Picture Me Dead (15 page)

J
ake continued reading through the list of those who had been associated with Peter Bordon. He knew the list. It was all old business. Didn't matter. He was missing something, he was certain, and when he discovered what…

Names suddenly blurred before his eyes.

Disillusioned people, most of them young, looking for something meaningful in life, thinking they had found it. All had moved on.

One of the young men was in a Catholic seminary in Tennessee.

Many had moved out of state.

He rubbed his temples, thinking back to the visits he had made to Bordon all those years ago. A young woman had answered the door. Cary Smith. They'd already checked her out. She'd moved to Seattle, married a guy who worked for a fish plant, and now had two children. At the time, he was certain, she had believed she was serving a prophet, a man who intended to make the world a better place by distributing food to those in desperate need.

Then there was John Mast, Bordon's right-hand man. He'd gone down for fraud, as well. He would have been high on the list of suspects.

But he was dead.

Jake closed the file.

Don't get obsessed,
he reminded himself. He wasn't the Lone Ranger. Hell, they'd had the help of Ethan Franklin, an FBI agent, too, and though Franklin might be swaggering, arrogant and irritating beyond all measure, he knew his business.

Tomorrow they were due to meet again. Franklin was studying murder reports across the country, trying to find out if there had been similar killings anywhere else. Then, as they had today, they would hash it all out for an hour or so, go through the endless sheets of information and compare notes. All they had from the past and from the present.

And what the hell did they have from the present? A body. A body with clear evidence of a brutal death, that mocked the means of murders from the past. The body of an unknown woman who had been found in a severe state of decomposition, washed from a shallow mud grave.

And from the past…

Nancy.

He could remember her standing on the deck of the
Gwendolyn.
“I don't believe that poor kid murdered anyone. We'll keep finding them, Jake. Bodies, more and more of them. Unless that cult is stopped. I think Peter Bordon has a God complex. He thinks he has the right to take human lives. He thinks he's God's hand, or will, or something like that.”

“We've gone after him hard, and we will lock him up,” Jake assured her.

“We won't really get him—not until someone can get the D.A. evidence to take to trial to prove that he's the power behind the deaths.” She'd glanced at her watch then. “I have to go!”

Something about her manner had bothered him that night.

“Where are you going?”

“Home. I have a husband, remember?”

But she hadn't gone home. And the next morning had been the first time Brian Lassiter had arrived on the
Gwendolyn,
ready to take him on.

But she hadn't been there. And then…

The tension. The fear. The accusations. The hunt.

It had been several weeks before she had been found, despite the fact that she'd been a cop and that every law enforcement officer in the state had been looking for her. But then, she'd gone deep into the canal. What faint tire tracks the best people in the field were able to find indicated that she had lost control of her car.

And between the time she'd disappeared and the time she'd been found, Bordon had been arrested for fraud and tax evasion, and been locked up. He'd been free, however, when Nancy had disappeared, when she had died.

Every muscle in his body seemed to knot up.

Don't get fucking obsessed,
he reminded himself again.

He swore suddenly and looked at the empty glass of iced tea in front of him. Where was that coffee he'd asked for? What the hell had happened to the service at Nick's?

 

Nick's was busy. Ashley was stopped several times as she walked through the restaurant, heading for the coffeepot to fulfill Detective Dilessio's so graciously stated order. When she at last made it back to the service station near the right end of the bar, she ran into Curtis Markham, a South Miami police officer.

“Hey, kiddo! How are the classes going?” he asked her.

Curtis was definitely a nice guy. Around thirty, he was married, with one son. His wife worked for one of the airlines. They often came in together, and sometimes, when she worked Sundays, he took his small sailboat out with his son, Chris, then came in to Nick's to catch the end of a game or teach Chris the finer points of pool. His sandy hair was graying, but, thanks, perhaps, to his determination to keep up with his son, he was slim and wiry. Curtis only drank one day a week—Sunday. Tonight, sitting at the bar, he was drinking a diet soda while munching on fried fish tidbits.

“Classes are great, Curtis,” she told him. “Thanks.”

“Good. I was afraid you were going to regret joining the force,” he told her.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “The academy's hard work. Then you get out and spend your days dealing with the scum of humanity. You put your life on the line every day, and you get paid pennies. I was afraid you'd maybe come to think it was a thankless job.”

She smiled. “Do you feel that way?”

“Only sometimes.” He grinned. “Usually what I see on the streets just makes me think I'm a lucky guy. I go home and thank the Lord that I've got a good kid and a beautiful wife.”

She laughed. “You may be the only really cheerful cop I know, I have to say.”

He arched a brow. “We've got grouchy cops around here?” he asked softly, looking around the place.

She whispered in return. “Outside. A Miami-Dade detective. Jake Dilessio. Temperamental. Then again, maybe it's just me. I don't think he likes me very much.”

“Jake is outside?” Curtis asked.

She nodded. “In fact, I think I'd better get his coffee to him fast.”

“If he's grouchy now, he may have good reason.”

“Oh yeah?”

“There were some cult-related murders here about five years ago. Do you remember?”

“Vaguely—someone confessed but killed himself while in holding. There was speculation at the time that the man who confessed hadn't really done the killing, but as far as I recall, no more bodies were ever found.”

“Well, a new one's been found now.”

Ashley frowned. “There was a cult leader who was a suspect, but nothing could be proven against him. He went to prison for something, though, right?”

