SANDSTORM (RICK SANDS SUSPENSE NOVELS Book 2) Read online

  Sam, he learned, was not in intensive care. The hospital viewed his father's condition as untreatable. The social worker's recommendation that they arrange for hospice care at home could no longer be ignored. Yet he still dreaded proposing this to his mother.

  He found Esther sitting beside his father's bed reading the local newspaper. Sam was sitting upright staring out the window. One of the morning shows was on the television, but the sound was off. Perhaps because of his situation, Sam had the room to himself.

  His mother glanced up at him, her expression one of bafflement, as if she couldn't grasp that this was the end. Sands kissed her and she clung to him.

  "Thank you for coming."

  Sam greeted him with a faint smile. "You didn't have to come. I told your sister to stay in New York. I didn't want you to interrupt your lives just for me."

  He grasped his father's outstretched hand, taking care not to press too hard, and kissed his father's cheek.

  Still holding Sam's hand, he sat on the side of the bed. He glanced out the window. It framed a single palm tree, its crown gently swaying in the breeze. Beyond, the morning sky beckoned in its perfection, but to Sands it was unbearable, even cruel.

  "Nice view, huh?" Sam said.

  "Better than the Ritz-Carlton."

  Esther suddenly got to her feet. "I'll take a little walk."

  They both watched her walk briskly from the room.

  Never at a loss for words in a courtroom, Sands found he was unable to say what he knew he should say.

  As always, his father gave him a pass. Throughout Sands' entire life, they had practiced the art of avoiding any expression of emotion. "Your mother's not used to driving around town on her own. She still doesn't know her way around. I hate to ask, but can you take time to show her? You know she likes that little Italian restaurant near the public library. We became friends with the owner. Can't think of his name. Wonderful food."

  "I'll make sure she can get there on her own."

  "I almost forgot - the car. You'll have to show her how to take it in for servicing."

  "Not to worry, Dad."

  "And the dry cleaners? I always drop off the clothes. She's never driven there."

  "I'll figure it out and take her there."

  "There's a shortcut. You wouldn't know it. You take -"

  "I'll figure it out, Dad."

  Sands wanted to turn the conversation away from the mundane, knowing that this might be the last time he ever spoke to his father. There was so much that he should say, but it was too late. He would only make his father more anxious.

  Suddenly, Sam gripped his hand.

  "I have no regrets, Rick. None. I've lived my life the way I wanted to. I just have a bum ticker. I want you to know that I have no regrets."

  Sands struggled to keep back the tears. "I'm glad to hear you say that."

  "I'm going to talk to your sister. Tell her the same thing."

  "She'll want to know that."

  "It's important to me that you know that. Later . . . I don't want you or your sister sitting around thinking I had regrets about anything. I'm happy with my life. When it's time . . . well, so be it."

  Sands put his arms around his father and held him.

  "I love you, Dad."

  "Love you, kiddo. I'm very very proud of you. Couldn't have asked for a better son."

  "Thank you. I'm proud of you, Dad. You've been the best father anyone could ever ask for."

  They held each other until Esther returned.

  "I ran into Milly Sacks in the gift shop. Herb is having his prostate taken out tomorrow. She's going to call me about bridge next week."

  "She's not in your league," Sam said.

  "Nice of you to say that, dear."

  Sands listened to his parents banter and then joined in, relieved to be able to talk about mundane things like bridge, the little Italian restaurant, and the weather.

  Neither he nor his mother knew how to end it. Once again, his father came to the rescue.

  "Your mother's had a long night. So have you. Go home and get some rest. Get some breakfast. Go to that place with the giant pancakes on the Key. I'll be fine."

  Thank you, Dad, Sands thought, as he and his mother got up to go. Sam wanted things done his way - no tears.

  He kissed his father. Esther leaned against him as they walked from the room and down the corridor.

  Chapter Nine

  Whenever King visited Mount Dora, he was reminded of New England. Framed by lakes, the central Florida town was made up of quiet streets lined with stately homes with large covered porches facing broad green lawns shaded by big leafy trees and bordered by white picket fences.

