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

“But why let someone in if they just killed your protection?” White asked.

“She either didn’t know that had happened, or something even more devious was going on. She’s divorced. Ex lives in the area.”

“Right. So the ex-hubby’s a possible suspect.”

“Spouses, and particularly exes, always are.”

“Don’t I know it,” replied White.

The plane started shedding altitude an hour and a half later, and they landed at the Southwest Florida International Airport near Fort Myers. A rental car was waiting for them.

White drove while Decker wedged himself into the passenger seat of the midsize four-door.

White glanced over at him as they pulled into traffic. “Sorry, it’s all they had. Shortage of rental cars these days.”

“I’ve never ridden in one that was remotely comfortable, so my expectations are nonexistent.”

“Agent from the local RA is on the scene,” she said, referring to an FBI Resident Agency.

“I know.”

“The bodies are still there, too. They’re apparently holding them for us.”

He glanced at her. “Are you trying to screw with me?”

“No, I’m trying to be informative.”

“Don’t.”

“Alex said you could get testy.”

“You haven’t even seen mildly annoyed, much less the other side of the Rubicon.”

“Thanks for the information,” she replied. “I like to know where I stand.”

He recited from memory, “‘As a person of color and a woman on top of that, I find it a necessity to my future well-being, and that of my family.’”

“Alex also said your memory could be frustrating at times, but she worked around it.”

Decker looked out the window at the bright sky and said, “I never liked Florida. When I played ball at Ohio State, we would come down to play Florida and Florida State and Miami. Hated every second of it, and not only because their players were so much faster and athletic than we were.”

“Why? Too much heat or too many old people? Or both?”

“No, it’s because I’m just a lunch pail guy from the Midwest.”

“Meaning?”

“I hate sand.”





Chapter 6



T?HEY DROVE UP TO A gated community in the town of Ocean View, which was situated about half an hour north of Naples. The roar of the breakers from the nearby Gulf shared the ride with them.

“This place looks like a postcard,” noted White as she stopped the rental at the guard hut.

“Not where we’re going it doesn’t,” replied Decker.

The guard came out of the little shack. He was in his forties and walked with a swagger more befitting a Navy SEAL than a luxury community rental cop gatekeeper.

“Can I help you?” he said as White rolled down her window.

She flashed her FBI ID pack.

“White and Decker. We’re here regarding the murder of Judge Julia Cummins.”

“Right, right,” said the man as he eyed Decker. While White was still in her black suit with the white shirt, Decker had on khakis and a faded dark blue sweatshirt.

“You must have come from up north,” said the guard. “It’s almost never sweatshirt weather here.”

“Have you provided the list of guests and residents who entered here over the last twenty-four hours?” said Decker.

“Provided to who?”

“The cops,” said White.

“They haven’t asked for it.”

“Okay, we’re asking for it now,” said Decker.

“I’ll have to check with my supervisor.”

“Then go ahead and make the call while we’re waiting, because we need that info now.”

“Don’t you need a warrant for that sort of stuff?”

“Did you kill the judge and her guard?” said White.

The man took a step back. “What! Hey, no way.”

“Then we don’t need a warrant. People coming through this gate have no expectation of privacy. And this is a murder investigation. So we need to know who came through here and when during the last twenty-four hours at least.”

“So make the call to your supervisor,” said Decker. “And bring the information to the judge’s house. We’ll be waiting for it.”

“Uh, okay.”

“And open the gate,” said White.

“Oh, right.” The man quickly did so, and they drove through.

“If that’s the quality of the security here, I’m surprised only two people are dead,” noted White.

“Well, there might be more that we don’t know about yet,” said Decker.

Cummins’s home was large and of Mediterranean design with white stucco siding and a red tile roof. It was situated on a shady, quiet cul-de-sac. The plantings were mature and well tended. This tranquility was marred by police and unmarked cars parked all over, and yellow crime-scene tape vibrating across the front yard in the brisk breeze.

Decker noted a blue sedan parked in the driveway. “Might be the dead security guard’s ride.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Every other ride here is either a police cruiser, or has Florida government or federal plates.”