Death at China Rose (Sunshine State Murders) Page 3

  “Shit,” I murmured, which was a pretty accurate description of the mess—a mash-up of ribs, fries and...was that slaw? Closing the lid, I hoped Gramps wasn’t too particular. I grabbed the box and started for the house.

  Bambi wheeled and frowned, but blushed furiously when I held out the box. Her hands were shaking.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, he’s probably asleep and didn’t hear the bell.” She gave a weak laugh. “He’s a little deaf.”

  “Are you sure he’s home? Maybe he went out with friends.”

  She gave me a funny look. “Why do you say that?”

  I pointed to the SUV. “There an Esplanade in the driveway, which I assume is your grandfather’s car, but the air-conditioning isn’t on.”

  “Gramps doesn’t like AC.” She gave me her back and knocked again.

  I walked to the front window. She was probably right about her grandfather being home—I could see diffused light through the curtains. I knocked on the window, making enough noise to wake the dead. Geez, Gramps was more than a little deaf. I was about to knock again when I noticed a strange smell. “Do you notice that smell?”

  “Smell?”

  I tried the window. It opened about an inch or so and then stuck. By manipulating the curtains I made out a large orange sofa and a TV. The smell was stronger and definitely coming from inside.

  “It’s a metallic odor.” I turned to Bambi, whose dark eyes had grown to dinner-plate size. “I don’t suppose you have a key.”

  “Nooo.” Now she sounded all of five years old.

  “What’s your name?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Bambi Ware—why?”

  “I don’t see anyone inside, but somebody could be on the sofa.” The orange monstrosity was so long, it would accommodate a normal-sized man without any limbs sticking out. I put my hand on her trembling shoulder. “There’s a Maglite in the glove box of my car. Get it for me.”

  “What do you—”

  “Just get it.”

  She gave me an odd look, probably wondering who I was to give orders, but she swallowed and nodded. With Bambi out of the way, I tried the window again. It still wouldn’t budge.

  “Jesus,” I muttered, catching another whiff of the strange odor. I had to get inside. I bounded to the rear of the house—usually the back entrance offered the easiest point of ingress. I wasn’t disappointed.

  A small unscreened porch abutted the rear of the house, just a concrete slab filled with crappy furniture and more junk. The only entrance was a large sliding-glass door. By now the odor was stronger, a sickeningly sweet smell that filled my mouth with a metallic taste. My pulse quickened, every instinct telling me that something was wrong.

  The patio glass door was locked. I pressed my face against the glass—nothing but darkness. I applied pressure to the corner of the door, pushed up and to the left. The door jostled, but didn’t come free. No time to fuck around.

  “Here’s the flashlight!” Bambi skidded to a stop on the damp turf grass, at the edge of the patio. I got the light and told her to stay put.

  “But—”

  “Just until I figure out what’s up.” Returning to the patio, I shone the light over the assorted junk—plastic chairs and side tables, cardboard cartons, a broken-down sofa with red and white cushions. I jerked the light away.

  “What is it?” Bambi asked.

  Thank God she hadn’t seen. “Bambi, do you have a cell phone?” I overturned a basket of old tools.

  “Of course I do,” she said, taking a step toward me, “but what—”

  “Stay there!”

  “You’re scaring me,” the girl whimpered.

  I found a good-sized claw hammer in the mix. It had good heft and should work just fine. “I want you to go to my car and call 911.”

  A pause and then, “What...what do I tell them?”

  I reared back and swung at the door—once, twice, again. The glass cracked from side to side. “Tell them someone broke into your grandfather’s house, and that somebody may be hurt.” I kicked shards out of the way and pulled my Glock.

  “Who are you, lady?”

  I turned to see Bambi standing stock-still, a deer in the moonlight. “I’m somebody you don’t want to fuck with. Now, do like I said.”

  She disappeared around the house.