  King found it odd that Robert Purdy, the long retired former sheriff of Marbury County, would have chosen Mount Dora for his retirement. It had more in common, he observed, with Lenox, Massachusetts than it did with any of north Florida's beach communities. Its downtown area had been revitalized with galleries and antique stores. The seemingly unlimited wealth that had poured into Orlando had broken over this community like a giant wave. It did not appear to King to be the sort of place Sheriff Bob Purdy would be drawn to.

  King had also been surprised to find Purdy's number listed in the town's directory. Even if Purdy had not been a sheriff during the turbulent Jim Crow decades, it would have been unusual for him not to have an unlisted number.

  Purdy had also proven himself to be the exception by telling King that he would be "more than happy" to meet him. Following Purdy's directions, King made his way from the central part of town to a lakeside neighborhood ten minutes away consisting of mansions that had been newly built on land once occupied by modest winter bungalows built in the 50's for snowbirds. As he drove along the lake front drive, he passed only a couple of the original bungalows, now dwarfed by their neighbors. He wondered whether Purdy would be living in one of the immense structures, testimony to decades-old corruption that had long outlived the statute of limitations. But the address belonged to a third bungalow overshadowed by rambling mansions on each side.

  King got out of his car and marveled at the silence. Though it was a weekday, there was no sign of life on the street. No cars, no deliveries, no mothers with children - King speculated that the residents of the mansions used them only for vacation retreats. Purdy's bungalow was yellow with white trim and surrounded by bougainvillea; a decade old Ford Taurus occupied the driveway. Purdy might be corrupt but he isn't living beyond his pension, King thought.

  Before he could ring the bell, a once tall man who was slightly stooped by age opened the door. He had close-cropped hair made white by time and bleached by the sun. His face was like saddle leather, and his green eyes were cold and appraising. His smile had no warmth in it.

  "Bob Purdy," he said, holding out his hand, his voice low with a slight drawl.

  King shook hands with him; his grip was faint. "Ty King."

  "Come on in."

  King followed the older man inside, the front door opening into the living room. King noticed first that the room was spotless. A large painting of a woman in her thirties hung above the fireplace. She was in a formal pose, and her hair and her dress reminded King of the way white women looked in movies from the 50's. The Doris Day look, King thought. On the mantel King saw family photographs. Placed on the flawless gleaming hardwood floor were a leather couch and matching leather armchairs. The surprise was an upright piano, a Steinway. Paintings depicting scenes of "Old Florida" decorated the walls.

  "I took up the piano ten years ago. An eightieth birthday present from the wife. That's Peggy up there when she was young and beautiful. She's been gone three years now, but I still keep up with it. Helps keep my mind sharp and the circulation going in my hands. I'm mostly deaf - back in the day we practiced on the range without protecting our ears, but I can read music."

  King noticed that Purdy was wearing hearing aids.

  "I hate having to use them," Purdy said, "I only got them because the wife insisted.
I wouldn't bother if it weren't for the grandchildren." He went over to the piano and flicked a speck of dust from the bench with his index finger. "Used to be I couldn't stand to be still, but now I'm like an old dog - stay put most of the time. As easy for me to park myself in front of the keyboard as in front of the television. We can sit inside or out - whatever you'd like. I have a shaded patio."

  "How about outside," King said.

  "Follow me." Purdy turned and started toward the back of the house. "Can I get you something to drink - iced tea, iced coffee, beer, water, soda?"

  "Iced tea sounds good, thank you," King said, following Purdy from the living room to the kitchen. It too was tidy, not a glass or dish in sight. The Formica countertops glimmered in the bright sunlight that came through a window looking out onto an expansive patio, a perfectly trimmed lawn, and the lake.

  Purdy took two glasses from a cupboard and filled them with ice from an icemaker in the freezer. He took a floral patterned glass pitcher from the refrigerator, its white door covered with family snapshots, and filled the two glasses and then opened a sugar bowl.

  "Zero, one or two."

  "One."

