“Have a nice day,” she said finally, and went back into the house.
“You too, babe,” he replied.
THE POLICE CHIEF showed up, and Alfie talked with him. He was a big, heavy guy with a gray crew cut who’d been in the department since the town was half its size. Chief Hogle had hired Alfie, and the two got along okay.
“Don’t let anything out until we inform the families,” Hogle warned in a soft voice. Comcast and the local ABC affliliate were only a few blocks away on 10th Street. There’d be coverage. Alfie nodded. He didn’t have to be told procedure.
“’Specially not that dickhead at the Herald — what’s his name?”
“Pride.”
“Yeah. Okay, you know what to do.” He got back in his car, his uniform already damp from the spring humidity, and headed in to headquarters.
Alfie left the scene soon after, before the bodies were bagged. The two criminologists already had a scenario in mind. No motive yet, of course, but it seemed clear enough to them that no third party could have contributed to the deaths of the two individuals in the truck. There was no mystery here, just a sad outcome of an encounter gone wrong. All they had to do was inform the families and figure out why.
By noon the Ford truck in question had been brought into a warehouse for examination, and Alfie was up in Bradenton doing what he liked least in the world to do. He was knocking on the door where Lydia Dale had lived, looking for a family member to notify about her death. No answer from inside, so he nosed around, asking information from the neighbors in the other units in the complex. Pretty much everyone was out at work at that time of day, but the two oldsters who lived in units kitty-corner to hers said she came from Ocala, worked early and came back late, a real nice girl. Kept to herself. No boyfriend that anyone knew. Her car was not in the space marked for her unit. Alfie figured she must have met him somewhere, maybe the place where his wallet disappeared. Eventually a janitor opened the door of Lydia’s unit for him.
Right about this time, Alfie missed his partner, Mudd, but would never in a million years admit it. He called her Muddy. Betty Mudd was older than he, quite a few pounds heavier too, and she might have been a man in drag for all he knew. The woman had balls. She came from New York, the city, and didn’t miss much. Alfie sneezed and hit the light, then scratched an eyebrow at the dead girl’s neat little pink unit. Doll-size chairs and sofa. Little round table outside what must optimistically have been called a kitchen. From her taste, the vic could have been fifteen.
Alfie snapped on thin gloves, took a breath, and sneezed again before digging in. He was looking for names of next of kin, photos, date book, meds: pretty much the story of the dead woman’s life, and he went at it slowly. He found a phone book with the names he was looking for, pay stubs that showed she’d worked for Blackwolf. There were also photos of her and a bunch of smiling people in Blackwolf T-shirts at what looked like a Rotary bowling tournament. Alfie was debating about getting on the road and driving up to Ocala to talk to Lydia’s mom when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket.
The chief screamed in his ear, “Where the hell are you, Rose?”
“Up in Bradenton. At Lydia Dale’s house.”
“Well, get the hell back here.”
“What’s up?”
“That fucking Pride went down to North Port to get a story from Lustfield’s wife. She’s hysterical on the phone.”
“I’m there,” Alfie said, bagging the Rotary photographs and the phone book.
JULIE DIDN’T KNOW what the man was up to. He was kind of a geeky-looking guy, photographing the outside of her home as if for House & Garden. Ha-ha. Or as if he were from Homes & Land, and her place were about to go on the market. Briefly, she considered the possibility. Who knew what Reed might be up to? Maybe one of those new houses in Panther Ridge was for her. No chance of that — they were worth millions. She watched the guy with the camera for a moment, readying herself to go out there and burst his bubble. The place was not for sale. People did the weirdest things. His being out there with the camera reminded her of the time, a few years back, when a sniper appeared outside her weaving room. She’d seen him through the sliders that led to the patio and pool area, and did a double take as she was setting up her loom for gossamer scarves. The man, wearing fatigues and army boots, appeared to be dancing with an AK-47 right near the lake and the dock. He spun that rifle around and then stopped, raising the barrel up at her, in the house. Back then, the Lustfields’ was the first finished building in the subdivision, so there weren’t any neighbors to rally for help. Julie had watched him for a moment, strangely calm. She knew he couldn’t see her behind the sun blind she’d bought for the window to keep the deadly UVs out but let the light in. She’d stood there just long enough to know he was a mental case — just another Florida Cracker with a gun, living in a world all his own. She’d called the police, and when the entire department arrived in four squad cars and got out with their guns drawn, her sniper indignantly explained he was after the bobcat that ate his “daawg.” They set him right, telling him he couldn’t kill a bobcat even if it ate his mother.
