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Adele was very happy with the way her new relationship with Jack Smithson was going. She hadn’t slept with a man for more than a year, and the last relationship had ended badly. She was looking forward to getting to know this very interesting man better, and she hoped they would last.
A few miles up A-1A she made a left, then a right onto Jungle Trail, a shortcut that would save her a mile or two. Anyway, she liked the dirt roadway and the trees and an occasional glimpse of a raccoon or a deer along the trail.
She had driven a mile or so when the car ran over something and began to pull to the left. She stopped the car and retrieved a small flashlight from the glove compartment, then got out of the car and walked around to the front.
Her right front tire was completely flat. Adele knew how to change a flat, but she hated doing it. Then she looked up and saw a car coming down the trail, behind hers. A flashing blue light on the dashboard came on, dimly illuminating a uniformed figure behind the wheel. Thank God, she thought, a man, and a cop into the bargain.
He got out of his car and turned a very bright flashlight on her. “Got a problem there, ma’am?” he asked, walking toward her.
“Yes, a flat tire.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” he said, coming closer.
“Oh, thank you so much. I’m so lucky you came along.”
He came closer, but the light blinded her. Then she felt a sting on the side of her neck.
“Just take it easy,” he said. “You’re going to get drowsy now.”
“Oh, God, no,” she whispered to herself as she sank to her knees.
22
Lauren Cade got out of her car and walked the forty yards to where the medical examiner’s wagon and an unmarked police car were parked. Detective Jimmy Weathers stood, wearing latex gloves, looking at the front of a Tahoe SUV parked in the middle of the Jungle Trail.
“Morning, Jimmy,” she said. “Thanks for the call.”
“Morning, Lauren.”
“What have you got?”
“Another woman, dead, probably raped. This time, she’s been posed naked behind the wheel.”
Lauren looked through the passenger window and saw the corpse, a middle-aged woman. Her handbag was lying on the floor next to her.
“Looks like she had a flat,” Jimmy said. “Right front wheel, but there’s no nail in the tire and, walking back down the trail, there’s nothing there that would cause the flat. Slow leak, maybe.”
“Spike strip?” Lauren asked. A spike strip was something that the police could throw in front of a car being pursued to blow out its tires.
“Good thought,” Jimmy said. “Another cop thing to add to the rest.”
“Have you been through her bag?”
“I just got here myself,” Jimmy said.
“Mind if we do it together?”
“That’s good.”
Lauren donned her latex gloves, lifted the large leather bag from the car and emptied it on the hood.
“Lots of stuff,” Jimmy said.
“She’s a woman,” Lauren replied, picking up a big diary with a card stapled to the front. “Adele Mason, Beachfront Realty, Vero Beach,” she read.
“Yeah, they’re across from the Holiday Inn,” Jimmy said, picking up the woman’s wallet. “Here’s her driver’s license. She lives not far from here, if the address is current.”
Lauren opened the diary to where it had been marked with a rubber band and read the last entry of the day. “Dinner, Jack Smithson.” She flipped open her cell phone, called information and asked for the number, then closed it. “No such listing,” she said. She began going backward in the diary. “Here’s another dinner with Jack, three nights ago. He’s also down for two that afternoon at SunJet. What’s that? And the words ‘Bingo, the Wald property!’ are entered for that afternoon.”