  Purdy precisely measured and stirred in one teaspoon of sugar and handed the glass to King. "Thank you," King said, as Purdy took two heaping spoonfuls and then led the way through the house. They passed through a Florida room decorated with rattan furniture and sliding doors that opened onto the patio shaded by latticework. Purdy went to one of several round glass-topped tables, put his iced tea down and cranked open the umbrella centered in the table. He offered a chair to King and then sat down.

  King took a seat, happy to find that the latticework and the umbrella blocked any direct sunlight from reaching his head. Tall oaks created pools of shade on the lawn. He looked out at the expansive lake. Brightly colored sailboats glided across the glassy surface while farther out motorboats buzzed about, their engines cutting harshly through the quiet morning.

  "Two miles across," Purdy said.

  "Nice. And a nice breeze."

  "Take off your jacket and loosen that tie - no need for formalities."

  "I'm fine."

  "Suit yourself."

  Purdy leaned back and stretched out his long legs.

  "My haven. The wife's idea - like everything else good in my life." Purdy took a long drink from his glass. "Peggy was my high school sweetheart. Got married the summer after we graduated. I was on the football team. She was in the band - played flute. We have three kids, all girls. The oldest, Gwen, is in her 60's - hard to believe. Retired from nursing and lives in St. Pete. The middle one, Winny, is a lawyer in Orlando. Family millionaire - commercial real estate. My youngest, April, is a teacher, lives in San Diego. Got lots of grandkids -it's their photos that are on the fridge."

  Purdy tapped his fingertips on the tabletop. His fingers, King observed, were extraordinarily long and thick and they struck the glass surface like keys on a piano.

  King watched and waited. Had it not been for Purdy's age, King would have interpreted his talk of his wife and children as being a plea for either sympathy or mercy. But Purdy was ninety years old, an age that King himself never expected to reach, and it just might be old age talking.

  "But you didn't come here to listen to me talk about my family, Mr. King."

  "No, I didn't."

  "You want to talk about John Harrison."

  "I do."

  Purdy shrugged. "I probably could have solved that case . . . but the damned Feds showed up and ruined everything. God only knows, those FBI morons couldn't find their own arseholes without a map, let alone a killer."

  "How did they screw up, Sheriff?"

  Purdy held up his hand. Looking at it, King was struck by its size - his palm reminded him of the hand of a basketball player who had attended prep school with King and gone on to play in the NBA. It was easy for King to picture that hand tightening the noose around John Harrison's neck.

  "None of that now," Purdy said. "I'm just Bob. An old guy named Bob." Purdy took another long drink of tea, the ice cubes tingling like chimes. A motorboat cruised by, and King wondered if Plessy or Rebel were out there watching them through binoculars. "Anyhoo," Purdy continued, "the Feds hauled ass down here to make Hoover look good. They trampled all over the crime scene, dug up the entire area, interviewed every white male who drove a pick-up truck cause they believed that Klan men drove pick-ups, and then went back to Washington and congratulated themselves on a job well done. They distracted everyone and prevented me from doing anything - basically they told me to stay behind my desk and keep the coffee pot full."

  "Did you have any suspects?" King kept his tone of voice neutral.

  "Shit, no. Had a theory I wanted to pursue. Just a second - have to go - curse of an old man's prostate. Have to piss every two minutes."

  Purdy got up and went back into the house. Watching him, King observed that Purdy moved well for someone ninety years old. He saw none of the tentativeness in walking that usually characterized people his age. As Sheriff, Purdy must have been an intimidating figure - tall, unusually strong, and agile with powerful arms and those massive hands.

  King turned back to the lake, replaying Purdy's comments about the FBI in his mind. Either Purdy had never learned of Tom Ryan's suspicions, or he had no intention of acknowledging them to King. He could confront Purdy with Ryan's accusations, but what would be the point? There was no proof to back up Ryan's claims - it was only one retired FBI agent's speculation. Purdy could easily dismiss Ryan's accusations as coming from someone trying to shield himself from criticism by blaming local law enforcement.

  Purdy came through the sliding doors holding a couple of cigars. He sat down and offered one to King.