Julie wasn’t afraid of Crackers, so she went outside. “You’re on private property,” she told the geek with the camera.
“What are you going to do about it?” he challenged.
Huh? Her jaw dropped at the rude tone of voice, and he snapped a picture. That made her really mad. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, waving her hand at the camera.
He took another picture.
“Hey, cut that out.” She started to go after him. He took that angry picture too.
“Did you know about your husband and Lydia Dale?” he asked, camera in her face.
Huh? Flash. She blinked.
“They were having an affair, but she wanted to end it, so he shot her.”
“What!” A shriek came out of Julie’s mouth before she even knew she was making a sound. What, Reed shot Lydia? “What?” Her heart was pounding. She could hardly breathe, the words hit her so hard. Reed? Shot Lydia?
“Who are you?” she screamed. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m Pat Pride. I tracked your address from the license plate on the truck at the scene of the crime. Sorry to startle you. I just wanted your reaction for the Herald,” he said as if this were an everyday thing for him. “Do you have any comment?”
“Comment? You want me to comment?” She took a step, and her ankle twisted. She fell to her knees, speechless at the request for a comment. This was worse than the sniper, worse than the silence all these months. She gasped for air, and the reporter just stood there. What the freaking Jesus is this? Julie had been around a long time, had heard a lot of stories about girls and boys and the fights they got in. But she’d never heard anything like this. Reed shot Lydia? No way. He wouldn’t have. She didn’t know she was sitting on the ground, tears flowing and shaking her head. Reed loved Lydia more than anyone in the world.
“Hey, I’m sorry. Want a cup of coffee? I didn’t mean to shock you.”
This brought Julie back. Everything inside her that had gone limp started tightening up again. He didn’t want to startle her? She was back on her feet, going for him. “You’re with the who?”
“The Herald.”
“How do you know this?” she demanded.
“I heard it on the police radio. I went out there to the scene, boat ramp in Paradise.” He backed away as her face screwed up with puzzlement.
“Paradise?”
He nodded. “I saw them. They were both dead. Looks like he killed her and then shot himself. I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “Do you have any comment for me now?”
“Hell no, you son of a bitch.” She went into the house, slammed the door, and called Paradise Police.
ALFIE GOT DOWN to North Port a little more than an hour later. The picture of what had gone down the night before was still clear as mud. He had a lot of questions and no answers. All they knew was that Lydia hadn’t co
me home from work the night before; her mail from yesterday was still in the box. They had a BOLO out for her car and a name for the registered owner of the truck but no definite ID on the shooter. He rang the doorbell.
“Alfred Rose, Paradise Police,” Alfie said, showing his badge. “Can I come in?”
The door opened slowly. Julie Lustfield had soft pale hair down to her shoulders that should have been mousy but somehow wasn’t, stunned gray eyes, and jeans that showed off a good figure. No hint of a smile, but no fear either. “I’m Julie Lustfield. Is it him?” she said faintly.
“Mrs. Lustfield, when was the last time you talked to your husband?”
“He went fishing this morning,” she said.
“What time?”
“He left before six, about five forty-five.” Her serious eyes held that stunned look of people in denial. He can’t be dead, I just saw him a few hours ago. “I saw him load up the truck. Just tell me, is it him?”
“Does your husband have a gun?”
