Overexposed on Bird Key: Yale Larsson PI Mystery Novels

By Doug Sahlin

My daughter is dead.

The wealthy realtor's Bird Key mansion has a scenic view of Sarasota Bay that is marred when he discovers his estranged daughter dead. Washed up against his dock. Naked as the day she was born. Yale Larsson is hired to unravel the convoluted mystery. During his investigation, Yale and his sidekick Jayson must answer the following questions:

 

◆ Why did the victim end up at her father's dock?

◆ Why was she naked?

◆ Is someone making a statement?

◆ Is someone harboring a grudge?

Yale Larsson PI Book 3 is chock-full of suspense, mystery and action that will keep you turning pages late into the night.
To find out how Yale brings the killer to justice, order your copy of this crime mystery thriller today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doug Sahlin
• Release date: May 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223228134

Book preview

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My Daughter is Dead

The frantic phone call came at six-thirty in the middle of my morning meditation.

She’s dead, Yale. My daughter is dead.

I said nothing. Then I recognized the voice: J. Eduard Honeycutt the Third, a Sarasota real estate mogul. Met him Saturday night at his black-tie fundraiser at the Van Wezel Hall.

J. Eduard. Slow down. What happened?

My daughter, Alexis. She washed up in my backyard this morning.

You found her?

Yes. I was walking Pepe. He started barking and tugging on his leash. Then I saw her. He started crying.

You call the police?

Yes. They’re here now.

Any sign of foul play?

They’re still investigating. Please help me.

He told me his address and then I said, I’ll be right over.

I disconnected the call. My half-brother, house-guest, and gourmet cook, Jayson was still asleep, sounding like a turbocharged chainsaw. My friends and colleagues in law enforcement call me Sherlock and he’s my Watson. But lately, he’s been working nights cooking in a gourmet restaurant in Sarasota. So, I met Honeycutt solo. If it turned into a case, I’d employ Jayson’s talents when needed.

Dressed quickly. Working clothes. A pair of jeans, a black pullover tee-shirt and a pair of running shoes. Filled a thermos with coffee, locked up, and started my car.

I backed out of my driveway and started driving to the Honeycutt home. Judging by the Bird Key address, his backyard was Sarasota Bay. A few minutes later, I was driving down Benjamin Franklin Drive in a thick fog, another quirk of Florida in winter. I flicked on the fog lights as I rounded St. Armands Circle. A grey-haired man was out for his morning constitution with a German shepherd. Other than a white Prius and blood-red Ferrari, I had the road to myself. The snowbirds were still safely ensconced in their hotels or winter homes.

I clicked on the right turn signal and turned onto Bird Key Drive. Sarasota Bay surrounds Bird Key, so the gatehouse is an unmanned ornament. I wound my way past stately two- and three-story houses with faux Mediterranean stucco facades and barrel tile roofs. Turned onto Mourning Dove Drive and drove till I came to Honeycutt’s house. Two Sarasota Police Department cruisers were parked out front along with an unmarked car, which I assumed was driven by the Sarasota County Chief Medical Officer.

One deputy stood guard in front of the gate, which was open but decorated with yellow crime scene tape. This is a crime scene, sir. You can’t come in.

Mr. Honeycutt asked me to stop by. I’m Yale Larsson. I showed him my private investigator license.

He nodded. Heard about you. Your reputation precedes you.

I ducked under the crime scene tape and stepped into J. Eduard’s backyard. The carefully manicured lawn was wet from the dense fog, and the tangy aroma of salt perfumed the air. Through the mist, I saw a uniformed officer, a man with blue jeans and a blazer, and a dark-skinned man wearing a white lab coat. They were kneeling on the ground.

Patel. Briggs.

Vijay Patel, the coroner, the man in the white lab coat, turned and met my gaze. Oh Yale. Good morning. Well, good for most people. He mumbled under his breath in what I assumed was his native language: Hindu.

What we got? I said.

The man in the blue blazer was Lawrence Briggs, known to all except his wife and parents as Larry, a homicide detective for the Sarasota Police Department. He stood up and brushed the dew off his pants. Young Caucasian girl. Owner of the house says she’s his daughter, Alexis.

I bent down for a closer look. She was definitely the stunning redhead who crashed J. Eduard’s fundraiser at the Van Wezel in grand style. She did so dressed for success, wearing a low cut black evening gown with a string of pearls around her neck. Without an invitation, she tried to bull her way past two black, skin-headed security guards. When they grabbed her, she started screaming. Gray-haired ladies wearing elegant black evening gowns with baubles strung around their necks costing more than the average car and balding men in three-piece suits turned to gawk. But J. Eduard, who was speaking at the podium, didn’t miss a beat. He dimmed the house lights and started his slide presentation while the security guards escorted his daughter from the building.

