Nobody Lives Forever (6 page)

Laurel impatiently checked the time. The kitchen wall clock was shaped like a coffeepot, a percolator with a little light bubbling at the top. It said ten o'clock. Rick was not home yet. Where is he, she thought, biting her lip. She hated the stress of constantly being left alone, she could not endure it, she thought, staring out the window. She was afraid that strange things would take place, that frightening forces would engulf her again, that it was already happening. Her posture changed subtly, her spine straightened, her chin lifted. Her eyes faded to a paler shade, more gray now than green, and her mouth settled into a no-nonsense, matter-of-fact expression.

Harriet emerged, took a deep breath, glanced around the room, tied an apron around her waist and went briskly to work. She scalded half a dozen plump ripe tomatoes, removed the skins and began to mince parsley for the sauce.

A gray kitten the color of blue smoke skittered across her kitchen floor in madcap pursuit of sunbeams and shadows. The creature belonged to Benjie, the three-year-old son of the Singers next door. How annoying. Harriet continued her tasks. The spoiled brat is far too young to own a kitten. They always say, she thought, that no one really owns a cat. Sure enough, this one would not stay at home. How did the animal escape Benjie's grubby paws and get into her house anyway? Most likely through Chuckle's kitty door in the garage. It was burden enough putting up with Chuckles, the Siamese. He was crouched under a chair, watching the kitten intently, his tail twitching.

She diced the tomatoes. Fascinated by the sound and her movements, the kitten scrambled quick as lightning to the top of a stepstool used to reach the high shelves in the pantry. From that vantage point the leap to the cutting board was merely kitten's play.

“I'm warning you,” she said pleasantly, as she sliced fresh mushrooms. “Don't do it, kitty.”

She raised her head to listen as Rick's car crunched into the driveway. The mischievous kitten batted the countertop with a tentative blue-gray paw. Harriet paused for a moment to watch as the kitten plunked itself down prettily on the stool's top step, gazing up at her, golden eyes unblinking, expecting to be admired. When she moved the knife it pounced, all four feet landing like fathers on the immaculate white countertop.

Sighing, Harriet lay down her knife as the kitten scampered closer to inspect the cutting board. The pink nose quivered. Harriet selected the thin-bladed filet knife, sliding it from the solid maple storage block slowly, as though unsheathing a sword. Holding it delicately, she admired its balance and the way it fit so well into her hand. Top-grade cutlery with surgically sharp stainless-steel blades and triple-riveted solid maple handles. Outside, a car door slammed, and in her mind's eye she saw Rick walk across the lawn and stoop to pick up the morning newspaper.

“Kitty,” she whispered, hissing softly through her teeth. Intrigued, the animal abandoned its fascination with the cutting board and turned its attention to her. The knife pierced its chest easily. Harriet was a bit surprised that it took so little force to slide it in cleanly, nearly to the hilt, impaling the creature like an ice cream on a stick. The breastbone must be just soft cartilage in a kitten that young, she thought. And of course the knife was scalpel-sharp. All of her tools and equipment were well maintained. “I warned you,” she whispered cheerfully, withdrawing the knife. “This is my kitchen.”

She heard the clang of the garbage can lid at the side of the house and scowled. What was Rick doing? Irritated, she hoped he was not placing anything that was not neatly wrapped into her heavy-duty, double-weight aluminum garbage can.

The morning sky glowed as blue as any paradise. The neighborhood seemed safe and still once more. The heavy scent of summer flowers hung on the hushed air, and a small flotilla of bright sails bobbed on a turquoise bay. Weekend sailors were out in force. Rick picked up the newspaper, which was rolled inside a plastic bag, and stood, legs apart, in the middle of his velvet-green lawn. The grass grew so fast this time of year, you could almost hear its radiant energy, the faint humming of photosynthesis, busy breeding, germinating and sprouting, a never-ending life process accelerated by the heat and moisture of the season. The morning was so splendidly alive that it seemed death did not exist and the night of the murder had never happened. The only trace was a length of yellow crime-scene tape that hung limply from the slim trunk of a frangipani tree. Rick untied it, rolled the tape tightly and dropped it into the new heavy-duty aluminum garbage can Laurel had bought recently. As he did he thought he heard the grinding rumble of the garbage disposal in the kitchen. He did not disturb the Thornes, hoping they were still sleeping, though he doubted it. Had he something to tell them, he might have done it now, but there was nothing. Facing the bereaved parents would be easier after some food and a few hours' sleep.

