Picture Me Dead (10 page)

“I checked already—there's no notice,” Sharon said.

“Thanks,” Ashley told her.

Nick said, “Listen, you have to get to work. I'll call the hospital, ask for his condition and leave a message on your phone, and you can check it when there's a break. All right?”

She nodded. “Great, Nick. Thanks, both of you.”

She started out the kitchen door. When she opened it, she found a man standing there.

It seemed to be happening on a daily basis now.

But she knew Sandy Reilly well. He'd been hanging around Nick's for at least seven years. He looked as if he were about ninety, he was so weathered and wrinkled. She thought he was probably more like seventy, but no one ever asked him, and he never offered information regarding his age. He lived in one of the houseboats down along the pier, or, at least, he supposedly lived in his houseboat. But he spent most of his time at Nick's.

“Hi, Sandy.”

“Hey there, kid, you're looking spiffy in that uniform.”

“Thanks, Sandy.”

“Cops, cops, cops, we got 'em all over the place.”

“We do?”

Sandy laughed.

“You don't know how many cops come in here all the time?”

“I know of several, of course. Not as many as you seem to think we get. But this is a public establishment, Sandy. We don't ask people what they do for a living when they come in.”

“Curtis Markham, the gray-haired guy who drinks Coors and sits in the corner with his son, a boy about twelve. Plays a lot of pool. He's a South Miami cop. Tommy Thistle—you know Tommy. Miami Beach police.”

“Yep, I know Tommy. And Curtis. I put them both on my list of references.”

“Then there's Jake.”

“Jake?”

“You'd know him if you saw him.”

“I would?”

“Yeah, sure. Well, he's not actually a regular—or he hasn't been. But he stops by some Sundays. Tall guy. Dark. In top shape. He's Miami-Dade. Homicide. A detective. Something of a bigshot, so they say. If you don't know him now, maybe you should get to know him. Come to think of it, I'm sure you'll get to know him. Now that his boat is here at Nick's, he'll be around more and more.”

Sandy kept talking, but she didn't hear a word after Jake. Tall. Dark. Miami-Dade homicide.

And, of course, she knew right away. The guy she had scalded with her coffee while rushing out on Saturday.

So he was with Miami-Dade. Great. Just great.

“Isn't it great? I really do know everyone, if you think you need a more formal introduction.”

“Thanks,” Ashley said. “I do know the man you're talking about. I mean, I've seen him in here. Jake. That's his name?”

“Jake Dilessio. Detective Dilessio. And like I said, I'll hang around one day and introduce you. Well, of course, Nick could do that, too.”

“It's okay, I don't need a formal introduction.” Better to leave things as they were. She wasn't going to be a suck-up.

She might be a lot more courteous the next time she saw the guy, but she wasn't going to turn into a doormat just because now she knew who he was.

“You okay, Ashley?”

“Of course.”

“You're looking a little funny. Did I say something wrong?”

Leave it to old Sandy. He probably had the lowdown on everyone who ever came into Nick's. “No, Sandy. I'm fine. Just thinking how good it is to hear the place is full of cops—and how weird that I've spent most of my formative years here and you know more about the clientele than I do.”

“Well, heck, you're gone a lot, and before that, you were a kid, and Nick was always careful to kind of keep you out of the bar. Me, I'm retired, with nothing left to do but watch who comes and goes.”

“Do you think that's it? I was an art major for a while. I'm supposed to be a lot more observant. But anyway, that sounds good. It's nice, knowing there are lots of people around I can ask for help now and then. But how do you feel about it? Is it good to have lots of cops around?”

“You bet. I feel nice and safe. And here's hoping you'll soon be one of them. I know you'll be one of the ten to fourteen who makes it.”

“One of the ten to fourteen?” she said blankly, still coming to terms with the fact that she had scalded a detective with the same force she planned to join.

“Sure, those are the statistics, Ashley. Okay, maybe a few more, a few less, now and then. About one third of each class actually makes it onto the force, and through their first year as a cop.”