Her eyes skittered around. “Yes. Some rifles. I think there’s one in the truck.”
“How about handguns?”
She shook her head. “He just uses them for hunting.”
“What does he hunt?”
She shook her head again. “He got a coral snake once, right out here. For God’s sake, tell me. Is it him?”
“He didn’t have a wallet on him. And his face is pretty messed up. We’re still checking.” It sounded so lame that he couldn’t tell her for sure one way or the other.
They stood there in the doorway. Her eyes filled with tears. “That reporter said he killed Lydia and himself. I don’t think it’s possible.”
“You want to sit down and tell me about it?” Alfie said.
“They knew each other since birth,” she said disparagingly. “We only met in high school.”
“Uh-huh.” Alfie wasn’t sure what that had to do with it. “Were they seeing each other?”
“Well, sure, they saw each other every day. She was the bookkeeper. They were on the phone all the time.”
“I mean, did they have a personal relationship?”
“They had a very serious personal relationship.” Her lips twitched in a tiny smile.
“A physical relationship?”
“Yes. She was his sister. Well, stepsister, not blood. Reed wouldn’t kill anybody, but he certainly wouldn’t kill kin.”
“Oh,” Alfie said. Sometimes they can surprise you. Okay, the rifle had not been discovered in the truck, but maybe Reed had a handgun his wife didn’t know about.
“Mrs. Lustfield, do you know any reason why your husband might kill either his sister or himself?”
She shook her head, then her shoulders lifted just a little.
“What was that thought?” Alfie asked.
“I don’t know. He hasn’t exactly been confiding in me lately.”
“You’ve been having problems?”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘problems.’ He just hasn’t been here much. He came in late last night, left early this morning. I knew he and Lyd hung out a lot. But . . . lovers? They wouldn’t do that.” The words had a hollow ring.
Alfie sneezed. You never knew. He asked her for a photo of her husband. She got up suddenly and went into the other room. When she came back, she had a new expression on her face, his wallet in her hand, and a photo of him and her on a fishing boat. Alfie studied the likeness in the snapshot first. The man in the photo had the same blond hair, same sort of build as the dead man, but to Alfie the wallet seemed to clinch it.
“He leave his wallet home often?” Alfie asked.
Julie shook her head. “This is the first time.” Then she held out something else, her husband’s cell phone. Alfie’s intake of breath came at the same time her face cracked wide open. “He wouldn’t go out on the water without his cell.”
Of course he wouldn’t. Alfie frowned but not at what the husband did. Julie was the kind of heartbreaker he went for. No one could tell him why. He didn’t know. Similar to Sharon, Jeff’s mother. Both girls about his age, down on their emotional luck, with things getting worse and worse, and they hadn’t a clue how to dig out. Julie’s plight tugged at him so much, he felt a sneeze coming on. Husband was a cheat, but she loved him anyway. And shit, nobody wanted to lose a husband to a homicide-suicide. He flashed back to Pride coming here this morning to get her reaction. Held back the sneeze of rage at that cowardly act.
“Do you have a family member or a friend who can come and stay with you?” Alfie murmured.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” she said.
“You could confirm that by identifying the body. We need a family member.”
She shook her head. “He has brothers, a mother, people up in Bradenton. They can do it.”
Ah, problems with the in-laws. Alfie nodded, got those names, and told her he’d get back to her later.
The sneeze came on the way to the car. It was a big one and somehow brought on a whole bunch of new questions about the sister. Men kill their girlfriends, but they don’t often kill sisters they hang out with. Something about a sister — no matter how much you hate her, you don’t shoot her in the heart the way you want to. Alfie’s throat itched too. That itch reminded him that things aren’t always the way they seem. Jumping to conclusions was the one thing you should never do in police work.
It started with the sister and went to the gun. Julie said her husband didn’t keep a handgun, but there was a rifle in his truck. There was no rifle in the truck parked by the boat ramp. And no boat either. Where was the boat? Alfie drove to High and Dry, the marine storage where Julie said Lustfield kept his boat.
