Hothouse Orchid Read online

  “Rohypnol is illegal, right?”

  “Right. It would have to be obtained through a street dealer, like crack or pot, but it is available.”

  “Or,” Holly said, “in a drug bust.”

  “Pardon?”

  “If the perp is a cop he might well have found the drug in a search of a suspect or a car. He could learn how to use it effectively from the Internet.”

  “I guess you can learn almost anything from the Internet these days,” Josh replied.

  “How much Rohypnol would it take to kill someone?” she asked.

  “I’d have to look that up on the Internet,” he replied, “but I suppose it would depend on how it was administered: a lot, if ingested-it has the same effect as alcohol, only more powerful. It would take less if injected-even less, if it were injected into a vein or an artery.”

  “Now there’s a thought,” Holly said.

  “Come again?”

  “This morning Daisy and I discovered the body of a young woman washed up on the beach not far from my house. I have a gut feeling she’s a victim of the same perp who’s doing the raping. Suppose he’s injecting Rohypnol and he accidentally finds the jugular vein or the carotid artery?”

  “I get your point,” Josh said. “That could result in death instead of just unconsciousness.”

  “Probably surprised the perp,” Holly said. “He was aiming for a neck muscle, but he hit the vein or artery instead, and she dies. He had to get rid of the body in a hurry, so he takes it out in a small boat, ties a weight to an ankle and throws her overboard. Only his outboard severs the rope, and she ends up a floater. Did I mention that she had a rope tied to a leg and that the rope had been severed?”

  “No, but that makes sense. I suppose you must have a very rattled perp.”

  “Maybe,” Holly said. “Or maybe he ended up enjoying the experience.”

  “The experience of killing someone?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe the experience of sex with a dead body.”

  Josh gave a little shiver. “Creepy.”

  “When you think about it, it’s not a very big step from sex with an unconscious body. Either way, she’s not going to fight back, and maybe he feels safer with his victim dead.”

  “This is all outside my experience,” Josh said. “I mean, if somebody walks into my ER who appears to be psychotic, I just patch him up, then call for a psych consult and hand him off. Chances are, I never see him again.”

  “Lucky you,” Holly said. “Eventually, the cops have to deal with him, and, like our serial rapist, they don’t even know who he is.”

  “From what you said before about his finding the Rohypnol in a search, I take it you’re considering the possibility that your perpetrator is a cop?”

  “He had a flashing light on his dashboard, and in the dark, a driver seeing the light wouldn’t see much of the car in her rearview mirror. The cop who’s investigating the crimes-you met him, Jimmy Weathers-brought up that possibility right away. He said he had already eliminated the men on the Orchid force as suspects, so he’s thinking of somebody in a neighboring jurisdiction.”

  “I guess that makes sense.” Josh cocked his head and looked at her. “You enjoy this process, don’t you?”

  Holly laughed. “It’s the cop in me, I suppose. Until a few years ago, I had never done anything but be a cop. My new work is very, very interesting, but it doesn’t involve much in the way of criminal investigation, and I guess I miss that.”

  “My guess is, you’re not going to stop thinking about this until you’ve caught the guy,” Josh said.

  “Until somebody catches the guy,” she replied, “and I guess it would be satisfying if it were me.”

  12

  Lauren Cade got out of Hurd Wallace’s car at the Indian River Marina and followed him across the parking lot.

  “Here we go,” Hurd said, pointing at two Dumpsters. “You take the one on the right; I’ll take the left.”

  They both donned lightweight plastic jumpsuits and latex gloves.

  Lauren opened the lid of the Dumpster and peered inside. It was nearly full, and to judge from the smell, it hadn’t been emptied for a few days. She took a deep breath, grabbed the edge of the Dumpster and vaulted inside, landing on her feet, but immediately losing her footing and falling backward into the steel side. She struggled to her feet, glad of the plastic jumpsuit, then looked over at Hurd, who was having the same problem.