Now the beautiful redhead was wedged between the seawall and a piling. Pieces of seaweed clung to her right thigh. There was a tattoo of a unicorn on her right ankle. Other than that, she was naked as the day she was born.

Cause of death?

Patel furrowed his forehead and pointed his forefinger toward the girl’s neck. Bruise marks on her neck, and bloodshot eyes, this is a….

Strangulation.

Indeed. Patel’s latex covered hands worked deftly, probing and poking, looking for visible and invisible clues. He gently lifted her right hand. Her knuckles are bruised.

I nodded and said, She put up a fight. Time of death?

Judging by the body temperature and lividity, she died shortly after midnight. But the water’s cold. Could have been two or three o’clock.

Larry Briggs was wearing his typical shades, despite the fog. He plucked them off, put them in the pocket of his blazer, and grabbed a small pad and pen. He flipped the pad open.

Yale, said my friend the homicide detective, who nodded.

Briggs. I smiled and nodded. It’s a guy thing.

Why are you here? Briggs said.

J. Eduard Honeycutt asked me to stop by.

Oh? How do you know Honeycutt?

As you may know, Honeycutt is a prominent real estate developer. I was invited to the fundraiser he held last Saturday at the Van Wezel.

Did you donate?

No. I don’t quite see eye to eye with his agenda. Besides, Sarasota already has too many condos and too many people.

He smiled and said, Didn’t know saving the environment was one of your causes.

It was my turn to smile, but I didn’t return his volley.

Briggs scribbled a few notes and then flipped the pad closed. Victim is Honeycutt’s daughter. Odd she should wash up in his backyard.

Ji, Patel said.

Translate.

Patel showed off his perfect teeth and said, Sorry. Yes. It is strange.

I thought so as well. But there are so many back eddies and sandbars in the bay, anything is possible. Add channel markers, anchored boats, and seawalls to the equation. But there was no wind to confuse matters.

Briggs nodded, put the pad in his pocket. He knelt for a closer look at the body. Gazing into the gray mist, I tried to figure out which direction the body may have come from if she drifted here. The tide was coming in. I pulled out my smartphone, launched the web browser, and Googled the tide charts. Low tide was just before midnight, and high tide was twenty minutes away, which meant her body could have drifted in from one of the barrier islands.

She was either strangled on a boat coming into the bay and dumped overboard, or was killed at South Lido Park, I said and pocketed my smartphone. The flow and timing of the tide are right.

Absolutely, Patel said and pointed to her lower leg. Notice the bite marks. Probably a small shark.

Hmm. Find anything else that’s significant?

Yes, Vijay said and lifted her right hand again. Ms. Alexis had her nails manicured regularly. But she has two broken fingernails, which probably happened when she tried to defend herself against her assailant.

So, whoever did this probably has some scratch marks on his face or neck.

Marks on the victim’s neck indicate a strong person, probably a man, said Patel, and placed the girl’s hand on her chest. He looked up and chanted a brief prayer in his native Hindu. And yes, there should be some marks on the assailant’s face or neck.

Briggs put on his shades, said he’d see us later, and left the scene. I knelt and took a closer look at the girl. Patel touched the girl’s head with his slender fingers and gently turned it upright. The girl had red hair, almost the color of copper, just like Julie Klosterman, a neighbor I hadn’t thought of in years. I took one more look at Alexis’s stunning blue eyes, with the thousand-yard stare into the next lifetime if there is such a thing. I sighed and pulled her eyelids closed. Rest in peace.

The sound of a roaring engine and then squealing brakes caught my attention. Doors opened and slammed shut, and then the sound of voices muffled by the fog. Two men in white uniforms appeared like apparitions in the mist. They were hauling a stretcher. Patel and I moved aside to let the EMT dudes do their work. They were a salt and pepper team. The name tag on the black guy’s uniform read Marco, the blond guy’s tag read Wally.

Wally zipped open the body bag and put it on the ground next to the corpse. Marco knelt and said, Oh my God, it’s Caitlin.

You know this girl? I said.

Don’t know her personally. She is… I mean, was a dancer at the Fox and Hound. I don’t think that’s her real name, though. Most of the girls have stage names.

Her name is Alexis Honeycutt.

Wally met my gaze and furrowed his forehead. Honeycutt, like the real estate guy trying to rape what’s left of the wilderness in Sarasota?