The house was quiet when he opened the front door. Laurel appeared to be still asleep, facedown, hugging her lace-edged pillow. He unbuttoned his shirt and sat gently on the edge of the bed, making an effort not to wake her.

“Good morning, Sergeant.” She rolled over, flinging the bedclothes aside with abandon. The slim, sensuous body was naked. He noticed her flowered cotton nightgown crumpled on the carpet. She must have heard his car. “I assume this is a raid,” she said.

“Hot damn.” Rick grinned. She was in one of those wild and crazy seductive moods. He was delighted, despite his exhaustion. Nothing chases the ghost of a sad and frustrating case and soothes numb weariness into a relaxed warmth faster than good sex.

“It's inspection time, Sergeant. I want to see your weapon.” Her small hands, like darting birds, were busy with his zipper and the swelling behind it.

“Jesus, I love it when you're like this,” he whispered. “You're so crazy. You drive me nuts.” He fumbled with his shirt.

“No, no, leave it on,” she murmured, her voice low and husky. “Just take off your pants. I like it this way.”

Her fine, soft hair billowed over the pillow. Her body was stretched out, taut and lithe, nipples on the small, firm breasts hard and pointed, her arms reached out to him. Golden shafts of morning light found their way through the leafy bower outside the window and played shadow games across her smooth skin. She was chuckling softly, her lips ripe and swollen.

“Get your handcuffs,” she demanded, her eyes apple green and brazen. “Let me show you how I handle a prisoner.”

Clumsy in his eagerness, he stumbled to the dresser, one bare leg free, the other dragging his trousers and boxer shorts. He found the cuffs, kicked off his trousers, left them in the middle of the floor and returned to her.

During their fun and games, she astonished him by easily slipping free of the cuffs. “How do you do that?” he murmured. “I've only seen a few escape artists who could pull that off. I had to chase them,” he recalled dolefully.

“Muscle control.” Her eyes were bold. “It helps me do a lot of things extraordinarily well, don't you agree?”

He grinned lazily and yawned. “For sure.” His voice was drowsy. She grew very quiet, eyes shadowed in the filtered light. She did not move, nor did her eyes change when he gently kissed her. “Maybe I'm lucky you're not always like this. I don't know if an old man like me could hack it.”

He asked her to wake him at five in the afternoon, then rolled over and drifted into sleep without seeing that his request caused her discomfort. Laurel sat up and stared hard at the clock, her brow furrowed. Rick was asleep. The entire day stretched before her.

Terry Lou Mitchell encountered Mary Ellen Dustin in the ladies' locker room at the fitness center. “I met Rick's new significant other at that homicide scene on the island,” she said teasingly.

“It's a damn shame,” Dusty said, her voice cool. “He was a nice kid.”

“I must say, I was impressed by Miss Teenage America. All tan and sleek—and young.”

“Maybe that's the attraction,” Dusty said wryly. “It's the first time I ever got dumped for a younger woman. I'm not even thirty yet.” She swept her thick, shining blond hair back, away from the high cheekbones and strong face, and fastened it with a plastic clip.

“She looks a little like you, you notice? Like your kid sister or your younger cousin. I was surprised.”

“Not as surprised as I was.”

“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? Not me. See ya out there. I'm gonna try the treadmill for a while.”

The center was located in a renovated bayfront hotel and offered discount memberships to police officers and their families, another perk of the job. Rows of Nautilus machines resembled medieval instruments of torture, with their straps, stirrups and gleaming metal. Treadmills, weights, rowing machines, exercise bikes and the men and women using them were reflected everywhere in mirrored walls. What had been a ballroom was now lined with ballet barres, carpeted in pale green and also mirrored for classes in aerobic dance, Jazzercise and total conditioning. Aqua-aerobics took place, weather permitting, in an Olympic-size pool overlooking the bay and the city skyline.

Nearly naked, seated on a bench in front of a row of lockers, Dusty was pulling on her tights when she saw Laurel, just three feet away. Her first reaction was to wince, wondering if the conversation had been overheard. To her relief, Laurel, wearing a white leotard and adjusting her pink headband, looked as startled as she was. Both smiled after an awkward moment. “Hi, Laurel!” Dusty sang out the greeting as she got to her feet. “Thank God for spandex,” she said, patting her hip. “It hides a multitude of sins, or at least pulls them all together.”

