Page 46 of Murder in Calusa Cove
“I know it’s early, but have you interviewed him yet?”
“I just spent the last two hours with him,” Buddy said. “Which is why I didn’t get any sleep. He appears to be heartbroken and in shock.”
“Where’s he been since he kicked his wife out?”
“Home, drunk, but he’s got no one to vouch for that. He hasn’t been to work, and he says he hasn’t left his house. The locals are holding him for further questioning.”
“Does he know who she was having an affair with?” Chloe pulled out the chair and sat, grabbing her notebook and pen. Her hand trembled slightly as she jotted down notes.
“Yeah. Guy’s name is Larry Reeding,” Buddy said.
Her pen paused mid-word. “L.R.,” she murmured. “Could this be a copycat? Because this feels different than everything we’ve seen so far. Have you contacted Larry?”
“That’s the messed-up part,” Buddy replied. “His wife reported him missing yesterday morning.”
“Jesus.” Chloe’s pen slipped from her fingers. “That doesn’t line up with what we know about this killer.”
“I know,” Buddy said quietly. “Out of all the victims, only two had confirmed affair partners that were named—Heather and Shayna Gilbert. Both those guys are still alive.”
“But they weren’t married,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “Maybe that’s part of it. Maybe this guy has two triggers.”
“That’d make him one hell of a complicated offender,” Buddy said. “Killers usually stick to a pattern. If they break it, it’s because something forced their hand—panic, close calls, interruptions. A change that sharp? It’s rare. And we don’t even know if Larry’s dead. He could just be hiding out, ashamed he got caught screwing around.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“No, but I look at every angle. I’ve already flagged his name with the Bureau. Sent a field agent to Naples to speak with his wife this morning.”
Chloe tapped her pen against the page, brows furrowed. “We’re missing something. Something that pushed him. Either we rattled his cage, or he’s ready to leave his mark. Maybe he wants credit now.”
“Or he’s spiraling,” came Hayes’s voice from behind her.
She jolted, spinning in her seat. “Jesus, you scared me.”
He leaned against the doorjamb, wearing a pair of unbuttoned jeans and nothing else. He lifted a mug to his lips, took a sip, and smiled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“Hey, Hayes,” Buddy called out. “You make a solid point. The first recorded case of a missing ring finger dates back nearly thirty-five years. That means this guy has been killing for a long time—quietly, methodically. The real question is: how has he gotten away with it for this long?”
Hayes stepped farther into the room, eyes scanning the timeline on the wall. “Keaton and I used to joke that every missing person in this country was either pushed off the Grand Canyon or dumped in the Everglades or the ocean. There are places in this country built for disappearing people. You want a body to vanish, you throw it into water full of gators or sharks.” He pointed to a photo—Izzy Wallace, the earliest victim they’d linked. “She was found floating in the Intracoastal, somewhere between here and where Heather and Chloe went to undergrad.”
“But she could’ve been murdered anywhere,” Chloe said, rising with her coffee and joining him. “That body could’ve been dumped a hundred different places before drifting to where she was found.”
“True,” Hayes nodded. “But water doesn’t move at random. Even if the tide’s pushing in, the current usually runs toward the ocean. Here in the Glades, the tide controls a lot, but once you move toward the major outflows, the current takes over. And it’s not strong—especially not strong enough to drag something deep inland.” He tapped another photo—another victim. “I’m not a profiler,” he said. “But looking at this, it seems to me that the killer didn’t want the bodies found. Most of these drop sites? If the killer had timed it just a little differently, the current would’ve carried the bodies out, not in. Eaten, broken down, scattered. No evidence left behind.” Then he tapped the most recent photo—the woman from the fire. “But this one? This one was meant to be found.” He ran a hand through his messy hair, fatigue catching up to him again. “Same thing with the woman last night. If she’d been dumped even slightly deeper into the Everglades, the current would’ve taken her farther inland. If she’d been dumped farther out, she would’ve floated toward the ocean. But instead, she was positioned—wedged in the mangrove, like Chloe said. Right where neither tide nor current could carry her away.”
Chloe stared at him. It all tracked. “Okay, but what if the fisherman hadn’t seen her? What if no one happened to be looking? Same with Dewey and the fire… How is the killer counting on regular people noticing something at exactly the right time? It’s a hell of a gamble. What if a storm rolls in and erases everything, including the ring?”
“Actually… that’s the part I haven’t had a chance to update you on yet,” Buddy said. “I spoke to the fisherman and his crew again this morning. On the way out, they didn’t notice anything unusual—but they weren’t exactly looking. It was on the way back in that something changed.”
Hayes’s eyes narrowed. “Changed how?”
“They heard a transmission over the radio from a boat called Morning Glory,” Buddy said. “Someone reported spotting what they thought were large pieces of driftwood in the canal, near the entrance to Mitchell’s Marina. So, the crew started scanning with a spotlight just to be safe. They never found the driftwood—but they did catch a glimpse of something on the shore.”
“Which turned out to be the body,” Chloe finished, piecing it together.
“Exactly,” Buddy said. “After they docked, they went back to check it out—and found her. Without that call, they might not have seen anything.”
Hayes folded his arms across his chest. “That’s twice now. The fire, the body… It’s like he’s engineering these moments. Like he wants them barely found. Close calls. Lucky breaks.”
Chloe’s expression hardened. “Which means we’re not chasing a reckless killer.”
