Hurricane Bay (32 page)

She careened to the ground instead.

 

Kelsey really should have gone to sleep.

But she was waiting for Dane, and she knew it. When he didn't come right away, she knew she would fall asleep if she didn't do something, so she turned on the television, sitting up in bed and using the remote. Nice bed, she thought. Big. Comfortable. Four pillows at the headboard. The room wasn't overly neat—Dane had fishing magazines strewn about and some kind of trade journal describing new security products. Across from the bed was a bookshelf with an interesting assortment of titles: copies of the classics, military manuals, books on the local flora and fauna, a lot on the Everglades, and the paperback thrillers he liked to read for pleasure.

The room was done in a combination of hardwood and rattan. It was a masculine room that still welcomed a feminine presence. She felt ridiculously comfortable and at home.

Dane even had a good mattress. Clean, cool sheets. Comfy pillows.

Don't get too comfortable, girl, she warned herself. She led a different life. A fast-paced life in the advertising world. She'd only been home a matter of days, and already it seemed as if the years since her last visit meant nothing, were hardly even real. She had ended up exactly where she wanted to be. But it was a bad move. She didn't know Dane anymore. She doubted that he wanted any more than a few days with her. He'd been hurt in St. Augustine, so here he was. She'd actually gone to him and asked him to sleep with her. She was sure that was no hardship for him. But he'd slept with Sheila, as well. Before she had disappeared. She needed to think about this situation, keep her emotions in reserve.

And yet all that seemed to matter was that she was here with him now. Granted, he was downstairs. And she had warned him that she might fall asleep. Hmm. But she had also insisted that he find Sheila. And whatever he was doing, she was certain, had to do with that goal.

With that in mind, she jumped out of bed and dug into the bag she had brought along. She drew out the picture Sheila had drawn in grade school. Sheila was no artist, yet the picture was more disturbing than if it had been a perfect likeness.

She kept going through the papers, then picked up Sheila's diary, wishing that it gave more away. A diary was supposed to allow for total freedom of thought, but Sheila had only rambled. Kelsey flipped pages, wishing she could find something. Sheila did refer to people. Nate was a “silly dear.” And Larry loved her so much, she wished she had been able to settle down with him. He still called her, just to make sure she didn't need anything. Izzy remained at the top of her list for fun. She enjoyed Jorge's company, but he lacked that true edge of dangerous excitement—and the ability to see her as a real equal—that Izzy had. If only Izzy didn't mind that she loved to go to bars and pick up strangers.

The only time she ever mentioned fear was in reference to Dane. In needing to talk to Dane.

But Dane had been right. If she was afraid of him, why would he be the one she turned to when she needed to talk?

She cast the diary down in exasperation. “Sheila, why the hell didn't you just come right out and say something? It was
your
diary,” she said aloud.

She picked up the papers again. Riffling through them, she was startled to find another drawing she had missed earlier.

The drawing was more like doodling. But once again it depicted a man and a girl. Or a woman. The man had the woman by the throat.

“What did you find?”

Dane's voice startled her and she nearly threw the drawing into the air. He was standing in the bedroom doorway, watching her.

“A sketch Sheila did,” she told him.

He walked over to the bed, taking the sketch, staring at it. Dane so seldom gave anything away. But his look as he stared at the picture was disturbed and sorrowful.

“You think she was drawing Andy Latham?” he asked.

Kelsey shrugged. “Who can tell? She wasn't much of an artist.”

He looked at the journal on the bed, still encased in the book cover.

“Sheila's diary?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“And…?”

“Nothing. She talks about everyone, but…nothing.”

“I should read it.”

Kelsey shrugged. “Sure. Maybe you can find something I can't.”

“Not tonight. I don't think I could make sense of anything tonight.”

She met his eyes. “I guess you're really tired.”

“Well, there's tired and then there's tired.”

“Oh?”

“I'm too tired to read.” He set the journal on the nightstand and collected the papers Kelsey had scattered on the bed, piling them on top of the journal. He sat on the side of the bed, looking at her. “You've got great shoulders, Kelsey.”

“Thanks.”

“Can I assume the fact that they're naked shoulders means that the rest of you is also naked underneath that sheet?”

“You can assume anything you want. But you are a private investigator. I'm sure you can think of some way to find out.”

“Yes, I'm sure I can.”

He didn't touch her then, but rose, turning off the light. He picked up the remote control and flicked off the television.

The room wasn't completely dark. They were on the second floor, and Hurricane Bay was a private island. The drapes were pulled back. Pools of soft moonlight spilled into the room.

He undressed in haste, shoes kicked off at the foot of the bed, pants and briefs discarded there. He pulled his knit shirt over his head and it, too, fell on the pile.