One and the same. I fished my notebook out of my pocket, grabbed a pen, and wrote down the dead girl’s stage name. The Fox and Hound is a gentlemen’s club on US 301 north of 12th Street, decidedly one of the seedier parts of Sarasota.

When was the last time you saw her, Marco?

Sunday night.

The night after J. Eduard’s gala fundraiser. I added that fact to my notes. At the Fox and Hound?

Yeah. He looked at the girl and shook his head. She drown?

I don’t think so, I said.

Damn. She was a sweetie.

I snapped a picture of the victim’s face with my smartphone. Marco and Wally knelt, picked the girl up, and put her in the body bag. They zipped the bag shut, put her on the stretcher, and wheeled her away.

I looked at Patel. You think there’s any skin under her fingernails? Enough for a DNA test?

He shrugged his shoulders. It is doubtful. Looks like she was in the water a long time.

Will you do the autopsy?

Yes. Probably on Thursday, the way things look.

Okay. Keep me posted. I stood up and stretched.

Patel stood and brushed his hands across the wrinkles in his pants. You got it.

I surveyed the yard. A swimming pool fed by a spa was surrounded by a river rock patio. A built-in circular bar with a brass footrail dominated the screened in lanai. Stepping stones led from the lanai to a dock where a yacht—looked like a Hatteras—was moored. Despite the fog, the yacht almost had its own luminance, glimmering like it was eye candy, a boat that hadn’t been subjected to crashing waves or salt air. Miss Fit was written in flowing script on the stern.

J. Eduard Honeycutt was leaning on a shiny chrome stern rail. He sketched a wave and tipped his sailor’s cap. He looked older in the light of day. Leathery skin and wrinkles put him somewhere in his late 60s. He wore beige pants, a white shirt, and a blue blazer. I walked up the ramp and joined him. A heron on a nearby piling squawked, flapped its wings, and took flight. J. Eduard parked one of his tasseled boat shoes on a beam. His eyes were red from crying.

I haven’t seen Alexis in nine years. I didn’t even know it was her when I cut the lights. She was an independent girl. I guess that’s why she left home when she did. The fact that she was fiercely independent then leads me to believe nothing has changed. She had a reason for crashing the fundraiser. I need you to find out why.

You need me to find out? What about the police?

The cops will dig, he said and frowned, but they’ll just scratch the surface. They’ll investigate her death and that’s it. I need to know why she showed up after all these years. I made some phone calls to people I know. They said you were a great cop. Never gave up. Now you’re a P.I. So I want you to find out why my daughter showed up the way she did. When she did.

I met his gaze and said, I prefer private investigator. Is a simple visit to her home out of the question?

He stared into the distance. I have no idea where she lived. No idea she lived in Sarasota till she crashed my fundraiser. And now it’s too late to ask. She had an agenda. I need to know what it was.

Okay. She worked at the Fox and Hound.

The strip club on US 301? How’d you know that? he said.

One of the EMT crew recognized her.

He chewed on his lower lip, digesting the information, no doubt. He looked up. So, when can you start?

J. Eduard sizing me up. The hiring of the private investigator. There’s the matter of my fee.

I’m willing to pay your expenses, he said and spread his hands.

I put my hands on the polished chrome rail and looked at him. My fee is four thousand to retain my services for thirty days.

But you’re rich.

Yes, I said and met his gaze. That’s why you invited me to your fundraiser.

I need support for my project. My secretary did her homework. Told me you won millions in the biggest Powerball drawing in Florida history, so naturally, I looked you up and invited you.

And I wanted to know what you were all about, I said. That’s why I went. Stalemate.

But you won all that money.

I grinned and said, Over 300 million after taxes. You sell real estate, correct, J. Eduard?

Yes. Please call me Jim.

Jim. You sell big ticket houses in Sarasota and Siesta Key, right?

Yes. And I own the company. he said and stroked the stubble on his chin. What’s that have to do with it?

How much did you make last year?

My firm made eighteen mil, he said. What’s your point?

So, you’d sell me a house without taking a commission.

Ah, I see.

Four thousand bucks upfront and a handshake.

But you don’t need the money.

True. All I keep are expenses. I match my client’s fee and add it to the Larsson Foundation, a non-profit fund I run that helps the sick, elderly, and needy. I extended my hand.

He looked like he was getting ready to ask a question, then he smiled. His handshake was firm and dry. Come into the house and I’ll cut you a check.

The sun poked through the mist as I walked across his manicured lawn onto the pool deck, past the bar. The screen door squeaked when J. Eduard opened it. I followed him through a den decorated with what looked like original Salvador Dali paintings into a two-story living room tiled with marble. We sat on an overstuffed leather sofa the color of creamed coffee. J. Eduard picked up a phone, pushed a button, and started talking. Eleanor. Please collect my checkbook and meet me in the living room.

