SIXTEEN

Worry didn’t keep me awake for long. Nor did Gram’s fussing over me. Nor did Punt’s insistence on paying an off-duty policeman to do surveillance on this end of Duval Street. I slept like a tarpon in frigid water. When I finally woke up, it took me a few moments to get my bearings. My watch said midafternoon on Friday. I closed my eyes again. My whole body felt like a rusty scupper, but I managed to limp to the shower. Hot water sluicing over my body made me believe that I’d live to see another day.

After I checked in with Gram, repeating the whole story of last night’s attack, we agreed to call the incident an accident and say no more to the police—at least not right then. I called Punt and we made tentative plans for the rest of the day, including a meeting with the Jacksons. In a few minutes he called me back.

“The meeting’s on. I’ll come get you and we’ll meet Maxine and Randy at my office in half an hour.”

“Maybe your office is bugged.”

“I checked. No wires. Someone lurked outside watching us yesterday. No matter. Nothing we can do about it. Our lurker already knows we’re investigating the Darby murder. Our meeting today will tell him for sure that we haven’t backed off.”

When Punt arrived the top was up on the Karmann Ghia. Maybe for safety. Maybe for privacy. I didn’t ask. I inhaled a slight smell of canvas all the way to his office. Maxine’s Ford occupied the visitor’s slot and we all entered the office together. She was wearing her blue-and-white-polka dot bloomers again. Maybe she had several pair. Maybe they were her uniform like my khaki jumpsuits were my favorite work outfits. Punt and Randy both wore jeans as usual, but today Randy’s T-shirt advertised the Parrot Heads and Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville.

Shoes and chair legs grated against terrazzo as we settled ourselves in a semicircle in front of Punt’s desk. I saw to it that Maxine sat between me and Randy. I hoped Punt wouldn’t mention the attack I’d suffered last night. And he didn’t. I’d worn a long-sleeved shirt that hid most of my abrasions.

Randy spoke first. “We need to get DNA samples from the dive guys I mentioned yesterday. Helmer. Grovello. Soto. Slone. Those four for starters. And maybe Beau Ashford. DNA saved my ass—got me out of Raiford. Maybe it can help me again.”

“How do you collect DNA samples?” Maxine asked. “We don’t know how that’s done and we don’t want to go at it in a way that might make the suspects suspicious.”

Punt grinned. “Everyone carries DNA with them, Maxine. It’s found in hair, in skin, or…”

“Or in shit and semen, right?” Randy gave me an insolent glance as if to see if I found his language shocking.

“Yes,” Punt agreed, without pause. “Or in other body fluids—blood, sweat, and saliva. Sometimes it’s easy enough to get DNA specimens—if you go after them in a nonoffensive way.”

“Next time Gus or Ace come for treatments, I’ll request a lock of hair for my scrapbook.” I laughed and Punt broke in before Randy could suggest more personal ways of DNA collection.

“In the long run, DNA specimens may point out Dyanne Darby’s killer, but before we go after any specimens, we need to lay careful groundwork. Let’s think this DNA business through carefully. Randy, what would you do with DNA specimens if you’re lucky enough to get a few?”

“Take ’em to the cops.” Randy scowled. “You got other ideas?”

Punt shook his head and smiled. “Before we go to the police, we have to be sure the police are interested in this case. Otherwise, they’ll be irritated because we’re wasting their time.”

I sensed that Punt used the word “we” to discourage Randy from taking the investigation into his own hands and acting on his own. I tried to avoid imagining how he might go about collecting DNA samples.

Randy glared at Punt. “You thinkin’ those dumb bastard cops aren’t interested in finding Dyanne’s murderer?”

I knew from the way Randy’s scar began to glow that his anger might be reaching the boiling-over stage.

“That’s right, Randy. They may not be interested. Sometimes the authorities say that a person’s being exonerated doesn’t prove his innocence, that it merely proves that prosecutors couldn’t prove his guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Sorry if that news shocks you, but that’s the way it is.”

“But…but…” Randy spluttered.

