Hurricane Bay (11 page)

“If I get anything from a lead you've given me, you know damn well I'll come right to you.”

Hector nodded.

Dane asked him about his family then. Hector told him about his teenaged boys with pride, while still managing to consume his entire meal and ask for dessert, and then coffee.

Dane had coffee, too. When it was served, he asked the waitress if they were in the smoking section, then pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

“Thought you gave that up,” Hector said with a frown.

“Yeah, I did. I picked it up again just before I left St. Augustine.”

Hector shook his head. “And you're giving me a hard time about the food I eat?”

“You've got a point,” Dane said.

Hector downed his coffee, glanced at his watch and said, “I've got to get back to work. Thanks for the lunch. Good luck.”

“You don't mind me in your territory, asking a few questions?”

“Hell no.” Hector was standing, but he hesitated. “First body was found just about six months ago, second body was found just about three months ago. These guys…the profilers say they work in cycles. That could mean we're due for another body. They say that kind of killer doesn't stop. He keeps going. If anything…Never mind. You took classes in criminology.”

“Yeah, but, if anything…what?”

“You know. The killings will just get worse. This guy probably started out squashing lizards as a kid. Maybe he went on to drown kittens, or take a BB gun and use it on puppies. It's likely he progressed to battery or rape, and then…well, now we have our bodies in the canals. That's the psyche of such a man. So believe me, I don't mind you asking questions at all. I don't feel the least possessive about finding a monster like this one. Just don't hold out on me, huh?”

Dane looked at Hector, an honestly good man, and was tempted to tell him all he really knew.

He couldn't.

Hector was too decent a guy. A by-the-book cop.

And Dane needed time. His palms felt itchy. He was determined now, but every once in a while, he felt a cold sweat break out as he wondered what the killer might do next.

“Hector, the minute I've got anything that might help you catch this guy—if and when I ever do—you know that I'll be in your office with the speed of light.”

Hector nodded. “Thanks for the fish. And good luck. Who the hell knows? This guy could have moved on. They may be pulling strippers out of a bayou in Louisiana next. I wish I could say that we always get our man. Take care of yourself, Dane. Sorry about the situation in St. Augustine. I'm real sorry. Heard the fancy-pants lawyers got
him
off, too.”

Dane folded the place mat Hector had written on. He thanked the waitress, paid the bill and decided he might as well start that night with the club in Miami.

He left the restaurant, mentally berating himself as he did so.

He
had
concentrated on psychology, human behavior and criminology during his years at VMI. While Joe had dived headfirst into his love of flying, Dane had been studying with the men from the FBI offices at Quantico. His expertise in the service had been in enemy psychology, the study of religious and behavioral influences on the movements and actions of different peoples. He had worked in both diplomatic negotiations and in “observation tactics,” out-of-uniform exercises among the populace in various zones of action in order to determine the mood and reactionary tendencies of the people.

But he'd been back a hell of a long time now. And though he'd opened his investigations agency in St. Augustine with energy and determination, even that seemed a long time ago. For all that he had learned in the classroom, he had discovered some basics—it was easy for people to become fanatical, and it wasn't always possible to discover just why people became brutally homicidal. Years of study, training and research came down to one dogma—there were simply some bad-ass people out there. Some wore their penchant for cruelty in a manner that was almost as easy to read as an open book. Some were well dressed, charming and could talk such a damned good line that in the very midst of destroying other lives, they could come off looking like victims themselves.

He realized that he'd come home to Key Largo knowing that he'd had to get the hell out of the St. Augustine area. And that he'd also come with the fatalistic belief that none of it had meant a fucking thing. He'd opened an agency again not because he'd been interested in the cases he might acquire but because he'd needed an income if he didn't want to go through his savings and his inheritance like toilet paper while literally leading the life of a lounge lizard, as Kelsey had accused him.

He could set a camera, a wire, any manner of surveillance, easily. He could keep an eye on hours of tape in the event of robbery or an employee pilfering from the till, of drug deals taking place in a parking lot. Easy. Like breathing. Waking up, showering, dressing.

No thought involved.

