Spring Break Read online

  “The victim was in a public park in a strange city after dark,” I said. “You’d think she’d have been on alert under those circumstances.”

  “Unless she recognized the person she came to meet,” Adler said.

  I nodded. “But that would rule out druggies and vagrants as suspects.”

  With deft work with her scalpel and a wicked-looking electric saw, Doc opened the thorax and removed and weighed organs. The relentless hum of the air-conditioning and the noise of Doc’s instruments were the only sounds in the cold, tiled room, awash in the glare of overhead lights. Adler held up okay until Doc applied the saw to the victim’s skull. Then his barf bucket came in handy.

  “Attend enough of these,” I said to him with a sympathetic smile, “and you’ll eventually make it all the way through without hurling.”

  He shook his head and wiped his mouth with a paper towel from the dispenser beside the sink. “I hope to God I don’t ever get used to this.”

  Doc was examining the brain. She probed and removed a bullet, dropped it into a metal tray and handed it to Adler.

  “Looks like a .22,” he said. “I’ll have ballistics run it, see if they have a match.”

  “So,” I said, thinking out loud, “from the looks of the angle of entry and the powder burns on the underside of her jaw, the victim was approached from the front, the gun pressed beneath her chin and fired upward into her brain before she had time to react.”

  Doc nodded. “She died instantly.”

  I looked at Adler. “And nobody heard the shot?”

  “The spot where the body was found isn’t far from Gulf-to-Bay Boulevard, six lanes of continuous heavy traffic, even at night, especially during spring break. If someone did hear the gunshot, it might have sounded like a car backfiring.”

  “No sign of sexual assault,” Doc said. “You said she was robbed?”

  Adler nodded. “Her wallet was empty, but, according to her sister, she didn’t have much cash.”

  Doc shrugged. “Then it could have been simply a case of wrong place, wrong time.”

  I wasn’t buying that scenario. “She didn’t run, didn’t fight. The shot was up close and personal. She knew her killer.”

  Adler’s cell phone rang, a simple chime, not one of those canned polkas or tinny renditions of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” that drove everyone within hearing nuts. He stepped into the adjacent room to take the call.

  Doc was stitching the Y-incision and glanced up at me. “How’s this victim related to your cold cases?”

  “Remember the young girls murdered and dumped in Tampa Bay in the late eighties?”

  Doc nodded. “I know the Hillsborough M.E. who performed those autopsies. You grow a thick skin in this business, but all those children—there’s no skin thick enough for that not to get to you.”

  “Deirdre here was the only little girl who escaped. Her sister says that before Deirdre was killed, she had come to this side of the bay to try to ID the man who abducted her all those years ago.”

  “You think she found him?” Doc asked.

  “Not according to the info we have.”

  “Maybe he found her.”

  Adler stepped back into the room. “Maggie, want to ride with me?”

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Another homicide.”

  Doc cursed beneath her breath. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s keeping busy.”

  “Who was killed?” I asked.

  “State Senator Carlton Branigan. He’s been murdered in his own backyard.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Clearwater Police cruisers and a paramedics van filled the circular driveway in front of the Branigans’ Tudor-style residence. Adler parked behind the van. Ralph Porter, his current partner, met us out front, and Adler handled the introductions.

  “The Fisk murder is related to some cold cases of Maggie’s from her days on the Tampa PD,” Adler explained. “Fisk was found with a photo that included Branigan, so Maggie’s got a dog in this fight.”

  Tall and gangly, Porter was dressed in stiff new jeans, a red-checkered shirt and a string tie. His sandy hair was combed in the pompadour style favored by used-car salesmen, television preachers and Elvis impersonators. With a wide grin splitting his long face, Porter reminded me of Gomer Pyle—but with brains.

  “You think Branigan’s connected to Fisk?” His drawl matched his hayseed appearance.

  “So far only by that picture in the vic’s purse,” Adler said. “Where’s the body?”

  “This way.”