“Faced with unresolved murder cases, police rarely pursue additional avenues of investigation—especially if years have passed since the first investigation.”

“That’s unfair,” Maxine said. “I think it’s their way of covering up.”

“Sometimes it seems that way,” Punt agreed. “But prosecutors have legitimate reasons to abandon cases. Many murders become almost unsolvable with age, because witnesses have died and memories have faded. The evidence is old. The trail’s cold.”

Randy began pacing. “I’m going to make the police listen, to reopen this case.”

“The police will be interested only if we can prove that the DNA donors or would-be donors are actually suspects—people who had both motive and opportunity for murdering the Darby woman.” Punt looked directly at Randy. “No point in presenting DNA from what the authorities might consider a random sampling of people who might not have any bearing on this murder that happened two decades ago.”

“Prove opportunity?” Maxine asked. “After all them years it would be purty hard to do that. Who could prove what any of them divers did on the night of the murder?”

“Right,” Punt agreed. “It’ll take lots of in-depth investigating to learn those necessary details. But it may not be such an impossible task as it seems at first glance. Once we have the needed facts, then Randy’s absolutely right. A DNA sample, used by the right people and in the right way, could pinpoint the guilty person.”

“The police have the DNA sample of the semen found inside Dyanne’s body on file someplace,” Randy said. “All we need to do is to match it up with identical DNA.”

“All we need to do?” I sighed. “That could be a very large job.”

Punt nodded. “Big job, but not impossible. It’ll take time and effort, but…”

“But there’s a lid for every pot.” Maxine grinned. “That’s what my grandma always said—a lid for every pot. We work at the DNA thing, and we’ll find a match.”

“So how do we start?” I asked. “First things first. Maybe we can lay the groundwork for an investigation and make the police be responsible for collecting the DNA. How do we learn what Gus Helmer was doing on a certain night decades ago?”

“The exact night was December 24, 1982,” Randy said. “That’s the date of the murder. Christmas Eve. Hard to forget that date. I’d bought Dyanne a pair of earrings as a Christmas gift—black coral earrings a diver brought me from a deep dive off the coast of Belize. Never did get to give them to her.”

“The murder date may be a help,” Punt said. “Lots of people remember what they did on Christmas Eve, but maybe not on a Christmas Eve twenty years ago unless something very special happened that year. Test yourselves. Can any of you remember what you did on that Christmas Eve in 1982? Memories fade with time.”

“So here’s an angle,” I suggested. “If we have opportunity to question those suspects about that 1982 Christmas Eve, we should pay special attention to anyone who comes up with a glib answer. If someone asked me that question, I’d have to think a long time, recall many other Christmas Eves before I could remember exactly what I’d been doing in 1982.”

“Right,” Maxine agreed. “I only remember 1982 because of the murder.”

“That could be true of the divers, too,” Punt said. “Let’s use that fact to our advantage. I think those dive boys would remember that date with no trouble at all.”

“They’d remember the day in full detail,” Randy said. “And the guilty one would have an alibi rehearsed and memorized.”

“Let me suggest another starting point for our investigation,” Punt said. “Let’s think about Nicole Nichols, the woman who gave false testimony at your trial.”

“The bitch that lied about me,” Randy said, “who pretended to be Dyanne’s friend.”

“You said you knew her?” Punt asked.

“Yes. I knew her. Slightly. She and Dyanne lived in the same apartment house. We double dated a couple of times.”

“Who was her date?” Punt asked.

“One of the divers. Slone Pierce.”

“I’ve been checking on her,” Punt said. “I learned that her name’s now Nicole Pierce. She’s been married to your diver friend Slone for over seventeen years.”

“Holy shit!” Randy exclaimed.

“Nicole Nichols Pierce,” Punt said. “Let’s think more about this woman. At Thursday’s meeting, someone suggested that Nicole might have lied to protect the guilty person. Maybe we can call on her, question her and get her to admit her lie.”

“Not likely if she was protecting her boyfriend,” Maxine said. “Maybe her husband-to-be.”

