Hurricane Bay (15 page)

“Find a killer,” Dane ended.

Jesse shrugged. “The statistics say there are probably a couple hundred serial killers at work in the country at any given time. And most of them are never caught.”

“This one has to be caught. You know that or there will be more victims. And it looks as if he's picking up his pace.”

Jesse shook his head. “Dane, we really don't have a clue as to what his pace is. South Florida holds endless miles of waterways. You know that as well as I do. Last year they finally found four teenagers who'd been missing for almost twenty years. They'd driven into a canal and disappeared without a trace. And the businessman from Philadelphia who disappeared after a night on the town? He was found in a Fort Lauderdale canal after more than a decade. The list of people found in the water after they've been missing for years is staggering.”

Jesse nodded. It wasn't that South Florida law enforcement didn't have excellent dive teams, because they did. Some of the best in the world. It was that the waterways were endless and often mucky, murky and dense with vegetation. Thanks to the divers, many people survived after driving into canals, and most of the time the missing were found. But then there were times when finding someone in the endless waterways was like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.

“Come on,” Jesse said, taking the paper from Dane and setting it on the desk. “I'll take you out to the site where the remains were found.”

They took Dane's Jeep, though. The road they followed wasn't nearly as bad as many of the seldom used paths into the Everglades. It was treacherous country for the unwary, though. Summertime heat was on, and though the area had gone through a drought, it had turned to storm season. Technically the Everglades was not a swamp. The whole area was really an incredibly slow-moving river, heavily subject to the whims of nature. After the recent storm, the gator holes and canals were deep. One twist of the steering wheel could land a car in the water and muck, and then the car and its inhabitants could disappear from view, maybe forever.

Today, as they drove, the sky was a beautiful blue, with light tufting clouds. There was a breeze, bending the saw grass low, like shimmering sheaves of green wheat. They passed canals where unwary egrets, herons and other water birds played perilously close to the watchful gaze of alligators, their bodies cooled from the brutal heat beneath the water's surface, their eerie, reptilian eyes sharp and ever on the alert just above the water's edge.

“There's another storm moving across the Atlantic,” Jesse said.

“Yeah, I saw the paper,” Dane said.

“They think it's going to turn up and head for the Carolinas,” Jesse commented.

“They tend to do that.”

“I think this guy likes to dispose of his victims just before a storm,” Jesse said. “I think he even plans his murders by the weather.”

Dane felt a strange chill despite the near hundred degree heat of the day.

Jesse was right. The killer would strike again soon.

“Whether that storm turns north or not, we're probably in for some weather…in three, four days' time,” Dane murmured.

“Better stop ahead. We'll move down to the waterfront on foot.”

The term “waterfront” didn't actually apply. Once they stepped out of the car, they were in several inches of muddy water. The muck oozed around their feet and created sucking sounds with each step they took.

A few minutes' walk took them to the actual canal, swollen against its banks. A Metro-Dade uniformed officer stood an unhappy guard beside the yellow crime tape that surrounded the area where the body had been found. The man miserably swatted at a mosquito and greeted Jesse with a hello, then nodded at his introduction to Dane.

There wasn't much to see at the actual site. Dane knew that forensics experts and crime scene investigators had spent the morning looking for any minute scrap of evidence—a hair, a fiber, anything at all that might one day link the victim to a suspect, should a suspect ever be apprehended. The tiniest carpet fiber from a vehicle could link a killer to his victim. Forensics had made convictions possible in many cases where it had seemed there was no hope. A perpetrator always left some tiny piece of physical evidence behind, just as he took some piece of evidence with him, a victim's blood, a fiber from their clothing, a strand of hair.

But after nearly a year in a swamp…

“See what I mean, though? The road isn't your average tourist track,” Jesse said. “But it's more than possible to get your average vehicle near enough to dispose of a body. Of course, it's also possible that the body traveled.”

Dane nodded, looking around. The heat was intense. The buzzing of the flies and mosquitoes was like a monotonous song. This was one instance when the detectives were going to have to rely on the age-old methods of hunches and a lot of footwork.

“I went up to the Broward club last night,” Dane told Jesse.

“Yeah?”

“The girls are leery about talking,” Dane said. He shrugged. “They're convinced they're safe because one of them has already been killed, and the killer seems smart enough not to strike in the same place twice. They don't trust the police, and I spent a lot of time trying to convince the girls I wasn't a cop.”

“Did you learn anything?”

