A Place Beyond Greed (Part 1)
In this mystery serial, an old man is found murdered in his sunroom, and a detective searches for the killer.
Hi everyone. Quick author’s note: this is part one of a five part serial you’ll be seeing over the next 5 days. It is a mystery detective story. Hope you enjoy!
Mr. Frank Richardson was a healthy old man. At the age of 92, he still drove a car. He didn’t need a walker or a cane. He ran marathons once a month and swam at the local aquatic center. By all accounts, he was the pinnacle of health. It still came as no surprise that he didn’t survive a 9mm bullet from eight feet away.
I first met him in an easychair in his sunroom. He was dressed in his Sunday best, his head tilted toward the ceiling, a black bullet hole below his left eye and a droplet of dried blood streaking down his cheek. He didn’t seem surprised. He didn’t seem to be in pain. He merely looked at the ceiling as if waiting for someone to finish buffing his shoes. His mind was simply elsewhere.
The sunroom was smashed up: torn papers, busted shelves, drawers wrenched open with their contents dumped on the floor. An intact black metal safe sat in the middle of the floor gaping at me. Two peace lilies sat in opposite corners of the room. The yellow morning sunlight peered through the half-drawn window shades, spreading oblong rectangles of light across the short carpet.
On one of the bookshelves were fine red hardbacks by the Russian greats. I picked a few off the shelf while the photographer positioned his cameras. The books were well read, well loved. In another life he and I might have been kin. In another life I’d also own a multi-million-dollar house in a nice Orlando suburb. I left the shelf and returned to Mr. Frank. He was still waiting for his shoeshine.
“How are we looking?”
“With this lighting? Pretty as a painting,” said the photographer from behind a viewfinder. “Find any late library books?”
“A Hogarth Fathers and Sons that may be overdue by a hundred years.”
“Thinking about prosecuting?”
“I don’t know. Dead guys have the toughest lawyers, especially when money’s involved.”
We shared a grin and stood around looking at the room. “Must be awful luck,” he said. “Make it all the way to 92 only to get robbed and then shot just for being a witness.”
“Wonder if Bailey got a list of missing items yet.”
“He’s probably still on the pot.”
“He is not,” Sergeant Bailey said, walking into the room with his nose deep in a tablet. “He is in fact working very hard right now, something I can’t say for you two.”
“Working hard, huh?” I said. “Zoe make her famous stroganoff again?”
“No shame,” the photographer said. “A dead guy in the house, and you go drop one in the man’s two-thousand-dollar toilet. It’s disrespectful, really.”
“Take your damn pictures,” Bailey said, slapping him on the arm. Then he passed me the tablet. “Got a few things missing. Jewelry and a hand-sized eagle statue. The safe had a few crinkled dollars left over. We think it might be missing some cash.”
“How’d it get open?”
“Don’t know. Luck, maybe, or a lockpick. We’re pulling the prints. Found a cell phone on him, too. We’re taking that to the lab.”
I looked at the picture of the eagle statue. “Some kind of lifetime achievement award?”
“Get this: it’s from the local Longevity Club, as congratulations for making it to 90. It was mostly gold, very unique. He kept it in a glass case.”
“Anything on the 911 call?”
“Still working on it.”
“Must be easier than sitting on the throne,” the photographer said.
Bailey turned to give him a piece of his mind. I left him the tablet and walked through the rest of the house. It was a large one-story bit with plenty of wide, delicately curtained windows. The carpet, furniture, and paint scheme were all done in shades of green, mimicking the botanical and bamboo. I picked through the living room, the dining room, and the two guest bedrooms. Everything had been ransacked, even the kitchen cupboards. His bedroom was the one place left largely untouched. A thin brown notebook sat unbothered on the nightstand. It was Frank’s journal.
I flipped through the pages. The entries were unembellished and uninsightful. I got groceries with Julia. I went for a swim. I paid Eddie. Paul and I gardened today. Every day for years without a single miss. I took the journal with me when I left the room. Some other cops stood around talking and gesturing to the damage. Bailey was getting off the phone when I returned to the sunroom.
“We contacted his oldest,” he said. “She’s on her way right now. Want to meet her or should I?”
“Face for radio,” I said, pointing first at him, and then at myself. “Face for TV.”
“Or the tabloids,” the photographer muttered. A camera beeped, then flashed.
Lottie Pryce arrived in a baby blue sedan with freshly polished aluminum wheelhubs. Whatever crying she had done on the way over still stained her face when we met on the stoop. She took a moment to dab the rest off with a clean handkerchief. She was an older woman, her hair fading from blonde to white, with glittering ringlets on her tanned wrists and a sky-blue top and white pants and white flats. She wore a gold ball necklace and after she took off her sunglasses, she put on a thin pair of reading glasses. Her fragile blue eyes asked the obvious question. I shook my head, then let her into the house.
