Chapter 20
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?"
Randy stammered, "I can't really be sure.”
"You were in Palm Haven that afternoon.”
His brow knitted. In a tentative voice, he replied, "Yes.”
"I believe your client is Mrs. Halford.”
His phone’s GPS data helped Isabella pinpoint the address. I had called the resident and spoken with her. She didn’t recall seeing Randy venture onto Coach Madison’s property.
"I have several clients in Palm Haven,” Randy boasted.
“Of course. Was Brock Madison one of your clients?”
Anger tightened his jaw. "No. He most certainly was not.”
"Mrs. Halford lives directly across from his residence. When you were working on her lawn, did you happen to see Brock or his wife?”
“I don't recall.”
"How long have you been working for Mrs. Halford?"
"I've been tending to her lawn care needs for the last six months at least."
"And in all that time, you’re saying you never once realized that Brock Madison was living directly across the street from her?" I said with a doubtful tone.
"I can't be sure."
"Well, you either are, or you aren't, aware that his residence was in close proximity.”
With a tight jaw, he said, "Brock Madison is not someone I care to focus my attention on.”
“Because he killed your brother,” I said.
His checks reddened. “Yes. As far as I’m concerned, he should have gone to jail.”
"Sounds like you feel justice wasn’t served."
He scoffed. "Justice? There is no justice. You sleazebags suppressed evidence. Brock got a pass because of who he is. My brother is dead. That scumbag got off with no charges, and he only had to pay a pittance to my sister-in-law.”
"So, you felt completely justified taking matters into your own hands," I said.
His brow wrinkled with confusion. "What are you talking about?”
"The murder of Brock Madison.”
Randy’s face tightened with confusion. "What!?”
"He was murdered that evening. I find it a little coincidental that you just happened to be in the neighborhood that day.”
"Life is strange. It's full of odd coincidences.”
"You don't seem to have an alibi.”
Thoughts raced behind his eyes. He plucked the words out of nowhere. "We finished for the day. I drove home, took a shower, got dressed, then went out to dinner with my girlfriend."
"Just a few minutes ago, you couldn't recall what you did that evening.”
"Well, I suddenly remembered.”
"I'll need to verify that information with your girlfriend.”
"Be my guest.”
"I'll need her contact information.”
His mouth tightened. Randy pulled out his phone and thumbed through the contact list. “What’s your phone number? I'll text you her information."
I dug into my pocket and handed him a card.
He sent the information. "I didn’t kill Brock Madison. I sure would have liked to. But you're barking up the wrong tree.”
“I bet you’ve got another vehicle besides this truck,” I said.
“Yeah, this is just a work vehicle.”
“Nice work vehicle. What’s your personal car?”
With a knitted brow, he snapped, “What does that matter?”
“I can look up the DMV records.”
After a frustrated exhale, he said, “A black Corova XT.”
It was a reliable econobox.
Deputies had canvased Palm Haven, looking for video footage of vehicles coming or going, but turned up nothing. We’d make another round and ask if anyone remembered seeing a black Corova XT in the neighborhood the night of the murder.