A Dark and Lonely Place (6 page)

“By then Eagle had been dead for six hours,” John said. A stranger taking two beautiful girls to meet a dead man insists that a third girl come along. Did Laura’s skin crawl too?

“I don’t believe it!” she said.

He got to his feet. “Okay. We can go to the morgue now. You can take a good look at what’s left of him.”

“Oh, my God. You are serious.” She shrank back in her chair, eyes flooding. “It’s true!”

He nodded. “What happened after you left Sky?”

“I said we’d follow him.” Her voice was thin. “But he insisted we go together and come back for the Lamborghini later. I didn’t like the way he looked at us. The man gave me chills. There was something about him . . .

“Summer knew Cheryl went to the airport, but she simply told him the girl had other plans. He demanded to know where she was, and who she was with. When Summer said she didn’t know, he punched the steering wheel hard. I knew then that I didn’t belong there. I always follow my gut instinct.”

“Attagirl.” Did she know how close she came to the fire? “How’d you get away?”

“He drove a black Escalade, blew several red lights like he owned the road. When traffic finally forced him to stop, I just opened the door and stepped out. I could see Summer didn’t want to be alone with him and held the door for her. But she didn’t make a move, so I said, ‘See ya later,’ and walked away.

“He jumped out after me, but the light changed and the horn-happy Miami drivers behind us, God bless ’em, made such a racket that he jumped back into the Caddy and drove. I’da kicked off my heels and run like a rabbit if he’d turned around. He creeped me out that much. I ran track in high school, I’m fast on my feet. I’da cut through those dark, narrow alleys.”

“I’m glad you didn’t have to.”

“Me too.” Their eyes locked. “Had no idea how to get back to Eagle’s for my things. But we country girls have a good sense of direction. I walked east to the Boulevard, turned south till I saw a taxi outside a restaurant. Had the driver take me past Sky. The Lamborghini was still
there. Then he took me back to Eagle’s. It was spooky. Nobody home. Oh, God, he was already dead, wasn’t he?” She gazed up guiltily, eyes watery. “I raided his refrigerator, ate some stone crabs and key lime pie, locked my door, and went to bed with my cell phone.”

He wished he’d been there.

“I never heard Summer or Eagle come in. They didn’t. Hoped to see the big yellow machine in the driveway at dawn. It wasn’t. Summer didn’t pick up her cell. Hated to leave that expensive car on a downtown street, so I hired another cab. We passed Sky and the Lamborghini was gone. When it wasn’t back at the house either, I called the police to report it missing, and another taxi to take me to the airport. But your friend J. J. pulled up with questions about the car and I’ve been here ever since.”

“For good reason, Laura.” Her name sounded so right, so familiar on his tongue. He’d never felt so instantly attracted to a woman. He studied the curve of her chin, the shadows of her throat, then struggled to refocus on business.

“We hoped the girls who stayed at Eagle’s place could help us with a time line. I didn’t know you were one of them until I saw you on Sky’s surveillance tapes. The first time I saw you at the beach, I asked the photographer who you were. He must have misunderstood. He gave me Summer’s name instead.”

“You asked who I was?” Her wet eyes focused fondly on him.

“Right.” He sighed. “Do you remember what I said when I first walked in here? I thought you were dead.”

Her smiled faded.

He nodded. “Summer was killed last night.”

“No! It can’t be! How?”

He described the burning Dumpster in detail.

Her eyes grew wetter, wider, tears spilled over. When he said the charred corpse was unrecognizable, her fists clenched.

“Then how can you say it’s her? It could be anyone!”

He described her ring, her purse, the car keys, and his own certainty that dental records would confirm her identity. If her shock was not genuine, he thought, she deserved an Oscar.

The tiny lace square she dug from her handbag was soon crumpled
and sodden. He hated to see her cry and groped for a man-sized handkerchief, which she gratefully accepted.

He needed to know more about Summer.

“Said she grew up in South Carolina, Charleston,” she gulped, wiping her eyes with his handkerchief. “Her mother’s name was Lucinda. I remembered, because that’s my cousin’s name.”