  We followed Porter through the foyer, where a uniformed officer was taking a statement from Madison, the butler, who’d shed his hoity-toity demeanor and looked ready to jump out of his skin. From the corner of my eye, I spotted another uniform sitting with Mrs. Branigan and her son, Sidney, in the living room.

  Porter led us out the rear door, across the terrace, down to the lawn, and around the pool to the long arbor that connected the pool deck to the tennis court. A profusion of confederate jasmine thick with tiny white blossoms covered the curved trellis, creating a tunnel of shade in the midday light. The flowers’ heavy fragrance didn’t completely mask the coppery stench of blood.

  Carlton Branigan, dressed in white tennis shorts and shoes and a pastel yellow shirt, lay midway down the path, sprawled facedown on the brick walkway. Tennis rackets, bottles of water, towels and cans of balls spilled from an open carryall beside him.

  Adler knelt next to the body. I was only an observer, so I stayed back, hands in the pockets of my blazer, mouth shut.

  “This is the first case like this I ever had,” Porter said, shaking his head. “The guy was garroted—by a damned vine. Almost took his head off.”

  A length of jasmine vine, made up of several strands that had grown entwined like a braid, was wrapped around Branigan’s neck and had cut deeply into the skin and muscles. Blood oozed around it. The vine had been pulled from the arbor and was still attached to the rest of the plant.

  During one of my few forays into gardening, I’d tried to clear errant strands of jasmine from my patio trellis and had found it as strong as piano wire. When I’d called on the condo maintenance man for help, he’d laughed at my frustration. “I told the association when they requested putting in this stuff that it’s fast growing and tough. You should plant it with a shovel in one hand and a machete in the other.”

  The rugged vine on the arbor had made a perfect murder weapon, handy and lethal, which suggested that the murder hadn’t been premeditated but a crime of passion. Extreme passion, judging from Branigan’s semidecapitated state.

  “Doc Cline’s on her way,” Adler said. “She’ll be able to confirm strangulation. From the angle of his head, I doubt his neck’s broken.”

  “Branigan’s a big guy,” Porter observed. “Would have taken another big guy to do this.”

  Or rage, I thought. I’d seen small men—and women—perform incredible feats when they were high on adrenaline or drugs.

  Adler examined Branigan’s hands. They were covered with deep cuts and stained with chlorophyll, as if the victim had tried to pull the vine from his neck during the attack. Aside from the disturbed growth on the trellis, no other sign of a struggle was visible on the hard brick surface of the path. No footprints. No apparent fibers or other visible elements. And the well-covered arbor would have screened the assault from any witnesses.

  Footsteps on the path announced the arrival of Doc Cline. She surveyed the area with a quick glance. “Looks like a scene from The Attack of the Killer Vines. You guys bring any weed spray?”

  Her wisecrack reminded me how much I missed the gallows humor of police work. Cops had to laugh to keep from screaming all the way to the funny farm.

  “I’ll stay with Doc,” Porter said to Adler. “You take the wife’s statement.”

  Adler nodded. “Maggie, you’re with me.”

  We returned to the house, and Adler dismissed the uniform in the living room.


  Mrs. Branigan, dressed in a well-cut tennis dress with a matching cardigan, sat on a chintz-covered sofa, chain-smoking, judging by the overflowing cut-crystal ashtray on the table beside her. Sidney, wearing casual slacks and a golf shirt, paced in front of the massive fireplace below the portrait of his father and ran shaky fingers through his thinning blond hair.

  I settled on a window seat just inside the door, and Adler took a chair opposite Stella Branigan.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Branigan,” he said, “and I’m sorry to bother you at a time like this, but I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”

  “She already told the other officer.” Sidney’s stance and tone were belligerent, a role reversal of the young guarding his mother.

  “I need to hear it again,” Adler said gently. “The sooner we gather the facts, the better our chance of catching your husband’s killer.”

  Stella stubbed out one cigarette and lit another with her gold lighter. She made no effort to conceal the tremor in her hands. “What do you want to know?”

