Murder Is My Racquet by Otto Penzler

live his life around a tennis court. He was retired from active business, had a young girlfriend with no other boyfriends, and a nice house on the Intracoastal that would tempt many who believe in the redistribution of wealth.”
    An academic way of putting it. “So, a burglary gone sour.”
    “ Sí , and almost a refreshing change of pace.” Pintana looked up at me. “We get so many domestics, so many ‘senior suicides,’ so many drug killings, that the occasional felony-murder invigorates us.”
    “But not quite to the level of solving this one.”
    “Solving it? What fingerprints and fibers we found one could have predicted: Mr. Schiff’s, Shirlee Tucker—that’s the girlfriend. There were marks on the victim’s wrists, like somebody wearing gloves held him by both in a struggle, with traces of velvet left on his skin.”
    “A burglar who uses velvet gloves?”
    A nod. “And the body was found face up on the floor at the foot of his bed. When the official cause of death came back ‘heart failure,’ it was not a surprise.”
    “Anything from the autopsy that was?”
    Pintana crossed her arms. “I do not think it ‘surprising’ for a man in his seventies, but Mr. Schiff had cancer.”
    “Where?”
    “Everywhere. Metastasis run wild.”
    I tried to match that up with the man I’d seen play tennis. “It didn’t show.”
    “Some people are stronger than others.”
    “Schiff knew this about himself?”
    “For about six months, according to his doctor. The victim declined the alternative treatments of chemotherapy and radiation, choosing instead to ‘tough it out.’” Pintana shook her head. “In his situation, I might have felt the same.”
    We were almost at my car. “Okay if I visit the house?”
    “Schiff’s, you mean?”
    “Yes.”
    “I do not see why not. We released it as a crime scene two days ago.”
    I stopped at the Sebring’s rear bumper. “Thanks for the help.”
    Pintana continued for several steps before turning and looking at my convertible. “This is yours?”
    “It is.”
    Sergeant Lourdes Pintana looked it over, then did the same for me. “Take my advice, Mr. Calhoun. You will not make a very good living by trying to follow subjects in secret.”
    • • •
    S olomon Schiff’s house was on the second isle south of Las Olas. The sprawling ranch looked like one of the older homes on the street, especially given the number of places being bought and then torn down for the construction of mansions, two of which were in progress. I parked in the driveway behind a jaunty, teal Toyota, which I assumed was Schiff’s.
    The key his niece had given me fit the top and bottom locks on the front door. When I swung it open and stepped into the foyer, the muzzle of a black semiautomatic was aimed about belly high on me from ten feet away.
    The woman holding it said, “Sol always told me to aim at the fella’s belt buckle and fire till he falls.”
    Slight southern lilt to the voice, hands shaking a little.
    Keeping my own hands open and shoulder high, I managed to speak past a cottony tongue. “Even good advice isn’t always right.”
    “Come any closer, and we’ll both find out.”
    I decided to give her a moment. She was thirtyish, with dark, full hair cut just off her neck. The tank top showed about a third of the kind of breasts that make South Florida the true“Silicon Valley,” and her Capri pants looked to be painted on her butt and legs. I remembered Don Floyd saying Schiff’s girlfriend was much younger.
    She blinked first. “Well, aren’t you going to tell me who you are?”
    “A man given a key to this place,” I said, wiggling it for her to see.
    “Oh, hell,” the woman said, lowering the gun. “Why didn’t you say you were from the Realtor’s?”
    “I’m not, but if I can show you some identification…?”
    “Sure.” She let the gun rest against her thigh as we moved together. Her eyes were hazel and just a little too far apart for smart.
    “A