Picture Me Dead
Heather Graham
Ashley Montague is nearing the end of her police training–but nothing has prepared this rookie for the rite of passage that will take her on a deadly ride into the underbelly of Miami’s drug world. It begins with the shocking discovery of a body on the highway and her glimpse of a mysterious hooded figure watching from the side of the road. Then Ashley’s investigation into the incident reveals a surprising connection to another crime scene miles away. In the heart of the Everglades, Detective Jake Dilessio stares at the mutilated body of a woman–the killing identical to those carried out by a cult leader he put behind bars five years ago. Is this a copycat killing or is the wrong man doing time?The last thing Ashley and Jake want or need is the electric pull of desire as they are dragged deeper into a dangerous world of corruption and conspiracy. Now, with time running out and their lives on the line, they have everything to fight for…and everything to lose.
Read what the critics are saying about New York Times bestselling author
HEATHER GRAHAM
“Graham’s tight plotting, her keen sense of when to reveal and when to tease…will keep fans turning the pages.”
—Publishers Weekly on Picture Me Dead
“Graham…has penned yet another spine-tingling romantic suspense that will appeal to fans of Catherine Coulter, Iris Johansen, and Linda Howard.”
—Booklist on Picture Me Dead
“An incredible storyteller!”
—Los Angeles Daily News
“A suspenseful, sexy thriller…Graham builds jagged suspense that will keep readers guessing up to the final pages.”
—Publishers Weekly on Hurricane Bay
“The talented Ms. Graham once again thrills us. She delivers excitement [and] romance…that keep the pages flipping quickly from beginning to end.”
—Romantic Times on Night of the Blackbird
“Refreshing, unique…Graham does it better than anyone.”
—Publishers Weekly
“With the name Heather Graham on the cover, you are guaranteed a good read!”
—Literary Times
HEATHER GRAHAM
PICTURE ME DEAD
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, for Robert Merrill, forensic artist, Miami-Dade Police.
For the great folks with the South Miami Police: Pam Stack, Victim Advocate; Lillian Gilbert, Communications Officer; and Detective Kathleen Sorensen.
With thanks as well to some of the wonderful people who keep life fun and challenging in the midst of all else, the very talented staff and instructors at Arthur Murray Studios, Coral Gables, Florida: Wayne Smith, Kene Bayliss, Ana Chacon-Bayliss, Mauricio Ferreira, Romney Reyes, Christina Davo, Adrian Persad (and Rhea!), Shaine Taylor, Liz Myers and Carolina Francesehi, and definitely, above all, the one who keeps us all moving and in shape, Nelida Nunez. Thanks also to a number of fellow students who have been tolerant, kind and kept a lot of nights filled with camaraderie and laughter: Adriana Alvarez, Carolina Alvarez, Dyann Alvarez, Sean Abreu, Silvia Curiati, Judith Camposano, Lauren Carroll, Larry Durham, Enrique Gonzalez, Majo Gomez, Stella Gomez, Denise Herrera, Yvette Herrera, Raymond King, Barbara Mishaan, Vanessa Monlina, Garry Norris, Kristy Pino, Susanna Robles, Samantha Rodriguez, David and Lynn Squillacote, Jim and Dee Bowers, Kim and Angie Wahlstrom, Sergio Alcantara, Brianne Grafton, Rosans Winarto, Jan Svenson, Merle Roe, Sean Lawrence, Ben Wisz, Miguel Sandoval and last, but never least, Kenda Avery, who gives new dimensions to swing and also loves to read.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
She stared into the darkness of the room by night, suddenly and acutely aware of where she was—and the man at her side. Her mind sped up as she tried to retrace the last hours…but nothing would come to her. She had thought herself so aware, so savvy, and yet she had been taken in.
She listened. In time, she was certain she heard the slow deep breathing indicating that he was asleep.
No time to consider just what she had done, how far she had taken her quest. No time to consider the ramifications of her actions. There was no time to think of anything now….
Other than escape.
Carefully, she rolled to her side. Still careful, she rose. With the greatest quiet, she dressed.
“Going somewhere?”
She turned in the moonlight. He was resting on one elbow, watching her.
She laughed softly, came back to the bed, eased a hip on to it and leaned over to kiss his forehead. “What a night,” she said softly. “Wow. But now…I have the strangest craving for ice cream. And coffee. I’m in such a blur,” she said. Her nightly habits shouldn’t seem too strange to him; she had just made it here, into the inner sanctum.
“I’m sure there’s ice cream in the freezer. And we always have coffee.”
“But I don’t want just any ice cream. I want some of that new stuff they’re serving at Denny’s,” she said. “Thank God it’s Denny’s, or else it wouldn’t be open now. And, of course, I’m feeling a little strange. About being here. With you.”
She stood, slipped on her shoes, and went for her shoulder bag. It felt strangely light.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You’re not going anywhere.”
He rose in the darkness. She didn’t underestimate the extraordinary shape he was in. Being in shape was one of life’s passions for him. Along with a few others.
“I just want ice cream,” she said.
He walked toward her. There was no malice evident in his face, rather a form of sorrow. “You’re such a liar. I have a feeling you’ve had what you wanted now, what you really came to achieve. And I’m so sorry, but you’re not going to leave.”
She felt in the large leather handbag for her sidearm.
“The gun is gone,” he said softly.
He took another step toward her. The gun was gone. The terror of that simple fact registered in her mind, along with a change of gears. Run. Get the hell out.
“What are you going to do to me?”
“I really don’t want to hurt you, you know.”
The bastard. He didn’t want to hurt her. Just kill her.
He took a step toward her. She decided to use the bag as a weapon, swinging it with practiced force. She caught his head dead center, then stepped forward and brutally slammed a knee into him. She heard the ragged intake of his breath; he doubled over.
And she burst out the bedroom door.
She ran desperately through the house and out to the front room, seeking the exit. Then she stopped dead still, stunned, staring at a person she had never expected to see blocking her way. In a flash, it made sense. The fact that she had been recognized for what she was…known.
“You…cockroach,” she managed to whisper.
“Rich cockroach now.”
Bile rose in her; sick fury rose to her lips. Now she knew the extremity of the position into which she had put herself. There was nothing she could say to describe the depths of her revulsion and rage.
Nothing that would change what she had discovered.
Instinct and common sense kicked in. There was only one thing she could do now, and that was fight desperately for self-preservation.
She ran.
She streaked through the front room. Reached the door, fumbled with the locks and was out. There was no alarm.
Of course not. Alarms brought….
The police.
Hysteria threatened to overwhelm her.
Within seconds she was racing down the drive. She could hear shouting echoing through the house behind her.
She knew she would never make it into the garage, never reach her car before they were on her. She had to run, hope to reach the street.
Maybe there would be an early riser driving on the highway.
She sped down the long drive, never having known before just how quickly she could move when necessary. No, not when necessary. When desperate. She dug into her bag for her cell phone as she tried to maintain speed. Eureka! It was there.
She hit 9-1-1. Nothing. They’d left her the phone. They’d just removed the battery.
She kept running, moving like a sprinter, no thought of saving energy, driven by adrenaline and instinct, the desire to live.
She became aware of a terrible rasping sound.
And then she realized that the rasping sound was the ragged inhalation and exhalation of her own lungs. She had escaped the house, probably more than they had ever thought she could do. A small victory. Her only hope was covering enough distance, finding help, before they caught up with her.
She swallowed hard, ignoring the fire and agony that seared through her lungs and limbs. She was well aware that she had a long way to go. The pain didn’t matter. Hysteria began to rise in her. She forced it down.
She made it to the road, her feet hitting the pavement, and realized just how dark it could be in the country. She had grown up in the city; there had always been light. But out here…
She hadn’t gone that far, and already she could feel her muscles burning; her lungs were on fire.
Lights flared in front of her, sudden and blinding out of the darkness. A car! A car coming down the road just when she needed help so badly. She stumbled to a halt, dizzy with the fact that a miracle had occurred. She raced to the driver’s door. “Oh, thank God! Move over. Quickly—”
She felt the gun wedged against her ribs from behind.
And she heard his whisper. He wasn’t even winded.
“Game’s up.”
She went dead still. She looked at the driver. Saw the slow smile and realized she knew the face. Her heart sank.
She prayed. She asked for forgiveness for all her sins. Pride and self-confidence had been strong within her.
Oh, Lord, yes. Far too much pride. And determination. She had wanted to be the one to find the truth—and she had wanted the glory.
The glory! That was a laugh now.
Amazing how someone with so much self-confidence could be so frightened.
Don’t panic, don’t give up, she warned herself. Think of all the right things, reason, remember all the tricks, human psychology, everything you’ve been taught….
How to survive this…
How to pray. Lord, she was so deeply sorry for those she had hurt.
“Let’s go,” he told her icily.
“Shoot me right here.”
“Well, I could. But I think you’re going to do what I say. As long as you’re living and breathing, there’s hope, right? The faintest hope that you might turn the tide on me. So…start moving. Get in the car. Now. Front seat, slow and careful. I’m right behind you.”
She did as she was told. Because he was right. She would fight to the very last second, as long as there was a breath in her body. She was shoved in next to the driver while he got into the rear seat, keeping the gun on her all the while. Her mind worked hard. What was his plan? How would he see to it that there was no evidence of the fact that she had been here, had been with him?
As they neared the house, the garage door opened. The car they were in stopped; she was dragged out. He indicated that she should walk ahead of him. “Time for another ride, I’m afraid.”
She looked at him.
He smiled at her. Grimly.
“One last ride. I am sorry.”
The door to her own car was open. The muzzle of the gun pressed hard into her back, she got into the car. She had no choice. Because he was right. She wouldn’t give up while she still had breath. Still had hope.
An unknown figure, a silent accomplice, was awaiting them. As she was forced into the driver’s seat, the accomplice slid into the back.
He joined her in the front seat and told her to drive.
Hope…
She twisted the key in the ignition, one step closer to her own demise.
She had to cling to hope.
She talked, because she was afraid and didn’t want to be afraid, and at the very least didn’t want them to know she was.
“You really are the worst kinds of bastards. All this had nothing to do with religion. You used so many lost souls, promising them salvation.”
“Well, there you go. You have us. Such a smart girl. Too smart. You just weren’t smart enough to see the forest for the trees.”
She glanced into the rearview mirror, trying to discern if she knew the person sitting in the back, if, indeed, it was her betrayer. She’d been so stupid! She should have seen…and yet no one else had realized the truth, either, because there had been no reason to expect anything so heinous from someone so apparently decent.
Chills crept along her spine. If only she knew…
She spoke, impatiently and with authority. “You could both get out of this now, without threat of the death penalty. You should drive me straight to police headquarters. Tell the truth. You’d have a chance to plea-bargain.”
“We could never let you go,” the man at her side said, and his tone was oddly soft. “I’m sorry.”
She realized then that he really didn’t want to hurt her. That he actually felt sorrow over what he was doing. And she also realized, at that very minute, that he wasn’t the one calling the shots.
“If something happens to me, it will never end. Dilessio will be after you until the day he dies.”
A swift, explosion of guttural fury from the rear should have silenced her. “Dilessio will never be able to prove a thing.”
“You see, they’ll have to find you first,” said the man at her side, his tone still soft.
He was afraid himself, she realized, just as she realized that not even she had really discovered the true depths of what was going on.
Too late to puzzle it out now.
Such a smart girl. Oh, yeah.
In the darkness, as she was directed toward their destination, she began to pray silently. Begging God to welcome her, to forgive her the many sins she had committed.
There was one thing she could do, she realized. Jerk the car off the road, kill them all.
She started to, but the wheel was grabbed from her hand. The sudden pressure on her fingers was so intensely painful that she forgot her purpose. The car rolled to a halt.
“We’re parked. This will do,” the one in the back said.
The pain in her hand was still excruciating. She fought it, still thinking desperately, wondering what move she could make to disarm the two men who held her at their mercy.
There was none.
Oh, God…
A split second movement from the back sent her head careening with deadly force against the windshield. As all light faded, as even pain ebbed to nothingness, she heard his voice, a sound as soft as the oblivion that reached out to welcome her.
“I really never wanted to hurt you. I am so sorry. Truly…sorry.”
God, forgive me.
The prayer filled her mind.
Fragmented like crystal…
And was gone.
CHAPTER 1
Five years later
What happened, Ashley admitted to herself later, was at least partly her own fault. But another part of it was that he startled her. And being startled was closely akin to being scared. She hated to admit to being afraid over silly things, though. It just didn’t fit with the life she had chosen.
So…
It might well have been her fault. But it wasn’t even 6:00 a.m. Nick did have a few old-timers who arrived early now and then, tapping at the door at the crack of dawn because they knew he would be up, but she hadn’t been expecting to run into any of them before the sun had even begun to peek out.
It was dark. Still the middle of the night to some people.
She was on her cell phone, as well. When it had rung, she had been certain it was Karen or Jan, making sure that she was up and almost out of the house. Naturally she answered it while juggling her coffee, purse, keys and overnight bag. It wasn’t Karen or Jan, though, but her friend Len Green, who had been with the metro force for some time now and watched over her progress like a mother hen. He was calling because he knew she was leaving. He joked that he’d called to tell her to have a great vacation and, out of kindness to Jan and Karen, since Ashley had opted to do the driving, make sure she was actually up and ready to swing by for them at approximately the right time. She laughed, thanking Len for calling, and indignantly informed him that she was always up on time. He mentioned briefly that he might be driving up that night after work with some friends on the Broward fire rescue team, so maybe they would run into one another. She had clicked the end-call button as she opened the door, but the phone was still in her hand.
There had been no tapping on the door. No hint of a knock at all. She was leaving, so she simply struggled with the lock and all she held, opened the door and barged right out.
And into him.
Into. Straight into. With impetus.
In the darkness, with the shadows of early morning broken only by the pale lights from the house, she walked right into him. She nearly screamed, as her overnight bag fell on his feet. One of the tins of cookies she had been carrying went flying. Her coffee cup, held in the same hand as her keys, was violently jostled, sending the hot liquid flying over both of them.
“Shit!”
“Shit!”
He was wearing a short-sleeved, open denim shirt, so the coffee hit his flesh. He swore—an instinctive response to being scalded. When he swore, she swore. She felt herself being steadied and stepped back quickly, still wondering if she should scream like the bloody blazes. But apparently he offered her no threat.
He looked something like a large, toned beach bum.
“What the fu—hell!” she stuttered.
“Yeah, what the hell?” he repeated, brushing at his chest, where her coffee had spattered. “I’m looking for Nick.”
“At this time of the morning?”
“Excuse me, but he told me to come at ‘this time of the morning.’”
The man was definitely aggravated. A friend of Nick’s, huh? She took another step back, frowning as she eyed him. Could be. She’d seen him before. Not all that often. He wasn’t one of the guys who sat around the bar, sharing their lives as they played armchair football during the Sunday games. Quieter. Actually, he had seemed like the brooding, silent type, the few times she had seen him. Dress him up differently and he could be Heathcliff, out walking the moors. When she had noticed him before, he had been sitting. Now she saw that he was tall, six-two or three. He had dark hair, dark eyes, strong features, and he was somewhere in his late twenties to mid-thirties. He had a rough, outdoor-type look to him, but then, most of the people around the marina had that look. Deeply tanned and well muscled—easy to see, since he was wearing cutoffs and his shirt was open, probably just thrown on as a concession to the fact that he was arriving at the private entrance to an eating establishment where shirts and shoes were required by Florida law.
“You should have knocked,” she said, then was aggravated at herself, because she sounded defensive. She lived here, damn it.
“Well, you know, I was about to do just that—before being attacked by flying coffee.”
He was suggesting, of course, that she should be apologizing. No way. She had been, frankly, scared, and that had made her angry. This was her home, and there was no reason in hell why she should have expected a man to be standing there. Not to mention that she was wearing coffee, as well. So no way was she about to apologize.
“Damn!” she said, realizing that half the cookies were a total loss, already attracting sea birds. She stared at him again. “You’ve broken my cookies.”
“I broke your cookies?” he said. She didn’t like his tone at all. Or the way his facial features tightened, more with slough-it-off contempt than with any anger. He was incredulous, as if her cookies couldn’t matter in the least.
Well, they did matter. They were a present. Sharon had left the containers on the counter with a big bow on them, suggesting she have a wonderful weekend.
“My cookies are all over the ground. Good cookies. Home-baked cookies. Cookies that were a present.” She tried to stop herself. She was sounding ridiculous—over cookies. “My keys are somewhere, I’m late, and now I have to change. We don’t open here until eleven—for your future reference. Nick is awake, however. I’ll tell him that you’re here.”
“You forgot something in your assessment of the damage.”
“What?”
“Your coffee just burned my chest. I could sue.”
“I would say your attempt to barge into my home caused me to ruin my own shirt.”
“And your cookies, of course.”
“And my cookies. So go ahead. Sue. You just do that.”
She turned back into the house, intentionally closing the door in his face. “Nick!” she called to her uncle. “Someone to see you.” Beneath her breath, she added, “Major-league, overgrown ass here to see you.”