Maybe he
had
turned into a lounge lizard. Because his first thought, after the whack in the face of the photograph the other day, had been to lie low. To act normally, to watch, to wait.

Hell.

Maybe the old days were kicking back in. And maybe it was just an instinct for survival. He was suddenly as determined as all hell that he was going to crack what was going on.

Yeah, well, he had to be. He'd been bitter because he felt the system had failed him. So he'd walked away. It hadn't been the system. He had failed himself.

And then he had failed Sheila.

He owed it to her to find the truth.

Not to mention what the alternative could mean to him. Hell, this was Florida. He could get the death penalty.

He drove mechanically, traveling US1 southward as he had throughout his entire life. He gave the problem at hand the majority of his concentration until he pulled onto the private road to Hurricane Bay.

Then he groaned.

He had company.

Several cars were drawn up by the walkway. He recognized Cindy's minivan and Nate's full-size Wagoneer, with the name Sea Shanty and the mile marker of the establishment written in script along the side.

As he pulled up the gravel driveway in front of the house, Cindy came running around from the dockside of the property to meet him.

She was smiling as if it was Christmas.

“Dane, surprise! We've brought the barbecue to you.”

D
ane was definitely not delighted to be having a barbecue, Kelsey thought, seeing the tension in his features as he walked with Cindy around to the dock side of the house.

Cindy was smiling. She didn't seem to notice that Dane was less than pleased. “And look who made it down here,” she was saying excitedly. “Larry Miller.”

“Larry, hey, how are you?” Dane said. Larry had left the patio chair where he'd been sitting to walk over and shake Dane's hand. He was wearing a T-shirt, cutoffs and sandals, apparel similar to Nate's, but he still had a haircut that looked pure office. Nate was blond and shaggy, and looked like the native he was.

Some things didn't change.

Dane had been somewhere off the island, she thought. He was wearing chinos, dock shoes and a short-sleeved tailored shirt. Blue. A good color for him. It emphasized the dark quality of his eyes and the bronzed texture of his features. He was far from formally dressed, but in the heat and breezes and casual lifestyle here, ankle-length pants and a nonknit shirt were akin to being dressed up.

“I'm good, thanks, Larry. Nice to see you. What are you doing down here?”

Larry shrugged, grinning a little sheepishly. “Well, Kelsey was down here, and she was upset because Sheila didn't show. Then you were at the duplex, Cindy was there…and Nate. I admit it, I felt like a kid left out of a party. So I drove on down.”

“Nice to see you here. It's been a while.”

“Actually I've been down a few times here and there. But they've been business dinners, quick trips to a restaurant and back, and with a client. Every time I drove down, I'd think, man, I'm an hour away, and I love this place, and I never get here. So here I am.”

“So we had to have a barbecue,” Cindy said.

“Like old times,” Nate put in. “Except, of course, that we meant to surprise you. Instead the tables were turned—we were the ones surprised when you weren't here. But I made these guys hang in for a while. I had faith that you'd show up eventually.”

“But we meant to surprise you with no trouble to you at all, of course. You name it, we brought it,” Cindy said with pleasure. “Hog dogs, hamburgers, steaks, chicken and fish. We brought the charcoal, corn on the cob—wrapped and ready for the grill, mind you—baking potatoes, salad, chips, beer and wine. Oh, and paper plates, napkins, paper cups, plastic utensils.”

“Great,” Dane said. The word was right, but Kelsey thought his inflection was off. He had the look of a man running down a street with a destination in mind, only to find a brick wall in his path.

At least he wasn't going to throw them off the property.

He'd had plans, she realized. But he was going to forgo those plans, rather than share them or make explanations.

Nate rose from the railing where he'd been sitting. “Hey, Dane, when did you start locking the house?”

Dane walked to the door, replying with a shrug. “I'm in the business of investigations,” he said. “I supply people with security. I guess in telling people they need to lock up and take precautions I realized that I left my own place open all the time.” He twisted his key in the lock and opened the door. He looked straight at Kelsey then. “Come in. The house is always open to you.”

