Hurricane Bay (7 page)

“Tell him hello for me,” Cindy said.

“Ditto.”

Kelsey nodded. “Cindy and Dane say hello.” She listened while Larry spoke, staring out the sliding glass door from the kitchen to the patio. “Yeah, I know, everyone is saying the same thing.” She gazed at Cindy and Dane again. Her look said that phone calls should be private. But she didn't move away, and Dane wasn't about to be courteous and suggest he and Cindy go somewhere. Kelsey kept talking into her phone. “Maybe she'll show up, maybe she won't. Anyway, I'm still going to spend the week at the duplex. With Cindy. Yeah, she's right next door. Nate's in good shape—hey, he said he saw you a couple of weeks ago. You didn't mention that you'd been down here.”

Whatever he said next, Kelsey didn't answer. “Listen, I'll call you as soon as I hear from Sheila or find out what she's up to, okay?”

She touched a button on her phone and returned it to her purse, then slid back up on the bar stool. “Larry is concerned,” she said.

“Poor thing. He never fell out of love, did he?” Cindy said.

“Maybe not,” Kelsey said. “He still cares about Sheila, but he's certainly gotten over her. He's been doing all right. He's great to look at, smart, has a good job. He was dating one of our models. Beautiful girl. But a man can move on and still think of his ex-wife as a special person. He doesn't get down here that often, but he still thinks of the old gang as his friends. Funny, though. He said he'd been down about a week ago and heard that Sheila was around, but he couldn't track her down. When I told him what I was doing with my vacation time, all he said was that he'd been down on business and hadn't had a chance to really do anything or see anyone.”

“Maybe he didn't think it was worth mentioning. He must have come and gone really quickly. He didn't see me, either,” Cindy said.

“He said he was down here with a client, just long enough for a drink and dinner,” Kelsey said. “Apparently he saw Nate, though. But Nate didn't mention to me today that he'd seen Larry. That was strange, don't you think? Especially when he knows Larry and I work together.” Kelsey had been musing aloud. She didn't seem to mind that she had spoken in front of Cindy, but when her eyes touched Dane's, she seemed to stiffen again.

Somehow he had become the enemy. Things hadn't been right between them for a long time. He hadn't expected hugs and kisses, but even so, he didn't want to be the enemy, not when it was so important that she listen to him. But she was in no mood for that now, so he might as well get going.

Dane set down his beer bottle. “Gotta go,” he told Cindy, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“You have to go? It's early,” Cindy said.

“I have an appointment.”

“A date?” Cindy asked hopefully.

“An appointment,” he repeated.

“At night? Does it have anything to do with an exciting investigation?”

Dane laughed. “Cindy, so far I have surveillance cameras looking for disappearing bait and a few other jobs that are equally mundane.” Well, that was both true and not true. He had taken a job with the principal of a local private school to tail a few of the rich teenagers who seemed to be getting their hands on a fair amount of drugs.

He was pretty sure he had the answer to that one. It had been at the top of his list of jobs to pursue…until this morning.

“Wow, Dane, you're just full of fire and energy,” Kelsey said. She was speaking to him but studying her beer bottle as she peeled the label from it.

“See you, Kelsey,” he said.

“Sure.” She looked at him at last. “It's been great.”

“Hey,” Cindy said thoughtfully, as if she were totally oblivious to the last exchange, “you know, I've got a great idea, Dane. Why don't you have us over for a barbecue?”

“Cindy,” Kelsey protested. “That's rude. We can't just invite ourselves over. And think about it. Dane likes his
mundane
lifestyle. I'm sure that's just what he wants to do. Get out of his lounge chair and cook for a group.”

Dane had the feeling that he could turn into Emeril and Kelsey still wouldn't want to show up at his place to eat.

But Cindy was persisting. “Remember in the old days, when you and your dad had those great cookouts. Maybe Larry can come down for the weekend, and maybe Sheila will even have shown by then. Nate can get another bartender on and come, and who knows who else might be around.”

“We'll see, Cindy,” he said.

