-court. And if this is w-what I think it is, w-we better not go to court.”
As we drove east to the ocean I filled Billy in on my discovery of the footprint and the unit. We were both thinking, “Setup.” But who? The cops or the killer? We ground out the possibilities.
Hammonds’ crew was under tremendous pressure to find a suspect. But no matter how I rolled it, I couldn’t see them getting desperate enough to plant the GPS. The feds could be jumping the gun to try and snatch credit away from the locals, but why not just let Hammonds fall flat on his own? Either could have gotten a GPS unit easily enough. And they pretty much knew the location of the shack from Cleve. But how do they get out there and slip in and leave the thing without being seen or without leaving a trace? Cops are not the most subtle actors on their feet, I knew from experience. They also don’t like to muck up the chance of making a clean case against a suspect that they still have on the hook. And when you put my discovery of the body, the psych report from Philly and my canoe access to the wilderness Glades together, they already had a pretty good barb in me.
On the other hand, if the killer planted it, he was taking a hell of a chance.
He could easily know the water. Might even have known the shack. He could have come in from the west out of the Everglades, but he would have had to be watching to see me leave. So why hadn’t he called in an anonymous tip right away? If he’d planted it after I left this morning, he could have called Hammonds’ group and they could have escorted me back from their offices themselves.
“W-Warrants are hard to g-get signed on a Friday,” Billy said, working the puzzle with me. “Even f-federal warrants. But they c-c-could be there now.”
As we drove over I-95 on the Atlantic Boulevard overpass I caught a glimpse of the moon opening up over the ocean through the clouds. If the killer had put the cops on to me, he would have been there too, watching from somewhere in the forest, waiting, like a good hunter, to see his trap sprung. Was he still there? Or would he have followed me out? Was he following now? As Billy pulled onto A1A and headed south to his oceanfront apartment building, I cussed myself for being paranoid but looked back at the traffic behind us as we pulled into the entrance of the Atlantic Towers.
CHAPTER 7
I had spent two weeks in Billy’s penthouse apartment when I first moved to Florida. But a place like this never fails to amaze.
The elevator stopped at the twelfth and highest floor and opened onto an alcove that was all his own. A handsome set of double oak doors stood at one end. Billy snapped down the European brass handles and pushed the doors wide to swing my bags through. He punched a single button on a wall panel and the huge, fan-shaped living area glowed in subdued recessed lighting. The thick carpet and textured walls were done in subtle shades of deep greens and blues. The wide leather couches and chairs were dark but offset with some kind of blond wood tables that kept the place from feeling heavy. Sculptures in onyx stone and brushed stainless steel glowed in the indirect light and several paintings adorned the walls. On the south wall was my favorite, an oil by the seventeenth-century Flemish painter Hieronymous Bosch called The Wanderer, which I had pondered for hours during my first stay.
But the dominant feature of the place was the bank of floor- to-ceiling glass doors that spanned the east wall and opened onto the ocean. Billy opened the center panels knowing I couldn’t resist. I stepped out onto the patio and
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