“Not yet, but I believe I will. I want to get into the Miami club, as well. Jesse, I didn't have time to read everything on that report. When this girl disappeared, someone evidently filled out a missing persons report, right? So I'm assuming her friends and co-workers were questioned.”

“I've pulled up what information is in the records. It's the same story. She was at work one night. She wasn't there the next. She lived alone. Neighbors don't remember anything. She might have come home, she might not have. She left the club sometime between four and five in the morning, and that's the last time anyone can remember seeing her. In this case, she didn't drive, so there wasn't a question of looking for her car. There was no record of her calling a cab from work, and though her cell phone disappeared with her, the company records were requested, and there were no calls to a cab company. The last place she contacted was a language school—she had asked about taking French lessons. She never went to the school, though, so that was a dead end. She'd had a boyfriend, but he checked out. There were witnesses to prove he'd been at a party in West Palm the night—or early morning—she disappeared. He passed out in the living room at the party, and there were four people to attest to the fact that he didn't wake up until after the girl's shift started the next night. The police in three counties are following every lead, not that there are many. Warnings are going out on the news daily. And other than that…well, the population down here is in the millions, once you take in the three counties. Every possible lead dries up. You know that can happen. A killer is usually caught when he slips up. This guy hasn't slipped up yet. And the police can't interrogate every man who steps into a strip club in South Florida.”

“I think I can narrow it down,” Dane said.

Jesse studied him gravely.

“The Necktie Strangler has to be someone I know,” Dane said.

“Someone you know?” A deep, concerned furrow creased Jesse's forehead

“Or someone who knows me,” Dane said.

He wasn't ready to elaborate further. Jesse, being Jesse, would accept that.

Dane decided to end the conversation there.

“I've got to get back. There's a lot I have to do. And I don't think I have a lot of time.”

T
he sign read simply Izzy's Charters.

Izzy Garcia's fishing boat, the
Lady Havana,
was docked next to a dozen others. Kelsey was glad for the other people around. From what she understood, Izzy was ostensibly living the perfect Keys life, working when he chose, then taking off for the pure pleasure of it when he chose, as well. But if the rumor was true—which she was certain it was—Izzy
didn't
actually take off for the pure pleasure of it. He ran drugs.

She wasn't sure why some government agency hadn't cornered him by now. Except that he was probably good at what he did. He knew every tiny island and inlet, Gulf-side and Atlantic-side, of the Keys, knew when to hold and when to fold, and how to rid himself of a cargo quickly.

He had apparently taken out a morning charter. What seemed to be a family of tourists hovered on the dock, two kids watching with fascination as Izzy gutted and filleted their catch. His knife was sharp, his expertise with it swift and fascinating. Kelsey had spent many an hour with a fresh catch herself, and she was nowhere near as good as Izzy. Few people probably were.

She hadn't seen him in years, but she recognized him right away. He was tall and bronzed, more wiry than massive, but Kelsey had to admit that he was very good-looking in what she might term a “smarmy” way. His hair would have been long if it weren't so curly, oily and dark. His face was lean, with a sharp chin and narrow cheekbones. His eyes were deep-set and very dark. He moved with a strange, natural grace, and knowing Sheila, Kelsey knew what Sheila saw in the man. His tan was so dark that he was beyond bronze and more the color of nutshell brown. His skin was shiny in the sun and heat. Like many a boat man, he was in nothing but cutoffs. His feet were bare.

As if he sensed her standing on the dock, he looked up. Since she'd had no trouble recognizing him, it shouldn't have been strange that he recognized her immediately.

“Kelsey Cunningham,” he breathed, pausing for a moment as he stared her up and down. Again Kelsey understood Sheila's attraction. There was nothing hidden in the way he looked at her. His assessment was slow and complete. He didn't just undress a woman with his eyes, he went all the way.

“Is that the last of them?” the mother of the two children asked. Her nose was white with sunscreen. Her cheeks, missing the protection, were lobster-red.

“The last,” Izzy said, still staring at Kelsey, a curious smile twisting his full lips. He wrapped the fish in brown paper kept at the dockside station for just that purpose. “Don't overcook the fish. Just a little olive oil in the pan, a touch of butter…” He brought his fingers to his lips and made a kissing sound, still looking at Kelsey. “Voilà! Your fillets will be like butter themselves!”

“Thank you,” the husband said. He had the kind of belly that protruded over the waistband of his shorts. The slice of stomach that was revealed was as red as his wife's cheeks.