Nate walked in, carrying a cooler of groceries. Cindy followed, plucking a grocery bag from the floor of the porch. Larry did likewise, and Kelsey came last, aware that Dane was still staring at her, his hand on the door as he held it open. Her cheeks felt hot as she walked by him. Well, she had basically accused him of…something. At the very least, of keeping information regarding Sheila from them. And she had more or less told him that she was interested in coming here to search his house.

And here he was, opening the door.

She slid by.

“Didn't you want to get one of the bags?” he inquired politely.

She turned back, her flush seeping down to her throat. She picked up a bag, and he turned for the last two.

Cindy was already in the kitchen, emptying the bags. Nate was searching through the supplies for the charcoal. “I'll go right out and get the grill going, Dane, if that's all right?”

“Sounds like a good way to start, since it will take a while for the coals to heat up,” Dane said. He walked over to the cooler Nate had brought in, helping himself to a beer.

“I hope they heat quickly. I'm starving,” Cindy said.

“Everyone is starving,” Larry said. “How about you, Dane?”

“Actually I just had lunch, so I'm fine. I'll get some bowls so we can break out the chips and dips for you guys while we wait to cook all that meat.”

“I'll get the meat ready,” Kelsey said, needing something to do. She delved through the bags until she found the hamburger meat, hot dogs, chicken, sirloins and seasonings. She found a place on the kitchen counter and started to form hamburger patties.

It felt strange, coming to Dane's place. Like the Sea Shanty, it seemed a bastion of all that had been good about her childhood. She had come here so often as a little kid. There was a lot of dockage, but not so much beach area in Key Largo as people tended to think. Hurricane Bay had both dockage and a spit of beach. Man-made, like a lot of the island itself, but it was beachfront, and over the years so much sand had been brought in that it was surprisingly clean and nice. The dock looked straight out on the Atlantic, ocean as far as the eye could see, while the beachfront area was protected by a curve in the property. Mangroves still surrounded the area. In fact, on the beach side of the house, lying on the sand, it was possible to feel as if you were marooned on a private subtropical isle in the middle of nowhere, with total privacy and a distance from the entire world. Many years ago, they had played pirates here. Dane's folks had never minded having kids around, whether they were actually with Dane or not.

Things had changed a little bit when his mother had died, but though his father had become something of a recluse, he had still welcomed the kids. Maybe he had done it in her memory, and maybe he had just liked kids himself. But there had always been something special here. Lemonade or iced tea and home-baked cookies when Dane's Mom was here, and canned soda and bags of Oreos once she was gone. The welcome always remained.

And the house was wonderful. A veritable museum.

“Watch the chicken,” Cindy said.

“What?” Kelsey said, startled from her memories.

“The chicken. Wash it well, and don't let it get near anything else. Germs, bacteria…you know.”

“I'll watch it like a hawk,” Kelsey assured her dryly. Cindy gave her a grave nod. “Are these pieces ready? I'll take them on out.”

They were alone in the kitchen. Kelsey could hear the guys talking out back around the barbecue.

“Cindy, actually, I know you'll do a much better job with the chicken than I will,” Kelsey said. “You get to work here. I'll take this stuff out and let them get it going on the grill.”

Kelsey didn't give Cindy a chance to protest. She picked up the plate of raw meat and headed out of the kitchen.

In the dining room, she paused. There, on the table, was Dane's work station. His computer. Mail. Stacks of paper. Sheets of information he had apparently downloaded and printed out. She held still for a minute, listening to Cindy talk to herself about the dangers of salmonella. She moved forward a few feet and looked out the window to the deck, assuring herself that the men were still talking around the grill.

She balanced the plate of meat in her left hand and moved to the printer, where she saw that he had been downloading newspaper articles. She sifted through the sheets and saw that the columns all referred to the murders of two women. She placed the plate of meat on the table and picked up the top sheet. “Second Stripper Found in Canal.” She scanned the article, but it wasn't really necessary. She remembered reading it when it had come out about three months ago. Cherie Madsen, twenty-three. A business major at a local university by day, a stripper by night. Her friends had said that she'd found it the best way to make the money for her tuition. She didn't intend to get old dancing and taking her clothes off, but she had always said that she was good at what she did and that it beat the hell out of selling clothing at a department store or working in a coffee bar. Cherie was her real name. She'd been reported missing about a week before her body had been discovered.