She didn’t wait to see if Nick responded. In a hurry, she raced through the private quarters that abutted the restaurant to her bedroom, changed quickly and started back out again. Apparently Nick had heard her, because the man was standing in the kitchen now. Nick did seem to know the guy, because they were discussing something over coffee. As she breezed through, they both stopped talking. The dark-haired man watched her, coolly appraising, judging her, she was certain, but as to what his judgment might be, she had no idea, nor did she care. Nick had certainly never required that she—or any of his employees—be nice to people simply because they were customers.
“Ashley…” Nick began.
“Where’s Sharon? Is she up yet? I need to thank her for the cookies,” she said, staring back at the newcomer. She got a better look at him now. Tough guy, strong body, good-looking face, easy, powerful, controlled manner. Probably thought he was God’s gift to the women of the world.
She purposely looked away from him and at her uncle.
“Sharon didn’t stay last night. She was getting ready for some campaign work this morning,” Nick said. “Ashley, if you’ll take a second—”
“Can’t. I’ll hit all the traffic if I wait. Love you.”
Rude, perhaps, but she was in no mood for an introduction and pleasantries.
“Drive carefully,” Nick admonished.
“Absolutely. You know me.” She kissed his cheek. “’Bye. Love you.”
Outside, she retrieved everything that she had dropped, except, of course, the cookies that had spilled and fed a half dozen gulls.
She could hear Nick apologizing to the man on her behalf. “I don’t know what’s with her this morning. Ash is usually the most courteous young woman you’d ever want to meet.”
Sorry, Nick, she thought. She hoped the guy wasn’t a really good friend of his.
She was about fifteen minutes late picking up Karen, which made her about twenty-five minutes late picking up Jan. Yet once they were all in the car, it didn’t seem to matter so much, and the tension and anger she had been feeling ebbed quickly. They were still a good fifteen to twenty minutes ahead of the real start of rush hour. Both Karen and Jan were in terrific moods, delighted that they were heading off on their few days’ vacation together. There had been one container of cookies left, and Jan had happily dived right into them.
“Hey, pass the cookies up here,” Karen said to Jan.
“Excuse me, you got shotgun, I got the cookies,” Jan responded, grinning, then passed the tin of homemade chocolate chip cookies up to Karen in the front seat. Karen offered them first to Ashley, who was driving.
Ashley shook her head. “No, thanks.” Her eyes were on the road. So far they were clipping nicely along I-95. It didn’t seem to matter that they had started out later than intended. Not that much later, she told herself.
“That’s how Ashley stays thin,” Jan noted. “She has the ‘just say no’ thing down pat.”
“It’s because she’s going to be a cop,” Karen said.
Ashley laughed. “It’s because she gorged on them before leaving the house,” she told the two of them. That was true. Before the one container had gone to the birds, she’d eaten a number of them.
“Think they might be dietetic cookies?” Karen asked hopefully.
“No way. Nothing that tastes this good is dietetic,” Jan said with a sigh. “We’ll make it up, though. We’ll check into the hotel, go to the pool, swim like the dickens and walk it all off at the parks.”
“We’ll just eat more junk at the parks,” Jan said woefully. “Boy, Ashley, you just had to bring these cookies, huh?”
“If I hadn’t brought the cookies, we just would have stopped and ordered something really greasy at one of the rest stops,” Ashley assured her. “There should have been more cookies, actually. Enough to last the trip.”
“What happened?”
“I dropped them. Actually, I banged into some guy looking for Nick and they went flying. His fault, not mine.”
“We’re going to have to stop anyway—coffee to go with the cookies,” Karen reminded her. “In fact, I’m stopping here and now. Not one more bite until we get the coffee to go with the cookies.”
“Milk would be good,” Jan said.
“Milk goes with Oreos,” Karen said. “Coffee goes with chocolate chips.”
“I actually had coffee, but then…oh, well,” Ashley murmured.
“You dropped it, too?”
“Yeah, I dropped it.” She grinned at Jan via the mirror. “Actually, I spilled it all over him. And myself. I had to change. That’s why I was so late.”
“Was it a good friend of Nick’s?” Jan asked. “Was he ticked?”
“Hey, was he cute, or one of the old salts?” Karen asked.
“I don’t think he’s a good friend, but I’ve seen him around before. I guess he was ticked. But it was his fault.”
“That you spilled coffee on him?” Jan said.
“Well, he was just there—practically in the doorway. Who expects to open their door to a hulking stranger before six in the morning?”
“Well, actually, you should,” Karen pointed out. “All those aging old tars living in the houseboats at the marina know Nick is up early, and they’d rather have your coffee than make their own.”
“So, Ash, you started the morning off by burning an old geezer?” Jan said. “That isn’t like you. Most of the people who frequent that place think you’re the most wonderful little darling in the entire world and that Nick is lucky to have you.”
“I hope you didn’t cause an old guy’s pacemaker to stop,” Karen told her.
“I don’t think this guy has a pacemaker.”
“He wasn’t an old geezer?” Jan said, perking up.
“He was a young asshole,” Ashley told her.
“Hey, you never answered me, if he was cute or not,” Karen said.
Ashley hesitated, frowning slightly. She didn’t pay a ton of attention to everyone who came into Nick’s—she didn’t help out now anywhere near as much as she had done in years past. But she was usually observant. She noticed faces, because she loved to draw. And she usually remembered features very clearly. It seemed strange to her now that she had seen the man before and really not taken that much notice of him.
“I would never describe him as ‘cute,’” she assured Karen.
“Too bad. I was thinking there might be someone hot and new at Nick’s to observe,” Jan said sadly.
Ashley was silent for a minute.
“Hey, she didn’t say that he wasn’t hot,” Karen observed.
“I don’t think he’s the type I’d want to take an interest in,” Ashley said.
“Because he was rude?” Jan asked. “It didn’t sound to me as if you were in the mood to be Miss Manners yourself.”
Ashley shook her head. “I wasn’t rude. All right, yes, I was rude. Maybe I should even have apologized. But I was just in a hurry, and he startled me—even scared me there for a few seconds. He’s just…dark.”
“Dark? Hispanic, Latin, Afro-American?” Karen said, confused.
“No, dark, as in…intense.”
“Ah, intense,” Karen said.
“Well, I mean, he’s dark, too. Dark-haired, dark-eyed. Tanned. Apparently likes boats, or water, or the sun.”
“Um. Sounds sexy. The dark type.”
“Did he have a bod?” Karen demanded.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Maybe I’ll start hanging around Nick’s more,” Karen said.
“Oh, right, like you need to go looking for men,” Jan said.
“Yeah, I do. Who do I meet at a grade school? You’ve got it made, because you stand up in front of hordes of people in great outfits and sing. You’re the one who doesn’t need to go looking for men.”
“Looking is easy. They’re all over. Finding good ones is tough,” Jan said.
“Well, forget Nick’s, then. Don’t all the psychologists say never to look for a date in a bar? You’re supposed to meet them by bowling or something,” Ashley said.
“I hate bowling,” Karen commented.
“Then bowling probably wouldn’t be a great way for you to meet a guy,” Jan observed. “There you have it, how not to date in a nutshell. Put the three of us together, and we can really solve the major problems in the world,” she said ruefully.
“Hey, I solve the problems of six-to ten-year-olds on a daily basis,” Karen reminded her. “I’m responsible for molding the minds and morals of the future voters of a country in need of the best next generation in history. Ashley spends her days learning how to shoot and deal with the scum of the earth. This weekend, I think we should leave the serious stuff behind and worry about the next best serious stuff—our tans and the size of our butts.”
“We won’t set our goals too high,” Jan said. “If we can just find a few strangers who have bathed and are halfway articulate and don’t mind a few minutes on a dance floor, we’ll call it social triumph. I need a cookie.”
“Works for me,” Karen agreed. “But…butt size, huh? I think I have to have one more cookie, too, before the coffee, since it’s going to be at least twenty minutes before we reach the rest stop.”
Ashley noted, with a quick glance at her friend, that Karen delicately bit off a tiny piece of cookie and chewed slowly, savoring every nuance. That, she decided, was how Karen stayed the nearest thing to perfect. She ate everything, but had the art of nibbling down pat. One cookie could last Karen an hour. She was petite, a perfect size two, with huge sky-blue eyes and a sweep of natural, near-platinum hair, testimony to a distant Norse heritage, along with her family name, Ericson. Jan, on the other hand, was dark-haired, dark-eyed, five-nine and as fiery as her Latin surname, Hevia, suggested she might be. Ashley referred to them often by the fairy-tale names they had gained as children: Rose White and Rose Red. She was a green-eyed redhead herself, the coloration courtesy of her mother’s family, the McMartins, since her last name was Montague. Her father’s family had been mainly French, with a little Cherokee or Seminole thrown in, which meant that she had only a small spattering of freckles on her nose and the ability to acquire a fairly decent tan without burning like a beet first. She was the medium between Jan and Karen at five feet six. The two had playfully labeled her the thorn in the roses. The three had been friends since grade school, and had shared dreams, victories and heartaches ever since. This weekend was something they had been looking forward to for a long time, since their adult lives had taken them in very different directions. Karen was teaching and going to school for her master’s degree. Jan was a singer, and though she doubted she was ever going to achieve mega-star status, she didn’t care. She loved singing and songwriting, and her career was beginning to take off nicely, if modestly. She and her accompanist were being booked as an opening act for shows across the country. Ashley was in her third month at the metro police academy, and she had thrown herself wholeheartedly into every class, every subtlety of the law, rights and self-defense that could be learned.
“Think Sharon and your uncle Nick are going to get married?” Jan asked, leaning forward.
Sharon Dupre, the baker of the divine cookies, had been seeing Nick for almost a year now. They were definitely a hot item.
“Maybe. Who knows,” Ashley replied, watching the clock and the road. “Nick is such a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor. He loves his fishing and his restaurant, and I guess, as long as Sharon tolerates his habits, it could happen.”
“Well, Nick is going to have to tolerate Sharon’s weird real estate hours,” Karen said.
“True,” Ashley agreed. “He seems to deal with it all okay. Nick is a live-and-let-live guy.” She knew that well, having grown up with her uncle. She was often sad to realize that she barely remembered her parents. They had been killed in an automobile accident when she had been three. She adored Nick; he had filled the roles of both parents with love and tenderness, and there was nothing she wanted more for him than the laid-back happiness with which he had always lived. Whether that included marriage to Sharon or not was a decision he was going to have to make himself.
“Hey, there’s a great pair of pants in this ad,” Jan said, sitting forward to show the magazine she was reading to Karen. “Think they’d look good on someone with fat thighs?”
“They are great pants,” Karen said.
Jan tapped her on the arm with the magazine in mock anger. “You’re supposed to tell me that I don’t have fat thighs,” she informed her friend.
“Sorry. You don’t have fat thighs. And I think they’d be great on me, too—a little person with a bubble butt.”
“Great pants all around,” Jan said.
“You’re supposed to tell me I don’t have a bubble butt.”
“I’m jealous, considering I’m all thighs and no butt,” Jan said, then switched subjects abruptly. “You should have joined the Coral Gables force, or even South Miami, rather than metro, Ashley. What were you thinking? Coral Gables has some really cute guys. And they’re nice.”
“Yeah, the metro guys can be assholes,” Karen agreed.
Ashley arched a brow, meeting Karen’s gaze. “You just think they’re assholes because you got a mega-ticket from one,” she said. “I wanted to be on the metro force.” Miami-Dade County, also known as the Greater Miami area, was made up of more than two dozen small cities, villages and municipalities. Some had their own large forces, with departments dealing with everything from jaywalking to murder, while others depended on the metropolitan force, which covered the entire county, for their homicide and forensic divisions. She had always wanted to work where she could cover the full scope of the area where she had lived all her life. “There are good officers—and even cute ones on all the forces.”
“And you were whizzing down the highway when you got that ticket,” Jan said. “Oh, look, Ashley is bristling. When she’s in her patrol car after graduation and needs to give out tickets, you’ll have to watch out. All she’ll need to do is park near your house and wait for you to leave the driveway at ninety.”
“I do not speed that badly,” Karen protested. “And look—Ashley is speeding now!”
“She’s going two miles over the limit,” Jan said. “And watch it, or we’ll wind up crawling the whole way to Orlando.”
Even as Jan spoke, Ashley began to press on the brake.
“See,” Jan said.
“No, no, there’s something going on up there,” Ashley said, frowning.
The cars ahead of her were suddenly squealing and braking. Behind her, two cars, in attempting to stop, nearly plowed into the median.
They were almost at the turnpike. The highway was five lanes each way here, with turnpike access just ahead, and the ramp for the east-west expressway also branching off. The early morning traffic, which had been so smooth, was suddenly a mess.
“What the hell is going on?” Ashley murmured. Creeping in line behind the cars directly ahead of her, she saw that two cars had apparently been involved in an accident. She was off duty and still just in the academy, but if there had been an accident and there were no other officers at the scene, by the book, she was obliged to stop until someone on duty could arrive. But just as the thought occurred to her, Karen, who had toyed with the idea of going into law instead of education, read her mind.
“No, we don’t need to stop. There’s already a cop car at the scene—just ahead. He must have just gotten there.”
Whatever had caused the accident, they had missed it by no more than a few minutes. The lanes weren’t blocked off yet, which meant the officer really had just arrived. The drivers of the vehicles were both out of their cars. One was sitting on the median, a man with his face in his hands. The other, who had apparently struck the first, was standing by his car, just staring at the road.
The accident had occurred in the far left lane. Ashley was driving in the lane directly next to it. As she moved along, she looked to her left, noting gratefully that neither driver appeared to have been hurt.
But someone had.
As she crept along in her lane, she suddenly gasped.
There was a man on the highway. Sprawled in the lane, naked except for a pair of white briefs. He was facedown, head twisted to the side, apparently dead.
She’d gone through everything necessary to become a cop. Taken the tests and seen all the videos featuring the types of horrors a policeman was likely to be up against at some point in his career or hers. But the sight of the man sprawled on the highway, naked except for his underwear, was still shocking and terrible.
“Oh, my God,” Karen breathed at her side.
“What?” Jan demanded.
Ashley’s hands were glued around the steering wheel as she fixed the entire scene in her mind. The immediate area first. The position of the two cars involved. The cop and the cop car that had just arrived. The body. Sprawled. Naked except for the white briefs. The head, twisted. The blood that seemed surreal against flesh and asphalt.
The cars, still veering off toward the median. And, across the median, cars slowing, braking, the screech of brakes. Far across the opposing lanes, someone standing, staring at all the traffic as if waiting for a light to change.
She moved past the body. It was still imprinted in her mind. As crystal clear and vivid as a photograph. The rest merging, blurring. The cars in the opposing lanes a kaleidoscope of color. The figure standing, watching the scene…
Just someone. Faceless. Dressed in…black, she thought. Man? Woman? She didn’t know. Part of what had happened? A friend of the man who had been struck?
“What? What the hell is it?” Jan demanded from the back seat.
“A body. A body on the highway,” Karen said, her voice faltering.
“A body?” Jan swung around.
They were past it now.
“Maybe I should turn around,” Ashley said.
“The hell you should! The cop trying to deal with the situation and the traffic would be pissed as hell to have something else to deal with,” Karen said. And she was right. There was already an officer on the scene. Traffic was knotting into serious snarls as it was. By the time she could safely reach an exit, turn around and get back to the scene, an ambulance would have arrived, and more on-duty officers, probably even those specializing in traffic accidents and fatalities, would be on hand.
“You’ve got to forget it, just forget it,” Karen said sternly. “Please, Ashley. How many vacations do we get together? And get serious, there are accidents every damn day down here. Fatal ones, too. It’s sad but true. You are not on duty. You’re not even a full-fledged cop. And if you start taking every single event you witness to heart, you’re going to be a lousy cop, because you’ll be too emotionally involved with each incident when you’re required to be alert to everything.”
Karen was making a great deal of sense.
“I didn’t even see the body,” Jan said.
“You’re lucky,” Karen countered, swallowing.
Ashley was glad that, despite her words, Karen had been equally affected by the sight.
“There are accidents every single day,” Karen repeated. “People die, and they’re going to continue to die,” she told Ashley sternly.
Ashley glanced at her quickly. “They don’t die naked except for their underwear, on the highway, every day,” she countered.
“Did he come from one of the cars?” Jan asked.
“Maybe, but how?” Karen said.
“Perhaps he was in one of the passenger seats and was thrown out when the accident occurred,” Jan said.
“He was riding around in his underwear?” Ashley said.
“Hey, this is South Florida. Spend a little more time at the clubs on South Beach,” Jan said. “He might have been riding around stark naked, who the hell knows?”
“I don’t think he was in one of the cars,” Ashley said, remembering the relative positions of the cars, and the body.
“So he was walking across the highway in his underwear?” Jan said.
“Maybe there will be something on the news,” Karen said, switching the radio channel from the popular rock frequency they’d had on to the twenty-four-hour news station. The commentator was giving a rundown of events in Washington, but then switched over to local traffic.