The group started to move off. Izzy finally looked away from Kelsey. “A tip is customary,” he said flatly.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” the man said, digging in his damp pockets.

“Tip him good, Daddy!” the little girl said. “He helped me catch my fish.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, we had a great time,” the man said, giving Izzy a wad of bills.

Izzy grinned. “Of course. Little girls, just like little boys, should learn to catch fish. To go for it all in life, right…Susie?”

“My name is Shelly,” the little girl said, frowning.

“Ah, yes, Shelly.” Izzy tousled her hair, grinning. “Of course. And now you know how to catch fish with the best of them.”

“My fish was bigger,” the little boy said.

“You both did well,” Izzy said complimentarily.

The kids seemed happy, as did the parents. They waved as they walked away from the dock, studying Kelsey curiously and nodding as they passed her.

“Think she's his girlfriend?” the little girl asked the little boy in a whisper as they passed.

“I'll bet he has a dozen girlfriends!” the boy said confidently. “At least a dozen.”

Izzy laughed, watching them go. “So…Kelsey Cunningham. What an honor—and a surprise. So, have you come to be one of my girlfriends? City life getting to you? Did you come down to slum it with a real man?”

She walked to the table where the flies buzzed around the fish remains. “I came down to see Sheila,” she said.

His smile didn't alter a hair. He shrugged. “Sheila. Now there's an unusual woman. A real woman. Maybe more of a real woman than I am a real man.”

“So you've seen her?”

“Of course I've seen her. She knows where to come when she needs me.”

“Lately? Have you seen her lately?”

He set his hands on his hips and cocked his head, thinking. “I saw her…eight days ago? I think. Before the storm.”

“Not since?”

“No, I don't think so. You know Sheila. She comes, she goes.”

“Were you seeing her…regularly?”

Izzy let out a long laugh. “Was I
fucking
Sheila? Is that what you want to know?”

Kelsey suddenly felt both a surge of anger and a sense of her own stupidity. What the hell did she think—that Izzy was going to confess he'd taken Sheila off and dumped her in the ocean?

She started to turn away. She was startled when his hand fell on her shoulder and he quickly apologized. “Kelsey, don't go so fast. I'm sorry. You were never mean to me, you were never interested in me, either, but I'm just surprised to see you, that's all. But if I can help you, I'd be happy to. So are you concerned about what Sheila has been doing—or what Sheila has been getting? Did you come to me for…something?”

Despite herself, she felt her cheeks flood with color. He thought she had come to an old acquaintance to make a drug purchase.

“I was supposed to meet Sheila here on Thursday. She hasn't shown up yet.”

He made a face that clearly showed her that she was talking about no time at all, the way Sheila would see it.

“Sheila sees me one day…then disappears for a week or more. She has other things to do.” His long lashes swept over his eyes for a moment. “So many people to meet. Me, I fulfill some of her needs. But she has…many needs, and I can't satisfy them all.” As if sensing her discomfort, he changed the subject. “Would you like to come aboard? I've got cold drinks in the refrigerator.”

He picked up on her hesitation immediately.

“I don't bite—unless I'm asked to.”

It might be the stupidest thing in the world to walk onto his boat. But the dock was filled with people. A lot of the charter fishing captains took out a morning group and an afternoon group. They were all between right now. At least a dozen people would see her when she stepped aboard. And she wanted to see for herself where Sheila had been spending time.

“Sure. I'd like to see the boat. And I'd love a cold soda.”

He arched a brow in surprise that she had agreed so readily. Then he smiled broadly. “Miss Cunningham, do come into my parlor. I promise to be on my best behavior.”

Kelsey followed him from the dock, taking his hand as he helped her jump down to the deck of the
Lady Havana
.

“You haven't joined the DEA or anything have you, Kelsey?” he queried. “Because I know damn well you don't trust me.”

He was still holding her hand. She didn't allow herself to pull it away, though she wanted to, and finally he released her.

“I'm just worried about Sheila.”

“I'll tell you what I can.”

They didn't stay on deck. He led the way to the few short steps that descended into the cabin.

 

Dane's concentration had been on focusing the lens of his camera on Izzy Garcia. Bringing his face into full view as best as possible from this distance. He clicked a picture, then another, then a third. A decent full frontal shot as Izzy stepped off his boat. A good profile shot as he turned to the woman passenger, assisting her from the boat. Then, on the dock, cleaning his fish.