“You have nothing to worry about.” Laurel looked uncomfortably at the rosy, full-blown and bouncing breasts. Dusty was stuffing unselfconsciously into her black leotard. Her own were mere buds by comparison. “I didn't know you were a member.”

“No choice, since the cop shop's group medical refuses to pay for liposuction. And what do you
mean
, nothing to worry about?” She finished tying a shoelace. “I always wanted dimples, but not in my thighs, which, unfortunately, is where they have appeared. Time to fight the war against cellulite! Let's go!” She reached into her locker for a set of red hand weights, then slammed the door.

She smiled and tossed a casual arm around Laurel's shoulder. Laurel quickly stepped away, out of reach, a reflex she seemed to instantly regret. “Here.” She snatched two towels off a stack still warm from the dryer. “Take one.”

“Sure.” Dusty took the towel, hesitated, then followed Laurel out into the big mirrored room. She had wanted to ask if there was any progress in the Thorne case but swallowed the impulse. Rick probably did not talk shop with Laurel anyway. What
did
they have in common? Rick might still be working if they had come up with some good leads. Where is he, she wondered. Home in his bed? Alone? His long lean body warm with sleep? If he is, and I lived there, she thought, I wouldn't be here. Was the unmistakable glow Laurel wore, unenhanced by makeup, the aftermath of sex or simply the bloom of youth? She sighed. Her instinct was to be pleasant but not too friendly. She did not want Laurel to sense her feelings.

In another time, another life, she might have reached out to Terry Lou, or even to Laurel, as a friend. They obviously had something in common, the same taste in men, or at least one man. But friends no longer came easily, casually for her. When Dusty had chosen Miami for a fresh start, she had deliberately severed all old ties, leaving them behind, with everything that was painful. Hoping to become a brand-new woman, without a past, she kept no relationships and after five years had made little effort to cultivate new ones. She had dropped the barriers only once—unfortunately. With Rick, all things had seemed possible. She had been convinced for a time that her life would be rich and full, but, she told herself, she should have known better. Some shadows never fade.

Most of the center's aerobics instructors were women. But today it was Barry, a high-energy young man who wore a ponytail, headband and stretch tights that left little to the imagination. Dusty was pleased. Barry liked the music loud. She deliberately chose a spot in front of a powerful stereo speaker. The booming music would blast all thoughts out of her mind. She liked not having to think about her life, the intricacies of her job or the cruelty of the streets, to simply let the beat of the music fill her mind and body.

Nearly two dozen women and three or four men stood waiting, about to begin. Poised on a raised and carpeted platform at the front of the room, Barry smiled fondly at his own multiple reflections in the mirrors. He always seemed about to laugh, like a man keeping an exuberant secret. Hands flat on the floor, his muscular legs apart, he led them into warm-up stretches that made the friendly bulge in his tights even more difficult to ignore. Jogging and jumping into a high-impact routine, he bellowed gruff commands at the spoiled housewives with flabby thighs. “Move it! Pull in that stomach! Breathe!” They snickered and ate it up, making it clear that no one but Barry ever talked to them that way. Skin glistening, he inhaled deeply. His long hair was wet and curling, his body all strength and sinew. What a motivator and what a great ass, Dusty thought, ignoring the cramp in her right calf as she followed his movements. The music overwhelmed and washed over her as she concentrated only on her breathing and her accelerated heart rate. There was a distraction: Laurel, across the room, dancing vigorously in front of a mirror, oblivious, big eyes riveted, as if fascinated by her own image. Laurel's changing expressions were oddly disturbing. Dusty looked away, but her eyes drifted back, drawn by something puzzling that she could not quite fathom.

The pace eventually slowed to a jog, and the class cooled down and went to the floor for push-ups. Barry's T-shirt was so saturated that huge drops of perspiration dripped from the midline of his chest, disappearing into the pale green carpet. Drop after drop, in rhythm to the throbbing beat of the music. Dusty wondered how it would feel to have those warm wet drops splash onto her bare breasts. Too bad this man would never know how much she liked to see him sweat and how much she admired his ass. She hoped fervently that he was not gay. Perish the thought.

