“Meanwhile, Cliff Sallow, the manager, is trying way too hard to be helpful. I don’t have a good feeling about him, Doc,” Marino says.
I TELL HIM ABOUT the horror theme I heard on the security gate recording, wondering if August might have played it for him.
“We listened more than once.” Marino constantly checks his mirrors as if someone might be after us. “It’s probably part of some sicko’s fantasy or that’s what we’re supposed to assume,” he adds, and I know who he’s thinking about.
“What does Cliff Sallow have to say about the loud Shock Theater music, and the gates opening and shutting?” I inquire. “What’s his explanation, and was he inside the management office when all that happened? Where was he last Friday night?”
“Watching football, he claims. And he doesn’t have an explanation, said he’s never heard of Shock Theater, isn’t into horror stuff,” Marino says. “But he was full of suggestions such as a boat being used to get on and off the property. That’s why we can’t hear anybody driving through.”
Possibly a rowboat or something with a small motor, Sallow proposed. Except the boat slips at Colonial Landing are covered by cameras, and all of them were working when Gwen was abducted. Only those at the front gates were obstructed for a while, making what the manager said implausible if not impossible.
“Also, the weather was terrible last Friday night,” I point out while we sit at a red light. “A lot like what we’re having now but windy and raining hard off and on. I can’t imagine anyone was on the water, especially after dark.”
“You ask me, he’s trying to steer us in the wrong direction,” Marino says. “Most of all, he’s putting on the big innocent act. He wants to help us catch who did it, meaning he must be a good guy, right?”
“Gwen’s killer had access to a vehicle of some sort.” I return to the subject of how that person came and went.
He had to have a car to transport her body from her townhome to Daingerfield Island. We also don’t know what we might discover when the security recordings are worked on in the labs.
“Maybe the car in question has a quiet engine, and the software can enhance it,” I explain.
“Cliff Sallow has a Prius,” Marino reminds me. “And hybrids are quiet.”
“Have you searched it?”
“He invited us to look at anything we want. Like I said, he’s too helpful.”
“What about getting a swab for DNA?”
“We got that and fingerprints,” he says, and traffic is moving again. “August and I told him that he’s not a suspect, which isn’t true because we’re more suspicious of him than anyone else.”
“Do you think he realizes that?”
“Nope,” Marino says. “He’s too busy trying to impress us. We explained that as the manager of the complex he’d been inside Gwen’s place a number of times, had been handling her packages and who knows what else. We needed DNA, his prints for exclusionary purposes.”
“And that was perfectly okay with him? He didn’t tell you to talk to his lawyer?”
“He was more than okay. It’s like he got off on it.”
Marino explains that he and August went through the Prius with a fine-tooth comb, and there was no sign of anything suspicious. But Sallow is the kind of guy who would have spent a lot of time thinking about what could get him into trouble.
“And we know the killer’s careful about planning in advance, covering the security gate cameras and all the rest,” Marino adds.
“Someone cunning who probably gets enraged when things don’t go according to plan,” I reply. “I can see why the manager would make your antenna go up, and I’d like to know where he was on the night of April tenth when Cammie died not far from where Gwen’s body was found. This was several months after he moved here.” I repeat what Officer Fruge told me. “She doesn’t trust Cliff Sallow either, has her eye on him.”
“I’m aware,” Marino says. “I was there last night when she was going on and on about him. Fruge’s like a dog with a bone, can’t let it go.”
“We both know what that’s like when a case haunts us.”
“Yeah, it sounds like life kicked Cammie to the curb, and she didn’t count.” Cold air rushes inside the truck as he tosses his gum out the window.
“That was a gross miscalculation,” I promise.