  “We might get lucky and find some loose clothing,” Hurd said, “but they could be in a bag, so let’s toss everything out and work from the tarmac.”

  Lauren began picking up plastic garbage bags and tossing them out of the Dumpster. During the process, she found one loose towel but no clothing. When the Dumpster was empty, she crawled out and stood on the tarmac, surveying her work. Most of it was small, kitchen-sized bags, which is what she would have expected from boats. “Are we just going to dump everything out of the bags?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Hurd said. “I’ve already called for a garbage pickup from the county, so they’ll do the cleanup.”

  “I’ve got one loose item,” Lauren said, holding up the towel.

  “Bag it, and set it aside.”

  She did so, then took a knife from her pocket and began opening bags, shaking the contents onto the bare tarmac and poking carefully through them before going on to the next bag.

  “Look for anything like a wallet or purse, too,” Hurd said.

  Lauren looked at every single item in every bag: tin cans, paper plates, condoms, tampons-everything. An hour later she stepped out of the refuse and onto clean tarmac, just as a garbage truck drove up and two sanitation workers got out.

  “What a mess!” one of them said. “You had to open every bag?”

  “Every one,” Hurd replied.

  “We’re gonna have to bag all this again,” the man said.

  “Well, you can put it back in the Dumpsters, then use your equipment to dump everything into the truck.”

  “I guess that makes more sense. Get some pitchforks and brooms, Eddie,” the man said.

  Lauren picked up her bagged towel and took one last look in her Dumpster. “Hang on!” she shouted. She vaulted back into the bin and peered into a corner. “Car keys,” she yelled, and tossed them to Hurd.

  She climbed out of the Dumpster and went to take a closer look at them.

  “Hertz,” Hurd said. “Ford Focus.” He read out the license plate number. Then they both started walking around the parking lot: not a single Ford Focus.

  Lauren walked back to the parking lot entrance and looked up and down the road. “Hurd?” she called. “What color is the Focus?”

  “Blue,” he called back.

  “I’ve got one,” she said and began trotting down the road. She came up on the car and walked carefully around it, looking inside.

  Hurd drove up in their car. “Anything?”

  Lauren struggled out of the dirty jumpsuit and pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves. “Rental folder,” she said, opening the car door and reaching for the folder, which had been tucked into a cup holder. She opened it and read the contract. “Patricia Terwilliger,” she said, “Atlanta address. Rented the car at Melbourne Airport three days ago. Here’s her Georgia driver’s license number,” she said, walking toward the car.

  Hurd was already tapping computer keys. In seconds, the driver’s license was displayed on the screen. “Looks like our girl,” he said.

  “You saw her?” Lauren asked.

  “At the morgue.”

  “Can I have the keys, please?” Lauren asked.

  Hurd handed them to her.

  She walked around to the rear of the car, inserted the key and opened the trunk. “I’ve got a wheelie carry-on and a purse here,” she said. She lifted the carry-on out of the trunk and set it on the ground, then reached for the handbag and stopped. “Hurd, when you saw her corpse, was it missing anything?”

  “No,” he replied.

  “Then y
ou’d better get out an APB for a female body missing the right hand.”

  Holly, naked and sweating, was lying in her bed with Josh next to her. “What time do you have to be at work?” she asked.

  “Noon,” he panted.

  “Good,” she said.

  The phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Holly, it’s Hurd.”

  “Hey, Hurd.”

  “Your idea about checking marina Dumpsters paid off, right out of the box.”

  “You found her clothes?”

  “First her car keys, then her car-a rental out of Melbourne three days ago. The contract was inside with her license number, and we pulled up her license: Patricia Terwilliger from Atlanta. Then we opened the trunk and found her carry-on, her purse and another woman’s right hand.”

  “Oh, shit,” Holly said.

  “I’m going back to the office to work this. I just thought you’d like to know.”

  “Thanks, Hurd,” she said. “I appreciate the call. Maybe you’ll get a print or two off the car.”