Those who had not already dropped out and escaped to the showers rolled onto their backs, for buttocks tucks.

“Your back stays glued to the floor. Contract those abdominals,” Barry demanded. “Squeeze those buns!” He watched the sweaty, writhing bodies, his half-smile wicked. “Come
on
, ladies! A pelvic thrust. I
know
you know how to do that. Like trying to pick up a grape with your cheeks.”

The class broke, and Dusty headed to the locker room. Laurel lagged behind. The mirrored wall offered Dusty one last reflection. Laurel and Barry, heads together, laughing. Dusty was startled by Laurel's body language, hips slung to one side, her back arched.

Dusty lathered her hair and stood in the shower longer than usual, eyes closed. By the time she wrapped a towel around her head and another around her trim waist, she was alone.

She was not due to report to homicide until eleven
P
.
M
., but energized and eager to start, she decided to go to the station that afternoon. She had no other plans, and the Sunday atmosphere at headquarters was relaxed. The brass rarely made personal appearances on weekends. The troops can usually carry out their jobs free from meddling, interfering, second-guessing or ego trips by politicians or commanders impressed by their own authority. For a self-starter who really wants to work, it is the best time. She could clean out her locker, move her belongings to homicide, read the supplemental reports on all the team's active cases and check out new leads in the Thorne homicide, all before Rick and Jim arrived.

A traffic light stopped her at an Overtown intersection a few blocks north of headquarters. A young black man stood at the crosswalk, wearing a neatly pressed suit the color of an Easter egg. His two-toned shoes had been buffed to a high shine, and he was carrying a baby. The big-eyed tot in his arms, no more than a year old, wore sky-blue, from his cap down to little blue leather shoes neatly laced. Smiling, Dusty waved the man in the gaudy lavender suit across in front of her. He was a high stepper, conscious of his attire and that of the immaculately dressed child in his arms, definitely an individual en route to an important destination, somebody with a place to go.

The image touched her, freezing her smile as she watched them. Stricken by a yearning as vague as it was painful, she longed to be … what? A part of something or somebody else? To spend the week eagerly anticipating Sundays and holidays? To dress up, as the man and little child had, to join friends and family at a place fragrant with home cooking and alive with hugs and laughter? A place where people love you and welcome you back—no matter what.

Hell, she thought, I dumped all that a long time ago, or it dumped me. How long had it been since a Sunday or even a holiday meant anything more to her than work or the mundane tasks of everyday living?

The blues closed in, and she fought back fiercely, shaking off the sudden loneliness literally, tossing her shining hair from side to side like the beauties in shampoo commercials. Come on! She told herself. What
is
this, the Norman Rockwell Syndrome? Feeling sorry for yourself, or what? Are you nuts? “What the hell
is
a normal life?” she asked aloud. She'd learned her lessons the hard way. Watch what you wish for, she thought. You might just get it.

Always wanting more can lead to disaster. Learn to be happy with what you've got. So she'd had Rick, for a short time, and dreamed life would be different. But it was not and never would be. She was elated to be working with him again. He had been a positive presence in her life for more than five years, since he came to lecture her police academy class on homicide investigation. Long-legged and sandy-haired, earnest, with a face that would still look boyish at fifty, he obviously cared about the job and about people. That was the big difference between him and most other cops, the big difference between him and most other men. Respect, friendship and camaraderie will be enough, she thought. Hell, the man will probably spend more waking hours with me than with this cheerleader he's involved with. Wait until Laurel finds out about the schedule, the overtime, all the demands of the job. She buoyed herself with the thought. Rick and I will still be close—but, she told herself, it will never be the same. She's the one he goes home to.

Salvation, she had learned in the past, is to work hard at something important, to become lost in something so difficult and all-consuming that it becomes your armor, a shield against the rest of the world and what it can do to you. Work is ultimately rewarding. Dedication is admirable. Only she would know it was actually self-defense.

She wheeled her sporty red Datsun into the parking lot, tires squealing on the blacktop. The most important thing I can do now, she told herself, is to help catch the son of a bitch who killed the Thorne kid. That would be rewarding.

She thanked God for her job, took her service revolver out of the glove compartment, slipped it into her oversized purse and walked tall into the big building.