  With the Glock in one hand and the Maglite in the other, I stepped across the threshold of shattered glass. When I passed the light over the bedroom, my stomach lurched like a Suwannee River sturgeon. The stench was overpowering. I knew then what I had smelled and tasted.

  The room was a masterpiece of blood—crimson globules on the carpet, smears on the wall. As if a child had finger-painted with a pot of blood. I swallowed my fear, instinct taking control.

  “Hello?” My voice echoed in the empty bedroom. The trail of blood on the wall led to the hallway, but before I followed, I had to clear the bedroom. There was a chance that the creator of this bloody painting was still inside.

  Nothing in the closet—I started for the bathroom, moving with deliberate speed as I tiptoed between the blood drops on the carpet. It wasn’t more than thirty seconds before I reached my target, though it seemed much, much longer. But the bathroom was empty and free from blood—the carnage hadn’t reached here. Exhaling slowly, I moved to the hallway.

  The silence was oppressive as I walked the short corridor, following the bloody handprints and smears on the wall that seemed like a macabre wainscoting. The hallway led directly to the front door, with a small kitchen on the left and the living room on the right. I stepped left, affording me a complete view of the kitchen. A pitcher of what appeared to be orange juice had spilled on the counter, next to a newly cracked fifth of Smirnoff’s vodka, but nothing else. That left the living room.

  He lay on the sofa, resting on his side as if settled in for an evening of TV. An old man with a potbelly and spindly legs, dressed in boxers and a sleeveless undershirt. His face was a mask of blood, partially obscured by shoulder-length gray hair now mottled with crimson. I knelt, searching for the carotid artery, my hand slipping in the sticky wetness. Pressing hard, I was rewarded with a faint thud, like the heartbeat of a canary.

  He was alive—there was still hope.

  I pulled the throw from the back of the sofa and placed it over the bloody man, who was probably in hypovolemic shock. I heard sirens wailing in the distance—no more than a few minutes away.

  Using the sleeve of my jacket for a barrier—the latex gloves I always carried were in the Vic—I unlocked the front entrance, which included a door lock, a chain lock and a dead bolt—all of which were locked or bolted. The patio door had been locked, as well. Harry Pitts had locked up his small house as best he could, but something had found its way inside. When I was finished with the locks, Bambi, who was waiting at the doorstep, tried to push her way inside.

  “Please...I...I have to see.”

  “No, Bambi!” I could do nothing more for the old man, but I’d make damn sure his granddaughter didn’t see him like this. I pushed her away, but too hard. The petite girl stumbled and fell. I slammed the door behind me and went to her. The fall hadn’t fazed her—by the time I reached her she was on her feet and loaded for bear.

  “I said let me see him!” Bambi grabbed my shoulders, her fingers digging like claws. We were dancing, but I didn’t know the steps. “Just tell me—is he dead? Is he?”

  Her face was a frantic mix of terror and hope. By then the night was a cacophony of siren song. Big Pine Terrace was lighting up like a friggin’ Christmas tree. Bambi’s eyes begged for an answer. I hesitated. Harry clung to life by the slenderest of threads, and I doubted that the prognosis was hopeful. But he was alive, and that made all the difference.

  “Your grandfather suffered a terrible injury, but he
’s still alive. There’s hope. And look—here come the paramedics to help him.” I pointed at the ambulance that had just squealed to a stop.

  But Bambi didn’t look. She hid her face in her hands and sank to the ground, her small body racked by violent sobs.

  Chapter Three:

  Red Mist

  “He’s on the sofa.” I gestured the two paramedics to the injured man.

  “Jesus,” one of them whispered when he saw what waited. He and the other paramedic, a stocky older woman, exchanged a look and went to work. On their heels were two Grubber County deputies.

  “What the hell?” The tall deputy surged inside the house, his much younger partner hot on his heels. About two seconds later the kid was back outside, puking out his dinner on a couple of gnomes. When he was done, he wiped his mouth and looked at me, ashamed.

  “Deputy Ford?” I said, checking his nameplate. “I need your help.”

