Chapter 20
Red and blue lights flickered, painting the mansion in a wash of colors.
A crowd of curious neighbors had gathered, even though it was the wee hours of the morning. Deputies kept onlookers at bay. The forensic team had arrived.
Paris Delaney and her news crew pulled up to the scene right after I did.
I parked at the curb across the street and hopped out of the Porsche.
I strolled across the well-manicured lawn, pushed through the gate, and stepped into the courtyard.
A water wall trickled, and lush foliage adorned the space.
I followed the trail of chaos that led up the grand staircase and down the hall to the master bedroom.
A distinguished-looking gentleman in his early 60s lay on the floor halfway out of the walk-in closet.
The top of his head was slick and hairless.
Tufts of silver on the sides extended into a trimmed beard that framed his rugged face.
Reasonably fit for his age, the man probably would have had a long life if it hadn’t been for the bullets in his chest. Now his life hung in the balance.
Crimson stained the hardwoods in the closet.
EMTs frantically triaged the patient.
A woman in her mid-50s looked on in horror, biting her lip as tears streamed down her cheeks.
I figured that had to be Mrs. Caldwell.
EMTs had started Mr. Caldwell on an IV. They stabilized him enough for transfer. With a gentle lift, they hefted him onto a gurney and wheeled him out of the bedroom.
Mrs. Caldwell followed.
Camera flashes bounced off the walls as Dietrich captured the scene for posterity.
With tired eyes, the sheriff looked over the scene in the closet.
"What happened?" I asked as I stepped up to him.
"Home invasion. That's about all I was able to get out of her," he said. “Get to the hospital and talk to her.” He looked around, and concern filled his eyes. “Where’s the nitwit and your prisoner?”
“Jack’s… looking after her.” It wasn’t a complete fabrication.
“Heaven help us.”
"I noticed there's a video doorbell at the courtyard gate," I said, changing the subject. "Has anybody reviewed the footage?"
"Not yet."
I looked over the area. The closet was big. Full of designer dresses and suits. Racks and racks of shoes and handbags made department stores look small. A central island was home to watches and jewelry, along with several drawers. This closet was larger than some New York apartments.
A safe hidden in the wall behind a panel was the target. The door was ajar.
I asked the sheriff, "What was taken?"
"You’ll have to ask Mrs. Caldwell. Like I said, I wasn’t able to get much out of her.”
A pistol lay on the floor near where Mr. Caldwell's right hand had been.
I spotted a shell casing on the hardwoods on the left side of the closet. It had rolled under one of the clothing racks. I pointed it out to the forensic guys. I wasn't sure if it was from his pistol or from the assailants’.
Judging by the holes in Caldwell’s body, there should be another shell casing on the floor, at minimum. The shooter had double-tapped Caldwell. One in the abdomen, the other higher, near the clavicle. Shot in quick succession, the natural rise of the barrel accounted for the pattern.
I moved away from the closet and stepped back to the sheriff. “I’ll go to the hospital and talk to her. Think he’s going to make it?”
Daniels shrugged. “I hope so.”
I left the bedroom, hustled downstairs, and stepped outside.
Paris Delaney and her news crew closed in. The camera lens focused, and a fluffy boom microphone hovered overhead. “Deputy Wild, was this a home invasion?”
“All I can say is shots were fired. If anyone has any information, please contact the Coconut County Sheriff’s Office.”
"What was taken from the house?”
I declined to answer and jogged to the Porsche. I climbed in and zipped to the hospital.
Mrs. Caldwell sat teary-eyed in the waiting room. It was pretty full this time of night. Victims of car crashes, bar fights, and the common cold. The fluorescents cast a pale glow, and a 24-hour news channel rambled. A couple of older folks sucked on nasal cannulas and wheezed.
I displayed my badge as I approached Mrs. Caldwell and spoke in a soft voice. "I'm Deputy Wild. Special Crimes."
She sniffled and nodded.
Mrs. Caldwell was an attractive woman in her early 50s with short bottle blonde hair, amber eyes, and classic features.
Toned by Pilates and spin class, she kept herself in shape.
Botox kept some of the fine lines away, but she didn’t have that Platinum Dunes plastic surgery look that so many suffered from.
"I know this is a difficult time, but the sooner I can get the details, the higher the odds of catching the perpetrators."
She sniffled, blotted her puffy eyes with a tissue, and nodded.
"Can you tell me what happened?”