“Oh, yeah. They give us those statistics, along with how many cops are killed each year, when we go to orientation. But how come you're so up on the statistics?”

“Well, I may be old as time, but the good Lord has seen fit to leave me with eyes as sharp as a hawk's and ears that pick up just about everything out there. And if I learned anything in all my time on this here earth, I learned to listen. And I listen to the cops in Nick's place.”

“I'm still feeling amazed. I grew up here, Sandy, and I don't know as much as you do about who hangs out here.”

“That's because you've got your mind somewhere else most of the time when you're around. Anyway, cops don't walk around on their days off with their badges hanging around their necks or pinned to their fishing shirts. Cops are just people. They like to have a day off. And they don't always like to go around introducing themselves as cops. Especially around a place like Nick's. People hang out here to enjoy the water, their boats, and talk about fishing.”

“But they talk to
you
and tell
you
what they do for a living,” she said smiling.

“Sure, 'cause I talk to them. I'm an old geezer. Curiosity is all I've got left, and what I find out is what makes life interesting.”

“Hey, Sandy,” Nick said from behind her. “You'll have to fill Ashley in about the customers later. She won't be a cop if she's late to the academy too often. And by the way, we're not open yet, Sandy.”

“Well, now, hell, I know that. You tell me that every morning. But you still have coffee brewing, and if you give me a cup, I'll get the place set up before those scrawny young whippersnappers you call employees even make it into work.”

Ashley smiled. It was true. Old Sandy did come early several mornings a week.

But never before six-thirty. And he didn't bother a soul. He just liked to get his cup of coffee, set up and sit out on the porch, looking out at the boats and the water.

And so did some of the other folks who lived on their boats at the marina—including homicide detectives, it seemed.

“Ashley, you all right? You're looking kind of pale,” Nick said.

“I'm fine. Nick,” she said, staring reproachfully at her uncle. “But you didn't tell me that our early-morning visitor the other day was a cop. A homicide cop. With Miami-Dade.”

“Honey, you were moving faster than a twister. You didn't give me a chance.”

“Right. Of course.”

“He's a good man.”

“I'll bet.”

“You sure you're all right?” Nick persisted, frowning.

“I'm just fine. Honest. I swear. I've got to move. 'Bye, all,” Ashley said. She managed a smile for Sandy, then headed out to her car.

Once she was on her way to the highway, she found that the smile she'd had for Sandy faded. She didn't even dwell on the fact that she had scalded a superior officer on the Miami-Dade force. With luck, he would never run into her there, though homicide was situated at headquarters, where her academy classes also took place.

It was a large force, for a county with a large population.

But no logic could keep her from thinking about Stuart again and feeling both a tremendous sorrow and complete disbelief.

He wasn't a druggie. He just wasn't. He couldn't have become a junkie. He'd always had a good head on his shoulders. He'd cared about his folks; he'd wanted them to be proud of him. He wasn't a perfect kid; he'd had his moments. He could be a prankster. Once, when she'd had a crush on someone else, he'd managed to get her talking on a speaker phone about the object of her affections. She could have killed him herself at the time, but he'd apologized up and down—and the other guy had asked her out.

Too bad, actually. She'd wound up dating the jerk for two years.

It had been a wretched relationship, but that hadn't been Stuart's fault. The guy had been what she had wanted, and Stuart had managed to get them together.

She smiled, remembering how he had looked so pleased, like the cat that had eaten the canary. Once, long ago, in a different world, before they'd all realized what life meant once you grew up, they'd been friends. Good friends.

She remembered that after graduation, he'd been offered a number of scholarships. He'd been one of the most creative people she'd ever known, dragging her into doing a film for a final project that had been selected as the best in the school and shown, to the delight of their fellow students, several times in the auditorium. It had been a piece called “Discipline—Now and Then,” and while sending out a definite message, it had been hysterically funny, as well.