“There’s been an accident on I-95, northbound, a pedestrian struck by oncoming traffic,” a pleasant female voice said over the airwaves. “Both left-hand lanes are now closed, so use caution and slow down while approaching the turnpike interchange. For all you folks traveling from north Dade and Broward on your way to work in the downtown Miami area, be on the alert for slowing traffic on the southbound side. The turnpike is still running smoothly to that point, but to the south, we’ve got an accident on the off ramp from the Palmetto to Miller Drive.”
The traffic report ended, and then a different newscaster came on to give a report about boating conditions.
By then they had reached the entrance to the turnpike. Ashley threw her coins into the bucket at the toll booth and moved into traffic, aware that Karen was staring at her.
“We’re going to put it out of our minds and have a good time,” Karen insisted firmly.
Ashley nodded. She tried to keep silent, then said, “It’s just too bizarre. What was a man doing running across the highway in his underwear?”
“He must have been doped up,” Jan said from the back.
“That must be it,” Karen agreed. “Why the hell else would you try to cross at least ten lanes of traffic—dressed to the teeth or half-naked?”
“Ashley, when you go back to the academy Monday morning, I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone who knows something about it,” Jan said.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“And until then, there’s nothing you can do,” Karen said.
“Yes, there is,” Ashley said.
“What’s that?”
“Stop at the first rest station, buy a big cappuccino, a horrible, greasy breakfast sandwich and stop shaking,” Ashley said.
“All right, I’m up for that,” Jan said. “I’ll stick with regular coffee and these cookies, though.”
They reached the service plaza less than thirty miles later, still subdued, but trying to rekindle the light mood that had been with them as they’d started out. While Ashley and Jan stood in line for coffee and food, Karen gathered brochures for Orlando and its multitude of tourist attractions. When they were finally seated, Jan pounced on the brochure for Arabian Knights. “I’ve never been there. I loved Medieval Times, though, and this place has horses, too.”
“And men,” Karen said. “But I thought we were going to go dancing? You know, to Pleasure Island or someplace like that.”
“One night dancing, one night watching gorgeous men on horseback,” Jan said.
Ashley was barely listening. She had taken out a pencil and was sketching on her napkin.
A hand fell over hers, stopping the movement of her pencil mid-slide. She looked up and met Karen’s. “That’s chilling—too close to what we just saw,” Karen said.
Jan drew the napkin from her and shuddered. “What are we going to do, Ashley? You’ve got to let it drop.” She gazed down at the sketch again. “Thank God I was busy looking at pants that would look good on people with fat thighs,” she said, trying to draw a smile. “I’m haunted just by the picture.”
“You should have stayed in art school,” Karen said. “A drawing on a napkin…and it’s just like the real thing. Please, Ashley…”
Ashley crumpled up the napkin. “Sorry,” she murmured guiltily. Her friends were right. There was nothing she could do about what had happened.
And she was destined to see much worse during her career as a cop.
“You haven’t really given up on art, have you?” Jan asked her. “I mean, you’re good. Really good. I’ve never seen anyone who can sketch people so well.”
“I’ll never give it up,” Ashley said. “I love to draw. It’s just that…”
“She likes the concept of a paycheck,” Karen told Jan with a sigh.
“You could have gotten a paycheck as an artist. I know it,” Jan said.
“Art school just cost too much,” Ashley said.
“You didn’t take that scholarship because you were too afraid Nick would want to help you and he couldn’t afford it,” Karen mused sagely.
“Nick would never stop me from pursuing any dream,” Ashley said a little defensively. And it was true. She knew Nick had been disappointed when she turned down the scholarship that had been offered to her by a prestigious Manhattan art college. But even with the scholarship, the money necessary to live and study in New York—even in a dorm—would have been too much. She could have gotten a part-time job, but it wouldn’t have been enough. Nick would have tried to help, but with tourism suffering, he would probably have just about sent himself into bankruptcy.
“Look, I love art, but I always wanted to be a cop. My dad was a cop, remember?”
“None of us really remembers,” Karen said. “It was so long ago.”
“I remember that I loved my folks and admired my dad,” Ashley said. “And police work is fascinating.”
“Yeah, real fascinating. You’re going to be in a patrol car, trying to chase down speeders, like Karen,” Jan said.
“Cute, Jan, really cute,” Karen said.
“Sorry.”
“Honest to God, I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing,” Ashley said.
“So, horses or dancing tonight?” Karen said.
“Let’s just flip a coin—we’ll fit them both in,” she promised. She crumpled up the wrapper from her sandwich along with the napkin on which she’d been drawing. “Ready to hit the road?”
“Want me to drive?” Karen asked.
“Good God, no!” Jan piped in. “She’ll be arresting you—or giving you a warning speech, at the very least—from the passenger seat. Hey, can you write a ticket if you’re sitting next to someone who’s driving your own car?”
“Jan,” Karen said firmly. “I’m going to throttle you in a minute. Your precious little throat will be wounded, and you’ll sound like a dying ’gator rather than a songbird.”
“Hey, you heard that—she’s threatening me!” Jan said.
“Oh, will you two please stop?” Ashley begged, a smile twitching her lips.
“Seriously, want one of us to drive?” Karen said.
Ashley shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”
As far as driving went, she was fine.
But…
It felt as if the body on the highway would be etched into her mind forever.
CHAPTER 2
Nick was behind the bar, washing glasses, when Sharon Dupre returned. She hurried in, hoping he wasn’t going to ask about where she’d been. She had said that she would arrive to help with the lunch crowd, but she hadn’t managed to get back in time.
He didn’t question her. She should have known he wouldn’t, she thought as he looked up at her with his customary grin. Nick wasn’t the jealous type. If she wasn’t enjoying his company and wanted out, she was welcome to leave at any time. If she was happy with him, well, then, she should be there, and he would be delighted.
“Hey, how was your day?” he asked.
“Great.”
“Sell anything?”
“Showed two expensive places, but I don’t have any bites—yet.”
“It takes time.”
“Has Ashley called? Did the girls reach their hotel yet?”
Nick shook his head. “She won’t call me today unless there’s a problem. I’ll probably hear from her tomorrow. Hey, she loved the cookies. She’ll tell you herself, when she gets back.”
“Good, I’m glad.”
She set her purse down behind the bar and gave him a kiss, wishing she didn’t feel so nervous. It wasn’t like her. She was never uneasy. Never. She was always in control.
She started to leave, but he pulled her back, giving her a stronger, much more suggestive kiss. When he released her, she flushed. “Sandy Reilly just came in, and he’s staring at us!”
“Sandy’s as old as the hills, and we’re stirring memories of adventure and excitement and raw sexual thrills for him,” Nick replied.
“Chill, you two,” Sandy called out. “And break it up. Let’s have some service around this place. The old-as-the-hills guy has perfect hearing, and he needs a beer.”
Sharon and Nick broke apart, both of them laughing. Nick called out, “Beer’s on the house, Sandy.”
“Thank the good Lord for some things in life,” Sandy said, shaking his white head. “I could really use a cold one.”
“You sound desperate, Sandy.”
“I am. Now I know why I stick to boats. Just went to pay some bills, and it felt as if I were on the road forever. The traffic sucks.”
“Worse than usual?” Nick said.
“Hell yes, seems like every psycho in the world is out there today, and I ain’t driving again. Line ’em up for me, Nick. Line ’em up.”
Beneath the water, Jake Dilessio could hear the sound of the scraper against the boat. Strange sound, more like rubbing than scratching. He finished with the last of the stubborn barnacles just as his air was giving out. He rose the few feet to the surface, grabbed the Gwendolyn’s back ladder, inhaled a deep breath and drew his mask from his face in a single fluid motion. Dripping, he climbed the ladder and stepped onto his houseboat.
He sensed the whirl of motion before his attacker came after him. Tension, years of training and a rush of adrenaline kicked in.
As a fist shot out, he ducked, then bolted straight up, sending out his own left jab. Luck was with him, and he caught his mystery opponent straight in the jaw.
To his amazement, the man—wearing a tailored white dress shirt, tie, seamed navy pants and leather loafers—stayed down, something like a sob escaping him as he heaved in a breath and balanced on one hand and his knees, rubbing his jaw.
“Ah, hell,” Jake muttered softly. “Brian?”
“You were sleeping with her,” the man said.
Jake reached down, helping his attacker to his feet. The man was almost his height, slim, well built and usually attractive, a blue-eyed, blond surfer type, the kind of guy to whom women tended to flock. Right now, however, his blue eyes were red-rimmed and puffed up from crying, and his jaw was swelling, disrupting the usual classic line of his features.
“Brian, what the hell are you doing here?” he asked quietly. The adrenaline had ebbed from his body as if he’d been deflated. “Come inside, I’ll get some ice for your jaw.”
Brian Lassiter started to pull away, then followed Jake into the living room of his houseboat. Efficiently designed, the Gwendolyn offered a broad main room/kitchen/dining room area all in one, while a set of stairs led down to an aft cabin and another few steps led up to the main cabin at the fore.
He drew Brian in, setting him on a bar stool, and opened the freezer to get ice. He wrapped a number of cubes in a bar towel and walked over to his visitor, shoving the bundle at him. “Here, put this on your jaw. I’ll make coffee.”
“I don’t need coffee.”
“You sure as hell do.”
“As if you’ve never had a few too many to drink.”
“I’ve had a few too many to drink a few too many times. And I’ve done some stupid ass stuff. But coming at me like that…hell, you could have gotten yourself killed.”
“I just wanted to deck you once,” Brian said. His voice dropped to a whisper-like sob. “Just once. You were sleeping with her.”
Jake had started brewing coffee. He flicked the switch on the machine hard and turned around. “Brian, I wasn’t sleeping with her. And she never told you I was.”
“You’re lying. There’s no reason for you to tell me the truth now, because Nancy is dead.”
“That’s right,” Jake said, his voice lethally quiet. “Nancy is dead.”
“And if you had been sleeping with her, you’d never tell me, ’cause now there’s no way I could know for sure.”
Jake held his temper. “I think we both remember the inquest. It was a nasty, dirty affair. But it proved one thing, Brian. She wasn’t with me that night.” She’d had what the medical examiner had deemed consensual sex with someone that night. He’d volunteered to be tested, proving that it hadn’t been with him.
“She sure as hell wasn’t with me,” Brian responded bitterly. “But even if she wasn’t with you that night, she loved you.”
“We were friends, Brian.”
“Friends. Yeah.” He was silent for a moment. “You still think I was responsible.”
“I never said that.”
“You never said that? Like hell. Every time you looked at me during the inquest, you fucking accused me with your eyes.”
Brian really had been drinking heavily. Jake shook his head. He understood the feeling. Now and then, he still felt like heading out on a major bender himself.
“Brian, you’re wrong. You couldn’t be more wrong.”
“Accident. They said it was an accident. But you…you never believed that.”
“Brian, I think you were responsible for being a real idiot now and then, but not for your wife’s death, all right?”
“I didn’t make her do shit, man. I never made her do drugs, and when we were together, we never got plastered.”
“Brian, you’re on a crying jag of a drunk right now. You’re not thinking straight. No one ever suggested that you made anyone do anything. You were an ass, and hell yes, she was mad at you a lot. But she loved you, got it? Jesus, Brian, it was all a long time ago now. What the hell brought this on?”
“You don’t know? Man, how could you have forgotten?”
Jake stared at Brian. He knew. He knew every damn year. “Her birthday,” he said softly.
“Yeah. She’d have been thirty, Jake. Thirty. Shit. She was twenty-five.”
Jake leaned against the counter, feeling as if hot wire were coiling in his stomach. “Twenty-five, and there’s not a damned thing either of us can do about it now. She’s been dead for nearly five years, Brian. And if I’ve heard right, you’ve been living for the past two of those years with a flight attendant.”
“Yeah, I’ve been living with a flight attendant,” Brian agreed. He shook his head. “Nice girl. I should marry her. But every time I get too close….” His words trailed off, and a pained expression having nothing to do with his swollen jaw crossed his features. “Well, hell, I start to wonder if Nancy will live with me forever, if I won’t keep on waking up nights and thinking she’s staring at me, thinking that if…Well, hell.”
The coffee was ready. Jake turned away from Brian and poured him a cup. Brian had hit a nail right on the head—for the two of them, though Brian couldn’t know that.
Jake felt the same. As if something of Nancy continued to haunt him, as well, after all these years.
He brought Brian the coffee. “Brian, nothing is going to bring Nancy back. And get a grip. Do you know how much time has passed? No one thinks you killed her.”
“No. Not that I killed her. That I made her kill herself.”
“She didn’t kill herself. I know it, and you know it.”
Brian lowered his head and inhaled deeply. “You know, Jake, there are people out there who think you’re one heck of a big shit and not the great distinguished powerhouse you always look like in the press.”
“There’s not a damned thing I can do about what people think, Brian,” Jake said evenly.
“Yeah, that’s right. You can’t arrest them for thinking you’re a shit, can you?”
“Brian, drink your coffee, and please tell me you didn’t drive down here.”
“Why, you gonna arrest me for that?” Brian said belligerently, staring at him.
“No, I’m just going to pray there aren’t any broken bodies along the way.”
Brian lowered his head. “No, I didn’t drive. I had a few drinks at a bar downtown and got a ride to Nick’s from a friend. Sat out on the porch and had another few beers there. I didn’t drive.”
“Good. Finish that and I’ll take you home.”
Brian stared at him, shaking his head. “I know that Nancy came to you all the time. So sometimes I wonder…hell, with everything she must have said…why don’t you just go ahead and tear me to pieces?”
“It would be illegal for me to kill you. And I’m a cop. That would make it really bad.”
Brian tried to form a smile; it came out more like a grimace.
“Yeah, but you could beat the shit out of me. Self-defense. I’ve given you cause a time or two. Why don’t you do it? Would it make you feel guilty?”
“No,” Jake said flatly.
“Then…?”
“Because she loved you. And I loved her.” The other man looked up, startled, and Jake hastened to add, “I didn’t say that I’d slept with her, Brian, just that I loved her. And she always believed there was something decent in you. Damned if I can see it, but it must be there. So…finish that coffee and I’ll get you home.”
Brian stared at him, bowed his head again and nodded. He drank the coffee and quietly asked for another cup. After that, he went into the head and cleaned himself up a bit.
Brian had left his jacket at Nick’s; they stopped for it.
Nick was behind the bar, working with Sharon, the woman he’d been dating for nearly a year, and with whom, Nick had informed Jake, he’d fallen in love. At his age. Love. She tolerated his almost twenty-four-hour work schedule. In fact, it was fine with her, since she was into real estate. She put in long days herself, sometimes—sometimes followed by days and days with little or nothing to do. She liked politics, though, and was planning on learning a lot more. She wanted to run for local office.
They hadn’t seemed like a pair to hit it off so well. But then, who the hell was he to tell?
Nick arched a brow when Jake walked in with Brian. “Everything all right?”
“Just fine.”
“Couldn’t be better,” Brian said.
“You didn’t come for another drink?” Sharon asked Brian warily.
“I’m going to drive Brian home. He left his jacket here. We just came to pick it up.”
“Oh,” Nick said, looking from one of them to the other.
“I can drive him, if you like, Jake,” Sharon offered quietly.
“No, thanks, I’ll get him back home.”
Brian threw an arm around his shoulders. “Yeah, we’re fine. Jake and me, we’re like brothers.” He grinned. “I’d get him home if he’d had a few too many. You know—share and share alike.”
“Let’s go, Brian.”
Luckily, Brian remembered directions, since he was in a new apartment. The flight attendant’s name was Norma. She seemed like a decent woman, coming to the door with concern in her eyes when Brian couldn’t quite work the key. Brian managed to introduce Jake without making snide comments. She was nothing like Nancy. Norma was short, fair and incredibly soft-spoken. Jake realized that he’d met her once on a trip upstate; she laughed and told him she remembered him, as well.
“Well, hell, why not?” Brian muttered. Those words brought a frown of confusion to the young woman’s brow, and Jake was tempted to deck him again.
“I’ll get him into bed for you and get his shoes off,” Jake said instead.
“The first door upstairs,” Norma said. “I think I’ll get him a few aspirin and some water. That might help him tomorrow morning. Did he fall?”
Jake pretended he didn’t hear. Brian was leaning on him heavily. He tripped up the first step. Jake shifted his arm, lifting Brian’s feet in the air, and moved quickly. Brian grinned at him when they hit the landing.
“Did I fall?” he said, laughing, but the sound was pathetic, bitter, and directed against himself. “Hell, yeah, I fell. Into your fist, right?”
“Brian, give yourself a fucking break,” Jake muttered.
Jake dropped Brian on the king-sized bed and did as he’d said, getting his shoes off. He was about to walk out when Brian said, “So…you know Norma.”
“I saw her on a flight, Brian.”
“I bet she’d rather sleep with you, too.”
“Quit being such a royal pain,” Jake told him. “You’re one lucky bastard. You had a great wife, and now…seems this girl loves you. Don’t mess this one up. You’ve got another chance. Don’t be an idiot.”
He started out.
“So what’s it been like for you, Jake?” Brian called to him.
He turned back. Brian was smiling ruefully. “The D.A.’s assistant. She was a real beauty. That lasted, what, three months? I hear there was a Hooters’ waitress—girl who was pure body. Ten dates, maybe? You’re still pining after Nan, too, aren’t you?”