He was startled when Kelsey suddenly seemed to rouse herself and let go of her hostility. She slid off her bar stool, approaching him, but pausing a distance away. “Actually, Dane, you know, it would be nice if you had a barbecue and had us all over.”

“You
want
to come visit ye olde town drunk?” he said, staring at her.

Cindy must have felt as if lightning were crackling around her, because she suddenly seemed anxious to get away from the two of them. “I'm going to wash the dishes,” she said.

Kelsey stared at her. “We used paper,” she reminded her.

Cindy gave Kelsey a little shove that almost sent her into Dane. “Look, you two, I don't know what's going on here, but good friends are hard to come by. Both of you, shape up. Kelsey, you're being a real bitch. Walk Dane to the door and tell him you don't think that he's a washed-up, inebriated has-been. Go on.”

There was something going on in Kelsey's ever-calculating little mind, Dane knew, or else she would just have turned away with that air of superiority she could don like a cloak, walk herself into the bedroom, and shut the door.

“I'm being a bitch?” she said.

“Oh, yeah,” Dane said. “Beyond a doubt. You're being a super bitch.”

“And Dane is Mr. Nice Guy?” she said to Cindy.

“Actually I've been damned decent, considering the way you accosted me today.”

“Go on, Kelsey. Walk Dane out.”

“I'm sure Dane knows the way through the living room to the door, but what the heck. Come on, Dane.”

He thought she was going to touch him, take his arm, but she apparently decided against it, crossing her arms over her chest as she walked to the door.

“You should have that barbecue,” she said, opening the front door and leaning against the wall as she waited for him to exit.

He wasn't sure what the hell she was up to, but he was determined that she understand how dangerous any reckless course of action might be. She might have been unnerved earlier tonight, but she hadn't been nearly scared enough.

“Kelsey,
promise
me you're going to stay away from Andy Latham.”

She shrugged. “I told you both, I was wrong, you were right. I only went to talk to him and find out if he knew anything about Sheila. I've talked to him. I have no reason to go back.”

“All right.” He hesitated. “Kelsey, seriously, get your nose out of this.”

Her eyes seemed as opaque as clouds, hooded. “I'm the only one determined to find Sheila. I have to nose around.”

“Look, I'm telling you, I
am
concerned. I swear to you…” He hesitated for a moment, thinking of the irony. “I swear there is no one more anxious than I am to find Sheila. I have a P.I. firm, Kelsey. Let me do this.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So you
do
think there's a reason to worry about Sheila.”

“Let me do the worrying—and the question asking.”

She shrugged. “You're the P.I. Go for it.”

He started out the door, aggravated and exasperated. He wanted to shake her. Make her understand. He also needed to get the hell out. He had to make that appointment.

“Kelsey…”

“I mean it. Go for it. I'll even hire you. Is that an inspiration for you? I assume your rates are high, but I can pay them. No slacking off, though. I want her found.”

“Kelsey, I don't want your money. I told you—I want to find Sheila myself. You stay out of it.”

She didn't agree that she would. Instead she persisted with her original question. “Are you going to have the barbecue?”

He froze where he was, half out the door. He turned back to her, suddenly realizing just why Kelsey was pushing so hard when he was certain she wanted to be nowhere near him.

“Kelsey, you want to come over and search my place? You don't need a special occasion for that. Come on over anytime.”

There was the slightest flood of color to her cheeks, but she didn't flinch.

“If I wanted to search your house, you wouldn't care?”

“Not in the least.”

“You should still have a barbecue.”

“So you could have lots of help while you searched?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Bye, Kelsey.”

He strode away down the walk.

“What time do you start work in the mornings?” she called after him.

“Whenever the hell I feel like it!” He stopped, turning on his heel, staring at her. “You know…once I rise from my drunken stupor. And I lock my doors when I leave, so you'll have to call if you want a personal guide while you try to find incriminating evidence against me.”

Kelsey had come out the doorway behind him and was standing on the porch.

He was about to walk away, aware that he would slam his way into his car. Instead he strode back to her so quickly that she didn't have time to back away.