She walked through the wreckage of her father’s house like a tornado survivor. When we reached Frank’s room she wandered around touching things for a second or two, then sat down on the bed for a long while without saying anything. Then she started to cry again. I grabbed a seat in a reading chair and sat with her. I waited for her to calm down a little before speaking.
“92,” I said. “That’s a pretty long life. Not many people even make it to 80.”
“He was blessed,” she said. “He truly was.”
I reached on instinct into my pocket and pulled out a pack of gum. Extra brand spearmint—a way to pump the brakes when my tongue wanted to floor it, or in case I needed a refresher. I unwrapped one as I talked. “Is it alright if I ask you a few questions?”
She shook her head vaguely.
“Are you aware of any troubles he might have had?” I asked. “Outstanding debts, personal enemies, anyone who might have wanted him dead? Maybe a guy who finished behind him in a marathon?”
Lottie laughed and dotted her nose with her handkerchief. “No. Dad was well-respected. The house looks burgled. Was he… I mean, did they do it because he was home?”
“We’re not sure. You know a guy named Eddie?”
“Ramirez?” she said, almost confused. “Sure, of course. He was dad’s caretaker.”
“Was? What can you tell me about him?”
Lottie looked at the ceiling as she thought. “I think he was let go,” she said. “I’m not really sure. I didn’t know Eddie very well. We could ask dad, but, you know…” She made a face, then laughed nervously. “Gallows humor. I’m sorry.”
“Frank owe him any money? Large sums, maybe for work or errands?”
“I don’t think so. Dad was always good with his money.”
I didn’t see a reason for her to lie. Regardless, I looked away and chewed my gum and sat quietly. Normally if I don’t say anything for a bit, the other person opens up pretty quick. Lottie didn’t. She looked around the room and said nothing.
I took her back through the house. She kept wiping her eyes with the handkerchief. When we got to the front door I advised her to go home and rest. I told her that we’d call later.
“I want to see dad before I go.”
Her tone left no room for argument. I took her to the sunroom. Lottie stopped cold when she saw him surrounded by the photographer’s cameras and caution tape. One of the cops monitoring the scene nodded to her solemnly, as if he understood.
“I can’t believe it,” she said. “It doesn’t seem real.”
“Let’s go,” I said gently. “There’s nothing worth seeing here.”
“He looks… He doesn’t look real. He looks plastic.”
“Come on.”
I guided her away from the sunroom. Lottie looked over her shoulder one last time, and then she didn’t turn back. As we reached the front door, I was thinking about the room as much as she was. Something about it was bothering me. I kept going back to that black safe sitting in the middle of the room.
“Did Frank keep anything important in his safes?” I said. “Social Security card, a will, anything like that?”
“No,” she said in a quiet voice. “Just cash, if that. His papers are at the bank.”
At the door we said our goodbyes and I watched her climb into that sedan and rumble back down the brick road. Every murder there were meetings like this. Tears and shock. Numbness. And then there were goodbyes and paperwork and things wrapped up in little bows. I was used to the routine, but I never felt numb to it.
I went around the outside of the house and scoured the perimeter. There was one broken window on a door at the back of the house; a nearby paver was wrenched out of place. I turned the handle, but the deadbolt was still engaged. I reached through the hole in the window, undid the deadbolt, and let myself into the kitchen.
Bailey stood by the sink playing on his tablet. He watched me as I closed the door and set the deadbolt. “And not a single sign of forced entry,” he said.
“Who ever heard of a burglar that locks the door after breaking into a house?”
“Well you can’t just let the neighborhood kids walk in, can you?” Bailey eased himself into a chair. “Services sent us the 911 call. Want to listen?”
I settled down at the table and listened to the call with the sergeant. It started with the usual emergency rigamarole of location and emergency type. I mostly tuned out until the end of the call.
“Please hurry,” Frank said. “I think someone is here to kill me.”
“The police are on their way. Are you in a safe location?”
Static, then some noise. “I can’t tell what they’re saying.”
More noise, and then the call ended. I folded my arms over my chest and thought: I think someone is here to kill me. “That’s really odd,” I muttered.
“Cartel?” Bailey said.
“No, not flashy enough. What would a cartel want with him anyways?” I thought for a little longer, then got to my feet. “I’ve got a hunch I want to follow up. Will you tell me if you find anything else?”
“Sure, Detective. Where are you off to?”
“I’ve got to visit a caretaker.”
All writers seek readers. By sharing with a friend you think will like my work, you can help me find them.
Got my attention!