“Brian, sleep it off. Five years is a long time.”
He went down the stairs as Norma was coming up them. “Thanks for bringing him home.”
“Sure.”
“Something like this went down last year, too. His wife’s birthday…that’s really all he ever says. I knew, soon after we met, of course, that she had died in a tragic accident. He must have really loved her. Anyway, thanks. A man who’s dealt with something like that needs help now and then. Hey, would you like coffee or something before heading out?”
“Thank you, no.”
“Well, thanks again. This was really good of you.”
“No problem.”
“Hey, I do remember you from a flight, you know. You’re a cop, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“So you knew his wife.”
“Yes, I did. I was her partner.”
Jake didn’t say anything more, just continued down the stairs and let himself out. When he returned to his houseboat, he discovered that Nick and Sharon had left him a covered dish of shrimp and pasta.
Good. He was hungry. The long weekend had allowed him a day off, but moving the boat had given him plenty to do. He ate, realizing he was starved.
He fell into bed, exhausted, but knew damned well it would be a while before he slept. Nancy’s birthday. She would have been thirty. Hell.
It was usually good to sleep on a houseboat. The light rocking of the waves. Ocean air. Both usually eased his tensions.
Not tonight.
He tossed around for a while, thinking that maybe he shouldn’t have opted to spend the night alone. And he thought about Brian’s words.
The D.A.’s assistant.
The waitress.
Yeah, there had been women in his life. But still, he would go so far…and back away. Hell, yes. He’d been in love with Nancy. Then. And now…
Now she was a ghost in his life. A phantom. A memory, a scent. Sometimes, he would swear he could still hear her laughter.
He compared every woman he met to her. And he’d never found anyone even remotely like her.
Around two, he fell asleep. He awoke later in a sweat, having slid into the nightmare again. He’d been in the water. The clear ocean water. It had been a beautiful day. Light shone through. Then clouds covered it. The water grew murky. It was canal water, and he was in it, trying to backpedal, knowing what he was going to see. And he’d heard her voice….
He got out of bed, made his way to the kitchen took a beer from the refrigerator, then went out to stand on deck. He needed to feel the ocean breeze in the night. He all but inhaled the beer, and he knew he was no more over any of this than Brian was.
She would be lost, so feminine, so beautiful, quasi-tragic, talking to him about her personal life….
Then so tough. She was capable in any situation, and she was as good as any guy on the force.
She was his partner. She couldn’t keep things from him. If she knew anything, suspected anything…
She hadn’t. At least, she had insisted that she hadn’t. But maybe she had been in a position to find out.
What the hell had she been doing? He’d never known. And he should have. He’d been her partner, for Christ’s sake! She’d died in a car, remnants of alcohol and narcotics in her bloodstream. Accidental death, that had been the ruling. She’d lost control of her car. There had been no evidence of foul play. Even so, during the inquest, all the dirt had come out. Her troubled marriage. Her close friendship—more than friendship?—with Jake.
She was gone.
The victim of a terrible accident. He hadn’t believed it. Not then. Not now.
And he’d never met anyone like her.
Something suddenly stirred in his mind.
A brief flash, an odd and fleeting sensation. Then he knew…. Earlier, he’d felt a strange sense of déjà vu. A sense of…
Memory.
Earlier that day. Maybe it had been because on some subconscious level he’d known it was Nancy’s birthday. But he had come across someone who reminded him of Nancy. Strange, too, because Nan had been tall, five-ten, dark, willowy. He hadn’t seen anyone like that.
It hadn’t been that the girl looked like Nancy, he realized. It had been something in her manner, her self-confidence, her assurance. She’d had Nancy’s ability to stand her ground, undaunted, speak her mind…not back down, fight it out and still, somehow, leave a trace of magnetism behind.
Nick’s niece. The redhead he’d bumped into that morning. Not small, but at best she was about five-six. He’d seen her before…but not often. Years ago she’d been around the place more, but she’d looked different back then, not much more than a kid. Gangly as a palm tree, a pile of flyaway hair, enormous green eyes, always running somewhere. Time had gone by; he hadn’t hung around Nick’s all that much lately. Not in almost five years, though he had applied for the new slip at the marina, the one he’d just moved into, almost a year ago now.
She’d changed. She wasn’t gangly anymore. She was curved in all the right places, and her flyaway hair was more like a sexual beacon now. Attractive, yes. But what he remembered was her voice. Her indignation. Cool, aloof, even in anger, those eyes able to sizzle into someone with total condemnation.
She was in the academy, Nick had told him.
So the kid was going to be on the force. Great.
With something about her that was so much like Nancy…
Shit. It felt as if he’d suddenly been wrapped in ice.
He hoped to hell she wasn’t too much like Nancy. A woman with too many ethics, too much determination—and not enough sense to be afraid.
He didn’t even know her. Her life was none of his damned business. And maybe she wasn’t that much like Nancy; maybe he had just made the association because it was Nancy’s birthday.
He felt a strong sense of sympathy for Brian.
He drained the last of the beer. He wanted another.
No, not a beer. A single-malt Scotch.
Hell, he wasn’t going anywhere tonight.
He went back into the kitchen, poured a shot, made it a double.
Somehow, he was damned well going to sleep that night.
Ashley, Karen and Jan had reached the hotel with no further trouble. They’d checked in and spent a few hours sipping piña coladas at the pool. After talking it over, they opted for the show that night and dancing the following evening.
The horses were magnificent, and the entire show was a lot of fun. Ashley found a message waiting on her phone when the show was over. Len had indeed decided to drive up with his firefighting friends. They would be at a late-night swing club.
“Fire guys?” Karen inquired.
“They’re not all incredibly buff and good-looking,” Jan warned.
“We could take a chance,” Karen said.
And so they did.
Len was there with two friends, as if he’d made an effort to round out the party. Len was tall and built like a rock himself. He had told Ashley that he had gotten into physical fitness when he’d applied for the force, then kept it up. He was sandy-haired, and green-eyed, with a few freckles, thirty-one years old, and a genuinely nice guy. She knew he wanted their relationship to go beyond friendship, but she didn’t. As nice as he was, she simply wasn’t attracted to him. She knew that she couldn’t say that, since nothing would be quite so devastating to a man with an ego, so she kept their relationship platonic by insisting that nothing was more important to her than getting onto the force and keeping up with a few art classes in between.
He seemed to have accepted that they were limited to friendship. Sometimes he even made her laugh, telling her about his disastrous dates, his quest for the right woman.
Both the men with him, Kyle Avery and Mario Menendez, perfectly fit the public’s idea of what a rugged young firefighter should look like.
“Ashley, you do know how to pick ’em,” Karen told her. “He’s to die for.”
“Which one?”
Karen was silent for a minute. “Actually, all of them. Especially your friend Len. I don’t understand why you don’t scoop him right up.”
“Because it isn’t there.”
“What isn’t there? He sure looks like he’s got everything to me.”
“Go for him, then,” Ashley said.
Karen shook her head. “Too awkward. He’s got the hots for you.”
“He’s a friend, Karen. If you make him happy, you’ll make me happy.”
“C’mon, you two. This is a dance club,” Jan interrupted. “Let’s dance, then we’ll sort out the psychology of it all, hmm?”
After a few hours of swing, changing partners frequently and dancing with others, as well, Karen claimed exhaustion. She, Jan and Ashley made for the ladies’ room while the men ordered drinks.
“Ashley, I’m flirting away with your buddy, making myself very happy and keeping you in the clear, but you’re not showing the least sign of interest in anyone,” Karen stated.
Ashley sighed. “I’m in the middle of the academy and trying to help Nick out now and then. I don’t want to be involved. And it’s getting late. I may opt out of the rest of the evening and head back.”
“It’s not that late. And you don’t have to get involved with anyone. Just have fun, Ashley. I’m a teacher. I spend my life with little kids. I do the ABCs and two plus two, and wash little hands and help blow little noses all day. It’s been almost a year since I had what you’d actually call a real boyfriend—and I don’t miss that creep! But I do miss…company. Okay, and sex. Don’t you ever just want to have sex?”
“Karen, sex is a great thing. But maybe you want to get to know him a little.”
“I don’t know,” Jan teased, checking her lipstick. “Sometimes guys are a lot better before you get to know them.”
“He lives in Miami. She should get to know him,” Ashley said.
“Mother Superior has spoken,” Karen acknowledged. “But let’s not call it quits already, huh? I gave him my phone number. And if he calls me once we’re home…great. Or he may start pining for you all over again.”
“Karen, we’re friends. That’s all.”
“I hope that’s true. I hope he does call. He has a respectable job. He’s nice as hell. He drinks, but not a lot, and he dances swing. Don’t you dare insist we leave right now. And be nice.”
“Be nice? He’s my friend. I’m always nice.”
Karen sighed, her chest heaving with impatience. “I mean, be nice to all of them. Please…Jan may not admit it, but she’s saving all her quality flirting for Kyle, so just be decent to Mario so we can try to keep their threesome together. With us.”
“I told you, I’ll be nice.”
“Ashley, you’re crazy. Have you ever really looked at your friend’s buns?”
“No, Karen, I haven’t actually stared at his butt, but if you say so, I’m sure his buns are great.”
Karen shook her head again. “She’s crazy,” she told Jan.
“No, I understand her perfectly,” Jan said. “It’s either there or not. I can’t really explain what ‘it’ is, chemistry or whatever, but if it isn’t there, it isn’t there. So quit feeling guilty and checking with Ashley to make sure she’s really not romantically interested. She isn’t. And we’re wasting time here, discussing this all in a bathroom.”
“Right, let’s get back there,” Karen said. “And you, Ashley, start talking to Mario. Talk shop if you have to.”
“I’m in the police academy, not fire rescue.”
“It’s almost the same,” Karen insisted.
Ashley discovered that she was actually able to have a nice conversation with Mario, who was somewhat shy and reserved. He was married and was just out with his single friends for the weekend because his wife was in Connecticut for two weeks visiting her folks. He was relieved to tell her about being a newlywed, since his friends had been afraid he was going to ruin a fun night for them.
Ashley told him about the accident they had witnessed, and he told her stories about calls they’d taken on I-95, some tragic, some simply bizarre. When the others rejoined them at the table after dancing, she found herself repeating the story, knowing Len might be interested, since it had occurred in their neck of the woods.
“Ashley, you’re going to see things like that more and more often,” Len said. “Bad things happen on the highways.”
“Hey,” Karen said. “We all decided we were not going to focus on that awful scene.” She stared at Ashley, who hadn’t even realized she had a pen out, or that she was sketching the highway scene on a cocktail napkin.
“Ashley is an artist,” Karen announced. She kept her eyes glued sternly on Ashley and flipped the napkin over.
“An excellent artist,” Jan said. “Draw a face, Ashley. Draw Kyle.”
Ashley obediently began a sketch of the firefighter. The others rose and stood behind her, staring over her shoulder as she drew.
“Wow!” Kyle said, looking at her with new respect. “That’s great. Sign it. I want to keep it.”
“Will you do one for me, too, please?” Mario asked.
“How about Karen and Jan?” Len asked when she was finished, handing her a stack of napkins.
“I’ve drawn them dozens of times.”
“But maybe Kyle and I would like to keep them,” Len said.
Karen covertly jabbed her. “Of course,” Ashley said.
She finished the pictures and passed them out. Kyle shook his head. “So…Len says you’re going to be a cop, right? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being a cop but…these are great.”
“And she has a photographic memory. Draw someone from today—show them,” Jan insisted.
Karen placed a hand over Ashley’s. “Not the highway,” she said.
Ashley shrugged. “All right.”
“You go ahead, I’ll get the check,” Len said.
“Hey, Len, that’s not necessary.”
“You’ve fed me plenty of times, Ash, at Nick’s place.”
“That means my uncle fed you,” she protested.
“Don’t argue with an officer of the law,” he teased and walked to the bar. Ashley watched him go, shook her head and set her pen to the paper. She hesitated, then started another face. She was startled herself when she saw what she was doing. Strong, craggy features, dark hair, dark eyes, square jawline, high, broad cheekbones, and the mouth…drawn into something of a tight line, but a good mouth…
“Wow. Cool. Who is it?” Karen asked, picking up the napkin.
“The guy I spilled the coffee on this morning.”
“Good-looking son of a gun,” Karen murmured.
“See, photographic memory,” Jan said, pleased.
“Not really. But I like to draw faces. I always have,” Ashley said to the two firefighters. Kyle whistled softly. She stared down at her own drawing, oddly stirred by it. Good-looking son of a gun. Yeah, he had been. Walking aggression and testosterone, but…hmm. There was something about him. A beckoning power or strength or sensuality. Maybe all of them. She hated the saying, but animal attraction might just be the right phrase to describe him.
He did have something that…
Something that, for her, Len just didn’t.
Don’t you ever just want to have sex?
She looked back at her drawing. His type probably had lots of sex. He wasn’t the kind of man with whom she would ever want to become involved. Not that she wanted to be involved.
With luck, she wouldn’t even run into him again. Literally or otherwise. Even though he did seem to know Nick, and she had actually seen him around the place before. Lots of customers came and went, some of them frequently, some of them not so frequently.
“You’re good. You shouldn’t waste this kind of talent,” Kyle said, interrupting her introspection.
She exhaled, glad to return to the present. “Thanks,” she said, then crumpled up the napkin.
“You destroyed it!” Mario protested.
“She didn’t like him very much,” Jan said, grinning.
Len returned from paying the check. They talked as they exited the dance hall, Len expressing his regret that they were heading back the next afternoon, since Mario and Kyle went back on duty the next day.
They parted outside to head for their respective hotels, but not before Kyle and Jan exchanged numbers. As they walked back, Karen suddenly linked arms with Ashley and let out a soft whistle. “Wasn’t it a great evening?”
“Yes, I had a good time, and I really hope you and Len do keep seeing each other.”
“Yes, a guy like Len shouldn’t go to waste,” Jan said. “And, Ashley, your guy was mature…a little scary. But…appealing.”
Ashley stared at her, frowning as she arched a brow. “Definitely a nice guy. And married,” she informed her.
Karen laughed, throwing an arm around her shoulder. “I don’t think Jan means the firefighter. She means the guy in the sketch.”
“He isn’t my guy!” Ashley insisted, startled.
“Oh, yeah? You should have taken a good look at that picture you drew. You saw something in that guy,” Karen told her.
“I don’t even know him. And with any luck, I won’t.”
“There’s nothing like a mystery man,” Jan teased.
“Oh, yeah, right, nothing like one.”
As soon as they reached the suite, they headed for bed. But Ashley couldn’t sleep. When both Karen and Jan were deeply out, she was still wide awake. So she closed the door over to the bedroom, went out to the living area to make a cup of tea, and picked up her sketch pad from the coffee table.
When the three men reached the room they’d rented for the night, Len suddenly drew back as Kyle fumbled with the plastic card that had replaced the use of keys at most hotels.
“Hey, you know what? I’m suddenly dying for a burger.”
“You want us to come with you?” Mario asked. “I guess I could eat a burger.”
“Hell, no, you don’t really want a burger, and I don’t need help to take a ride to Denny’s,” Len said cheerfully.
“You sure?” Mario asked. He yawned. “Hell, I’m beat.”
“Get to sleep. I won’t be long, and I’ll try not to make a racket when I get back.”
“Last man in gets the cot,” Kyle reminded him.
“Yeah, well, one of us had to get it, right?”
He grinned, turned and headed back for the car.
He didn’t drive to Denny’s. He turned his car toward the girls’ hotel and parked.
Karen had given him their room number, and mentioned that they’d wound up on the first floor, so the sliding glass doors at the back opened up to a little courtyard and garden area.
He headed for the courtyard and figured out which room it would be.
The lights were on. One person was moving inside. He knew it was Ashley.
The drapes were thin, the light behind them bright. He could see her every movement. She walked around, paused by the window, drew the curtain back and looked out.
He flattened himself against a gardenia tree.
She was holding a cup of something, just gazing out. She was wearing a long T-shirt that clung to her. In the artificial light, her hair blazed. The wavy ends seemed to curl protectively around her breasts. The knit shirt hugged the length of her. She never could have imagined just how provocative she looked.
His fingers wound into his palms, and tension streaked through the length of him. You don’t know just how well I know you, Ashley, he thought. I knew you’d be the one who was awake, I knew I could come here and see you. And one day, Ashley, you’ll find out just what you’ve made me feel all this time.
One day.
The sliders were open, only the screen in place, letting in the breeze.
That one day…
Could be tonight.
No. Not tonight. Tonight, he would just watch.
But soon. Soon she would know. He’d make her know.
The night was beautiful. Just beautiful. But not even the stars in the sky or the soft glow of moonlight on the exquisite little garden could draw her attention.
She stepped back into the room and went over to the desk. She’d already taken her sketch pad out.
She started to draw. First, the body…the body on the highway.
A man, young, muscle structure taut beneath…the spatters of blood. His hair covering his face, a soft ash blond.
Around him…the officer who had arrived on the scene. The police car. The two drivers. Their cars. The traffic slowing, veering…nearly hitting the median.
The median. The opposing traffic…
The figure across the expanse of lanes.