“Maybe not,” Punt agreed, “but she still lives in Key West—right on Flagler. Talking with her, asking her a few questions, would be a starting point no matter what she has to say to us.”

“Why would she admit lying now after so many years?” Maxine asked. “Surely she’s not that dumb. Maybe someone bribed her to lie. Money talks.”

“I have something here that may help us.” Punt reached into his desk drawer and removed some papers. “This is a copy of the transcript of Randy’s trial.”

“Where’d you get it?” Randy jumped up and grabbed the papers, checked them briefly, then tossed them back onto Punt’s desk.

“I got them on loan from Attorney Hubble—Shelley Hubble. Court reporters take notes at a trial, but unless there’s a controversy over the trial, the notes may never be printed in hard copy. The Reverend Soto and Shelley Hubble had many questions about Randy’s trial. At their request and payment of a fee, the court ordered a hard copy transcript of the court reporter’s notes. When I told Shelley we planned to investigate this cold case, she was interested enough to make me a copy of the transcript.”

“What do it say?” Maxine asked. “How we going to use it to find the murderer?”

“First I want us to talk to Nicole, to ask her a few questions.”

“Think you can get an appointment with her?” I asked. “Private investigators don’t make appointments in a case like this,” Punt said. “Ruins the surprise element—gives the person time to fabricate a tale.”

“We’ll barge in on her unannounced?” Maxine asked.

“Yes. There are no laws against visitors knocking on someone’s door. But we don’t want to scare her. It might be best if Keely and I talked to her alone.”

“No way.” Randy jumped up, his scar blossoming. “I want to be along on this visit. I insist. That bitch’s words helped lock me in prison. I want to meet her eyeball-to-eyeball and ask her the why of her damn lies. If you go see her, I go.” Randy paced from his chair to Punt’s, desk and back several times before Punt answered him.

“All right, Randy. Maybe we all should go. But we have to remember that she may have been covering for a killer. And if she walked that way once, she’ll likely walk the same path again. If that’s the case, she’ll almost certainly warn the killer that we’ve been snooping around asking questions.”

“We’d all be putting ourselves in danger.” I said the words, hating to admit the truth yet knowing we already were in danger.

“That’s not why I wanted Keely and me to talk to Nicole alone,” Punt said. “Confronting two people isn’t as frightening as confronting four. We get this woman scared and she may clam up—not say a word that might help us.”

“I’d be more than happy to scare the shit right out of her,” Randy said, but he sat down and his scar faded. “What are you going to ask her, Mr. Ashford?”

“Hold on one minute, Randy. Before I have a chance to say anything to her she may slam the door in our faces. If that happens, there’s no way we can enter her home without a court order. As a PI, there’s probably no way I could get a court order. The trial’s over and done. Nicole won’t want to see your case reopened now or ever.”

“But she lied,” Randy said. “She lied.”

“Yes, she did,” Punt said. “But your defense lawyer never tried to prove that. Because of that omission, and because of the surprise of our visit, we may be able to confront her with her lies and use them as a wedge in the door to get her to talk to us. It’s a long shot. You had a rotten defense lawyer, Randy. When I checked into his record this morning, I learned he died five years ago.”

“No help there,” Maxine said.

“Maybe there is help there, Maxine. He later lost his license in the state of Florida because he appeared in a courtroom drunk. I might be able to arouse doubt about his sobriety during Randy’s trial. Of course it’s too late to backtrack, to do anything about that now. But judges know that court-appointed lawyers are sometimes bad news for their clients. I might be able to convince today’s judge that Nicole lied and that Randy’s lawyer’s weak defense allowed her to get away with perjury.”

“What good would that do now?” I asked.

“If Nicole lied, she’s probably carried guilt about her lie with her all these years. The threat of Randy accusing her of perjury might make her reveal who persuaded her to perjure herself.” Punt sighed. “But all of this is merely speculation. I think the first and the most logical thing for us to do is to pay a surprise visit on Nicole Nichols Pierce.”

“When?” Randy asked, jumping up. “Right now?”