He was patient in his quest, waiting for a good, clear shot. He stared at the dock area, where the object of his attention was working. He refocused, noting the mother, father and two children. Then, through his lens, he saw Kelsey.

Hair pulled back into a cool ponytail, she was in a tank top, shorts and deck shoes.

From the midst of a tangle of sea grape trees, Dane watched in amazement as Kelsey disappeared from view, entering the cabin of Izzy's boat.

He hadn't expected to find her here. And he sure as hell hadn't intended to confront Izzy himself. If he were even halfway rational, he wouldn't confront Izzy now.

But he couldn't see Kelsey. And that suddenly meant that he wasn't rational at all.

He pocketed the small camera in the cargo shorts he was wearing and headed toward the dock.

Kelsey was an idiot.

At this moment Dane didn't just dislike Izzy Garcia, he hated the man.

Though he could travel the distance from the off road hummock to the sandy path, the dock and then the boat in a matter of moments, he thought even that was too long a time for Kelsey to be alone with Izzy Garcia.

His heart rate and sense of unease escalated when he saw Izzy on deck again, releasing his mooring lines.

“Shit!” Dane swore, suddenly at a sprinter's pace as his feet hit the dock.

The
Lady Havana
was already pulling away from her berth.

 

“We'll just take a little spin out on the water,” he'd said, again offering his smile of amusement at her obvious mistrust. “Twenty people just saw you get onboard,” he'd reminded her. “And I have another charter in less than an hour. But that way no one will be able to interrupt us. I can talk to you.”

Then he'd left her in the cabin and gone up top. She was still nervous, but he was right—she had gotten on his boat in broad daylight, in front of plenty of witnesses. And Izzy had never done anything to her or to anyone she knew.

Unless, of course, Sheila…

She could swim, she reasoned with herself. If she didn't like what was going on, she could just jump overboard and swim to safety.

Besides, she wanted a few moments alone in the cabin. Time to snoop. Not a lot of time, but she was willing to use anything she could get.

Of course, not only was she looking for a needle in a haystack, she didn't even know what needle she was looking for. But she'd found Sheila's earring at Dane's, and though he'd had a reason for it, she'd learned something.

Actually, more than she'd wanted to know. But it was important to know everything.

And here, in Izzy's boat…

Charts by the radio. And Izzy's cell phone. She glanced up the steps to see him busy on deck and hit the phone book key on Izzy's phone to get his stored numbers. She was carrying a small knit bag, so it was easy to find a pen and paper. She started writing, keeping her eyes on the steps. He was going to have to steer out of the marina area. That would take at least a few minutes.

She found the number to the duplex and the number to Sheila's cell phone. And others that startled her. Cindy's number, Nate's…Dane's. Dane's number at the house and at the office he had rented on US1. More numbers. Even the number to
her
house. She was so surprised that she froze for a minute, then started writing again. She didn't recognize half the area codes.

She heard his footsteps overhead. He was still maneuvering the boat out of the channel.

In a frenzy, she wrote down every number she could. She wondered if she would be able to decipher her own chicken scrawl later. She heard the motor idling down and quickly set down the phone and looked around the cabin. A simple place, loaded with fishing gear. A refrigerator, a small cooktop, a door reading Head. A small archway to an aft bunk. Cushioned seats lined both sides. She lifted the seats, knowing there was storage beneath. More fishing gear. A couple of metal boxes holding…what? A woman's bikini, neatly folded. Sandals on top. Sheila's? A purse…

Kelsey glanced back toward the steps. Listened. The motor was still running. She opened the purse. Lipstick, pen, small plastic bag holding a greenish-brown tobacco-like substance. She sniffed it. Grass. A compact initialed with the letters
SEW.
Sheila Elizabeth Warren.

The motor went still.

Kelsey dropped the purse back in the seat, closed the cushion lid. Sat. She was breathing as if she had just run a marathon. She willed her heart to stop pounding.

Izzy came down the steps. “Soda or beer?”

“Just a soda, please.”

She was amazed to hear her own voice. It was low, calm, polite. It should have been a squeak.

“Cola or lemon-lime? Store brand, I'm afraid. Fishing charters don't pay enough for me to supply the tourists with anything better. Besides, out in the heat, on the ocean, what do they care? If they catch fish, they're happy. Half of them don't even eat fish. They just like to catch them, watch them struggle and say they caught the biggest one. What do you think that says about people?”