She sketched, shading in until, even in black and white and shades of gray, the scene was eerily real. And everything detailed except…the figure. The vague figure across the many lanes. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember any details…
It was all as she had remembered it, how the camera in her mind’s eye had frozen the image.
Everything so specific—except for the dark figure who seemed to be watching…looking…
For what?
Assurance that the man—the poor, pathetic man, near-naked and bloodied—was, indeed, dead?
A chill suddenly swept over her.
A breeze…
More than a breeze. Something that made her slightly…uneasy.
She turned quickly, then felt foolish. Even so, she walked over to the doors, then closed and locked them. She looked at the thin drapes, frowning, thinking that the sun would come rushing in the next morning.
The next morning. It was morning, and that sun would be coming soon.
Pulling the light draperies back, she saw the set of lightproof draperies, pulled them, then checked the lock once again and went to lie down on the couch.
She closed her eyes, but the image of the body on the highway still haunted her.
Swearing, she pounded her pillow. Counting sheep had always seemed like such a ridiculous thing to do….
And yet she was desperate.
She counted horses instead.
Strange dream. There was fog and sunlight. She was walking toward him in the dream. Sometimes they were on a beach, and sometimes she was moving toward him in the cabin of the Gwendolyn. Hair spilling down her back, flesh…yeah, naked flesh, all of it being touched by the sun and by the shadow.
Nancy…
He’d dreamed often that she’d been there, with him, trying to tell him something. Except that it hadn’t been like this. Before, they’d just been talking. Discussing the case. The frustrations, the dead ends. But she’d known something. Reckless, restless, unhappy in her married life, she was determined to throw her heart into her work.
They were good partners.
Not good enough. There had been something more, something she had suspected, something she had thought of doing to break the wall they were up against.
Then he dreamed of her face as it had looked, on the autopsy table, after they had found her. And that would always strike such a chord of horror in his heart and mind that he awakened.
Not tonight, though. Tonight that image didn’t appear.
He couldn’t see her clearly. Her hair wasn’t dark; it was red in the light.
It wasn’t Nancy. Just someone like her. Who moved something like her…
It was Nick’s girl. Walking with a slow, confident, easy rhythm. She reached him. The dream progressed. Memory faded, the now took hold. She was different, very much alive, real, vibrant. She was…reaching him. Touching him. She was…
He awoke abruptly, in a cold sweat. The alarm was ringing.
Fuck.
No. Not the alarm, the phone. Hell, what time was it? The middle of the night. And still, bleary, wretched, he was glad of the sound. It had drawn him from the depths of the most bizarre wet dream…about Nick’s kid. He needed to stay the hell away from her. Far away.
Shouldn’t be hard, not after the way they had just reacquainted themselves.
The phone…
Still ringing, like a hammer pounding inside his head.
He picked up the phone. Listened. And his knuckles went white against the receiver.
CHAPTER 3
“There’s not a lot left of the face,” Martin Moore said, nodding to the uniformed officer who allowed him and Jake through the crime tape to the off-road location where the body had been discovered.
“I think the recent rains washed her down here. She was probably buried in a shallow grave farther in from the road.”
It was the crack of dawn, Saturday morning.
He wished he hadn’t switched to Scotch the night before.
And he wished he had one then. Marty’s call had been way beyond bizarre.
So much for the long weekend off. But since the case had never been officially closed, he had been called in. Marty had been in vice, the narcotics squad, five years ago, when the first murders had occurred, but he had worked with Jake for a long time now and knew the past history of what were still referred to as the Bordon murders—as well as anyone. He also lived in the area, so he’d reached the scene first.
Police floodlights helped illuminate the area, which was still dark. Inky dark. Much of this part of the county had been developed out of land that was really part of the Everglades. The dirt was rich here and the foliage thick. Lights were few and far between. Before dawn, the darkness could be a strange ebony, as if the Glades had reclaimed what was really part of a no man’s land.
Jake paused a few feet from the corpse, taking his first look at the body that had been discovered that morning by a jogger. A foolish jogger, he thought, running at a time when the night still held sway in an area where the obsidian shadows and undergrowth could hide many a sin.
The jogger, he noted, was still on the scene. She was a middle-aged woman with a pretty, too-skinny face, a sweatband around her forehead, and the typical shorts, T-shirt and sneakers found among those who chose the quiet paths out in the farm district for their morning rituals. She was badly shaken by her discovery. He could hear her sobbing softly, speaking to the officers, who had supplied her with a blanket and hot coffee.
“My God, I was just running and then…there she was. I saw her…and it was so dark, I didn’t even realize at first. And so I doubled back. And I was so frightened I could barely punch the numbers into my cell phone. Thank God for cell phones! I know now that I’ll never go out jogging when it isn’t full light again. I don’t care if I have to learn to run around my own living room, I’ll never, never come out like that again. It’s so terrifying. But then, of course…she was just left on the road, right? She might not have been killed there, right?”
Jake could hear one of the uniformed officers telling her that they had no facts right then, but that she didn’t need to worry, one of the officers would get her back home.
Lady, you shouldn’t go out jogging along this path alone before the sun is up in any way, shape or form, Jake thought. They were in what most people in the county considered to be the country. Far south in Miami-Dade, an area where the old encroached on the new, where waterways connected to the deep river of grass that was Everglades. There was good land out here. Some people kept large tracts with beautiful homes, and some had acreage where they grew strawberries, tomatoes and other produce.
Good earth for growing intermingled with sawgrass, deep dark muck and tangled trees.
Much of the land, such as this immediate area, was county owned. It was often heavily wooded, and where there weren’t actually trees, the foliage was thick and dense.
A good place to dispose of human remains, a place where nature could inflict tremendous damage on a corpse and render many of the clues it might have given up hard to discern, even destroy them. Over the years, a number of criminals had tried to dispose of bodies and evidence on land much like this. And, God knew, many of them had succeeded.
The jogger was just the poor civilian who had happened upon the physical remnants of a brutal crime. There would be little, if anything, she could tell him. Still, he would speak with her himself for a moment. Later.
For now…
The victim.
“Where’s the M.E.?” he asked.
“Right over there, talking with Pentillo, who was first officer on the scene. The M.E. is Tristan Gannet. Mandy’s taking the last of the pictures he requested right now.”
“Good. I’m glad we’ve got Gannet and Nightingale.”
Mandy Nightingale, one of their best photographers, was snapping photos as they carefully approached the position of the body.
“Hi, Jake,” she said, acknowledging his arrival with a quick nod before she snapped another photo.
“Mandy, good to see you here.”
They had worked together many times. She was thin as a wraith, with steel gray, close-cropped hair, and a strong, Native-American facial structure that defied age entirely. She was quick and efficient, careful to snap a crime scene in its entirety, to make sure that she not only got excellent photographs of the body but of the surrounding elements as well.
“Thanks, Jake. I’ll be out of your way in just a second.”
“Take your time, Mandy,” he told her. “There’s no hurry for this one now.”
“I think I’ve gotten just about everything I can and everything that Dr. Gannet specified,” she assured them, squatting low to focus on a last photograph. “I’ll be over with Pentillo, hanging around ’til the M.E. moves the body and I can take the rest of the shots,” she told them.
“Thanks, Mandy.”
She nodded. “I think Dr. Gannet knows you’re here. I’ll send him right over.”
Jake hunkered down on the balls of his feet to study the body in the position in which it had been found.
He didn’t need the medical examiner to tell him that the woman had been dead for some time. She had been exposed to the elements and to the small animals that called the area home. There were places where she was down to no more than bone, and places where flesh clung precariously to the body. It appeared that she had been left without clothing of any kind. A quick look, using his pen to shift fallen foliage for a better view, showed that unfortunately the hands had decomposed almost fully, as had much of the face.
Another murder in the county. It happened. Put millions of people together, and murder happened.
But he knew exactly why Martin had been so tense when he had called him, urging him to reach the scene as quickly as possible.
The face, though maintaining few of the qualities that marked men and women as human, had apparently not taken the same abuse as the hands.
And it was apparent that what had once been the ears had been slashed.
A chill crept through him, along with a bitterness he could actually taste.
Déjà vu.
Peter Bordon, also known as Papa Pierre, had been locked up for a long time now. Five years. But even a seconds-long, cursory inspection of this body was eerily reminiscent of the victims that had been discovered during Bordon’s reign as leader of the bizarre cult called People for Principle.
“Yes, he’s still in prison,” Martin said, reading his partner’s mind.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. I called and checked the moment I saw the body, right after I called you,” Martin said. “He’s in prison—whether it really matters or not, that’s where he is.”
“Sorry,” Jake murmured. He couldn’t quite help having a tense attitude on this one. Peter Bordon had garnered a group around him as if he had been a true modern-day prophet. He had preached about community, working for the benefit of all mankind and giving up the luxuries of a sinful life. For most of his followers, that had meant donating everything they had ever worked for to Bordon’s own bank account.
Three of his alleged followers had wound up dead. Discovered in fields and canals.
With their ears slashed.
No weapons had ever been found. No real leads had ever been discovered. Bordon had been the only suspect, but there had been nothing whatsoever to prove he might be guilty. The police had managed to obtain a search warrant for his holdings, but nothing had been found except for some illegal financial activity, which in the end had been enough to earn him jail time.
Late one night, an itinerant man had come bursting into one of the small precinct stations, confessing to the murders.
While homicide was being notified of his arrival and confession, the young man had hanged himself with his belt in his cell.
And that should have been it.
But Jake and most of his task force hadn’t believed that one crazed man had been responsible for a series of killings that had been so meticulously carried out. The case had never been officially closed, but with the death of the man who had confessed, the imprisonment of Bordon based on what they were able to bring into court, and the fact that no more bodies had been discovered, they had been forced to move on to new investigations.
Jake had never been satisfied, though. For him, it had never ended.
They hadn’t gotten Bordon on murder.
Bordon had been involved. He was sure of it. But there was no proof. Jake had never thought that Bordon had physically carried out the crimes; they had been done at his command.
Now he was in prison, but there was no reason in hell why he couldn’t be calling the shots from his cell.
Bordon had a power far greater than strength or any material weapon. He had the ability to manipulate men and women. To get into their minds.
He didn’t need to dirty his own hands with the blood of others.
Planning a murder, however, could bring the same penalties as the act of carrying out the deed. But complicity had to be proven.
Five years ago, the task force had plowed through Bordon’s records, desperate to get him on something. They had never gotten him for ordering the killings, but just as, decades ago, the law had managed to put away the infamous Al Capone, they had at last gotten him on tax evasion and fraud.
Unsatisfactory, but at least he’d been locked away.
The murders had stopped. Most people seemed to assume that had been because the man who had confessed to the killings had committed suicide in a jail cell.
But now it seemed that the killings hadn’t stopped.
There had just been a hiatus, because here was another body, jarringly reminiscent of those they had found in the past.
“Jesus, Jake, don’t look like that,” Martin said softly. “Maybe you shouldn’t even be on this case.”
Jake stared at him, dark eyes hard as coal.
“All right, all right. Sorry.”
“Gentlemen, may I get back in there? I’ll give you my initial findings.”
Jake turned. Dr. Tristan Gannet made his way back over to them. Jake was glad that it was Gannet on the case. He had been with the M.E.’s office almost twenty years and had had experience with the previous murders.
“Glad to see you, Gannet,” Jake said. He quickly scanned the scene again himself before joining Gannet down by the body. No apparent materials or fabrics. No sign of footprints, but if they were right and the body had washed down here with the rain, there wouldn’t be. No obvious sign of cause of death, most likely because the body was so decomposed. Victim was most probably a young woman, a few strands of long dark hair remaining. The first patrolman to arrive on the scene had done a damned good job of taping the scene off and keeping it untainted. This was no instance of a dozen officers arriving and contaminating the area. There was just so little to be found when a body had been given time to decompose. Of course, there was always the hope that the specialized crime scene investigators could find a clue that wasn’t visible to the naked eye.
Jake had a feeling this one would be hard work for the crime scene investigators. When a murderer was careful and knew that minuscule clues could give his or her identity away, there was often little to go on.
There was still hope, of course. His associates might find a hair, a fiber, trace evidence. Doc Gannet might find a microscopic clue on the pathetic remains.
No chance of finding flesh beneath the fingernails, though. The fingernails were gone. For that matter, there would be no identification through fingerprints—no flesh remained on a single finger or on the thumbs.
“And no one will recognize her from her face,” he murmured.
“Dental records are usually our best bet anyway, often,” Gannet said. “We’re lucky here, I think. I’m willing to bet the flesh was cut from the fingers, before the animals and the environment had a chance to do their work.” He looked at Jake for a moment, and he knew they were both thinking along the same line.
In the previous murders, the ears had been slashed, and the flesh had been cut from the fingers. Why bother destroying fingerprints, then leaving the head and teeth so that an identity could be culled from dental records?
Were they back to where they had started?
Or was there a copycat killer out there?
“Could be a copycat,” Gannet said, as if Jake had actually voiced his thoughts.
“Yeah,” Jake said.
Gannet stared down at the remains, sorrow in his face. Real emotion, but under complete control. That was another thing Jake liked about Gannet. He did his work well. And though he didn’t take every single case to heart so that he couldn’t sleep at night, he had never, in all his years of work, lost compassion for the victims, whether of accident or violence. “We’ll find out who she is,” he assured Jake.
“I need your findings on this as fast as possible,” Jake said.
Gannet nodded. “Naturally,” he said, a slight touch of sarcasm in his voice. Unfortunately, untimely deaths occurred with a certain frequency in the county. He looked up at Jake again. “Don’t worry. I intend to get right on this one.” He stared at Jake a moment longer. Maybe he knew Gannet too well, Jake thought.
During the last spate of similar murders, Jake had worked the case aggressively on behalf of the victims. Even after the suicide of the “confessed” killer. And even after Bordon’s incarceration.
For the victims.
And because he’d suspected that Bordon had been involved in another death, as well.
Another death…Nothing like this. But far too close to home. Nancy’s death.
Not too many others on the force had agreed with him on that one. They’d thought he was creating scenarios of Bordon’s guilt because he had to find a guilty party and couldn’t accept a verdict of accidental death in the case of a fellow cop.
Or even suicide, as some had suggested.
Suicide. Never. It was a theory to be rejected entirely. No one who’d known her could ever even begin to accept such a possibility.
“Are you going to be all right with this?” Gannet asked softly.
“You bet. I’m a professional, Gannet. And if we do need to make comparisons to past cases, there’s no one out there who knows both the facts and the theories better than I do.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Gannet said. Gloves on, he looked over the remains. Two assistants from the morgue had arrived to take the body when Gannet and the scene-of-crime investigators had finished their site inspection. Gannet nodded an acknowledgment to the others and quietly asked them to make sure they included the dirt and scrub around the body when they removed it from the site.
“Any idea on the actual cause of death?” Jake asked.
“Not natural,” Gannet said.
“Wow. I don’t have a medical degree, and I knew that.”
Gannet grimaced at him. “Knife…big knife. Maybe a machete.”
Jake looked at him in surprise. “There’s not enough flesh—”
“A few courses in forensics and you’d see this just fine.”
“I’ve had a few forensics courses,” Jake reminded him dryly.
“Maybe. But the condition of the corpse makes it hard to see the forest for the trees. Almost literally. Shift this foliage and filth around a little and you get a good look at the bone. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s covered with dirt. But see? If you look really closely…the scratch there? I have to do a full autopsy, but I’d bet we’re talking a very large blade. And you’d need a blade to do that to the ears…and the features. The animals have been at her, but still…those aren’t teeth marks. Definitely made by a blade. And, as we’ve both seen, the flesh was removed from the fingers. You’ve been at this a while, and you seem to know more than you let on most of the time, because you want me to make what you’re already pretty damned sure you do know, official. Yeah, animals have been at her. But the flesh from her fingers was cut off, not gnawed away, or simply decomposed.”
“Hell. This is more than déjà vu. We could definitely be talking the same—” Jake began.
“From what I see so far, yes, but don’t go taking anything as absolute yet. Let me get her down to the morgue. And don’t forget, Jake, what we both already know, as well. There can be copycats out there. There have been cases where murders have been researched and studied and duplicated almost perfectly. There are victims assumed to have been murdered by one serial killer who in reality were killed by someone else entirely.”
Jake arched a brow to him.
“Hey,” Gannet said with a grin. “You learn more about autopsies every year, and I learn about cop work.” He was quiet again for a moment, eyes on the victim. When he spoke again, his tone was serious and flat. “Like I said, I’ll get right on it. You can meet me at the morgue. Hey, I heard you’re moving your houseboat.”
“I moved it. Yesterday.”
Gannet was watching him carefully. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. A change of scenery is always good.”
“It’s still the same old boat,” Jake said dryly.
“Still…a new marina. You wake up to a different view.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t say more. He had the feeling that Gannet—like others around him—believed he’d shared more than a patrol car with Nancy, so, a change of pace now was a good thing. Even if it had been almost five years since Nancy’s death.
He could have said something, he supposed, could have come to his own defense, though he wasn’t being attacked, he knew.
