Dead Run (6 page)

Monday, November 5
1:15 p.m.

T
hree hours later, Liz exited the police department, thoughts swirling with what she had read in the police report Valentine Lopez had given her. It seemed he and his detectives had, indeed, done a thorough job investigating Rachel's disappearance. They had interviewed nearly two dozen members of the congregation at Paradise Christian. All had expressed shock and dismay over their pastor's disappearance—but not surprise. Pastor Rachel had been behaving strangely, they'd said. Differently from the woman they had chosen to lead their flock. Her sermons had become bizarre, and she had been acting secretive, nervous and jumpy. One woman reported paying a call on Rachel and finding her crying. Several others had reported Rachel stopping by
their home unexpectedly to ask questions about their teenage children.

The police had also spoken with her sister's housekeeper, the church groundskeeper, secretary and a handful of others Rachel had had contact with in her last days. The report mentioned a teenager in Rachel's counsel, but not the youngster's name.

The police had done a complete search of both the parsonage, church and its grounds. That search had yielded nothing out of the ordinary—and certainly not anything to indicate her sister had been a victim of violence. By that point they had begun to conclude Pastor Rachel had disappeared under her own power, but as a matter of course they had issued a statewide BOLO—police vernacular for Be On the Lookout For—then had contacted all the morgues, hospitals and medical centers in south Florida.

Their efforts had yielded nothing.

Soon after they had closed the investigation.

The scream of tires skidding to a halt startled her out of her thoughts. Liz realized with a shock that she had stepped off the sidewalk and into traffic.

“What the hell's wrong with you, lady! You got a death wish or something!”

Heart thundering, Liz scurried backward. Vivid pink petals from a low-hanging branch of the oleander tree above her fluttered to the ground. The irate driver gunned his engine and pulled past her, shooting her a disgusted look as he did.

Liz brought a hand to her chest, shaken. What was wrong with her? She could have been killed. If that driver had been distracted or traffic had been heavier…

She sucked in a shuddering breath, working for calm. Her therapist had warned her she didn't have the emo
tional wherewithal for this. He had warned that signs of her fragile state would manifest itself in a number of ways: emotional highs and lows, forgetfulness, feelings of being overwhelmed or confused. Inability to concentrate.

“Ms. Ames? Are you all right?”

Liz glanced over her shoulder. Lieutenant Lopez stood in the KWPD doorway, expression concerned. Obviously, he had seen her boneheaded waltz into on-coming traffic.
Dammit. The last thing she wanted him to know was just how thin an emotional thread she was hanging by.

She forced a smile. “Fine. Thanks for asking.”

“You need to be more careful. Traffic in this town can be pretty unforgiving.”

She stared at him a moment, unsettled. She found something vaguely threatening in his tone, his conciliatory expression. Just as she had earlier, when he had warned her about stepping on Key Westers' toes.

Sweat beaded across her upper lip. She opened her mouth to speak, the voice that passed her lips was hardly her own, high and frightened sounding. She cringed at it, imagining his amusement. All but hearing his thoughts:

A family of fruitcakes. Her and her sister both.

Liz turned and hurried toward Duval Street, concentrating on walking with purpose and confidence, shoulders back, head held high. She felt his gaze on her and fought glancing back.

If she did, he would know. He would see.

She was losing her mind.

Liz put one foot in front of the other, again and again. Sweat pooled under her arms and rolled down her spine.
Light-headed, she focused on breathing deeply, on filling her lungs.
Oxygen in. Garbage out.

People streamed around her. She sensed their curious glances. Her heart beat faster, out of control. She struggled to breathe, to keep moving blindly forward, to maintain.

Liz knew what was happening to her. A panic attack. Brought on by stress, by extreme anxiety. She had suffered a number of them in recent months, her first the afternoon she'd caught her husband in bed with her so-called best friend, the second a week later when one of her clients, a teenager named Shera, attempted to kill herself by taking a handful of pills.

She couldn't think about that, those things, not now.
A bench. She needed to find a place to sit.
Frantic, Liz darted her gaze from left to right, searching.

Finally, she located one. She collapsed onto it and dropped her head to her knees. She breathed deeply and slowly, as her therapist had instructed.

Oxygen in. Garbage out.

Let it go. It was going to be all right. Everything was going to be all right.