  “Ma’am?”

  Geez, he was fresh meat, a rookie not more than a few weeks out of the academy, I’d guess. “This young lady—” I pointed at the pile of hysterically sobbing girl at our feet. “I think she might be in shock. Can you take care of her?”

  “Bambi?” Ford lightly touched her shoulder.

  Bambi made herself smaller, hugging her knees and hiding her face. But at least she’d stopped bawling.

  “You know her?”

  The rookie nodded, then frowned at the house of horrors. “I need to check with my partner.”

  “I’ll tell him you’re taking care of Bambi. It’ll be all right.”

  Bambi moaned, which settled the deal. While the young deputy led the teenager away, I went inside.

  “I got a pulse,” the female paramedic was saying. “It’s weak and erratic but present.”

  I made eye contact with the tall deputy, who nodded and kept talking into his cell.

  “I’m not getting a BP,” the male paramedic said.

  “Yeah, he’s in shock. We need to stabilize and transport.”

  The deputy ended his call and turned to me. It was Baskin, a good cop who was close to topping off his twenty years. Even so, beneath the veteran façade, he was just as shaken as the rookie. “Where’s Ford?”

  “Your partner’s taking care of the girl. She’s pretty shook up.”

  After a beat Baskin nodded. Then his eyes passed over the gory scene. “I called for backup. This has got to be the work of a madman, and my bet is he’s nearby.”

  “Could be.” I agreed that the perp was nearby—the blood on the walls was fresh from the source, but I didn’t buy the bit about this being the work of a madman, though I couldn’t say why.

  The female paramedic ordered everyone to get the fuck out of the way. Baskin and I did as we were told and watched as the bus carried Harry away.

  “I found the entry point.” The deputy hooked a thumb at Harry’s bedroom. “The perp busted the patio door.”

  “Actually, that was me.”

  “Shit, Addie—you know better than that.”

  Before I could explain, two uniforms appeared. Baskin had a few quick words with them and by the time he returned his attention to me, his anger was gone. “So why’d you bust the door?”

  I told him about the smell and the blood on the patio couch, but I wasn’t sure how much he was processing. His eyes kept returning to the bloodstained walls. It would be the same with all of them—all they would see was the blood.

  “Look, I’m sorry about breaking in, but I had to get inside and both the front and door entries were locked.” I paused to let that sink in. “After I saw the pool of blood on the patio sofa, I knew I had to get inside and quick.”

  The deputy’s eyebrows took a hike—I’d finally gotten through. “Patio?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  Baskin and I made it to the patio without disturbing the scene, walking like a couple of kids trying to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk. Only these cracks were bloody.

  “Aim your light at the sofa.”

  A sharp intake of breath and he said, “It went down right there.”

  “I think so,” I said. Baskin should have gone for detective. Already he was forgetting about the blood and focusing on the hunt.

  “Harry’s head was right here when he was attacked.” I pointed at the crimson pool on the cushion.

  Baskin edged to a small table, which held an empty glass and wallet. An unnaturally orange residue filled the glass’s bottom. I didn’t know what was in the wallet.

  “What about those marks?” Baskin passed his light over the other cushions, revealing a mélange of what appeared to be red brushstrokes. When I first glimpsed the cushions, I’d thought the abstract marks were part of the fabric’s design. Only when I saw the pool of blood had I understood the gruesome reality. “They’re transfer marks, aren’t they?”

  I was no expert in blood spatter, but I agreed. The process of blood transfer was simple. Something had come in contact with Harry’s blood and transferred it to the white fabric of the cushions, causing that striking brush pattern.

  “Any idea what caused it?” Baskin asked.

  I shook my head, still staring at the strange brush marks. “That’s beyond my pay grade—forensics will have to crack that nut.”

  Baskin scowled at the transfer marks for a few seconds more, and then looked around. “Did you say that all the doors were locked?”

  “Yup.”

  “So Harry locked himself inside after the attack.”