He pulled the sheets from Kelsey.

“Looks like my assumption was right.”

“Wow, you're really good at what you do.”

“Thanks, ma'am.”

“I meant investigating.”

“I didn't.”

Kelsey laughed as he crawled in beside her.

“Humble,” she murmured, as she felt the length of his body slide next to hers, hard, hot and vibrant.

“Do you want humble…or good?”

“Well you'd better be damn good now,” she told him.

She saw him grin in the moonlight. “All right.”

Kelsey curled her arms around him. She'd been exhausted, but suddenly she was wide-awake.

His lips found hers. He could kiss in a way that created a carnal and intimate illusion of everything he was about to do with his body. Her legs were parted by the length of his. Their mouths were locked in an open, wet fusion when he thrust deeply into her, bringing her to the brink in a matter of seconds. She wanted to hold on, to savor the moment of deepening penetration, but then he moved…and moved.

She thought she was going to die. But just when she reached that point, he withdrew. His lips started moving then. Over her shoulders, which he complimented in whispers once again. Teasing against her collarbone. Doing incredible things to her breasts.

She couldn't bear it. She pressed against him, turning the tide. There was so much of Dane she wanted to explore. Taste, treasure. She nuzzled against the hair on his chest, ran her lips and tongue in delicate kisses over his throat, down to his hips.

Great legs…

Six-pack belly. He kept himself in shape.

She teased him everywhere…then slid her mouth down the length of his sex. She heard his single expulsion of breath as he savored her every move.

He flipped her down in a sudden movement with a sound almost like a growl. Then he returned the caresses. Belly, thighs…

Between.

She tugged at his hair. He came to her.

She thanked God they were on an island, she shrieked so loudly.

And then they lay there, locked together. She was aware of the dim moonlight. And of Dane. The feel of him, sheened with sweat, beside her. So alive.

“Well?” he murmured, lips against her ear.

She smiled, turning into him, running her fingers through his hair. “You'll do.”

“Thanks.” He rose above her suddenly. “I'm not always so good, you know.”

“Oh?”

“It's you,” he said. “You're incredibly inspiring.”

“I try,” she said, then added. “With you.”

She couldn't see his features as he lay by her side again. She curled against him, exhausted. In moments she was asleep.

 

She awoke to find that he was up, dressed and ready to go out. She was startled to see that there was a gun on the bed next to her.

“It's a .38 special,” he told her. “You know how to use it?”

“I…yes. I haven't touched a gun in years, but…I used to go to the shooting range with Joe fairly frequently.”

“Good. I'll be about an hour. I'll lock up behind me, but keep that with you—even in the shower.”

He kissed her forehead.

“Where are you going?”

“To see a stripper.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really. But I'll be right back.”

She didn't press him, because he wasn't there to press. She heard his footsteps as he hurried down the stairs.

She lay in bed, wanting to get up, eyeing the gun. It had been a while. But she did know how to use it.

She closed her eyes, and was startled when the phone rang.

She picked it up, wondering if she should have. “Hello?”

“Kelsey?”

“Yes.” It was Nate. His tone was strange.

“What is it? What's the matter?”

“Are you up? I'm coming out.”

“Nate, dammit, what the hell is the matter?”

“Two things, Kels. Cindy is in the hospital.”

“Why? My God, Nate, what happened?”

He went on as if he hadn't heard her.

“Cindy is in the hospital…and they've found another body.” He hesitated for a fraction of a second.

“And they think this one is Sheila.”

C
old seeped into Kelsey. A chill deeper than anything she had ever felt before.

It wasn't like the day when the military had arrived to say that Joe had been killed in action. That had been agony, anguish deeper than any physical trauma could ever inflict.

But even when Joe had died, she hadn't felt this chill. Joe had died doing what he considered his duty as an American.

Sheila had been murdered. And the anguish now lay in knowing that Sheila must have been terrified, that she must have suffered not just pain, but fear.

And the chill came from the fact that her murderer was still out there.

“Kelsey?”

“Who called?”

“A policeman called this morning and asked us to come down and identity her remains. They couldn't get hold of Andy Latham, so they tried to find Larry. Where's Dane?”

“Gone. I'm not sure where.”

“All right. I'm on my way out to get you. Dane's got an in with both Gary Hansen and the Metro-Dade cops. I'm sure they'll get hold of him. Get dressed. I can be there in five minutes.”

“Yes, all right.” She was so distraught about Sheila that she'd almost forgotten the first news he had given her. “Wait! What happened to Cindy? You said she's in the hospital. Is she going to be all right?”

