"Well, here's where it gets a little tragic and interesting. Judging by her finances, it looks like she's already burned through the settlement. As far as I can tell, she's answering phones in a dental office right now, handling scheduling.”
"Is she still living in Pineapple Bay?”
"Yes. I'll text you her address and her employer.”
"What about the cyclist?”
"From what I was able to find about him online, he was training for a triathlon at the time of the accident. As you can imagine, because of Brock Madison's involvement, there were a lot of online articles. He made a living as a commercial pilot. He's got a younger brother who lives in Coconut Key. Here’s where it gets interesting. The brother runs a high-end landscaping company. Services posh neighborhoods like the Platinum Dunes, Stingray Bay, and?—“
"Palm Haven," I said, finishing her sentence.
"Exactly. His cell phone records put him in Palm Haven the day of the murders. His phone goes off the grid around 7:00 PM and doesn't pop back up until after midnight.”
"That's just a little too coincidental," I said.
"Even more coincidental is the fact that he was working on the yard across the street from Brock’s residence earlier that day."
Things were beginning to solidify in my mind. "He’s there, working on the lawn. Probably saw Brock. Came back that evening with a pair of pruning shears and got revenge for his brother.”
"If the trophy wife didn't kill Brock, which you say she didn't, then my vote is for Randy Williams.”
I grinned. "You're the best."
"And don't you forget it.”
"How could I ever?”
I thanked her again and ended the call. I filled Jack in on the situation, and Isabella sent a text with all the details moments later.
JD and I hopped into the Porsche and set out to find Randy.
20
The grating howl of a leaf blower filled the air. It was probably one of the worst sounds on the planet. I breathed in a lungful of exhaust as I approached the lawn truck. The black trailer was filled with mowers, weed whackers, clippings, and debris. On the side of the trailer, there were all kinds of hand tools, shears, rakes, spades, brooms, you name it. A couple of 50-pound sacks of mulch were stacked in the back of the trailer. Everything had a place and was organized.
I noticed some of the hand tools were the same brand as the shears used to kill Coach Madison.
JD and I shared a curious look.
Randy ran a crew of guys that banged out the yard work in no time. Everybody had a dedicated job. Mower, trimmer, blower. They did trees too, but not today.
Randy didn't do much. He sat in the truck, talking on his phone with the windows down while his crew worked up a sweat.Granted, this time of year in Coconut Key was comfortable. But manual labor in the sun with long sleeves could take its toll.
I smiled and flashed my badge when I reached the driver’s side window. Emblazoned on the side of the white F150 pickup was Randy's logo—Elite Landscaping, Coconut Key.
Randy's eyes filled with concern when he saw the shiny gold star.
"Just need to ask you a few questions," I said.
He said to the person on the other end of the line, "I need to call you back." Randy ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket. "Is there some kind of problem? We’re not breaking the noise ordinance with the blower. I've measured it before with a decibel meter. Plus, it's the afternoon.”
I smiled again. "It's not about the noise. I'm hoping you can help us with an investigation.”
That phrasing seemed to set him at ease a little.
"Sure. Anything I can do to help law enforcement.”
“Can you tell me where you were between 9 and 10:30 PM two days ago?"