Despite his interests in film, literature and the arts, he'd opted for a business degree. He'd chosen a Florida state school for both the financial feasibility and to be able to get back to see his parents frequently. She frowned as she drove, remembering that she'd been invited to his graduation party when he'd made it out in the requisite four years. She hadn't been able to go, because she'd taken a summer job as a mate on a sailboat heading out to the islands. He was going to take a job working on and selling Web pages, but he was also planning on going back to school and getting into some form of either writing or film.

Funny, she couldn't remember what he'd finally decided to focus on when he went for his master's degree. She should remember something like that. All she could remember right now was his voice, always low and steady, sober and clear. And she could remember that they had promised to get together when the summer was over. They had met for lunch. And they had meant to stay close. But he had been heading up to New York to look at a few schools in the city.

And she'd been starting classes herself then. And though they had promised to keep up and call often, like so many promises, that one had become lost in day-to-day life.

Stuart…

As she drove, she saw the road before her, just as it was.

But in her mind's eye…

There was the body on the highway. And now she knew.

It was Stuart's body.

I
t had been one hell of a long weekend.

Jake had spent half of it doing research on the lives of the followers of Peter Bordon since the break-up of his cult and the other half getting settled after the move from one marina to another. As for the research, he had some of the information he wanted in his own files, and for follow-up, he had some really good assistance. Hank Anderson, one of the best men he had ever known for divining facts from a computer, had done a lot of delving for him, though a lot of the information duplicated what he already had. It had become something of a compulsion for him to keep up on the case. He had kept quiet about his persistence, since his fellow officers might consider him obsessive and think his determination not to let matters lie bordered on police harassment.

Captain Blake, head of homicide, had called him on Saturday afternoon, giving him a stern speech. Good detectives put in all kinds of hours. They worked way beyond their pay. But they learned how to stay sane, as well. They learned how to go home and how to have a life.

Jake agreed with his every word.

Their latest victim had been dead quite a while. Insanely rushing about could do nothing for her. Steady, dogged work to bring her killer to justice was the greatest service they could do for her.

That said, Blake reminded him, he was to remain rational, work hard—and make sure he took time off and kept his mind fresh. A cop who was overtired, overstressed and obsessive was no good to anyone.

Granted.

There was simply a lot Jake wanted to do himself.

First, the autopsy. Gannet, as promised, had gotten right on it, and Jake had been there.

Then Jake had gone in and spent hours with Hank while they went over the old cases and delved into what they could find on the new. Saturday evening, he and Marty made a few calls on past followers of Bordon's cult. Interviewing them all was going to take time, and Saturday night was a washout. The first woman they interviewed was married now, with a three-year-old, and her association with the cult was a tremendous embarrassment; her husband knew nothing about it. Nor, she swore, had she even known the victims or been part of the hierarchy of the cult at all. They both sensed she was telling the truth.

Their second call bore no greater results. The young man had only attended a few of the sermons. He had since become a born-again Christian and spent most of his days working at a local homeless shelter, a story that checked out.

Sunday afternoon had traditionally been Jake's kick-back time. It was when a lot of his friends and casual acquaintances went to a sports bar, sometimes to Nick's, drank beer, told fish stories and watched football on television. Not that Sunday. He'd been too busy with electrical and water hookups. He hadn't even crawled in to Nick's at night; he had gone to see his father, who, though his mom had been gone for nearly two years, spent too much of his time sitting alone in the darkness, telling everyone he was doing just fine.

In a way, he'd done as ordered. The problem was that no command, no sense, no logic, could keep him from thinking, puzzling and planning.

Obsessing.

He had barely reached his desk on Monday morning when he received a call from Neil Austen in the forensics unit.

“I just wanted to let you know we're doing what we can to get an I.D. on Friday's Jane Doe. Our best bet is a dental match, but so far we've got nothing. I don't think she was a local. If she was, no one reported her missing. Or else she never went to a dentist. And maybe she didn't—the poor girl died with perfect teeth. Perfect. Her wisdom teeth came in without a hitch. She didn't have a cavity. We have the information out, so hopefully someone out there will be able to get us a match. How many people reach their mid-twenties with perfect teeth?”