“God, yes, sorry. She thought she heard someone at the sliding glass door to the bedroom last night. I went out the back, she and Larry went out the front, and she was running, and we think she ran into the hurricane awning. Anyway, she knocked herself out. The E.R. doctor said she needed to stay in the hospital, just for observation.” He hesitated. “We're supposed to pick her up this afternoon. I haven't told her that they think…that they think they've found Sheila. We thought we'd let her get out of the hospital first. Be ready, okay?”

“I will.”

Kelsey hung up the phone and jumped out of bed. If she thought about dressing, she wouldn't think about Sheila.

Wrong.

All she could think about was Sheila.

Her dread had proven to be far too real.

Tears stung her eyes as she hopped in and out of the shower, then threw on clothing. She didn't think to brush her hair. She didn't even glance at the gun Dane had left on the other side of the bed, just ran downstairs, wondering if Nate had arrived and she hadn't heard him. She looked out the peephole in the front, but no one was there.

She looked out back.

Nate had arrived.

He was standing on the little spit of beach to the far left of the dock.

She hit the lock and exited the house, hurrying over to him. She hesitated. He was standing there, hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped, just staring at the sand.

“Nate?”

He turned to her, the sun casting a strange glow over his features.

“There you are,” he said softly.

He walked to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. His eyes were curiously dry. “Kelsey,” he said.

He drew her to him.

His grip was hard.

And painful.

 

They had found her.

Dane had barely reached the gas station before Gary Hansen gave him the call. She had been found on the Gulf side by a couple of kids out fishing around the numerous little islets that were little more than a few mangroves grouped together.

Due to the condition of the body—and the tie around her neck—she had been brought to the Miami-Dade County morgue for autopsy. Since she'd been fished out of the water where she'd been caught among the roots of the trees, there wasn't much the crime scene investigators could do, but they were out there working. Hector Hernandez had told Dane that he was welcome to meet him at the morgue; they were going to need a positive identification, and they weren't sure Larry was going to be up to it.

Dane met Jorge long enough to tell him what had happened, then drove north as quickly as he could. He had given Jorge a picture of Andy Latham and asked him to go show it to Marisa and ask her if she recognized the man.

Hector was well acquainted with the morgue. At the desk, he was directed to what they called cell five. It was where she had been taken, awaiting autopsy.

When Dane entered, Hector had his notebook out as he spoke with Dr. Alfred Gray. Hector waved a hand to indicate to the medical examiner that it was all right to keep speaking with Dane in the room. Sheila had been in the water approximately seven to twelve days, but since she had last been seen a week ago Friday, he thought it likely that she had been killed soon after.

“You were the last one to see her, right?” Hector asked Dane.

“The last one to admit it,” Dane replied.

He had seen the dead before. Those who had died peacefully, and those who had died after the ravages of a long illness. He had seen people who had been shot, bombed and stabbed, the casualties of war.

He had never seen anything like Sheila.

What the water and its inhabitants had done to her once beautiful face and figure went beyond terrible. The crabs had chewed on her. Fish had nibbled fingers and flesh. And then, of course, there had been the death itself. Strangulation was not a pretty way to go.

And the tie. His tie. The pattern still visible, despite the ravages of water, fish and muck.

“It is Sheila Warren, though, right?” Hector asked him.

Dane nodded.

Hector was studying him gravely. He wanted to turn away. He felt Hector's eyes, but kept studying Sheila's face.

“We tried to contact her stepfather, but his boat isn't docked and his car is nowhere to be found.”

Dane stared at Hector. “I've been looking for him myself, ever since Gary Hansen had to release him after he made bail. His boat and car were both gone yesterday, as well.”

The medical examiner covered Sheila's face.

“Is there a place where Dane and I can talk for a minute?” Hector asked Dr. Gray.

“My office. Down the hall.”

Dane followed Hector out of cell five and down the hall. Gray's door was closed but not locked.

The office was strange, though perhaps the eclectic decor within was to be expected. A skeleton hung from a metal stand. Dane knew it was human, not a copy. The skull on the desk, however, was an excellently crafted medical tool made of plastic. There was a stack of eight by ten photos on the desk. Morgue photos.

Hector sat in the doctor's chair, indicating that Dane should take the chair in front of him. Dane sat, folded his hands in his lap and looked at Hector.

“You came to me about the Necktie Strangler when Sheila was just among the missing. I need to know why you thought we were going to find Sheila like this,” he told Dane.

“That's not a great mystery,” Dane said, despite the fact that it seemed every one of his muscles was tightening like piano wire. “She was missing—missing women have been showing up in the canals lately.”

“And you've been looking for Andy Latham, who has disappeared, at least for the moment. Want to tell me why?”