And he had no need to excuse or defend himself to anyone. The inquest had cleared him—as far as that night went, anyway. The general and even logical consensus had been that Nancy, feeling desperate over the disintegration of her marriage and the pressures of her job, had just gone wild for a night. She’d met someone, done some drinking, popped a few pills…and found her way into the canal. But there was one factor he and Brian had in common—they’d both known Nancy well. The year after her death, even with the breakup of Bordon’s cult, had been a bitch for Jake. He’d been like a dog with a bone, determined to connect the two. He’d come close to crossing the line between investigation and harassment, and he’d been called on it. He’d resented his time with the police psychiatrist, though it was common practice for cops to receive such counseling after the death of a partner. He’d realized after a while that he would have to take a step back. Outwardly, he’d become a practical and methodical cop again, following the rules as closely as he could.
But he’d never changed his mind about the truth of the situation. Or his determination to see it come out one day.
“I’d like to live on the water,” Gannet said. “Maybe one day.”
“You should come by on a Sunday sometime. I keep a little motorboat, as well. Fishing is good for the soul.”
“Yeah, I’d like that.” Gannet grimaced. “Maybe my wife will let me come.”
“Bring her.”
“She’s not big on beer.”
“We’ll get her a bottle of wine.”
“I’ll take you up on it, one way or the other, soon enough,” Gannet assured him.
“Dr. Gannet, Detective Dilessio?”
Jake turned. Mandy Nightingale was back. “Are you ready to move the body and let me get the rest of the scene?”
“I’m good to go, Mandy,” Gannet said.
“Jake?” she inquired.
He nodded. “If Gannet’s ready, so am I.”
“Good. You should know then, Jake,” she said softly, “that they’re holding back a slew of reporters over there.”
“Want me to handle them?” Marty asked Jake.
Jake shook his head. “No, it’s all right. Get some of our men started on a door-to-door. I know the doors are pretty far apart around here, but someone might have seen something. I’ll take care of the press.”
“Are you sure? I saw your eyes. It’s all coming back, and you took the entire thing way too personally before—”
“Martin, I’m all right. We’re talking about something that happened five years ago. I’m a cop, this is my job. Just keep an eye on things here, Marty. We can’t let anything, not the most minute clue, slip away.”
Martin nodded. Jake walked from the scene and across the road, where the uniformed officers were holding the onslaught of reporters at bay.
“A murder, right? A young woman?” Jayne Gray, from one of the local stations, called to him.
“Jayne, I’m afraid there’s not too much we can say right now. We’ve got the body of a woman who has apparently been dead several weeks, even a few months. We’ve yet to determine anything else as fact, but as soon as the M.E.’s office has further information, I know they’ll share it. And when that happens, you know that a police spokesperson will be telling you all that they can. There’s nothing else you can learn here right now, folks.”
“But, Detective Dilessio, there must be more you can give us.” Bryan Jay, an obnoxious, heavy-set man from the local paper, called out. “It’s a murder, right? You’ve found the victim of a murder, in the mud, off the side of the road.”
He was tempted to give Jay a real wise-ass reply. Hell, no. She decided to drop herself off there, lie down and die.
“Mr. Jay, give the medical examiner time to do his work,” Jake said firmly.
“Right,” Jay replied dryly. “Come on, Jake, give us something.”
“I’ve already explained that we have the body of a woman, Mr. Jay.”
“Think we have a single crime here, or do we have a serial killer on the loose? Isn’t this the way the first victim was found in those serial killings years ago? Are there any mutilations?”
Leave it to Jay to home in on an uncomfortable suspicion of his own, Jake thought.
“Unfortunately, this is a big city. We have a lot of murders every year.”
“Still, this seems awfully similar to me. The kid who supposedly did the killing back then is dead though, right?”
“A man who claimed to have committed the murders committed suicide, yes.”
“But the case was never officially closed, right?”
“No, Mr. Jay, it was not.”
“The police cracked down on the local cults back then. Papa Pierre, alias Peter Bordon, was a suspect, right? But he’s been locked up for years now, right?”
Jake heard the blood rushing in his ears. He gritted his teeth, desperately fighting the temptation to step forward and bash Bryan Jay in his smug, jowly face.
“Come on, Jake!” another woman called out.
He knew her, too. Crime beat from a Broward paper. She’d moved fast to get down here, he thought.
“Peter Bordon is in prison in the center of the state. As anyone on the crime beat is surely aware, he was never tried for or convicted of murder,” he said.
“That’s right. Neither was the crazy guy who killed himself in jail. Harry Tennant. He was just a homeless junkie, huh? He claimed to have been the murderer, but then, lots of sickos like to claim they’re responsible for sensational murders.”
“Due to Mr. Tennant’s death, we weren’t able to investigate his story, Mr. Jay.”
“Looks like he wasn’t a killer, though, huh? You guys didn’t follow up, and it looks like the murderer is out there and at it again,” Jay said.
“Mr. Jay, I’m sorry, we’re trying to deal in fact, not supposition. There’s nothing else I can give you right now,” Jake said firmly. He forced himself to speak a level tone. “We live in a great country, and I respect the press beyond all measure. I will not, however, stand here and spout off a bunch of theories when I haven’t got any facts. Journalism deals in facts, right? As soon as we’ve got something to give you, we will. Thanks, and that’s all for right now. We like to let you do your work, and we’re damned appreciative when you let us do ours.”
He turned and walked away. First thing on his list was a long talk with the jogger who had found the body—before the press got to her. Then he had to work this like a regular case. Swallow the haunting images and bitterness of the past.
The forensics experts would study soil samples and any microscopic clue that the crime scene investigators could bring in. Gannet would do the autopsy. They had good people working on the case; they would have more to go on as the reports came in. He depended on his associates. He knew that they could practically pull rabbits out of hats. Still, they weren’t magicians, and they couldn’t work miracles.
As to the obvious…
A woman had been murdered. Brutally.
She had been dead for at least several weeks, maybe several months.
Her ears had been slashed, as if it had been a ritualistic killing.
He knew damned well that he had to be careful; he couldn’t assume that her death was a continuation of a killing spree from the past. Every possibility had to be explored.
“Copycat!” Bryan Jay shouted out as he walked away. “There could be a copycat killer out there as well, right?”
He refused to respond.
Copycat…
Yeah, copycat…
Maybe. And maybe not.
As he once again approached the murder scene, he saw that Marty, Doc Gannet and Mandy Nightingale were talking together.
Marty glanced his way, and he knew. They were talking about him. Worrying about him.
Well, there was no need.
He was fine.
This time, he damned well meant to catch the real killer.
CHAPTER 4
First thing Monday morning, Ashley was busy digging through the stacks of newspaper Nick had bundled neatly at the back door, ready to go out with the recycling. She was startled when she heard her uncle behind her. “Ashley, what are you doing?”
She jumped, sorry that she had woken him in her frenzy. The stacks were no longer neat. She had tried first for Saturday’s paper, thinking the accident would surely have been written up in the local section. But she hadn’t been able to find it.
She grimaced. “Hey, sorry I woke you. We saw an accident on our way up to Orlando. I was trying to find out what happened. Did you hear anything?”
Nick scratched the overnight growth of stubble on his chin. At fifty-two, he was a great-looking man, with lots of character sketched into the lines of his face. He didn’t look particularly young—a lifetime in the sun and wind had seen to that. But his bone structure was excellent, and all time had done was weather in an appeal that hinted at an intriguing life lived to the fullest. The gray streaks coming into his sandy hair fit well with the original coloring, and he had cool blue eyes that seemed to hold an ancient wisdom.
Wisdom be damned. At that moment, he shrugged, shook his head and yawned. He was wearing a bathrobe over pajama pants and knotted the robe as he made his way to the coffee brewer, reached for the pot and found it empty. He stared at her blankly. She always made coffee.
“Sorry, I’m afraid this accident has been haunting me,” she said, reaching behind him for a filter in the cabinet while he poured water into the carafe.
“No, no…it’s all right. I am capable of making coffee, you know,” he said, his tone a bit indignant. Of course, that was Nick. He was an independent man. He’d raised her. And he could damn well take care of himself. Nick was impatient with anyone who couldn’t manage the basics of getting by on their own.
“You really didn’t hear anything about an accident?” she asked him.
“Hey, it’s Miami. There are lots of accidents. In fact, it’s a strange day where there isn’t a pile-up on one of the highways,” he reminded her.
“Do you know where the local section from Saturday is? There ought to be a blurb or something. I mean, a man was killed. At least, I’m pretty sure he was dead.”
“Um…yeah, I’ll get it for you. It’s in the bedroom.”
“I can go.”
“Sharon is in the shower, I think,” he murmured.
“Oh. Well, I can wait until you have your first cup of coffee. It’s just been bugging me all weekend.”
“You didn’t have fun?”
“Of course I had fun.”
“Thinking about a dead man on the highway the whole time?” he queried. “You want some toast or something.”
“No, thanks, I’m not hungry.”
“You’re going off to a full day at the academy. You should eat.”
“I had something ghastly late last night at a rest stop,” she told him. “That will do me until lunch.”
“Something ghastly?”
“I think it was supposed to be a hamburger.”
“Ah, so you young ladies crawled in really late. Of course, I figured it had to be late, since we keep the place open ’til twelve on Sundays and I didn’t turn in until after one.”
“Three,” Ashley admitted.
“Great,” he said, mildly sarcastic. “You’ve had lots of sleep, and you probably have a full day ahead.”
“Every day is a full day,” Ashley admitted. “But I’m young. I’m sure I can deal with lack of sleep at this point in my life.”
Nick arched a brow, trying to decide if her response was in respect to the fact that he wasn’t quite so young anymore and decided he wasn’t going to wait any longer for coffee. He pulled the carafe out from beneath the dripping coffee and slid in a large mug in its place. He was quick—only a few drops missed the mug and hit the heating unit below.
“I’m pouring you a cup anyway, because you may be young—and implying that I’m old—but you sure as hell look as if you’re going to need it. Did you sleep at all on that trip?”
She laughed. “I would never dream of implying that you’re old. You’re in your prime. And, yes, honestly, we did get some sleep. We went to a show on Friday night, then went to one of the dance clubs, got in late and slept until three the next afternoon. We didn’t stay out so late the next night and still slept until twelve, which put Karen into a panic, because she didn’t want to get charged for an extra night. So I’m actually in pretty good shape—even if your comment implied that I’m looking haggard.”
He sipped his coffee, leaned on an elbow and grinned. “Most of the good cops I know look haggard. Goes with the territory.”
“So you think I’m going to be a good cop?”
“You’d better be. And I’ll get that paper for you. Good almost-cops don’t show up at the academy late. Hop in the shower and get dressed. I’ll find the local news from Saturday for you.”
She nodded, drained the coffee he’d poured for her, and headed off for her room and a shower.
Nick’s had been there forever. In one of those strange twists of fate, her uncle had bought the place from another Nicholas, an old-time seafarer who had bought the house and restaurant on the beach in the nineteen-twenties, when the Greater Miami area was still in its small-town infancy. Times had changed since then, and the land value had risen quite high. But Nick’s remained the same. It was largely built out of Dade County pine, wood that was now rare and valuable. A dock led straight to the restaurant from the marina, where many people kept pleasure craft and some maintained houseboats. The long bar and restaurant area were at the front, facing the marina. The more intimate family kitchen and an expansive living room for the main house could be accessed from both the restaurant kitchen and the office, which sat behind the bar. Nick’s bedroom suite was above the living room, while Ashley had her own wing on the ground floor. She could get to it through the living room or through a small private entrance to the right of the restaurant. Like the rest of the place, it appealed to her. There was a rustic feel to the entire setup, but just the same, Nick was a stickler for cleanliness, codes and organization, so though it all had a comfortable, homey feel, it was also well-kept and aesthetically pleasing—at least to anyone fond of the sea and nautical decor. Above the entrance from the living room to her wing, the teeth and jaws from a great white shark had been mounted, and a nineteenth century ship’s bell sat encased in a show cabinet beside it. The wall itself was lined with photographs—as well as mounted fish—and she loved them. There were many of her parents, some of her mom and Nick when they’d been growing up, some of her with her folks. One of her favorites was her with her dad in his uniform, and another was of her with both her mother and her father on the day she’d caught her first big snapper in a children’s tournament.
Of course, such an old place had its downfalls. Like hot water in the shower. She remembered that Nick had said Sharon was in the shower the minute she stepped under the lukewarm water. No matter, it made her hurry. Afterward she briskly toweled herself dry. There was nothing wrong with their air-conditioning system. Nick had maintained it well, knowing that his lunch crowd didn’t want to come in from a blistering morning in the hot sun and not find a spot of sweet cool solace.
Dressed and ready in fifteen minutes, she hurried back out to the kitchen. She was surprised to see that Nick, too, had already managed a quick—and probably downright chilly—shower. He was in cutoffs and a polo shirt, leaning over the kitchen counter, a grim look on his face as he scanned the newspaper in front of him. Sharon was standing beside him, gravely regarding the newspaper, as well. Her uncle’s girlfriend of nearly a year was an incredibly attractive woman. Petite, no more than five foot two, and that was in shoes with at least a wedge of heel, she was also slender. She loved a rigorous workout, though, and her efforts showed in the elegance of her compact figure. She was probably a few years younger than Nick—in fact, she could almost pass for thirty—and often seemed too elegant and refined for the dockside bar where she spent so many nights. She could be a tiger in pursuit of a business deal or in regard to her newest passion: politics. But she was pleasant to Ashley at every turn, showing a real interest in her life. She wore her hair in a natural style that just brushed her shoulders. It was almost platinum, which went well with her huge blue eyes. She was an arresting woman, assertive rather than aggressive, intelligent, and a great deal of fun, as well. She was up for any adventure, which made her a good companion for Nick.
“Hey, you all found an article on the accident?” Ashley said.
Nick looked up, startled. He caught her eyes and nodded, that serious look still drawing his face.
“Morning, dear, and we’re so sorry,” Sharon said, those great blue eyes of hers on Ashley then, full of compassion.
“Sorry? What is it?” she asked.
“It took some doing to find the article—there was a storm on Saturday night, and there were two fatal accidents, as well as that pedestrian being struck on the highway. But there is an article in the local section. The body you passed, Ashley,” Nick said. “It’s a kid you went to school with. He’s not dead, though. In a coma, suffered lots of internal injuries, and the doctors are offering his family little hope.”
“What? Who?” she asked, frowning as she looked from one to the other of them, then walked to the counter herself, anxious to see the story in black and white.
“Stuart Fresia,” Nick said.
“Stuart?”
“I understand he was a good friend of yours,” Sharon said.
Ashley was startled as she took the paper, quickly gazing over the words and finding them hard to comprehend.
Stuart.
Not just a kid she had gone to school with, an old friend. Granted, she hadn’t seen him lately, not in a few years. But he’d been a smart kid, the kind to turn into a smart adult. He’d been one of those people able to tread the lines between popularity, peer pressure and academics. He’d always talked about law school. He’d known how to go out, sneak a few drinks when they’d gotten hold of some beer, and never get wasted. He’d smoked cigarettes—and a cigar on occasion—but never become entangled in drugs. She’d envied him sometimes. While it seemed that she lived vicariously through the heartache of divorce—and sometimes remarriage and divorce and remarriage again—with the parents of a number of her friends, she’d gone home with Stuart many times to find two people who still loved one another, and their son, more than anything else in life.
And despite the natural scrapes he had gotten into while growing up, he had adored his folks. He’d recognized a certain responsibility at an early age, being an only child.
Stuart. On the highway. In his underwear. It didn’t make sense.
Neither did the article. Not to Ashley.
She read it through several times. According to eyewitnesses—and the heartbroken driver who had hit him—Stuart had simply started sprinting across the highway, heedless of traffic. No one knew where he had come from, other than the far side of the highway. His car had not been nearby. He had not carried any identification. He had just been there, in that pair of white briefs, on the highway. He had sustained numerous injuries, including severe damage to the skull. After hours of surgery, he was in a coma, clinging to life with the assistance of machines. Doctors were doing everything they could, though it was unlikely he would make it. Still, the surgeon also stated that with a young man in the prime of life, and with a will and natural instinct to survive, there was always hope.
As to how the accident had happened, what had made him go racing across the highway, heroin seemed to be the answer. Blood and urine tests had come up positive for the drug.
“No,” Ashley murmured.
“I’m sorry,” Nick told her softly, standing behind her to place supportive hands on her shoulders.
“No, no, I mean, it’s all wrong. Stuart on heroin? He wasn’t a junkie.”
“Ashley, it’s been a while since you’ve seen him, right?”
She set the paper down and looked at Nick. “It’s been a while, but I still can’t believe it.”
“People change, Ashley,” Sharon said.
Ashley shook her head, frowning. “Stuart always wanted to give blood when they had all those drives at church or school when a disaster struck. They always turned him down, because he was one of those people who fainted when you came at him with a needle. This is all wrong.”
Nick took her into his arms and gave her a warm hug. “Ashley, it happened. You saw the body, and you’ve read the article. Maybe Stuart was a good kid, a great kid. Maybe he’s still basically a really good man and he just got in with the wrong people. But…hey, he is still alive. There’s hope.”