Pete Mulvey, an old geezer from another era, wearing a wife-beater and cutoffs, told him, “Yeah, Reed come by this mornin’ and took out the boat.”
“You saw him go out?”
“Oh, yeah. He was going south down to Naples to look at some property from the water.”
“Anybody with him?” Alfie asked.
“Some dude. I didn’t get a real good look at him. Seemed like a city feller.”
Alfie snorted. “City feller” had another meaning down here. He went back to the parking lot and slapped his forehead when he easily located a second Blackwolf truck. He called the chief.
“It’s Rose.”
“What you got?” Hogle said.
“Looks like Reed Lustfield’s on a fishing trip down to Naples today.”
“No shit.” Hogle grunted.
Got him. “The company has more than one truck.”
Silence on the other end.
If they had a few more people on the job, they could have figured that out a whole lot sooner. ’Course, they were working three towns out of their jurisdiction. “Lydia Dale is his sister,” Alfie added.
“Any way you can reach Lustfield?”
“He left his cell phone and wallet home, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Alfie called some of the numbers Julie had given him. Second call, he got a name for the Blackwolf foreman who usually drove the second Ford truck, the one with the license plate of the death truck in Paradise. Name Everett, another high school contact. Just before sunset, the coast guard located Lustfield’s Grady-White just down the coast at a marina in Punta Gorda, where Lustfield had stopped for gas and a grouper sandwich.
It had been a long day, but Alfie wanted to make things right with Julie before he headed north to Paradise, where it now looked like an old story dating from high school had played out in one final rejection. Lydia had said no to a deadly suitor for the very last time. This kind of thing should never have happened in Paradise, but a lot of things should never happen.
Alfie turned into the subdivision where Julie lived. He’d been too busy to call during the investigation. But now he wanted to apologize for what Pride had done — getting the shooter/suicide wrong and devastating her needlessly. For all he knew Lustfield wasn’t having an affair at all. All these things were in Alfie’s head. He wanted to b
e a good cop and erase that look of horror Julie Lustfield had when she found her husband’s wallet and cell phone — the suicide message that wasn’t.
And then, as he cruised closer to the house, he saw the lights on and heard the stereo blasting an eighties house-party song: “Dance to the Music.” Inside, Julie’s friends were doing just that. Alfie got out of the car, puzzled by the party scene clearly visible through the living room picture window. He started up the front walk, saw the chips and dip on the coffee table and the drinks flowing, and slowly realized that Julie had done what he’d told her to do. She’d called her friends to be with her in her time of mourning. It’s him, she’d said, but he’d read her wrong. She’d spoken with relief, not sorrow. He shook his head. Maybe in all these hours, no one had called to tell her different.
Alfie turned around and got back in his car, where he sat in the dark, drumming his fingers to the beat. Funny how the two men both left their wallets home on the same day. What was the meaning in that? When the song finally changed, he picked up his cell and placed the call. The phone inside the Lustfield house rang and rang. None of the revelers stopped to pick up. When voice mail finally beeped, Alfie left a message for Julie: Lustfield had been located alive on his Grady-White down by Punta Gorda and was on his way home. At least he could tell himself he warned her.
Such a Lucky, Pretty Girl
By Persia Walker
I was fifteen when my stepfather died. I don’t remember much about it. The doctors said I didn’t want to. “Selective amnesia,” they called it. Whatever it was, I thanked God for it. For years, I managed to put that time out of my mind. For years, everything was fine.
Until the Snow case.
They still talk about Chrissie Snow on West 86th Street. They still whisper about how she looked coming down, like a doll, with her T-shirt billowing out and her hair trailing behind her. She didn’t claw at the air or put out her hands in any desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable.
She simply came down. Fast.
It was three o’clock on an icy Saturday afternoon in mid-January. My partner and I caught the call. Chrissie was still warm when we got there.