He hit pay dirt on the Internet, a Parks and Lucinda Smith in Charleston. Their only child, Summer Lark Smith, debuted at a debutante cotillion at age seventeen. She was crowned Magnolia Queen at eighteen, which qualified her for the Miss South Carolina pageant, a Miss USA preliminary. She was first runner-up. Her parents sent her to Sweet Briar College in Virginia. But Summer had tasted glamour, knew cameras loved her, and loved them back with a reckless passion. She dropped out of school to chase fame and fortune as a model and actress. Played a trampy vamp on a daytime soap, her career high. But her character was quickly killed off, and in the decade since, DUI and cocaine charges had punctuated her sporadic modeling career.

“Would you recognize the man Summer left with?”

“Of course. I’ll never forget his face or those pale, ice-blue eyes. In fact, I saw him again this morning.”

John did a double take. “When?”

“After your partner decided to bring me here and chased off my cab. As we drove out the guard gate, I saw the Escalade. He had a passenger. They both turned to look. They saw me.”

Damn, John thought. J. J. had arrived like the cavalry, just in time. “Did you point them out to J. J.?”

“No.” The word had a hostile edge. “Didn’t seem important. And though I hate to say it, your partner, bless his heart, is rude and heavy-handed, a typical law enforcement officer.”

“You see me as a typical law enforcement officer?”

“No.” She did not hesitate. “I feel I know you.”

“I know you too, girl. You trust me, Laura?”

She smiled wanly. “My gram warned me about men who ask you to trust ’em, but I do, John. I trust you.”

He felt a rush when she said that. Had he lost his mind? He’d just met the girl. He had to focus.

“We have to locate Cheryl,” he said, briskly. “What’s the name of the guy in the Escalade? What did Summer call him?”

“Manny. Cheryl said that the second man in Eagle’s room that night wore a gun. When I saw Manny wearing a shoulder holster last night, I wished I was packing myself.”

He lifted his eyebrows.

“I own guns,” she said with a shrug. “Have a concealed weapons permit. But local law differs everywhere, and it’s too much of a hassle to take a gun on a plane, so I don’t.”

“You know how to shoot?”

“Sure. My granddad taught me on an old muzzle-loader.”

He smiled and checked his watch. “We have to get to work, and I need to find you a safe place to stay.”

“Why?” she said softly.

“You’re a witness in two homicides. You could be at risk.”

“But I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you.”

“Maybe you don’t know what you know. But somebody might think you do.”

The mysterious Manny, who claimed to receive a call from the dead, was a mere shadow on the nightclub video. Dark hair and clothes, face turned away. Lucky? Or savvy enough to evade the cameras?

Cheryl Sutter had flown home to Silver Spring, just outside Washington, D.C. Her cool, seductive, recorded voice answered her phone. John pictured her red hair and attitude as he left a message to call him ASAP.

He asked Laura to work with a forensic artist to create a sketch of Manny. She was eager to try, but hadn’t eaten all day, so he offered to take her to a Cuban restaurant first.

They were about to leave when he had a return call from Silver Spring. “Hold on,” he told Laura. “I think it’s Cheryl.”

It wasn’t.

“You called Cheryl Sutter?”

The ring of authority in the man’s voice made John’s heart sink. He sounds like me, he thought, a man who asks a lot of questions and expects answers.

“That’s right, is she there?”

“Who are you?” he asked brusquely.

“Who are you?” John asked back.

“Sergeant Danny Sandler, Montgomery County Police.”

“Detective?” John asked.

“Right.”

“Homicide?”

“Right again. You?”

“Homicide sergeant John Ashley, Miami PD. Tell me she’s alive.”

“Sorry. Can’t do that.”

John turned so Laura couldn’t see his face. “What happened?”

“Tell me why you called her first.”

“Look, pal,” he kept his voice down, “this is no game. It’s serious goddamn shit. She’s a witness in two Miami homicide cases and I need to talk to her.”

“Well, it ain’t gonna happen.” His voice rose. “I knew it! You Miami guys piss me off. Why don’tcha keep your mess down there insteada sending your garbage up here. We got enough problems of our own!”

John saw the forensic artist arrive early, step off the elevator, and hail J. J., who introduced him to Laura. He’d hoped to sit across from her, watch her, and listen to her talk. Instead she and the artist settled down in a cubicle.

The cop at the other end of the line continued to bellow in his ear. What’s his problem? John wondered. He didn’t like or trust most other cops, particularly his own colleagues. In Miami it was a common sight to see handcuffed police officers and politicians do the perp walk. Corruption was a way of life. The only cop he trusted was himself, along with two of his brothers who also wore badges. All they wanted was what good cops always want and almost never find—true justice.