“What the hell is it, Kelsey? What did I do to you that makes you mistrust
me
—yet you run out alone in the dark to see a man like Andy Latham?”

He hadn't touched her—he had managed not to do that. But he stood a breath away from her. He saw the flash of fire in her eyes and the tightness that gripped her from head to toe. He thought she was about to deny that there was any reason at all. But she didn't.

“You know what you did to me,” she told him. Then she gritted her teeth, turning pale, and it was painfully apparent that she was horrified that the words had come out of her mouth.

“What I did to you?” he repeated. “I didn't do a damn thing to you, Kelsey. In fact,
I
should be angry for what you did to me. So that's what this is all about?”

“This is all about the fact that I came to see Sheila, but she's nowhere to be seen, and Nate said I should ask you because you had an argument with her and then she took off to your house. And she hasn't been seen since. And because you could have done anything with your life and you're spending it drinking yourself into some kind of oblivion in a lounge chair. It's because there's something going on, and you're the only one with the knowledge and the training to deal with it, but instead you're wasting your time in self-absorbed flagellation.”

“You don't know anything about me, Kelsey. Nothing at all. Not anymore. Maybe I
should
have a barbecue. Let you tear up my place while I have friends around. Maybe I shouldn't trust you alone at my house.”

With that, he made his way to his car. He managed to open the door without ripping it from its hinges and even closed it without slamming it.

In fact, he made it halfway down the block before punching the dashboard.

J
esse Crane was standing out by the dock when Dane returned.

Dane didn't particularly mind darkness himself, but he kept a floodlight trained on the front and rear entries to the house and the dock. The last thing he wanted was someone stumbling onto his place despite the huge Private Road notice on the turnoff to Hurricane Bay and taking an accidental dive into the water. He'd never had a fear of thieves; the value of Hurricane Bay was in the island itself. Most of what he had that might be considered of value had more of a sentimental worth, though he supposed some of the collections his folks had gathered were good ones.

Still, out on Hurricane Bay, he'd never even locked his doors—until today.

“You're late,” Jesse called to him.

“Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

“No big deal. I would have watched the TV, except the house is locked.” Jesse was tall and gave the appearance of being lanky. He wasn't. He was honed to a
T
. His hair was nearly black, dead straight and worn short. His eyes were a light hazel, almost yellow, and he had a way of looking at a person as if he already knew everything they might be trying to hide. He'd been with the Metro-Dade force until his wife, also a cop, had been killed. At that point, he'd left the force and joined the tribal police.

He was Dane's second cousin, and he had mixed blood, as well. His just wasn't quite so complex of a cocktail, as he liked to tell Dane.

“When did you start locking the door?” Jesse asked him.

“Today. I'm setting up surveillance cameras, too.”

“Your chosen line of work is getting to you?” Jesse said.

“Maybe. Come on in.”

Dane opened the screen door, then unlocked the old Dade County pine door behind it. Both men stepped in.

The house was concrete block and stucco and Dade County pine, built against the storms that periodically ravaged the area. It had withstood a great deal, even being pounded by hurricanes, because the construction was so strong. The man who had owned the island before Dane's grandfather had been blown out even before they'd started naming storms. All he had wanted to do was unload the place; he'd called it Hurricane Bay, and the name had stuck. It was Dane's grandfather who'd built the house. Dade County pine was at a premium because it was almost impossible to acquire anymore. It repelled termites and stood strong against most of the dangers inherent in a subtropical climate. The living room was completely paneled with it. The house boasted two coral rock fireplaces, one in the master bedroom and the other in the living room. A large mantel had also been chiseled to match, and on it stood one of his father's great treasures, a stuffed 'gator called Big Tom in life, and—since the taxidermist had been excellent at his craft—for posterity. His father had caught the alligator, which had been terrorizing a residential canal in Homestead. The reptile hadn't gotten hold of any children, but he had managed to consume two poodles and a too-curious cat before being taken down.

A soft leather sofa, matching love seat and two armchairs rounded out the grouping in front of the fireplace. The walls boasted some fine Audubon prints and interesting family photos.