“Thanks for the effort and the information, Neil,” Jake told him.

“I wish I could give you more. Unfortunately, these things usually take time.” They both knew the sorry truth of that statement. There were many cases when just discovering the identity of a victim in such a condition could take weeks or months.

And there were times when bodies went unidentified forever. But thanks to forensics and computers, there were some occasions when identification came quickly.

“Can you give me anything else? Mid-twenties, perfect teeth…?”

“She probably stood about five foot six. Medium build. Never had a child. Gannet says it looks like a ritual murder.”

“Same as…?”

“Yeah, same as.” Neil gave a soft, regretful sigh. “She was probably a pretty young thing. The guys up here have given her a nickname. Cinderella. She's not actually covered in ash, but the way she was found…Funny, you see case after case, and some are still especially hard. I'll send you the reports on what we have. Oh, and Gannet says she's been dead two to four months.”

“Thanks, Neil.”

“Yep. I'll update you immediately on anything new we can come up with.”

“Great.”

Jake hung up the phone and pulled out the file on the last of the victims who had been killed five years before. A picture of a young woman with a shy smile was clipped to the right of the page.

Dana Renaldo.

She, too, had been in her mid-twenties. Twenty-seven, actually, five foot six, one hundred and twenty pounds, an eager, attractive young woman. Her parents had been deceased. She had been reported missing by a cousin almost a year before her body had been discovered. She'd come from Clearwater. The police had investigated at the time but hadn't followed up on the missing persons report because of the findings of their investigation. She had packed up her bags and cleaned out her bank accounts. Three months prior to her disappearance, she had gone through a messy divorce. There had been no children involved, so—until her body had been discovered in Miami-Dade—it had appeared to her local authorities that she had chosen to take off and start over again. It was legal for an adult to be missing if that person so chose. Prior to her disappearance, Dana had worked in real estate and insurance, and, immediately before she had left, she had been a paralegal at a law firm in Tampa. She had sent a letter of resignation and it was in her handwriting, according to the lawyer for whom she had been working.

Their Jane Doe—or Cinderella, as the forensics guys were calling her—sounded very similar in appearance.

He switched files.

Eleanore “Ellie” Thorn had been nothing like Dana Renaldo or their latest victim. She'd hailed from Omaha, and had failed to return home after a vacation in Fort Lauderdale. She hadn't taken a job, had cleared out her bank account at a local branch, and had been seen now and then around town. She had attended Bordon's prayer services. She had often stayed at the communal property. Nearly five feet ten, she had been blond and athletic. Like the others, she hadn't been found until both time and the elements had wreaked havoc on her remains.

The first of the earlier three victims had earned a degree in architecture at Tulane. She had been bright and, according to friends, determined. She'd been an orphan, raised from an early age in foster homes. She'd gotten through school with hard work and scholarships. Twenty-six at the time of her death, she'd been petite, five foot two, and a bare hundred pounds. She'd been living on Miami Beach and had loved the architecture of the area. Deeply religious, in need of spiritual solace, she had probably been an easy mark for Peter Bordon, a.k.a. Papa Pierre.

As he hung up, Marty arrived in front of him, tossing a manila folder on his desk. “Peter Bordon is still very definitely locked up in the middle of the state.”

“Marty, I never suggested that he wasn't.”

“But listen to this. He's been a model prisoner. He's due for release soon. Exemplary behavior. And, of course, he's in there for a nonviolent crime. Everyone who's worked with him there has found him courteous and polite. Read the report. No, maybe you shouldn't—it'll probably make you want to vomit. Well, hell, vomit or not, you've got to read it. There's a section from the prison psychologist you're really going to like. ‘Mr. Bordon is a man regretful of his assumption that his method of bookkeeping did society no harm. His manner is that of a person determined to pay his debts. He is certainly no danger to society. He is deeply religious, has been a friend to many in extreme circumstances, and is a favorite among his fellow inmates.'”

Jake just stared at Marty, feeling the muscles in his neck tighten as if he were being throttled. He sighed and picked up the file.