“Yeah, and he's still there. Anyway, Jake is going to be taking a lot of heat right now. That's why he's so grouchy.”

“We all take heat. That doesn't mean we have to be miserable to others,” she said.

Curtis suddenly gave his head a little shake, staring at her hard. Puzzled, she turned. Jake Dilessio was standing behind her.

“Came in for the coffee myself,” he told her.

“Sorry.”

“The service at Nick's is usually pretty good.”

“How are you doing, Jake?” Curtis broke in.

“Hey, Curtis. Fine, thanks.”

“Heard you took a slip here at the marina.”

“Moved her in this weekend. Guess I could head back down to my own boat for coffee,” he said wryly.

Ashley picked up the coffeepot, grabbed a cup from the shelf on the wall and quickly filled it.

“Sorry, it's my fault your coffee was held up,” Curtis said. “I was just asking Ashley about the academy.”

“I'm sure Miss Montague is just zipping right along,” Jake said dryly. “She's so quick.”

“Why don't I just get you a carafe of coffee and bring it out there, and then you can have a refill any time you want? And when you're done, you don't have to wait for the check—Nick wanted your meal to be on the house, a ‘welcome to the marina' gesture,” she said pleasantly, going for a carafe.

“Nick already gave me a welcoming meal, and I always pay my way,” Dilessio told her. “
And
I like my coffee poured hot.” He turned away from her. “Curtis, how are Sandra and Chris?”

“Doing great, thanks. They're up visiting her mom in Delray. Means I'm eating at Nick's for the next few days.”

“Not a bad substitute, though Sandra makes a mean lasagna,” Jake said. Taking his coffee cup, he started back out. Ashley noted that he hadn't let his files lie alone when he came in; the manila folder was tucked beneath his arm.

Curtis must have noticed the way Ashley watched him as he left. “Hey, the guy is really all right. You two just got off on the wrong foot.”

“And it might be a good thing to have a big, bad detective living so near the place,” said an amused, feminine voice.

Ashley spun around. Sharon Dupre was standing next to her, looking together and elegant, as usual. She was in a tailored navy suit, pumps and a soft blue blouse. Her eyes were twinkling as she watched Ashley.

“Mmm, it's just terrific,” Ashley agreed. “Will you refill his coffee and bring him his check?”

“You bet. In fact, you ought to sit down and eat, young lady. I've heard all about the ‘roach coach' where you guys have lunch.”

“But you worked all day.”

“I only showed one house.”

“Sharon, Nick's a little busy, short some help. Do you mind helping out tonight? I was thinking that, even if Stuart Fresia is in intensive care and not allowed to have visitors, I'd like to take a run by the hospital, maybe see his family.”

“Fresia…? Why do I know that name?” Curtis asked.

Ashley explained about the accident, how she had driven by right after a man had been struck, and then came home to find out that the victim was an old friend. She went on to tell him just how unbelievable it seemed that he could have gotten so heavily into drugs.

“People change. And drugs are seductive,” Curtis said, and she nodded, having heard the same basic response over and over.

“Right. But not Stuart. Anyway, I'd really like to at least see for myself how he's doing.”

Sharon looked concerned. “Ashley, you're still in the academy. Should you be getting involved?”

Nick had come over to the end of the bar. “She's just going out to see a friend, Sharon. That doesn't mean she's going to try to wrest the case from the investigating officer. I think it's a great idea. But first, sit down and eat, Ashley, take a breather, before you head on over to the hospital. The snapper's so fresh it's still snapping,” he teased.

“Sit, Ash, tell me all about life,” Curtis said, patting the bar stool at his side.

She sat. Nick poured her a soda, while Sharon went off to tell Herve, the cook, that they needed a snapper plate.

“You could tell me more about your friend,” Curtis said.

Twirling her straw, Ashley shrugged. “Smart, solid, down to earth.”

“Were you a twosome in high school?”

She shook her head. “We were good friends for years. If he'd just been a hot romance, I wouldn't have known him so well. Curtis, I'm not kidding—Stuart just wasn't the type to get into drugs. He wasn't even a heavy drinker. Ever.”

Nick had come to stand at the end of the bar again, listening as he dried a glass then slid it back on the shelf. “Ashley, maybe it will all work out. Maybe he'll come to, and then he can tell the police what happened, what he was doing.”

“I hope so. And I hope I feel a little better myself, once I see his family. I'm sure they'll be there. Oh, God. He's an only child. His parents loved him so much.
Love
him so much. And still, I'm telling you both, no matter how people change, it doesn't make sense.”

“Honey, there are lots of things in this world that don't make sense,” Nick told her. “But I think you're right. Once you go to the hospital, you'll feel better, I'm sure, if you just bring some comfort to his family.”

“Maybe.” Sharon brought a plate of snapper to the bar. “Eat up, Ash.” She rolled her eyes and winked. “I'll take more coffee to the ogre outside.”

Sharon walked away. Nick frowned. “The ogre outside?”

“Dilessio,” Curtis supplied.

“Jake isn't an ogre. He's a decent sort.”

“And he lives here now,” Ashley said, grimacing.

“He put his name on a waiting list for that slip about a year ago,” Nick told her. “People love this marina. Vacancies are hard to come by. And it's good to have lots of cops around. Keeps trouble down.”

“Of course. But you've got an almost-cop right on the premises. I know, don't say it. The more the merrier, right?”