“Excuse me. We need the meat.”

Kelsey was so startled that she dropped the paper. It wafted from the table to the floor, landing at Dane's feet.

She just looked at him wide-eyed. He betrayed nothing with his expression.

“Do me a favor. Don't get grease all over my papers.”

“I—I wasn't. I just saw this headline. I remember when the murder was the top story in the news. Sad, huh? I didn't mean to get anything on your papers. The headline is kind of gripping, you know.”

“It jumped right out and bit you, right? From the far end of the table.”

She stood still, staring at him. He shrugged. “You told me you wanted to search the place. I don't know why I should be surprised. But I do have business that's confidential and that has nothing to do with Sheila. So…do you mind? And we
do
need the meat.”

She shook her head. She moved forward to pick up the errant paper just as Dane reached down to get it himself. Their heads butted, and they both backed away. “Kelsey, take the meat out. I'll get my papers,” he told her.

She nodded, picked up the plate and fled from the house. When she returned, having given the food to Larry to throw on the grill, she found Dane putting his piles of papers into the filing cabinets against the walls. She was about to go into the kitchen for more meat, but she hesitated, staring at his back. She knew he was aware that she was watching him.

“Why are you following the cases of the murdered strippers?” she asked him.

“None of your business, Kelsey.”

“Do you think those stories have something to do with Sheila?”

He turned to her. “Do you think Sheila was stripping?”

“No.”

“Then why do you think my interest has something to do with her?”

“Because you're supposed to be trying to find Sheila.”

“I am.”

“Then why—”

“You guys showed up over here for a barbecue,” he reminded her.

“Kelsey?” Nate popped his head through the door. “You're supposed to be getting the rest of the meat.”

“It's coming,” she said.

Nate went back out. Kelsey stared at Dane. “I think you know something about Sheila that you're not telling me.”

“Kelsey!” Nate said again, popping his head back in from the porch. “The meat. We need the meat.”

“Okay,” Kelsey said.

Again Nate's head retreated.

“Kelsey, I'll just get the meat,” Dane said. He shoved his file drawer shut and walked past her to the kitchen. She followed him, picking up packages of buns and rolls.

“Make sure the chicken is cooked, really cooked,” Cindy said, scrubbing her hands at the sink.

“Will do,” Dane assured her.

Once they were outside, Kelsey started setting up the tables. The guys were talking about their favorite spots for fishing. Cindy came out carrying one of the coolers. Dane went to help her. Nate snorted, “She may be little, but she can bench press her own weight,” he told Dane.

“That doesn't mean I don't like it when you all pitch in to help,” Cindy told him.

“Dane can probably bench press his own weight, too,” Larry told Nate.

“I think P.I.s are supposed to be in shape, aren't they?” Nate said.

“Either that or they're fat as houses and take up all the space behind their desks,” Larry said.

“I think they come in all sizes,” Dane said. He set the cooler down and stared out at the corner of the house. “Who else is coming?” he asked.

“Maybe it's Jorge Marti,” Cindy said. “We asked him.”

Kelsey set down a napkin and stared around the corner as well. She was suddenly aware of a horrible and overpowering odor.

“It sure as hell isn't Jorge,” Dane said, starting down the porch steps and around the house. Kelsey found herself hurrying after him. She was right behind him when he came face-to-face with Andy Latham.

Latham was shirtless, in cutoff denims. He seemed to gleam with oil and sweat, and he was bearing a big bucket. The odor was coming from the bucket.

“You take your fish back! You take your rotten fish, and from now on, you keep the hell off my property, do you understand?”

Latham was shaking as he spoke. Whether it was with fear or fury, or a combination of both, Kelsey couldn't be certain.

“What are you talking about?” Dane demanded.

Latham turned the bucket over. Bloated, rotting fish spewed forth. They'd been dead a long time, and they'd been left in the sun. Some had exploded from the heat.