“Want a beer?” Dane asked as they entered.

“Sure.”

Jesse followed Dane through the dining room. The antique claw-foot dining table held Dane's computer and stacks of papers. They passed through the dining room to the kitchen, which fronted the house, along with the living and dining rooms. Way back when, his grandfather had figured people would want to be outside, so both the dining room and kitchen had large windows that could be opened up to the porch, where there were outside counters and rough wood tables. The back of the house faced both the dock and the little spit of man-made beach, so the floor plan made it easy to be outside most of the time.

Jesse leaned against the kitchen counter, looking out at the night and the water as Dane went into the refrigerator.

“It's been a while since I've been out here,” Jesse said, accepting the can Dane handed him.

“Yeah?”

“Of course, you haven't been back all that long.”

“Almost six months.”

Jesse didn't comment. He knew what had brought Dane back. There was no need to talk about it.

“Okay, so what's going on?” Jesse asked. “Do I have a stray tribal member harassing the tourists? Is some local all pissed off because he lost big at bingo or something?”

Dane shook his head, thinking that his second cousin's dry expectations might have amused him at a different time.

“No, actually, I need to ask you about something.”

“Shoot.”

“A couple of months back, you found a strangling victim out in the Glades.”

Jesse frowned and nodded. “Yeah, I found the body,” he said. He studied his beer can. Then he looked at Dane again, his forehead still furrowed. “I've seen a hell of a lot, between Miami-Dade and just living out where fools can go astray. But…hell. That was bad.”

“Mind telling me about it?”

“I think I talked to you at the time.”

“You did, but I'd like to hear about it again.”

“You have a reason.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Are you planning on sharing it with me.”

“Soon. I just need a little time.”

“You haven't found another body?”

“No.”

Jesse studied him for a long moment but accepted the fact that Dane would tell him everything when he was ready.

“I think it was just about three months ago now. The first body was found three months before that, up in Broward County.”

“And the Miami-Dade boys and Broward homicide think it was the same killer?”

Jesse inclined his head. “Looks like it. It's a tough case. Both bodies were found in such a bad state of decomposition, it's been a bitch for forensics.”

“That's why it was so bad when you found the girl?”

“She'd been in the water almost two weeks, in a canal in the Everglades. I don't really need to tell you what that means, but suffice it to say that nature takes its course.”

“So you think she was thrown into the canal by someone who knew the Everglades?”

“Not necessarily. There are a few pretty decent roads leading off of the Tamiami Trail. And the day I discovered her was…a Tuesday. Right after those torrential rains we had when it was supposed to be dry season. A Mack truck could have driven back there and the tire prints would have been washed out. Of course, a Mack truck would have sunk in the swamp, but you know what I mean. In that area, after heavy rains…you're not going to find anything resembling a print or a track. And since the body was in the water, tangled up in some tree roots, there wasn't even a way to tell exactly where it had gone in, since it might have traveled with the current.”

“From what you told me at the time, and what I read in the paper,” Dane said, “they knew she'd been strangled with a necktie, because it was still around her throat.”

“Right. And it was a tie manufactured by the thousands, available in any department store in any state.”

“Anything else?”

“She was naked, except for the tie. That's about it.”

“Did you notice anything in particular when you found her?”

“Yeah, that she was dead. I didn't need to feel for a pulse. And where I found her…it's in an area that might be considered reservation land and might be counted as county. It's not one of those places anyone really wants to fight over. I roped off the scene where I found her and called in the Miami-Dade homicide guys. Specialists. She wasn't one of ours.”

“You knew that from seeing the body?”

“I couldn't even have guaranteed you that she was a she from seeing the body,” Jesse said.

“Then…”

“I'd have known if we'd been missing anyone,” Jesse said. “We're one damned small tribe out there, you know. Less than five hundred. They pretty well wiped out the big numbers during the Indian wars and relocation. Bingo and the casino have been our best revenge, you know.”

“They did identify her, right?”