“What happened to Cheryl Sutter?” he asked.

“It’s ugly,” the Montgomery County detective said. “The ugliest I’ve seen and I’ve worked homicide for fifteen years.”

“You tell me the circumstances and maybe I can tell you if it’s related to our cases.”

“Wasn’t robbery or burglary, doesn’t appear random, and isn’t your typical sex crime either—though there is nasty sex involved. What
I
do
know is I had tickets, hard-to-come-by tickets, for me and my thirteen-year-old kid for the Nationals-Marlins game today. But guess what? I ain’t there, because you guys spread your mess all over the entire goddamn eastern seaboard!” His voice rose again. “So my kid’s skinny ass is in my seat at the game, alongside my ex-wife’s new boyfriend insteada me!”

“You’re lucky,” John said. “You wouldn’t like it. Be glad you’re not there to see the fish torpedo your team.”

“Whadaya crazy? We got the league’s best pitcher.”

“That overpaid, snot-nosed kid who skips like a girl every time he throws a pitch?” John laughed.

“You can’t be serious!” Sandler sounded apoplectic.

John looked up and frowned. J. J. had interfered with Laura’s session with the artist. The artist was packing his gear.

Laura’s eyes, wide and questioning, caught his.

“What’s going on?” he mouthed to J. J.

“Say buh-bye.” J. J. gave Laura a little wave.

“What?” John clamped his hand over the mouthpiece.

“The county’s on the way to pick ’er up.” J. J. approached John’s desk. “Your new girlfriend here is a material witness in a long-term investigation by a federal-county task force, which supersedes our investigation.” He shrugged, smirked at Laura, and said, “Buh-bye.”

“No way. Whose authority?” John asked.

J. J. shrugged. “The chief wants her released to county detectives who are en route.”

“They can’t interfere with our investigation!”

John told the Montgomery County detective, “Have to call you back. Stuff’s hitting the fan here.”

“Been down that road myself,” Detective Sandler said. “My sympathies, buddy. Call when you can. I’ll give you what we got.”

Laura insisted she knew nothing about any county-federal probe. She’d just arrived in Miami for the first time. Had no priors, not even a speeding ticket. Did have a permit to carry a concealed weapon, no small thing. Applicants pass tests on the gun laws, prove their marks-manship at firing ranges, undergo background checks, are fingerprinted, photographed, and pay a fee.

“Did you get the names of those county cops, J. J.?”

The detective pulled a crumpled scrap of paper from his pocket. “Miami-Dade deputies Donald Woodbury and Angela Haskell.”

“Who?” John said. “I need to see the paperwork, their IDs, and talk to their supervisor.”

“I want to leave. Now!” Laura demanded. “Am I free to go? I’m not charged with any crime.” She glared at J. J., her eyes narrowed. “You tricked me. I was flying home this morning. What right did you have to stop me? I want a lawyer. Now. I refuse to be handed over to another agency—especially a county sheriff.”

John saw her shiver. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You won’t be.”

He called the Miami-Dade County shift commander, who took his name and badge number, then dodged his simple question:
Does your department employ two deputies named Donald Woodbury and Angela Haskell?
Legally, that information should be available to anyone. The commander stalled and promised to get back to him.

John called a longtime friend in Miami-Dade communications. “Hell, yeah,” he said. “Woodbury’s a veteran deputy. Donnie’s a neighbor of mine, in fact.”

“What does he look like? And what’s he working on that involves snatching one of our homicide witnesses?”

“Whatcha talking about, John? Sure you got the right guy? Donnie’s in his fifties, balding. Worked missing persons for the last twenty years. Had a heart attack on the job, nearly bought it, less than a year from retirement. The docs still don’t know when, or if, he’ll ever be back to work.”

“And Angela Haskell?” John’s voice was unnaturally calm.

“Heard she was on maternity leave, let me check the roster.”

John waited. The county’s 3,034 officers worked out of eight districts scattered across more than two thousand square miles.

“Right,” he said. “She’s not expected back for two months.”

“What’s she look like?”

“Good-looking, black, great smile, nine months pregnant. Worked vice undercover, the john squad. Being pregnant didn’t slow her down at all. In fact it made her more effective. Who knew we had so many sickos itching to hook up with a pregnant prostitute?”