Monday, June 23, Cindy spoke to co-worker Debbie Bennett. “I think someone was swimming in my pool.”
“That’s what people do,” Debbie said with a grin. “They swim in the pool.”
“No. You don’t understand. Someone’s been in the pool when I haven’t been home.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I came home one day and let the dogs out. They headed for the gate and started to shove their way out—it wasn’t locked. We always keep it locked. And the ladder was on the pool. We always take it off and put it away so Caylee can’t climb in the pool.”
Early that afternoon, Casey posted a message to Troy’s Facebook page about her impatience with the progress of her move with Amy into her parents’ house. “Hell, in the past nine days, I haven’t even been living in the house. Drama. I’ll fill you in on it later.”
Casey left Tony’s apartment to go to her parents’ house. She wasn’t gone long before she called Tony to tell him she’d run out of gas. “Just drive toward my house and you’ll see me on Chickasaw.”
In about twenty minutes, Tony spotted her walking southbound on the sidewalk by Saint Isaac Jogues Catholic Church. He picked her up and drove her to Hopespring Drive. They went through the garage and into the house, passing through the sunroom on the way to the backyard.
The padlock on the shed door didn’t stop Casey from getting what she wanted. They broke it to get into the outbuilding and returned to Tony’s Jeep with two full, five-gallon gas cans. Casey directed him to Anthony Lane, where her car was parked on the side of the road. Tony passed it, made a U-turn at Killian and pulled into a grassy spot in front of the Pontiac.
Opening the tailgate, they walked back to the car, where Casey opened the gas flap on the passenger’s side. “I’ll pour the gas for you,” Tony offered.
“No,” she snapped. “I’ll do it.”
Emptying the first can, she handed it to Tony, who screwed on the cap, setting it on the ground, and passed the second one to her. She emptied it into her tank and screwed the top on before stepping behind her car, opening the trunk and placing it inside. As she went for the second can, Tony walked to his Jeep, closed the tailgate and got inside. He never had a clear view of the trunk and its contents. Gas fumes overwhelmed any other smell that may have been coming from the car.
Casey followed Tony out of the subdivision. En route to his apartment, Tony’s cell rang. After finishing the conversation, he called Casey. “What a crazy day. We’ve got to go drop off your car, and then we need to go pick up my friend who got in a car accident.”
Before they arrived at Sutton Place, though, another friend had come to the stranded caller’s rescue. Casey and Tony went inside and stayed there the rest of the day.
On June 24, Jesse Grund resigned from the Orlando Police Department. He’d gone to the academy because he wanted to be an investigator. Assessing the political reality of that goal, it appeared as if he’d spend a good part of his life on patrol. That idea did not appeal to him at all.
Still, it was distressing to let go of his dream. He needed a sympathetic ear, and called Casey. She did her best to cheer him up and offered to see him. “I’m free next weekend, if you want to get together and do something.”
That morning at 10:30 A.M., George Anthony went outside to cut the grass. He went to the shed to get gas for his mower. He was surprised when he saw the shed door four to five inches ajar. Peering inside, he noticed the gas cans were gone and the broken padlock had been laid neatly on the floor inside the shed. Odd, he thought. Why wasn’t the lock just left where it fell?
George called the Orange County Sheriff’s Office, and a deputy arrived about twenty minutes later. After filing an incident report, he called Cindy. “Hey, guess what happened today?”
“What?”
“Someone broke into our shed and stole the gas cans.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not joking,” George said with a laugh. He then confirmed the plans to meet Cindy at Bank of America at 2 o’clock to endorse their stimulus check, allowing Cindy to deposit it in her account. After returning home, he went inside to get ready for work.
He began to wonder if Casey was responsible for the missing gas cans. She’d taken gas from them before. He told her he didn’t mind, but he expected her to replace what she’d taken. He remembered another minor theft in the neighborhood recently, and dismissed his suspicions.
He heard the garage door open. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and his car was in the garage. He moved toward the noise to check it out. Casey burst into the house. “Hey, Dad, how you doing? I don’t have much time. Gotta go back to work for an event.”
“Wait a second, Casey,” George objected as she blew past him. “Where’s Caylee? What’s going on?”
“Oh, she’s staying with Zanny.”
“We haven’t seen the girl in over a week, how’s everything? We haven’t talked to her—it sure would be nice to hear her little voice.”
“Dad, I don’t have time for this. I got ten minutes. I gotta get back to work,” she said as she headed toward her room. She shouted down the hall, “Oh, by the way, I talked to Mom. I understand something happened here at the house.”
“In reference to . . . ?” George queried.
“Oh, the gas cans,” she said.
“Yeah. Isn’t that something?”
“Oh, yeah, Dad, that’s terrible.”
Something in Casey’s tone of voice did not sit right with George. His suspicions stirred again. He thought she was hiding something. Were his gas cans in her car? “Hey, Case, you know in the trunk of your car, we got these metal wedges you put underneath the wheel so if you jack up your car, it doesn’t move? I wanna get one out of your car, ’cause I already have one in the garage and I need another ’cause I’m gonna go ahead and rotate your mom’s tires over the weekend. In case you’re not home, I’d like to be able to do it.”
“Oh, Dad, I’ll get it for you.”
“I’ve got an extra set of keys. I’ll go to the trunk and get it.”
It seemed to George that Casey’s focus of getting in and out of the house fast was now overwhelmed by an urgent need to keep her father out of her car. When George opened the door from the house to the garage, she brushed past him. “Dad, I’ll get your thing.”
Casey’s walk was almost a run as she hurried to keep ahead of George as they crossed the garage floor. “Dad, I’ll get it. I know where it’s at.”
“Casey, I’m capable of reaching inside your trunk and unbolting that thing.”
“Dad, I’ll get it,” she insisted.
George kept following her. He was on the side of the car near the taillight when she pulled something out of the trunk. “Here are your effing cans,” she sneered and slammed the lid shut. George did not get a glimpse inside.
“Thanks a lot,” George said. “Now I look like a stupid ass. I made a quick report to the Orange County sheriff’s department and now you got the cans. Why do you have them?”
“Well, I’ve been dragging, driving back and forth to Tampa to see Zanny.”
“Wait a second, you’re supposed to be working, but now you’re in Tampa? This doesn’t make sense to me,” George said. Shaking his head, he continued. “Listen I’m not gonna deal with this right now, but where’s Caylee? What’s going on? I believe I need to know.”
“I’ll talk to you and Mom later,” she said as she slid into her car. George stood dumbfounded, with a gas can in each hand, as his daughter peeled out of the driveway.
On June 25, Casey posted a comment on Brittany Schrieber’s MySpace page. It was the third one she’d written to her friend enticing her to come out to Fusian Ultra Lounge. “You and the girls should try and come out to Fusian this week. There’s a hot body contest, first prize is $50 and a bottle. It’s the ALL WHITE PARTY [meaning everyone coming should be wearing that color]. Give me a shout, it’s be great to see you!”
Casey called Amy that day to complain about a worsening problem in her Sunfire. “There’s a horrible smell in my car. Maybe my dad ran over something when he borrowed it. It smells like something died in there. But maybe it’s the engine.”