  “Or the perp locked up after he was finished with Harry.”

  Someone called out for Baskin from the house. More reinforcements, no doubt.

  “Listen,” I told Baskin, “if I don’t get some fresh, clean air, I’m going to get sick.”

  I left Baskin to it and cut through the growing throng of uniforms, looking for an inconspicuous spot where I could call Etta. I also didn’t want to have to explain to Grubber County’s finest how city girl Addie Gorsky had ended up in redneck heaven on a Saturday night. With Etta’s insistence on absolute secrecy, skating around an answer would take more than the usual quota of lies and equivocation. But I felt pretty certain that once my client learned the tragic circumstances, she’d release me from my vow of silence. I found a spot in the edge of the woods and pulled my cell, wondering how the hell to break the news.

  In a way Etta had painted me into a corner. By now the dirt road was full of emergency response vehicles of every stripe—surely the media wasn’t far behind. If the old lady got a whiff of an assault at the fish camp, she’d immediately jump to the worst conclusion, which in this case wasn’t far from the truth. I’d just play it by ear.

  Etta answered on the first ring. “How did it go?”

  “I’m afraid it didn’t. Something happened before I could talk to anyone.”

  “What?” The old voice broke.

  I dove in the water, hoped it was deep enough. “Your brother was seriously injured tonight.”

  “How did it happen?”

  A stretch of silence—should I give the truth or a convenient half-truth? “It appears that someone attacked your brother. That’s all I can tell you right now.”

  “And you said it’s a serious injury?”

  “I’m no doctor, but it looked pretty serious.” I didn’t know whether to be impressed or disgusted by Etta’s cool fortitude.

  “Now, who would hurt Harry?” Etta murmured. At first I assumed the question was rhetorical, but then I thought I heard her mind whirring as she went down a list of suspects. What did she know that I didn’t? Truth was, just about everything.

  “Oh, in case you’re interested, your brother’s been taken to Dexter Memorial Hospital.”

  “I’ll call them as soon as we’re finished,” Etta promised, “but first I ne
ed to know if the police have any suspects. Are there any...any leads?”

  Silently cursing the popularity of police procedurals, I told Etta that the cops were still processing the scene. Then it occurred to me that she might be able to shed some light on the crime. “Do you know if Harry keeps any valuables around?”

  Etta let out a dismissive huff that was almost a laugh. “If you think the attack was a robbery, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Harry was a junk collector—he had nothing of value.”

  I was taken aback by her use of the past tense—had she already written off Harry’s chances? I’d suspected the two hadn’t been close, but Etta’s detachment was disturbing.

  “Tigers don’t change their stripes,” she droned on, “and Harry has always been a pack rat—oh, I knew something like this would happen! I just knew it!”

  You knew? What aren’t you telling me, Etta? “I’ll be at your house in half an hour.”

  “No, don’t do that. We’ll talk tomorrow morning. Right now I have to check on Harry—did you say he’s at Dexter Memorial?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Tomorrow.”

  I stared at the dead phone and wondered about the old lady. There was a lot to wonder about. She hadn’t given me a clue as to how she wanted the search for Rose to proceed, or even if she wanted to follow through. Her bizarre reaction suggested that she believed Harry’s attack was not the work of a stranger. No, she suspected that the perp was a lot closer to home. These unpleasant thoughts were interrupted by a familiar, if incredulous voice.

  “That you, Gorsky?” Deputy Berry stared at me as if I were the Bride of Frankenstein. Last I’d heard, he was indefinitely assigned to rubber-gun duty at the courthouse. Just my luck he got back to Robbery-Homicide in time to catch the case.

  “Of course it’s me,” I said in what I hoped was a civil tone. Berry had been the primary on the last murder case I’d worked. Like an idiot, I’d needled him mercilessly, making an enemy for no reason. I’d regretted it ever since. A PI needed all the cop friends she could muster.

  As my old Polish grandmother used to say, Make enemies with care—they last longer than friends.