“Cherie Madsen. Twenty-three, a dancer at a Miami strip club. She'd been a missing person at the time, and she was identified by her dental records.”

“And did the police have any leads?”

“Sure, they had leads, but no real suspects. They traced every name they could find for the night she disappeared, but lots of guys who go to strip clubs use cash and aren't necessarily regulars. They talked to all her old boyfriends, same as they talked to everyone about the murder in Broward County. The first girl was found in a canal off I-595. Same thing—she was in the water at least a couple of weeks before she was discovered. Strangled, tie around her neck. There had been rain that time, too. The body had probably traveled. The girl was naked, and once again the tie could have been bought anywhere. No way to get any prints. The girl hadn't scratched her attacker, so there were no skin cells beneath her nails, nothing. I have a friend in homicide at the Broward sheriff's department, if you want to talk to him further about the case. And you know the guy handling the case for Miami-Dade. It's Hector Hernandez.”

“Yes, I know him. I've known him for years. Big-time fisherman, down here a lot. He's a good cop.”

“Yeah, he's definitely a good cop. He can help you more than I can, since you're apparently after something. I kept up with the case some, since I found one of the victims,” Jesse said quietly. “But not being Miami-Dade homicide anymore, I don't have the same access to the experts. And it's not my case anymore, anyway. You know how small the Miccosukee force is. Something like this, Miami-Dade comes in.”

“Did you hear anything about a psychological profile?”

Jesse nodded again, taking a long swallow from his can. “The cops in both counties got together and asked the FBI to give them a hand with the profiling, and they brought in an expert who has been pretty right on with each case he's profiled that has been solved. White male, twenty-five to forty-five, has a day job, maybe a wife and family, maybe not. Even though the second girl was found out in the Everglades, the profiler is certain the killer is a
white
male. Someone who knows the area and may even know what happens to a body in the water. He probably looks decent, maybe he's even good-looking, and he may have a certain charisma. He's an organized killer. Nothing is left to chance. He's smart enough to keep his prints off any traceable materials, use a condom and dump the bodies where nature will take care of the rest. There might be two different killers, one copycatting the other, but the homicide guys don't think so. They kept a few details about the first body secret, and those same details were also consistent with the second victim.” Jesse shrugged, taking another long swallow from his beer can. “In private, of course, the homicide guys admit to having just about nothing to follow up on. Both girls were strippers. They've questioned every man they could get a lead on who was at either club the night the girl was last seen. They've questioned family and old boyfriends. They've looked for witnesses. They don't have prints, fibers, tire tracks or anything else. They haven't given up, but they've followed every lead they had, and the trail hasn't gotten them very far. It would be bull to suggest they're not hot on it because of what the girls did for a living. They're just working with nothing.”

“I never suggested they weren't working every angle.”

“You didn't, but some guy wrote it up in the paper that way.”

“Was he questioned?”

“You bet. He was just some jerk who's down on the police. He writes up every scrap of corruption he can get his hands on. He tried to suggest years ago that the cops didn't really give a rat's ass when a psycho was killing hookers on Eighth Street. Then the cops cornered the killer and he had to eat his words. But there were witnesses on that case. At least they had the make and color of the car to go on. They don't seem to have a damned thing this time. Then there was the guy a while back who was killing working girls, cutting them up and stuffing them in suitcases. They thought they had it all solved when they were able to trace a guy to the last victim—except she hadn't been a prostitute, she'd been a lounge singer, and the guy they traced was her ex-boyfriend. Turned out he hadn't killed the prostitutes, he was just hoping to get away with murder by disposing of the body in the same manner. They caught him, but they still don't know who did in the other women.”

“Think it could be the same man?”

“With a change in style? I don't know. I don't know enough about criminal psychology to answer that, but the guys I know seem to think they're looking for two different killers. Since they haven't found new bodies in suitcases in a while, they're afraid the guy they called the ‘Bag-man' might have moved on. He was a slasher. This guy strangles. Apparently a different psychology brings about the difference in methods. Hey, you took a lot more classes in criminology than I ever did. You should know.”