  “When did your husband return from Tallahassee?”

  “He flew in late last night.”

  My skin was itching like crazy, and I wished I hadn’t left my Benadryl in my car. Branigan’s murder was possibly connected to the killings years ago that had precipitated my allergic reaction to homicides, and I intended to find that link. Deirdre Fisk had had a clipping that included Branigan’s photo in her purse. Deirdre was dead. Now Branigan was dead, too. And I didn’t believe in coincidence.

  “When did you last see your husband alive?” Adler asked.

  “We had breakfast on the terrace this morning and planned to play tennis.” Although her hands shook, her voice was steady. She appeared to be in shock, as if she hadn’t totally processed the fact that her husband was dead. “We were finishing our meal when Madison announced that George Ulrich had arrived and demanded to see Carlton.”

  “George Ulrich?” Adler asked. “The Pelican Bay councilman?”

  I felt an irrational surge of hope. Ulrich had been instrumental in shutting down the Pelican Bay Police Department, and Adler and I and every former member of the PBPD would love nothing more than to lock up the guy for murder.

  “Ulrich is my father’s opponent in the upcoming primary,” Sidney said.

  Stella shifted in her chair, a move that called attention to her long, tanned legs in amazing shape for a gal in her sixties. Had to be the tennis.

  “Carlton told Madison to show George out to the terrace,” she said, “and to bring more coffee. I excused myself to go upstairs. I didn’t want to interfere in Carlton’s business, and I had notes to write and calls to make.” Her composure almost cracked but she regained it quickly. “If I’d stayed with him, Carlton might still be alive.”

  “What happened next?” Adler prodded.

  I watched Sidney, watching his mother and hanging on every word. A muscle ticked under his left eye, and he shoved his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

  “I was upstairs in my day room that overlooks the terrace,” Stella said. “Even though the windows were closed, I could hear Carlton and Ulrich shouting at each other.”

  “What were they saying?” Adler asked.

  Stella shook her head. “I was trying to work, so I blocked out most of it, but what little I heard indicated they were arguing over the campaign.”

  Adler nodded. “And then?”

  “I finished my notes and my calls. Then I went downstairs to find Carlton. When he wasn’t on the terrace, I thought he’d gone ahead to the tennis court. I took my racket and walked down to meet him.” The color drained from her face, and she took a long pull on her cigarette. “That’s when I found him in the arbor.”

  “How long were you upstairs?” Adler asked.

  Stella exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Not more than an hour.”

  “And your husband and Ulrich argued all that time?”

  She closed her eyes, as if trying to recall, then opened them again. “I don’t think so. You can ask Madison what time Ulrich left. He keeps track of such things.”

  “What did you do after you found your husband?” Adler said.

  “I ran back to the house and had Madison call 911. Then I called Sidney. He came right over.”

  “You were at work?” Adler asked her son.

  “In a manner of speaking. I’m in real estate. This morning I was working at home, next door.”

  “Alone?”

  “My wife and daughter are visiting her mother in Sarasota, but my housekeeper has been there since early this morning. You’re welcome to talk with her.”

  Adler jotted in his notebook. “Did you and your father get along?”

  Stella gasped, and Sidney’s face flushed.

  “He was my dad.” His face crumpled in grief, and he sobbed, “I loved him.”

  “Of all the nerve.” Stella drew herself straight in her chair and fixed Adler with a haughty stare. “You should be arresting George Ulrich, not questioning Sidney.”

  Adler opened his mouth as if to speak. I knew he wanted to explain that, statistically, victims are murdered by those closest to them, but apparently he thought better of it, closed his mouth and his notebook, stood, and turned toward the door.

  “We’ll be in touch, Mrs. Branigan. If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”

  I started to follow Adler.

  “Margaret,” Stella said. “Would you stay a moment, please?”

  “I’ll check with Porter and meet you out front,” Adler said, and left the room.

  Sidney glanced from his mother to me with a puzzled look. Wondering what Stella Branigan wanted, I was feeling somewhat puzzled myself.

