Long Shadows (Amos Decker, #7)(41)

“Nine millimeter. Both slugs were still in him. They’re in good shape for a ballistics match if we can find the gun.”

She showed him the rounds that were in another plastic evidence baggie. “They were fired from a distance of over four feet. No powder burns or other markings on the body.”

“Which makes sense. It would give Draymont no opportunity to wrestle the weapon away. Now, what can you tell me about the knife used to kill the judge?”

She brought up a file on the computer that showed the knife wounds on the dead woman together with a measurement scale.

“I’m estimating about a six-inch blade with a serrated edge.”

“Four defensive wounds on her forearms and two on her hands?”

“That’s correct. Unfortunately, there was no trace under her fingernails. She probably was focused on blocking the knife strikes and never got ahold of her attacker.”

“Right.”

“And, as I reported before, ten stab wounds to her torso, including the fatal one.”

Decker shook his head.

“What is it?”

“Maybe nothing. Thanks.”

He left and walked out into the heat and sunshine.

Gun, knife, impersonal versus frenetic. What the hell was I thinking? Well, you weren’t thinking, were you?

You don’t shoot someone and then chase down and struggle with a witness, and then knife her. She would have been screaming her head off, though with Kline on a CPAP machine and taking a sleep aid, and the Perlmans out of town, there would have been no one around to hear. Still, you would just shoot her, like you had Draymont. Bang, bang, no screams, no struggle. You didn’t have to get close enough to stab her multiple times.

So they had one personal murder and one probable nonpersonal murder occurring around the same time and in the same house.

Despite all the reasons why it could have never gone down that way, Decker was now thinking one thing.

We have not one but two killers. And as implausible as it sounds, I don’t think either one knew about the other.





Chapter 29



A?T AROUND HALF PAST TWELVE a Mercedes sedan pulled into the home’s wraparound driveway and came to a stop. A man in his early seventies with neatly trimmed white hair and wearing a blazer and dark slacks got out from the rear driver’s side. He was around six feet tall and thin. A tall, slender woman in her late fifties with long silvery hair and dressed in a billowy navy blue skirt and long-sleeved white blouse climbed out of the rear passenger side.

The driver clambered out, popped the trunk, and pulled out two rolling suitcases.

The man tipped him and took the suitcases.

As soon as the Benz pulled off, Decker steered his rental into the driveway.

He got out and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Perlman?”

Mr. Perlman turned to him. “Yes? Who are you?”

Decker held out his credentials. “Amos Decker with the FBI.”

Mrs. Perlman glanced sharply at her husband. “FBI? What is going on, Trevor?”

Trevor glanced toward the house. “My God, what’s happened? Have we been robbed?”

Decker drew closer. “No. But a crime was committed next door.”

Both Perlmans looked around. “Which neighbor?” he said.

“Julia Cummins. Can we go inside and talk about this?”

“We just got back from a long trip,” protested Trevor, indicating the suitcases.

“It won’t take much time. Just a few questions.”

Trevor said resignedly, “All right.”

The interior of the home was spacious, with a flowing floor plan, lots of neutral colors, and an abundance of rear windows opening out to views of the Gulf beyond.

Decker noted the costly furnishings and oil paintings on the wall and the sculptures resting on pedestals, and thought that, unlike Doris Kline, the Perlmans had the money to keep their home up.

On the wall were photos of the Perlmans on a sailboat and another of Trevor Perlman at the wheel of a cabin cruiser with a captain’s hat worn at a jaunty angle. They looked happy and carefree. When he glanced over at them now, they looked anything but.

Trevor put the suitcases in a corner and turned to his wife. “Maybe some coffee, Maya?” He looked at Decker. “Would you like some?”

“Thank you, yes.”

After the coffee was made and given out, they sat on the lanai, where, with the press of a button by Trevor, a wall of glass opened up.

“Nice place,” commented Decker.

“We like it,” said Trevor. “Now, you mentioned a crime?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it was a double homicide at Judge Cummins’s home. She and her bodyguard were killed.”

Maya gave a little shriek and nearly spilled her coffee. Trevor stared blankly at Decker, as though he could not have possibly just said what he had.

“Julia…was…killed?” said Trevor.

“Yes. And her bodyguard, Alan Draymont.”

“Oh my God,” wailed Maya. She stood up, staggered, and fell back onto the sofa with her eyes shut.

“Maya!” cried out her husband. “Maya!” He gently smacked her cheeks and glanced at Decker.

“Water, there’s a fridge right over there.”

Decker grabbed a bottle of cold water. With her husband’s aid, Maya had come around and sat up. She drank the water and her color returned.