Little by little, her heart slowed, her skin cooled. The attack that had held her in its clammy grip passed. Still she sat, face cradled in her hands. Dear Lord, how could she help others, when she was falling apart herself? How could she find her sister's killer, when she couldn't even talk to one of the good guys without sliding into an abyss of anxiety?

Liz lifted her head. And realized where she was. Where her subconscious had led her.

Paradise Christian Church.

Calm poured over and through her. A sense of focus, of purpose.

Rachel.

Gooseflesh raced up Liz's arms. She whispered her sister's name, her thoughts and senses flooded with her. She felt her presence so keenly, she fully expected to see her emerge from the church. Rachel would smile, wave and cross over in that goofy loping gait of hers, the one more like a golden retriever's than a grown woman's. She would enfold Liz in her arms for a big warm hug.

And everything would be okay.

“Are you all right?”

With a start, Liz jerked her gaze from the church entrance. A woman she had never seen before stood in front of her, expression concerned.

Liz blinked. “I'm sorry, what?”

The woman held out a bottle of water. “I own the store across the street. You look like you could use this.”

“Thanks. I really could.” Liz managed a weak smile and took the bottle. She cracked the seal and took a long drink. She felt better immediately.

“This heat is vicious. I tell visitors to keep water with them at all times. Staying hydrated is the key.”

The woman smiled again and Liz realized this was the most beautiful woman she had ever met. A natural blonde, the way some very young children are, with eyes the color of a perfect summer sky.

Liz returned her smile. “What do I owe you for the water?”

She waved aside the offer. “My treat.”

“A real Good Samaritan. In this day and age no less.”

“Go figure.” The woman looked over her shoulder. “I better get back to the shop. Bikinis & Things.” She pointed. “Stop by, I've got some real cute bathing suits.”

“Thanks, I will.”

A couple of teens zipped by on bicycles. One of them twisted around and waved. “Hey, Heather!”

“Hey, Melanie,” she called back. “Got a new shipment of suits in.”

“Awesome.”

The woman turned back to Liz. “Nice meeting you. Remember, stop by.”

“Wait!” Liz launched to her feet. “I didn't say thanks.”

“You didn't have to.” She wiggled her fingers. “Ciao.”

Liz watched the other woman walk away, feeling for the first time like maybe not everyone on Key West was her adversary.

Tuesday, November 6
Noon

C
arla sat at her desk, staring at the fax she had received only moments before. It was the facsimile of an e-ticket, one-way, to the Cayman Islands. The name on the ticket: Larry Bernhardt. The travel date: November 9, 2001.

This coming Friday. A week to the day after he had leaped out his bedroom window.

She might not be an ace detective, but that didn't make sense to her.

But then, much of the information she had amassed in the past twenty-four hours hadn't. Bernhardt had been well thought of at Island National, liked and respected both by his coworkers and superiors. His boss believed he had come into a sizable inheritance this past January, though he hadn't known from where. That's when he had bought the oceanfront home.

He had been married twice; he and wife number two, the barely-out-of-her-teens Mrs. Bernhardt the housekeeper had spoken of, had divorced shortly after they'd moved into the Sunset Key home. He had two grown children, a boy and a girl, from his first marriage, both of whom he was close to. Carla had spoken with the daughter, who had been stunned. Devastated. The young woman had talked to her father the week before, she'd said; his mood had been jubilant.

His mood jubilant.
Carla frowned. That had been a recurring theme. Everyone she'd talked to had described Bernhardt as happy, relaxed…on top of the world—personally and professionally. In fact, the night of his death he had been out to dinner with friends. He had talked with them about his children, his work, the future.

He hadn't mentioned a trip, however. And he certainly hadn't mentioned thoughts of taking his own life.

Carla tapped the fax, curious. The only dissenting opinion about Bernhardt's psychological state had come from his shrink. Dr. Irwin Morgenstern had stated that he'd been treating Bernhardt for severe depression and anxiety. He had prescribed a number of different medications in an attempt to stabilize him.

Considering what everyone else had said, Carla figured that was bullshit. Bernhardt had been a recreational drug user—either wittingly or unwittingly, Dr. Morgenstern had been his supplier.

A one-way ticket.
She frowned. Typically, a person who bought a one-way ticket was either someone without a job or personal responsibilities or someone who was running away from something. Or somebody. A bad marriage. Financial responsibilities. The law.

So, what had Bernhardt been running away from? And why did a man with a one-way ticket to the Cayman
Islands, a beautiful home and plenty of money, on top professionally and, from what the housekeeper and other friends had said, getting laid frequently, take a swan dive out his third-floor bedroom window?