  “Lauren’s with me. She’s staying with the car until Forensics gets here.”

  “Keep me posted?”

  “You bet I will.”

  “Will you call Jimmy Weathers? He’s the lead on the case, and I know he’d appreciate it.”

  “Sure. I’ll do it right now. I’m going to keep Jim Bruno out of the loop for as long as I can.”

  “Good. Oh, Hurd, I had a call from the doctor who treated me the other night. He got the tox screen back. The perp used Rohypnol on me.”

  “I’ll let the morgue know.”

  “He says it metabolizes quickly, but the girl could have died from it very quickly if the perp hit a vein or artery, so you might get lucky.”

  “I’ll take all the luck I can get,” Hurd said. “Bye-bye.”

  Holly hung up.

  “What?” Josh said.

  “They’ve ID’d the woman Daisy and I found on the beach. Sounds like a tourist.” She didn’t mention the hand.

  “Will it help you catch the guy?”

  “God, I hope so,” Holly said. “He’s not going to stop this now; he’s having too good a time. It’s all working for him.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “You can tell your ER to be on the lookout for any other women who come in-women like me, hurt or unconscious.”

  “I can do that,” he said, sitting up and reaching for his clothes.

  13

  Holly parked a few yards behind the state van and walked up to the blue car.

  Lauren Cade was looking into the backseat with a flashlight. She straightened up, then saw Holly. “Hey, there,” she said.

  “Hey, Lauren. I see you got your transfer pretty fast.”

  “I sure did, and I thank you again for the recommendation to Hurd. He’s a good guy.”

  “Yes, he is. Found anything on or in the car yet?”

  “There are some prints around the driver’s windowsill and some sand around the pedals. I guess Hurd must have told you about the stuff in the trunk.”

  “Yes. Can I see the hand?”

  “You mind, Terry?” Lauren said to the guy from Forensics working the car.

  “Go ahead. It’s in the van, bagged.”

  Lauren went to the open van door, reached into a lab container, lifted out the zippered plastic bag holding the hand and held it up.

  Holly took the bag by a corner and rotated it slowly. “This girl is thinner than the one we found,” she said. “Longer fingers and the skin is freckled.”

  “I’ll get that to Hurd,” she said. “He’s back at the office.”

  “Taller, too, I’d guess; it’s a pretty long hand.”

  “Right.”

  “And look at this,” Holly said, pointing at where the hand had been severed, a couple of inches above.

  “Something cut it clean,” Lauren said. “Maybe an axe?”

  Holly rotated the bag a hundred and eighty degrees. “No. Same cut on the bottom. Something cut from both directions at once. Bolt cutter, maybe.”

  “The guy carries around bolt cutters?”

  “It’s the sort of thing you might find in a police car,” Holly pointed out. “You found the hand in the trunk?”

  “Yes. It was under the carry-on, next to the purse.”

  “Was there any blood?”

  “A drop or two. Terry took a sample of the carpet.”

  “Good.” Holly placed the bag with the hand back in the container. “Have you had a look around the marina yet?”

  “No. Hurd left immediately after we found the hand, and I haven’t had a chance yet.”

  Terry walked up and shucked off his gloves. “I’m done here,” he said. “You can have the car towed now.” He began to put his equipment back into the van.

  Holly looked around to see a flatbed truck coming down the road. “Make sure the driver is gloved,” she said.

  Lauren went to speak with the man, and Holly walked around the rental car. She didn’t see anything new.

  Lauren came back. “You want to work the marina with me?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Holly replied. “Let’s see if we can find the boat.” They walked across the parking lot and down the dock, then down the hinged ramp to the pontoons. “Let’s look for a small boat with one or more outboards. You take the south end; I’ll start from the north, and we can work our way back here.”

  The women separated and began to examine the small boats moored there. Holly was nearly back to the ramp when Lauren called out.

  “Come take a look at this,” she yelled.

