As we hit the walkway, Jack said in a sardonic voice, “Something tells me we’re not getting invited back.”
Brenda called as we hopped into the Porsche. “I have good news, and I have bad news.”
“Give me the bad,” I said, bracing for it.
“Preston Hollister’s remains have been cremated. If he was poisoned, the perp got away with it.”
I grimaced. “Well, that’s disappointing.”
I told her my theory about the digoxin.
“That would do it.”
“What’s the good news?”
“The dye lot on that mohair fiber is MP-067, Imperial Navy. It’s made exclusively for JP Ashcroft. It’s an upscale men’s atelier in London. Every suit is handmade to a customer’s exact specifications.”
I grinned in triumph. “That’s traceable.”
“Highly. You might try giving them a call during business hours tomorrow.“
“I’ll do one better. I’ll get Bryce’s credit card records.”
“I figured you would.”
Thanks again,” I said.
“Anytime.“
I ended the call and immediately dialed Isabella. I told her about the fiber and JP Ashcroft and asked her to look into Bryce Van Allen‘s credit card receipts.
We left Palm Haven and drove back to the station where I logged the pill bottle into evidence. Then we returned to Diver Down.
JD and I took a seat at the bar and chatted with Teagan while we perused the menus. We caught her up to speed on the happenings. Our schedule had been thrown off by our late night event, but it was close to dinner time, and we were both hungry. Jack ordered the shrimp quesadillas, and I went with a mushroom cheeseburger.
Isabella called back about halfway through the meal. “You’ll like this. Bryce made several purchases from JP Ashcroft. You’ll need to subpoena the records from his bank, but I think you’ve got probable cause. If you can get sales receipts from the retailer, you’ll be golden.”
I thanked her for the information and ended the call.
It took a few days to get everything sorted. We talked to the couple that witnessed the document in the mean time. They recalled Preston being coherent, but they had no idea what he was signing. Who knows? Judy could have promised them a cut.
Once we had Bryce’s financial records and the receipts from JP Ashcroft, Judge Echols signed off on a search warrant.
With a tactical team, we gathered outside his unit in the Trident Tower. Bright and early on a Sunday morning, I put a heavy fist against the door and shouted, "Coconut County! We have a warrant."
Bryce's voice crackled through the speaker a moment later. "What's going on?"
I displayed the warrant to the camera lens. "Open the door, or we’ll break it down.”
"That's not necessary. I'm coming.”
A few moments later, he shuffled down the foyer, unlatched the deadbolt, and pulled open the door. With annoyed eyes, he glared at me and JD. "What are you searching for?”
I handed him the warrant and let him read it for himself.
We stormed down the foyer with Erickson and Faulkner and went straight for the master bedroom.
It was a nice unit. Vaulted ceilings, a large terrace with a view of the ocean, an open concept kitchen with state-of-the-art appliances, modern white leather furniture, a large flatscreen TV, surround sound system, and trendy art.