“You’re right. At the moment, anyway, he’s still alive. If he’s made it since Saturday. What if he hasn’t?” She stared at Nick in horror. “I’ll go through the—the death notices for Sunday and today…that’s today’s paper over there, isn’t it?”
“I checked already—there’s no notice,” Sharon said.
“Thanks,” Ashley told her.
Nick said, “Listen, you have to get to work. I’ll call the hospital, ask for his condition and leave a message on your phone, and you can check it when there’s a break. All right?”
She nodded. “Great, Nick. Thanks, both of you.”
She started out the kitchen door. When she opened it, she found a man standing there.
It seemed to be happening on a daily basis now.
But she knew Sandy Reilly well. He’d been hanging around Nick’s for at least seven years. He looked as if he were about ninety, he was so weathered and wrinkled. She thought he was probably more like seventy, but no one ever asked him, and he never offered information regarding his age. He lived in one of the houseboats down along the pier, or, at least, he supposedly lived in his houseboat. But he spent most of his time at Nick’s.
“Hi, Sandy.”
“Hey there, kid, you’re looking spiffy in that uniform.”
“Thanks, Sandy.”
“Cops, cops, cops, we got ’em all over the place.”
“We do?”
Sandy laughed.
“You don’t know how many cops come in here all the time?”
“I know of several, of course. Not as many as you seem to think we get. But this is a public establishment, Sandy. We don’t ask people what they do for a living when they come in.”
“Curtis Markham, the gray-haired guy who drinks Coors and sits in the corner with his son, a boy about twelve. Plays a lot of pool. He’s a South Miami cop. Tommy Thistle—you know Tommy. Miami Beach police.”
“Yep, I know Tommy. And Curtis. I put them both on my list of references.”
“Then there’s Jake.”
“Jake?”
“You’d know him if you saw him.”
“I would?”
“Yeah, sure. Well, he’s not actually a regular—or he hasn’t been. But he stops by some Sundays. Tall guy. Dark. In top shape. He’s Miami-Dade. Homicide. A detective. Something of a bigshot, so they say. If you don’t know him now, maybe you should get to know him. Come to think of it, I’m sure you’ll get to know him. Now that his boat is here at Nick’s, he’ll be around more and more.”
Sandy kept talking, but she didn’t hear a word after Jake. Tall. Dark. Miami-Dade homicide.
And, of course, she knew right away. The guy she had scalded with her coffee while rushing out on Saturday.
So he was with Miami-Dade. Great. Just great.
“Isn’t it great? I really do know everyone, if you think you need a more formal introduction.”
“Thanks,” Ashley said. “I do know the man you’re talking about. I mean, I’ve seen him in here. Jake. That’s his name?”
“Jake Dilessio. Detective Dilessio. And like I said, I’ll hang around one day and introduce you. Well, of course, Nick could do that, too.”
“It’s okay, I don’t need a formal introduction.” Better to leave things as they were. She wasn’t going to be a suck-up.
She might be a lot more courteous the next time she saw the guy, but she wasn’t going to turn into a doormat just because now she knew who he was.
“You okay, Ashley?”
“Of course.”
“You’re looking a little funny. Did I say something wrong?”
Leave it to old Sandy. He probably had the lowdown on everyone who ever came into Nick’s. “No, Sandy. I’m fine. Just thinking how good it is to hear the place is full of cops—and how weird that I’ve spent most of my formative years here and you know more about the clientele than I do.”
“Well, heck, you’re gone a lot, and before that, you were a kid, and Nick was always careful to kind of keep you out of the bar. Me, I’m retired, with nothing left to do but watch who comes and goes.”
“Do you think that’s it? I was an art major for a while. I’m supposed to be a lot more observant. But anyway, that sounds good. It’s nice, knowing there are lots of people around I can ask for help now and then. But how do you feel about it? Is it good to have lots of cops around?”
“You bet. I feel nice and safe. And here’s hoping you’ll soon be one of them. I know you’ll be one of the ten to fourteen who makes it.”
“One of the ten to fourteen?” she said blankly, still coming to terms with the fact that she had scalded a detective with the same force she planned to join.
“Sure, those are the statistics, Ashley. Okay, maybe a few more, a few less, now and then. About one third of each class actually makes it onto the force, and through their first year as a cop.”
“Oh, yeah. They give us those statistics, along with how many cops are killed each year, when we go to orientation. But how come you’re so up on the statistics?”
“Well, I may be old as time, but the good Lord has seen fit to leave me with eyes as sharp as a hawk’s and ears that pick up just about everything out there. And if I learned anything in all my time on this here earth, I learned to listen. And I listen to the cops in Nick’s place.”
“I’m still feeling amazed. I grew up here, Sandy, and I don’t know as much as you do about who hangs out here.”
“That’s because you’ve got your mind somewhere else most of the time when you’re around. Anyway, cops don’t walk around on their days off with their badges hanging around their necks or pinned to their fishing shirts. Cops are just people. They like to have a day off. And they don’t always like to go around introducing themselves as cops. Especially around a place like Nick’s. People hang out here to enjoy the water, their boats, and talk about fishing.”
“But they talk to you and tell you what they do for a living,” she said smiling.
“Sure, ’cause I talk to them. I’m an old geezer. Curiosity is all I’ve got left, and what I find out is what makes life interesting.”
“Hey, Sandy,” Nick said from behind her. “You’ll have to fill Ashley in about the customers later. She won’t be a cop if she’s late to the academy too often. And by the way, we’re not open yet, Sandy.”
“Well, now, hell, I know that. You tell me that every morning. But you still have coffee brewing, and if you give me a cup, I’ll get the place set up before those scrawny young whippersnappers you call employees even make it into work.”
Ashley smiled. It was true. Old Sandy did come early several mornings a week.
But never before six-thirty. And he didn’t bother a soul. He just liked to get his cup of coffee, set up and sit out on the porch, looking out at the boats and the water.
And so did some of the other folks who lived on their boats at the marina—including homicide detectives, it seemed.
“Ashley, you all right? You’re looking kind of pale,” Nick said.
“I’m fine. Nick,” she said, staring reproachfully at her uncle. “But you didn’t tell me that our early-morning visitor the other day was a cop. A homicide cop. With Miami-Dade.”
“Honey, you were moving faster than a twister. You didn’t give me a chance.”
“Right. Of course.”
“He’s a good man.”
“I’ll bet.”
“You sure you’re all right?” Nick persisted, frowning.
“I’m just fine. Honest. I swear. I’ve got to move. ’Bye, all,” Ashley said. She managed a smile for Sandy, then headed out to her car.
Once she was on her way to the highway, she found that the smile she’d had for Sandy faded. She didn’t even dwell on the fact that she had scalded a superior officer on the Miami-Dade force. With luck, he would never run into her there, though homicide was situated at headquarters, where her academy classes also took place.
It was a large force, for a county with a large population.
But no logic could keep her from thinking about Stuart again and feeling both a tremendous sorrow and complete disbelief.
He wasn’t a druggie. He just wasn’t. He couldn’t have become a junkie. He’d always had a good head on his shoulders. He’d cared about his folks; he’d wanted them to be proud of him. He wasn’t a perfect kid; he’d had his moments. He could be a prankster. Once, when she’d had a crush on someone else, he’d managed to get her talking on a speaker phone about the object of her affections. She could have killed him herself at the time, but he’d apologized up and down—and the other guy had asked her out.
Too bad, actually. She’d wound up dating the jerk for two years.
It had been a wretched relationship, but that hadn’t been Stuart’s fault. The guy had been what she had wanted, and Stuart had managed to get them together.
She smiled, remembering how he had looked so pleased, like the cat that had eaten the canary. Once, long ago, in a different world, before they’d all realized what life meant once you grew up, they’d been friends. Good friends.
She remembered that after graduation, he’d been offered a number of scholarships. He’d been one of the most creative people she’d ever known, dragging her into doing a film for a final project that had been selected as the best in the school and shown, to the delight of their fellow students, several times in the auditorium. It had been a piece called “Discipline—Now and Then,” and while sending out a definite message, it had been hysterically funny, as well.
Despite his interests in film, literature and the arts, he’d opted for a business degree. He’d chosen a Florida state school for both the financial feasibility and to be able to get back to see his parents frequently. She frowned as she drove, remembering that she’d been invited to his graduation party when he’d made it out in the requisite four years. She hadn’t been able to go, because she’d taken a summer job as a mate on a sailboat heading out to the islands. He was going to take a job working on and selling Web pages, but he was also planning on going back to school and getting into some form of either writing or film.
Funny, she couldn’t remember what he’d finally decided to focus on when he went for his master’s degree. She should remember something like that. All she could remember right now was his voice, always low and steady, sober and clear. And she could remember that they had promised to get together when the summer was over. They had met for lunch. And they had meant to stay close. But he had been heading up to New York to look at a few schools in the city.
And she’d been starting classes herself then. And though they had promised to keep up and call often, like so many promises, that one had become lost in day-to-day life.
Stuart…
As she drove, she saw the road before her, just as it was.
But in her mind’s eye…
There was the body on the highway. And now she knew.
It was Stuart’s body.
CHAPTER 5
It had been one hell of a long weekend.
Jake had spent half of it doing research on the lives of the followers of Peter Bordon since the break-up of his cult and the other half getting settled after the move from one marina to another. As for the research, he had some of the information he wanted in his own files, and for follow-up, he had some really good assistance. Hank Anderson, one of the best men he had ever known for divining facts from a computer, had done a lot of delving for him, though a lot of the information duplicated what he already had. It had become something of a compulsion for him to keep up on the case. He had kept quiet about his persistence, since his fellow officers might consider him obsessive and think his determination not to let matters lie bordered on police harassment.
Captain Blake, head of homicide, had called him on Saturday afternoon, giving him a stern speech. Good detectives put in all kinds of hours. They worked way beyond their pay. But they learned how to stay sane, as well. They learned how to go home and how to have a life.
Jake agreed with his every word.
Their latest victim had been dead quite a while. Insanely rushing about could do nothing for her. Steady, dogged work to bring her killer to justice was the greatest service they could do for her.
That said, Blake reminded him, he was to remain rational, work hard—and make sure he took time off and kept his mind fresh. A cop who was overtired, overstressed and obsessive was no good to anyone.
Granted.
There was simply a lot Jake wanted to do himself.
First, the autopsy. Gannet, as promised, had gotten right on it, and Jake had been there.
Then Jake had gone in and spent hours with Hank while they went over the old cases and delved into what they could find on the new. Saturday evening, he and Marty made a few calls on past followers of Bordon’s cult. Interviewing them all was going to take time, and Saturday night was a washout. The first woman they interviewed was married now, with a three-year-old, and her association with the cult was a tremendous embarrassment; her husband knew nothing about it. Nor, she swore, had she even known the victims or been part of the hierarchy of the cult at all. They both sensed she was telling the truth.
Their second call bore no greater results. The young man had only attended a few of the sermons. He had since become a born-again Christian and spent most of his days working at a local homeless shelter, a story that checked out.
Sunday afternoon had traditionally been Jake’s kick-back time. It was when a lot of his friends and casual acquaintances went to a sports bar, sometimes to Nick’s, drank beer, told fish stories and watched football on television. Not that Sunday. He’d been too busy with electrical and water hookups. He hadn’t even crawled in to Nick’s at night; he had gone to see his father, who, though his mom had been gone for nearly two years, spent too much of his time sitting alone in the darkness, telling everyone he was doing just fine.
In a way, he’d done as ordered. The problem was that no command, no sense, no logic, could keep him from thinking, puzzling and planning.
Obsessing.
He had barely reached his desk on Monday morning when he received a call from Neil Austen in the forensics unit.
“I just wanted to let you know we’re doing what we can to get an I.D. on Friday’s Jane Doe. Our best bet is a dental match, but so far we’ve got nothing. I don’t think she was a local. If she was, no one reported her missing. Or else she never went to a dentist. And maybe she didn’t—the poor girl died with perfect teeth. Perfect. Her wisdom teeth came in without a hitch. She didn’t have a cavity. We have the information out, so hopefully someone out there will be able to get us a match. How many people reach their mid-twenties with perfect teeth?”
“Thanks for the effort and the information, Neil,” Jake told him.
“I wish I could give you more. Unfortunately, these things usually take time.” They both knew the sorry truth of that statement. There were many cases when just discovering the identity of a victim in such a condition could take weeks or months.
And there were times when bodies went unidentified forever. But thanks to forensics and computers, there were some occasions when identification came quickly.
“Can you give me anything else? Mid-twenties, perfect teeth…?”
“She probably stood about five foot six. Medium build. Never had a child. Gannet says it looks like a ritual murder.”
“Same as…?”
“Yeah, same as.” Neil gave a soft, regretful sigh. “She was probably a pretty young thing. The guys up here have given her a nickname. Cinderella. She’s not actually covered in ash, but the way she was found…Funny, you see case after case, and some are still especially hard. I’ll send you the reports on what we have. Oh, and Gannet says she’s been dead two to four months.”
“Thanks, Neil.”
“Yep. I’ll update you immediately on anything new we can come up with.”
“Great.”
Jake hung up the phone and pulled out the file on the last of the victims who had been killed five years before. A picture of a young woman with a shy smile was clipped to the right of the page.
Dana Renaldo.
She, too, had been in her mid-twenties. Twenty-seven, actually, five foot six, one hundred and twenty pounds, an eager, attractive young woman. Her parents had been deceased. She had been reported missing by a cousin almost a year before her body had been discovered. She’d come from Clearwater. The police had investigated at the time but hadn’t followed up on the missing persons report because of the findings of their investigation. She had packed up her bags and cleaned out her bank accounts. Three months prior to her disappearance, she had gone through a messy divorce. There had been no children involved, so—until her body had been discovered in Miami-Dade—it had appeared to her local authorities that she had chosen to take off and start over again. It was legal for an adult to be missing if that person so chose. Prior to her disappearance, Dana had worked in real estate and insurance, and, immediately before she had left, she had been a paralegal at a law firm in Tampa. She had sent a letter of resignation and it was in her handwriting, according to the lawyer for whom she had been working.
Their Jane Doe—or Cinderella, as the forensics guys were calling her—sounded very similar in appearance.
He switched files.
Eleanore “Ellie” Thorn had been nothing like Dana Renaldo or their latest victim. She’d hailed from Omaha, and had failed to return home after a vacation in Fort Lauderdale. She hadn’t taken a job, had cleared out her bank account at a local branch, and had been seen now and then around town. She had attended Bordon’s prayer services. She had often stayed at the communal property. Nearly five feet ten, she had been blond and athletic. Like the others, she hadn’t been found until both time and the elements had wreaked havoc on her remains.
The first of the earlier three victims had earned a degree in architecture at Tulane. She had been bright and, according to friends, determined. She’d been an orphan, raised from an early age in foster homes. She’d gotten through school with hard work and scholarships. Twenty-six at the time of her death, she’d been petite, five foot two, and a bare hundred pounds. She’d been living on Miami Beach and had loved the architecture of the area. Deeply religious, in need of spiritual solace, she had probably been an easy mark for Peter Bordon, a.k.a. Papa Pierre.
As he hung up, Marty arrived in front of him, tossing a manila folder on his desk. “Peter Bordon is still very definitely locked up in the middle of the state.”
“Marty, I never suggested that he wasn’t.”
“But listen to this. He’s been a model prisoner. He’s due for release soon. Exemplary behavior. And, of course, he’s in there for a nonviolent crime. Everyone who’s worked with him there has found him courteous and polite. Read the report. No, maybe you shouldn’t—it’ll probably make you want to vomit. Well, hell, vomit or not, you’ve got to read it. There’s a section from the prison psychologist you’re really going to like. ‘Mr. Bordon is a man regretful of his assumption that his method of bookkeeping did society no harm. His manner is that of a person determined to pay his debts. He is certainly no danger to society. He is deeply religious, has been a friend to many in extreme circumstances, and is a favorite among his fellow inmates.’”
Jake just stared at Marty, feeling the muscles in his neck tighten as if he were being throttled. He sighed and picked up the file.
“Jake, he sure isn’t committing murder himself.”
“We know that.”
“He was definitely in prison when our newest Jane Doe was killed. According to what Gannet told us, she’s been dead two to four months.”
“I’ve spoken to forensics. I attended the autopsy. Jane Doe….” Jake murmured, irritated. He stared glumly at Marty. “They’re calling her Cinderella. Those guys see so much that’s so bad, and yet she seems to have gotten under everyone’s skin.”
“Like I said, Bordon was incarcerated all that time.”
Jake expelled a long breath. “And like I said, Marty, when you told me before you were certain Bordon was still in prison, I believed you. The point is, that doesn’t mean a damned thing. Wherever he was physically five years ago didn’t matter at the time. And it doesn’t matter now. We have another dead woman. And somehow, that asshole is involved.”
“We don’t know that, Jake.”
“Gut feeling.”
“Can’t give the D.A. a gut feeling, Jake.”
“Hell, Marty, I know that.”
Marty sat at his own desk, which faced Jake’s. “Another dead woman with slashed ears. Cinderella. They just had to give her a nickname. Man, these cases suck. And you know, it’s strange, isn’t it? We don’t even know her real name yet, but they go and give her a nickname, and it’s suddenly all personal, and that makes it all the harder.”