A few seconds later, Eleanor Honeycutt sauntered down a spiral staircase. Her high heels beat out a quick staccato on the marble floor. The sofa hissed when she sat. She handed the checkbook to her husband.

Sweetheart. This is Yale Larsson. I’m hiring him to find out about Alexis.

Eleanor looked to be in her late 30s. She wore blue pleated slacks and a white blouse with a plunging neckline showing off her décolletage. Curly blond hair out of a bottle tumbled down one shoulder. The skin on her face was soft, flawless, without wrinkles, the work of an expensive plastic surgeon. Trophy wife.

She stared at me with expressive blue eyes and batted her eyelashes. You were at our fundraiser Saturday night.

I nodded.

She furrowed her forehead and stared at her husband. But darling. I thought the police would find out why she washed up in our backyard.

I’m sure they will. All I want to know is why she showed up after all these years.

She turned up her nose and hissed out a breath. After the way that bitch left, why should you care?

She’s. My. Daughter, J. Eduard said, punctuating each word with a finger pointing to his wife’s chest.

Well, she’s not my daughter, she said, and narrowed her eyes into slits. As much as I tried to be a mother to her, she ignored me. She stood and left the room, heels clicking loudly as she went.

Sorry about that, Yale. She gets a little sensitive.

I said nothing.

After a few seconds, he pulled a gold Montblanc out of his blazer and wrote out the check with a flourish. He ripped it off and handed it to me.

Thank you, I said, and pocketed the check.

He stood and walked toward me. When will I hear from you?

As soon as I know something. I shook his hand and let myself out.

A slender man with blond hair wearing jeans and a Grateful Dead tee-shirt stood next to my car. He turned when he saw me coming and smiled. Beautiful. That’s a ’63 XKE, right?

Yes. You know your cars, I said and smiled.

I lusted after Jags when I was a kid. Restored?

"No. She’s all original. My Uncle Carl willed her to me. I call her Lady. An old Jag is an anachronism on wheels. But an old British sports car is also like your significant other. You take care of her, nurture and love her, and she treats you like a king."

Opened the door, nestled into the worn leather bucket seat, turned the key, and listened to my car burble into life. I pondered what I knew and decided a second set of eyes would be helpful. Sent a text message to Jayson, told him I needed his help, and asked him to prepare a Gulp and Go.

I let out the clutch and started winding my way out of Bird Key. Glancing at the rear-view mirror, I smiled. The guy with the Grateful Dead tee-shirt was grinning ear-to-ear as he soaked up the view of my car’s elegant derrière.

Just past the yacht club on Bird Key Drive, the residences are carbon copies of J. Eduard’s home. The fog was losing its battle with the sun. Soon we’d be graced with cerulean blue skies. Although it was December, the day would soon be warm. I cruised to the stop sign just past the Bird Key gate, stopped and waited for the light to turn green.

A jogger wearing red shorts and a white singlet ran past, legs pumping rhythmically. People were driving from Longboat Key to Sarasota. And vice versa. Tourists, the working-class, and the rich milling about as the fog cleared. Some people were on their way to work, a luxury Alexis would never enjoy again. That thought saddened me and would spur me on to solve the mystery.

The light turned green, and I drove west on John Ringling Causeway. It was almost eight o’clock when I got to St. Armands Circle. Sunburned tourists with skin the color of cooked lobster were shopping and window gazing. Shop owners were setting up displays. A girl at a sidewalk cafe served breakfast to an elderly couple. As I drove through the circle, I pondered what I knew, which at this stage wasn’t much. And then I remembered the color of the dead girl’s hair, which made me think of Julie Klosterman again.

I hadn’t thought of Julie in years. She was the daughter of our next-door neighbor, Phillip Klosterman, who was half of the team who became my male role models after my father left when my parents divorced. I was five-years old at the time. Julie was two years older than me. She was a friendly girl who used to play with my sister Heather—girl stuff, dressing up like they were grown-ups, playing with Barbie dolls. Then something happened and Julie disappeared for several weeks. When she came back, she wasn’t the same. The happy girl was sullen and withdrawn. She slit her wrists when she was eighteen. That was when I found out she’d been brutally beaten and raped by a gang of older boys, spent time in the hospital, and in counseling to try to put her life back together. But she took her life instead. Philip died of cancer shortly thereafter. Perhaps solving this crime would put a smile on Philip’s face wherever his soul rested now.