  "Real Havana's. Winny has a home in Key West - she and her husband sail over to Havana every now and then for a bit of R & R Cubano style. The Feds don't like it but I tell her to ignore them - bunch of self-righteous hypocrites. And it don't matter if it's a R'publican or Dem'crat that's in the White House."

  King took the cigar. He was familiar with them from his trips to London and Europe. Purdy took a silver plated lighter from his pocket and flicked it, holding the flame so that King could reach it.

  "Sweet, huh?" Purdy said, lighting his own.

  "Very."

  Purdy stared at him for a long moment as they puffed away. King found Purdy's eyes impossible to read. They gave away nothing - he could not tell if Purdy was angry, amused, or bored. He wondered if Purdy had ever thought that in his lifetime he'd be sitting on his patio with a black man, let alone a black detective, smoking a cigar and sharing a glass of iced tea.

  "So," Purdy said.

  "You were saying that you had a theory."

  "Right. Had to do with the . . . sexual nature of the crime. Nowadays, sexual homicides are common. But back then, they were rare. Harrison was mutilated - the killer cut off everything. He had a bloody hole between his legs." Purdy looked past King to the lake and shook his head. "Ugly. As ugly as it gets. I didn't have the training, the psychological stuff that they give routinely to officers nowadays. But I believed it must have been a sex crime, and had nothing to do with race."

  "Were you thinking a love triangle?"

  "I was thinking gay, Detective, although we didn't use that word back then. As I'm sure you know, gay crimes can be vicious. There was one not long ago in Orlando where the killer cut off his boyfriend's head and set it on a table so that it appeared to be watching television. Jilted lover."

  Purdy cursed and put his cigar down on the glass with the burning tip extended over the edge. "Damn prostate! Should have just had the damned thing taken out years ago."

  He got up and headed towards the house.

  King reflected on Purdy's having called him "Detective". It was one of those minor slips that gave a hint as to the suspect's emotional state. It indicated to King that Purdy was frustrated, possibly angry. Guilty or not, Purdy resented having to work so hard to defend himself at this late
point in his life. One thing was certain, if he was guilty, Purdy felt no remorse for lynching John Harrison. Only annoyance at having the matter dredged up after five decades.

  But then King had another thought, one that caused him to rethink everything Purdy had said to him: by going on at length about his wife and children, Purdy had conveyed a critical message - that neither he nor any of his daughters had stayed in Marbury County. Nor were they power players in local, state, or national government. They were ordinary middle class people. It was, King decided, Purdy's subtle way of saying that he was a minor player in the Harrison murder as he had not benefited from it beyond simply keeping his job as sheriff. It was as though Purdy knew what Tom Ryan had told King about the children of the killers doing anything to protect their power in northern Florida and that Purdy was trying to tell him that he never had any real power and his only involvement in the Harrison lynching was in the cover up, not the actual murder.

  There was something else beneath the surface of Purdy's words. He's telling me that he would rather die than admit the truth to his family. He'll never cause them that kind of shame.

  King heard the door slide open and turned toward the house. Purdy stepped onto the shadow dappled patio, carrying the pitcher of iced tea in one hand and a place mat in the other. He put the mat down, refilled King's glass and then his own, and placed the pitcher onto the mat.

  Purdy sat down, drank from his glass, and picked up his cigar and refired it. King watched him, wondering if Purdy would suggest that he would turn state's evidence if he were offered immunity. Perhaps Purdy had faked having to go to the bathroom to give himself a chance to think through his options.

  "That's as far as I got, though," Purdy began, picking up where he had left off. He's not ready to give it up, King thought. "The almighty Feds took over. They were blind to anything but Klan, Klan, Klan. Refused to even consider any other possibility. I thought, and still think, it was a staged crime scene. The killer made it look like a lynching and succeeded in misdirecting the investigation to the Klan. The Feds didn't care what I thought - hell, I was a nobody sheriff from a nowhere county that always has been considered an appendix to Volusia. Only reason I was involved at all was the killers chose the park for their deed."