He didn't. No way.

So maybe Bernhardt had been helped out that window.

Carla shifted her attention to the evidence report. They hadn't found much. The fingerprints on the champagne bottle and pill vial were Bernhardt's. They'd collected several pubic hairs from the bed; the satin sheets had been stained with what appeared to be semen. Fresh stains, the report said. Not ones that had been laundered in.

Carla frowned, something plucking at her memory. Maybe she should head over to Bernhardt's, take another look around?

She slid her gaze to the clock mounted on the wall across from her. Just after noon. Val was at lunch. He had an appointment with the D.A. afterward. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Val liked to be kept abreast of his detectives' activities; she respected that, and she certainly trusted his instincts a hell of a lot more than she trusted her own.

But she didn't feel like sitting on her thumbs all afternoon waiting for him to give her the go-ahead. Screw it, she decided, pushing away from her desk and standing. Val had made it clear that Bernhardt's death was priority one, and she had nothing else to do this afternoon. She'd just go and take another look at Bernhardt's bedroom.

Within ten minutes Carla stood at the Hilton/Mallory Square boat dock, waiting for the ferry. A murder on Sunset Key presented some interesting challenges,
she acknowledged. The key was accessible only by boat, a twenty-four-hour ferry that motored guests and residents to and from the mainland. With the exception of “official” battery-powered carts, no motorized vehicles were allowed on the island. And other than a sign warning Private Property, Sunset Key Residents Only, security was nonexistent. People came and went; nobody asked for proof of resort registration or residency.

Typical Key West, Carla thought. Not a care in the world.

The ferry, a handsome, thirty-two-foot powerboat, arrived. Carla waited for several passengers to disembark, then she climbed aboard. She caught the captain's curious gaze and met it. He looked away.

After waiting five minutes for more passengers to arrive, he set off. Carla faced forward, holding her hair away from her face to keep the wind from tearing at it.

“You're a cop, right?”

Carla shifted her gaze to the ferryboat captain once more. “Right. How did you—”

“I ferried you over on Monday. I heard you and your colleague talking.” He looked away, then back, squinting against the brilliant sun. “Shame about Bernhardt. He seemed like a nice guy.”

“You knew him?”

“Not really. I've only been on staff a month. It's just… I mean, I ferried him back and forth.”

“I bet you're from Boston,” she said, tilting her head, deciding he was cute. “Judging by your accent.”

His lips lifted. “My family's still in shock. They just don't get why I like it here.”

She slid her gaze to his left hand, found it ringless and smiled. “Mine didn't either.”

“You know—” He cleared his throat. “I ferried him the night…he did it.”

Carla straightened, flirtation forgotten. “That so? How'd he seem to you?”

“Same as always. Friendly. Relaxed. Nice guy,” he said again, easing up on the throttle as he neared the dock.

“Anybody with him that night?” she asked as he cut the power, then maneuvered the craft against the dock.

“Not that night.” He hopped up, tied off the bow, then stern. That done, he turned back to her, a frown marring his forehead. “Bernhardt seemed to have it all. So why'd he do it? I don't get that at all.”

That made two of them.
She stood and allowed him to help her disembark, though she was capable of managing on her own.

“I'm Detective Carla Chapman.” She handed him her card. “You think of anything, give me a call.”

He slid his dark gaze over her. “I'll do that…Carla.”

For a split second, she thought he might suggest they get together sometime. He didn't, and she quashed her disappointment and returned her attention to Bernhardt. Since his death hadn't been officially classified yet, his home was still considered a crime scene. She ducked under the police line and entered. The interior was dim and cool. The housekeeper had drawn the drapes and closed the blinds when she left.

Carla climbed the stairs. The air conditioner kicked on. Other than the bed having been stripped by the evidence guys, she found the bedroom just as she had left it the other day. She moved her gaze slowly over the room acknowledging that she had most probably wasted her time by coming here.

Suddenly she realized what had been plucking at her
memory. The housekeeper had told her that Bernhardt had insisted on fresh bedding every day. Which meant, when he had climbed in the sack the last night of his life, the sheets had not been stained. She narrowed her eyes. Sure, the man could have jacked off one last time before taking the plunge. The hairs could be his.

But they might not be. And if they weren't, that meant Larry Bernhardt had not been alone the night of his death.