“Jake, he sure isn't committing murder himself.”

“We know that.”

“He was definitely in prison when our newest Jane Doe was killed. According to what Gannet told us, she's been dead two to four months.”

“I've spoken to forensics. I attended the autopsy. Jane Doe….” Jake murmured, irritated. He stared glumly at Marty. “They're calling her Cinderella. Those guys see so much that's so bad, and yet she seems to have gotten under everyone's skin.”

“Like I said, Bordon was incarcerated all that time.”

Jake expelled a long breath. “And like I said, Marty, when you told me before you were certain Bordon was still in prison, I believed you. The point is, that doesn't mean a damned thing. Wherever he was
physically
five years ago didn't matter at the time. And it doesn't matter now. We have another dead woman. And somehow, that asshole is involved.”

“We don't know that, Jake.”

“Gut feeling.”

“Can't give the D.A. a gut feeling, Jake.”

“Hell, Marty, I know that.”

Marty sat at his own desk, which faced Jake's. “Another dead woman with slashed ears. Cinderella. They just had to give her a nickname. Man, these cases suck. And you know, it's strange, isn't it? We don't even know her real name yet, but they go and give her a nickname, and it's suddenly all personal, and that makes it all the harder.”

Yeah, no matter what, it got harder with every little nuance that brought a victim's life more clearly into focus. Jake remembered standing at the table during the autopsy finding a renewed respect for Gannet. Their victim had been badly decomposed, but there had still been those little things that made her an individual. The tiny tattoo, just visible at her ankle. The mole that could still be seen on what was left of her shoulder. Even the color of her hair, a lock of it slipping from the table and looking like…a lock of hair that might fall across the pillow when a girl was just sleeping the night away. But then the whole picture came into focus. The chill of the autopsy room. The scent that always seemed to linger in the morgue, real or imagined. The body…the entire length of the naked body…so sadly decomposed. First mutilated, then gnawed by animals. A home to nature. Part of Gannet's determination on time of death had been due to the incubation period of flies and the stages of larvae. When Jake had seen the last victim from five years ago, Dana, on the autopsy table, it was as if her humanity had been stripped away. She looked like a creature made in a special effects lab for a horror film. Gannet was one good man, though. Determined that he would do his best to find out all he could. To return her soul, at the very least. To speak for her, help fight those who had so brutally stolen her young life.

Jane Doe/Cinderella. Mid-twenties. A lifetime ahead of her.

What had brought her to such a brutal death in South Florida?

Anything was possible. Maybe she'd been killed by a boyfriend who had struck the mortal blows in passion, realized his act and been smart enough to know that—despite a lot of fiction to the contrary—the police weren't complete assholes and might well follow a trail of clues to him. Maybe the guy had read about the cases involving members of Peter Bordon's cult.

Maybe.

Or maybe someone was taking up where Bordon had left off.

Or maybe…

He was back to the possibility that Bordon himself was involved.

There was no reason why he couldn't be calling the shots from prison.

“Who was she? Where did she come from? Why did she die?” Marty murmured, thinking aloud. “A young woman, just trying to live her life, making a wrong turn in the road somewhere.”

Marty's words made Jake wince inwardly. This was business, his job; he wasn't a rookie. He was a seasoned homicide cop, who—if he hadn't seen it all—had certainly seen enough. The world, hell, the county, had enough homicides to keep cops moving.

And it was what he had wanted. From the time he had joined the force, he had wanted to go into homicide.

He'd always wanted to be a cop. Not because he'd grown up in a family where joining the force had been tradition, because he hadn't. His father and grandfather had both been attorneys.

He'd wanted to be a cop because the guy who had become one of his best friends in life had been a cop. The guy who had shown up when, at the age of eighteen, Jake had wrapped his graduation gift, a brand-new Firebird, around a tree in Coconut Grove.

He'd been driving under the influence.

Too many times, his dad had gotten him off on speeding tickets. Of course, his father never knew he got behind the wheel while drinking. When he drank with his buds, he usually stayed out. That night, however…