Yeah, no matter what, it got harder with every little nuance that brought a victim’s life more clearly into focus. Jake remembered standing at the table during the autopsy finding a renewed respect for Gannet. Their victim had been badly decomposed, but there had still been those little things that made her an individual. The tiny tattoo, just visible at her ankle. The mole that could still be seen on what was left of her shoulder. Even the color of her hair, a lock of it slipping from the table and looking like…a lock of hair that might fall across the pillow when a girl was just sleeping the night away. But then the whole picture came into focus. The chill of the autopsy room. The scent that always seemed to linger in the morgue, real or imagined. The body…the entire length of the naked body…so sadly decomposed. First mutilated, then gnawed by animals. A home to nature. Part of Gannet’s determination on time of death had been due to the incubation period of flies and the stages of larvae. When Jake had seen the last victim from five years ago, Dana, on the autopsy table, it was as if her humanity had been stripped away. She looked like a creature made in a special effects lab for a horror film. Gannet was one good man, though. Determined that he would do his best to find out all he could. To return her soul, at the very least. To speak for her, help fight those who had so brutally stolen her young life.
Jane Doe/Cinderella. Mid-twenties. A lifetime ahead of her.
What had brought her to such a brutal death in South Florida?
Anything was possible. Maybe she’d been killed by a boyfriend who had struck the mortal blows in passion, realized his act and been smart enough to know that—despite a lot of fiction to the contrary—the police weren’t complete assholes and might well follow a trail of clues to him. Maybe the guy had read about the cases involving members of Peter Bordon’s cult.
Maybe.
Or maybe someone was taking up where Bordon had left off.
Or maybe…
He was back to the possibility that Bordon himself was involved.
There was no reason why he couldn’t be calling the shots from prison.
“Who was she? Where did she come from? Why did she die?” Marty murmured, thinking aloud. “A young woman, just trying to live her life, making a wrong turn in the road somewhere.”
Marty’s words made Jake wince inwardly. This was business, his job; he wasn’t a rookie. He was a seasoned homicide cop, who—if he hadn’t seen it all—had certainly seen enough. The world, hell, the county, had enough homicides to keep cops moving.
And it was what he had wanted. From the time he had joined the force, he had wanted to go into homicide.
He’d always wanted to be a cop. Not because he’d grown up in a family where joining the force had been tradition, because he hadn’t. His father and grandfather had both been attorneys.
He’d wanted to be a cop because the guy who had become one of his best friends in life had been a cop. The guy who had shown up when, at the age of eighteen, Jake had wrapped his graduation gift, a brand-new Firebird, around a tree in Coconut Grove.
He’d been driving under the influence.
Too many times, his dad had gotten him off on speeding tickets. Of course, his father never knew he got behind the wheel while drinking. When he drank with his buds, he usually stayed out. That night, however…
He’d decided to drive. To show off. His family had been thinking about buying a house at the end of the street. He’d wanted to show it to a girl. He could race his Firebird around a few blocks without any damage being done.
Like hell.
He was supposedly a pretty tough kid. Football, soccer, baseball, a star player on every team. Grades high enough to see that he got into the right college. He usually knew when to play and when to keep himself straight as an arrow. But not that night. That night he was exactly what the cop called him when he reached the accident. A snot-nosed rich kid, thinking he could buy his way out of everything.
Carlos Mendez had been a police officer for nearly twenty-five years the night he had come upon Jake in his folded-up Firebird. He could have taken him in for DUI. But he didn’t. He told him off—and when Jake tried to tell him that he wanted to call his father, an attorney, Carlos had said that he’d get his every right, his phone call, his attorney, the whole nine yards—when the time was right. He’d told him what he thought of him—and where he was going to wind up. And that however rich he might be, he was going to spend one night in jail.
He hadn’t been mean, hadn’t raised his voice. But something about the way he’d spoken, so soft and so sure, had scared the hell out of Jake. He’d realized he could have killed not only himself but his date.
“You know, kid, you’re in trouble. But you ought to be on your knees, thanking God. You slaughtered a palm tree. That was it—the only fatality. You could be in a morgue now. Or you could have killed that pretty young girl you were with. So be thankful, accept what you get and try to make it mean something,” Carlos had told him.
Jake had listened. And at some point, he wasn’t sure when, Carlos Mendez had realized he’d had a real effect on the snot-nosed rich kid. He hadn’t charged him with DUI, only with the lesser charge of failure to have his vehicle under control. His leniency had come with strings—promises Jake made that night to Carlos. Of course, Carlos had no guarantees that Jake would abide by his promises. He later told Jake that he had gone on gut instinct—the most important tool a cop could have, no matter what technology offered.
Jake kept all his promises, grateful not to have had to spend a night in jail. He’d even been sober and somewhat cleaned up before he reached his parents’ house, before his mother cried and his father yelled. He’d promised Carlos Mendez an afternoon at the station and fifty hours of community service. He’d put in the hours working for Habitat for Humanity and in downtown Miami at a soup kitchen for the homeless. He’d seen some of the worst the city had to offer there, men and women so strung out on drugs that life had lost all meaning, and the kids who paid the real price for their parents’ addictions. Toddlers with no futures because they’d been born with AIDS. He saw, as well, those few whose lives were changed by others. The junkie thief who’d gone straight because of a decent cop and opened a home for abused children. The prostitute who had changed her ways because of a down-to-earth priest. Even the crooked accountant who had gotten out of jail to do tax forms and apply for assistance for the elderly.
And down at the station, with Carlos, he’d seen videos more horrible than anything ever concocted by the minds of filmmakers. Photos taken after traffic fatalities. Most of them accidents caused by alcohol.
In the process of it all, he met others Carlos could have arrested and sent to prison for long years of their lives but hadn’t.
He’d gambled.
And his bet had paid off.
Jake had been about to leave, having earned the grades good enough to get him into almost any college in the country. He’d been accepted to his father’s alma mater, Harvard.
He hadn’t gone.
Once again, his mother had cried and his father had yelled. But he’d loved his parents, and they’d loved him. In the end, they’d accepted his decision to stay home, take criminology at the local college and apply to the force.
He’d never regretted it, not once. And even his father had been proud of him. No one had been more congratulatory when he had been promoted to detective. He’d known he’d wanted to work homicide because of Carlos. Not because Carlos had worked homicide, but because, while still in college, he’d been with Carlos one day when he had suddenly veered over to the side of the road. He’d spotted a body in a field.
“Shouldn’t you call it in?” Jake had asked. “You’re off duty.”
“I’ll be calling it in, as soon as I know what we’ve got, and as soon as I’ve secured the scene. And a cop is never really off duty, Jake. You know that.”
Carlos was pretty damned amazing, and that was something Jake did know. He wouldn’t ever have noticed the prone figure, inert and shielded by long grass and carelessly tossed garbage, soda cans and beer bottles.
Carlos had an eye. He assured Jake that, with a little experience, he would have that eye himself.
That afternoon, Carlos had called in the information as soon as he had determined that the victim was stone cold, beyond help.
The guy had looked like an old itinerant or a drunk. At the time, Jake had seen nothing to suggest foul play. Of course, he’d kept his distance, too, because Carlos hadn’t been about to let anyone taint what might be a crime scene.
Later, when the detectives and crime scene people had arrived, Jake and Carlos watched them work. Carlos had remarked quietly then that he’d been certain right away—gut instinct—that the man had met with foul play. He was dead, silenced, no longer able to speak for himself. And yet, always, the dead, in that terrible silence, cried out for justice. Their fellow men owed them that justice. The cops and the medical examiners were all they had left. And even if the victim had been an old drunk, he deserved the same attention as any other human being.
It turned out that he had been a migrant worker and that he had been murdered. The detective on the case had it solved within a matter of weeks—mainly because Carlos had been so careful at the scene of the crime. His yellow tape had preserved footprints that had led to the arrest of a middle-aged thug who had killed the old man for the fifty dollars in his pockets.
Since that day, Jake had wanted to be in homicide. It had seemed like an important role in life—being the champion of the dead.
His decision, and his effort to reach his goal, had drawn him closer than ever to his father, who had always played the devil’s advocate, telling him how a good attorney could make mincemeat out of evidence if it wasn’t collected properly.
There had been more to the idea of moving into homicide. Not just to weep for the dead, or even to be their spokesman. With every year of experience, he realized that his most important role was to stop a killer before he or she could claim more victims. He and his fellow officers worked many cases that turned out to be domestic—husbands, ex-husbands, wives, lovers, killing in passion. Guns and knives were the prevalent weapons in cases like that. Then, of course, there were the little ones, kids brutalized by their parents or trusted caregivers. Those were hard to deal with. He’d never met a cop who could just blink and call it business when he or she was called to handle the death of a child.
But there were also cases that weren’t crimes of passion, anger or jealousy. There were psychopaths in the world who killed because it gave them a rush. And there were also those who killed because they thought themselves superior, who appeared to be totally sane, to whom murder was a calculated risk. There were those who killed for pleasure, for sport and for personal gain.
He had handled many of those, as well. He’d done so professionally, not letting anger, pain, pity or disgust get in the way of his sworn duty.
This particular case, though, was so damned acrid he could taste it on his tongue.
So damned painful and bitter.
He inhaled deeply, gaining control.
He knew damned well that he couldn’t let his emotions get out of control, nor could he visibly display them in any way—he would even have to be careful with Marty. He didn’t want to be pulled from this case.
“Did you finish up the paperwork on the Trena case?” Marty asked.
“There, on top of the out box.”
“I’ll send it on over to the D.A. with my report. Seems Trena’s lawyer told him to plea-bargain after he saw the evidence against him.”
Jake looked at Marty, then paused to thank the officer who stopped by with the envelope that contained the information on the girl they were calling Cinderella. There was other business to finish up.
“Trena was smart to plea-bargain,” he said, unwinding the string securing the envelope. “His gun, his fingerprints, bullets charged on his credit card in his wife’s head—I think a plea bargain would be a hell of a lot better than a death sentence.”
Marty smiled without humor. “Well, remember the guy who put five bullets into his buddy’s stomach? His attorney got the jury to believe his gun just went off accidentally—five times.”
“True. I’m still glad to hear Trena is going with a plea bargain. Hopefully he’ll be locked up for a while.”
Marty started to collect papers and folders while Jake opened the envelope he’d been given. He scanned the information. Without looking up, he told Marty, “Let’s follow up on the rest of Bordon’s known followers, find out what they’re doing these days, check into their activities. We can work the door-to-door angle, as well, but I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere. We don’t have a lot to work with right now. If we can just get an I.D. on the victim, it will give us more to go on.” He paused, then said softly, “I think I’m going to take a ride up to the middle of the state this week.”
“You want company, or you think I should stay here?”
“I think one of us should be here.”
“You’d be happier if you were the one here, interviewing Bordon’s old people. You like to be hands-on, Jake, and you know it. Sure you don’t want me to be the one to take the drive up?”
Jake shook his head. “No, but thanks. I want to talk to Bordon myself.”
Marty shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “You’ve talked to Bordon before.”
He had. And if it hadn’t been for Marty, he might have blown his entire career. He had almost gone for the man’s throat. Marty and a uniformed officer had pulled him back. Marty knew how deep his feelings ran against Bordon, even if he didn’t personally believe that Nancy’s death had anything to do with the case. He felt the same pain. On duty with a fellow officer in the area, he had been one of the first people on the scene when Nancy’s car had been found.
“I’ll be all right.”
“If that kid hadn’t been a weight lifter, I might not have kept you from strangling the man.”
“Marty, I was wrong. I was overemotional, but I swear to you, I’m in control now. I can’t kill Bordon.”
“What do you mean, you can’t kill him? I’m willing to bet you can. He isn’t short, and he isn’t a skinny wimp, but you’ve got a few pounds on him—all muscle—and the adrenaline rush you had going that day was frightening. You sure as hell can kill him, and I’m not so sure you can control your temper.”
“I can and I will.”
“But—”
“I can’t kill him, Marty. I really can’t. I need him alive.”
“You need him alive? We both think he’s a killer, even if he never dirties his hands himself. So why is it that you need him alive?”
“Because we need to find out what really went on back then, and if it’s recurring now. We were missing something—I mean, it seemed obvious that Bordon was calling the shots, and that there were more people involved in the deaths. Hell, maybe Harry Tennant was in on the murders, but I don’t believe for a second that he committed them alone. Marty, we’ve got to find out the truth, or we’re never going to be free of this case.” He was silent for a minute; then he grimaced and spoke flatly, with an open honesty his partner could well understand. “I need the truth. Or I’ll never be free of this.”
After a moment, Marty nodded. “Yeah, I understand. But you’re sure you’ll be all right going up alone? Captain Blake will be setting up a task force again—reinvigorating it, since we never officially closed the inquiry down. There will be other officers down here getting moving on research, questioning, digging, legwork. I can come upstate with you if you want.”
“I want one of us here. Paying attention to everything, to little details that might slip by someone else. We need to get every piece of information we’ve got on file and to keep digging up everything new we can find on Bordon’s old followers, everything we’ve got on his hierarchy—the names of everyone involved in the cult, and a bio on what they’ve been doing since Bordon went to jail.”
Jake’s desk phone rang. He picked up.
It was Captain Blake, head of homicide, on the other end.
“I understand you’ve been busy this weekend.”
“I took Sunday off.”
“To read files all day?”
“I went to see my dad.”
“Good. All right. I’ve seen the forensic reports on the girl that jogger found Friday. And yes, it’s similar to the murders five years ago. And yes, we’ll reinvigorate the task force. And if you can swear you’ll keep a level head and unproven speculations to yourself, you’ll head it again, Detective.”
“I can keep a level head.” He hesitated. “Thanks.”
“No one knew what was going on back then the way you did. It’s always been your case, and it only makes sense to keep it that way. Of course, this whole thing could be some kind of a—”
“Copycat killing? Yes, sir, we all know that.”
“And you’re not the Lone Ranger, Jake. We solve things by being a team.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, then. Meeting at ten-thirty, my office.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Franklin will be in from the FBI. You have a problem with that?”
“No, sir.” He did, but he wasn’t about to tell that to Blake. And he was damned determined that he wasn’t going to tell Franklin, either.
“Belk, Rosario, MacDonald and Rizzo will round out the group. You can always call in whatever uniformed personnel you need.”
“Sounds like we’ve got a good team and good backup.”
“Ten-thirty,” Captain Blake repeated.
“Yes, sir, we’ll be there.”
He hung up, staring thoughtfully at the receiver.
“Well?” Marty said.
Jake shrugged. Marty was a big fan of Sir Conan Doyle.
“As your Victorian super sleuth liked to say, Marty, the game is afoot.” He added, “Ten-thirty, Captain Blake’s office. He’s called in the other shifts for a meeting. We’re reinvigorating the old task force, using the same crew. We’ve got Belk and Rosario, MacDonald and Rizzo. Oh, and Franklin from the FBI.”
“Franklin?” Marty said with dismay.
“You got a problem with that?” Jake said.
“Problem? Me? Hell, no,” Marty said, starting around from Jake’s desk to take a seat at his own.
“Yep, hell no, no problem,” Jake said.
“Fuck,” Marty moaned.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Fuck,” Marty repeated. He shook his head. “Franklin,” he said. He looked bleakly at Jake. “We got a problem.”
“We’ll get past it.”
“Yeah, sure,” Marty said. He punched information into his computer, ready to search the available records. He was still shaking his head.
“Fuck. Franklin,” he repeated.
“I hear you, Marty,” Jake assured him.
“We’ll get past it,” Marty aped.
“We’ll get past it, because nothing, nothing, is going to take us off this case. Nothing—and no one.”
“Right. Nothing and no one,” Marty agreed.
Later, after they’d both spent the early morning reviewing reports and researching the records, Jake rose to tell Marty it was time for the task force meeting.
He was still shaking his head. And when he rose, reached for his jacket, and joined Jake for the walk to the captain’s office, he said again, “Fuck. Franklin.”
Jake stared at him.
“Last time. That was it,” Marty swore.
“You sure? ’Cause if not, get it out—now.”
“Fucking Franklin?” he said vehemently. Then he grinned. “All right. I got it out.” He shrugged. “The guy is efficient. He’s just such a…prick. He even walks like he’s got a broom up his ass. But he is good with a computer.”
“Right. Ten-twenty-eight. Let’s get in there.”
“Fucking Franklin.”
CHAPTER 6
“Basics,” Sergeant Brennan announced firmly to his class. “Basics. Why do we harp so much on the basics?” It was a rhetorical question. “Because you forget those basics, and every bit of hard work done by a score of cops and technical support personnel is down the damned drain. We’re law enforcement officers. We’re not the law. And nothing works without the law. You people have all passed your tests to get into this class. You’ve made it through your background checks, and you’re months along now. Hell, we’ve given you real bullets. In another few months, you’ll graduate, and you’ll be looking to make your careers as police officers. You’ve all come into this with different dreams, different goals. None of it will amount to crap if you ever forget the basics. First, what the hell are we here for? Jacoby, that question is for you.”
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