  “Yes?” I said.

  Stella stubbed out her cigarette. “I want to engage your firm, Pelican Bay Investigations.”

  “Why?” Sidney blurted before I had the chance.

  Stella spoke to him, but her cold blue gaze locked with mine. “I want Ms. Skerritt to investigate your father’s murder.”

  Sidney beat me to the punch again. “The Clearwater Police are already on the case. Why hire a private detective?”

  “It’s spring break,” Stella said. “The police are inundated. I’ve watched enough television crime dramas to know that the more time that passes, the less likely your father’s killer will be caught.” She nodded to me. “That’s why I want you to start right away. I read in the Times about your success in solving the diet clinic killings and the Lovelace murder. Will you work for me?”

  I didn’t hesitate. I had my own reasons for wanting to solve this case. “You bet. I’ll get right on it.”

  “And you’ll report directly to me?” Stella ordered.

  “Of course, but I’ll have to work with the Clearwater detectives. Otherwise, I won’t have access to the forensic evidence.”

  She nodded. “My husband was a great man. He would have been governor someday. I want his killer to pay for what he’s done.”

  Two things struck me as I walked to meet Adler at his car. One, Stella Branigan hadn’t shed a tear during the entire interview. And, two, Darcy was going to kick my butt.

  I hadn’t asked for a retainer.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Porter’s going to pick up George Ulrich for questioning,” Adler said as he drove me back to the M.E.’s office to get my car.

  “You think Ulrich’s your perp and Branigan’s murder was no more than political rivalry gone wrong?” My gut was telling me otherwise, that Branigan’s death was somehow tied to Deirdre’s.

  Adler shook his head. “You taught me well, Maggie. I don’t form conclusions this early in an investigation. I just go where the evidence takes me. Besides, the butler said Ulrich left at least half an hour before Mrs. Branigan found the body, leaving time for someone else to have killed Branigan. Then again, Ulrich could have exited through the front door and circled to the backyard to confront Branigan a second time.”

  “Maybe the butler did it,�
�� I suggested. “He’s a cold fish if I ever saw one.”

  Adler shot me a curious glance. “Did Mrs. Branigan tell you anything useful after I left the room?”

  “She hired our firm to investigate her husband’s murder.”

  He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “She doesn’t think Clearwater CID’s up to the job?”

  I felt like a mom reassuring her kid that he’d make the team. “Stella Branigan knows how busy the police are. You already have the Fisk murder to deal with. Besides, Stella is a high-maintenance woman who demands lots of attention and is willing to pay to get it. And I’m happy to take her money.”

  Adler threw me a grin. “You don’t fool me, Maggie. As interested as you are in anything that involves your cold cases and Deirdre Fisk, you’d have worked the Branigan murder for free.”

  “True. And an added bonus would be to throw Ulrich’s conniving political butt in jail.” I resisted the urge to rub my hands with glee at the poetic justice of Ulrich being arrested by two former Pelican Bay cops. “What are my chances of watching when you question him?”

  “Good—if you promise to share anything you find in your investigation.”

  “You’ve got a deal.”

  We reached the M.E.’s office, and Adler pulled into the parking lot next to my Volvo and called Porter on his cell phone. He listened for a moment, then snapped his phone shut. “Ulrich’s wife says he’s in a meeting in Lakeland. He’s volunteered to come directly to the station for questioning after his meeting ends. Can you meet me there? Ulrich should arrive about two hours from now.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I climbed out of the car.

  Alder’s face split into a boyish grin. “And all on Stella Branigan’s tab.”

  “Hey, lawyers aren’t the only ones with billable hours.”

  Thinking how much I enjoyed working with Adler again, I shut the door and watched him drive away.

  I made a quick stop at the hospital on my way back to my office. At the reception desk, an elderly volunteer with silver-blue hair, a candy-stripe pinafore and gracious manners informed me that Mother had been moved from ICU to a private room.