  Holly trotted down the dock to where Lauren stood, looking into a Boston Whaler, a flat-bottomed runabout of about eighteen feet, with a 75-hp Japanese outboard engine. She walked along the dock for the length of the boat, then back. “Looks pretty ordinary,” she said. “What caught your eye?”

  “The keys are in it,” Lauren said, pointing to the ignition under the wheel.

  “I missed that,” Holly said. “Good going.”

  “If the owner habitually leaves the key in the ignition, then anybody could have taken it.”

  “You’d better get that Forensics guy back here,” Holly said. “This boat is going to need a good going over.”

  Lauren got on her cell phone just as a young man in shorts, a polo shirt and a baseball cap walked up.

  “Can I help you ladies?” he asked politely.

  Lauren held up her badge as she talked.

  “What’s your name?” Holly asked.

  “Tim Pooley,” he replied. “I’m the day manager here.”

  “Can you tell me who owns this boat?” Holly asked.

  “It belongs to the marina,” he said. “We use it for towing or whatever.”

  “Are the keys always in it?”

  “Pretty much,” Tim said. “I mean, the night guy may lock them up; I don’t know.”

  “Is there somebody here all night?”

  “No. He shuts the gate at midnight and goes home. There’s a combination lock, so customers can get in if they’ve been out late.”

  “What are your working hours?”

  “Eight to six.”

  “How many of the boats in the marina are based here?”

  “Well, we’ve got eighty berths, and sixty-six are rented by the month or the season. We get a few transients just about every night; they’re mostly alongside the outer, long pontoon. Once in a while, if we know a local is away for a few days-out to the Bahamas or something-we’ll rent his berth by the night.”

  “How many live-aboards among the locals?” Holly asked.

  “Maybe a couple of dozen.”

  “Are they grouped together?”

  “No. They’re just wherever.”

  “Can you give me a list of the names of the boats and owners? Addresses and phone numbers, too.”

  “Well, I guess the addresses are right here,” Tim said. “Everybody’s got a cell phone number these days. I’ll go get the list.” He
ambled off toward the little house at the head of the dock.

  Lauren snapped her cell phone shut. “He’s on the way back,” she said.

  “Do you have some crime-scene tape?”

  “No, Hurd took the car; he was going to send somebody back for me.”

  “When that guy shows up, you should tape off this boat until Terry is done.”

  “Sure.”

  “Tim, the day manager, is getting us a list of the live-aboards in the marina,” Holly said.

  Tim was ambling back toward them now. He approached and handed them several sheets of paper. “The first page is the live-aboards,” he said. “The rest are just monthly or seasonal renters.”

  “We’re going to need the night man’s name and phone number, too,” Holly said.

  Tim scribbled the information on one of the sheets.

  “Thanks for your help, Tim,” Holly said.

  “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

  “There’s a van coming in a few minutes. The driver works for the state, and he’s going to take some fingerprints from the boat.”

  “I guess my fingerprints are all over it,” Tim said.

  “He’ll take yours, too, so we’ll know which ones they are.”

  “I’ll be in the office,” he said and walked back up the ramp.

  Holly handed the sheets to Lauren. “Now the police work starts,” she said, “so I’m going to leave you and Hurd to it.”

  “Thanks for your help, Holly.”

  “Take care,” Holly replied. She walked back up the ramp and to her car, thinking hard.

  14

  Holly drove out to Ham’s place, and as she approached the turnoff to his little island, just short of the bridge, she abruptly pulled off the pavement and stopped. Something she had forgotten on the night she was attacked had just popped into her mind. “Stay, Daisy,” she said.

  She got out of the car and walked slowly toward the turnoff, a hundred yards ahead. When she had left Ham’s that night, she had stopped for traffic before turning onto the bridge, and there had been a car parked, maybe ten yards before the turnoff-a plain Detroit model, one that might be an unmarked police car. She began walking more slowly, examining the ground. It hadn’t rained since then; there might be something here.