“Because he's a scumbag, and Sheila hated him,” Dane said. Staring at Hector, he still saw Sheila's face. Sheila's beautiful face…

Never to be beautiful again.

Sheila, who had said, “Dane, help me.”

He felt sick. He didn't usually get queasy at the sight of death.

He didn't usually see a woman he had known all his life, slept with, grown up with, dead, and not just dead…dead the way Sheila was…lying on a slab at the morgue. Sheila was beyond suffering now. And beyond help.

There was a tap at the door, and it opened. Dr. Gray didn't enter, he just spoke briefly.

“Hector,” Dr. Gray said, “if you're done…we're going to get started on her right away. You'll have my report the minute we're finished.”

“Thank you,” Hector said gravely.

The door closed. Hector looked at Dane again. Dane realized his palms were sweating.

“Come on, Dane,” Hector said. “Talk to me.”

 

“Hey! Let's go!”

It was Larry. He was on the dock.

Nate released Kelsey, staring down into her eyes. He shook his head in misery. “I didn't mean to…I just started thinking…oh, God, Kels, I had a death grip on you there…I'm sorry, I just…I just…”

She nodded. “Let's go.”

She walked over to Larry, who looked like hell. His eyes were swollen, the rims nearly crimson.

“It—it may not be her,” Kelsey said.

Neither of them answered her as they walked to the car. She knew that, in their hearts, all three of them knew that the woman in the morgue was going to be Sheila Warren.

Nate had trouble opening his car door.

“Are you all right to drive?” she asked him.

He stared at her. “I'm fine. Honestly. Come up, we've got to get up to Miami.”

Larry got into the back seat. Kelsey took the front. They drove in silence.

 

“Kelsey Cunningham, an old friend, showed up here a few days ago because she was supposed to meet Sheila.”

“I know who she is,” Hector acknowledged.

“Kelsey was extremely concerned right away. She didn't believe Sheila would have gone off without telling her, not when they had arranged to get together. She came to me—and then she went out to Andy Latham's. Another friend called to tell me that she was out there, so I went after her and got her. Not because I knew anything, but because, like I said, Latham is a sleazebag. Always has been. We—Sheila's friends—believe she was probably molested by him as a child. Then Latham showed up at my house when we were having a barbecue. He dumped off a pile of rotting fish. Accused us—or me—of having dropped them on his property.”

“Did you?”

“Come on, Hector, what do you think? Of course I didn't.”

“Go on.”

“Last night Kelsey thought someone was out in the yard at the duplex. She's staying at Sheila's place. They called Gary Hansen, so the cops came out.”

“Are you sure it was Latham?”

“Sheila's ex-husband, Larry, and Nate Curry were both there, and they thought they saw Latham's truck drive away.”

“They thought.”

Dane lifted his hands. “Hector, I wasn't there at the time. I'm telling you what they told me. But they called Gary Hansen.”

“And?”

“By the time Gary came out, they'd all tramped all over the yard.”

“Did anyone dust for prints?”

“No. But…”

“But what?”

“I think he wears gloves. Some kind of gloves, most of the time. Diving gloves, fishing gloves. You know yourself, the Necktie Strangler is no fool.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yesterday they all went fishing. When I heard that Latham had been released, I set out to find them. And I did. They were spearfishing. I found Kelsey, and while we were down there, a couple of spears came shooting by—far too close.”

“Who was shooting? Did you find Latham down there?”

“No. I didn't find anyone.”

“And did you do anything?”

“Hell, yes, we called the Coast Guard.”

Hector eased back in his chair. “You're a private investigator, and you didn't find out who was shooting at her?”

“I went down…but Kelsey wouldn't go back to the damn boat without me. I didn't get to search long, because I was too afraid someone was going to find his mark.”

“But you think Latham might have been out there?”

Dane shrugged.

Hector leaned forward. “All right. If Latham is the Necktie Strangler and he was determined to kill his own stepdaughter, he'd have known, once the deed was done, that she was dead. Why would he be staking out the duplex?”

Dane exhaled a sharp breath. “To kill Kelsey,” he said. And he straightened. “She's out at my place now. Alone. And no one knows where the hell Latham is.”

Hector shook his head. “She's not alone,” he said.

“But—”

The door to the office opened, and a man, apparently a plainclothes officer, stepped in.

“The ex-husband and his friends have made it?” Hector asked.

The man nodded. “The M.E. took the morgue photo out to the ex and his friends just a minute ago,” he told Hector. “They gave us another positive ID. They're out there now.”

The ex-husband and his friends…

“Fine, I'll go speak with them right now,” Hector said. “Come with me,” he told Dane.