Pulse (21 page)

She had won commendations from prosecutors for her meticulous evidence collecting in the notorious River Cops case, in which a rogue band of cops drowned several drug traffickers and stole their cargo, and a letter of merit from the chief for community service and “acting as a role model” as a participant in the Big Sisters program. Included in the file was a letter in a childish scrawl from her “little sister.” The schoolgirl wrote to thank the chief for allowing Denise to take her on a tour of the station and to watch the K-9 dogs train.

Letters of appreciation from citizens and crime victims who praised her work were clipped together in a thick stack. Frank sighed, riffling through them. Two elderly sisters who lived together were pleased and grateful that Crime Technician Watson did not spill black fingerprint powder all over their rugs and sofa like the thoughtless technicians who had responded to their two prior burglaries. A homeowner cleaned out by burglars praised her professionalism and competence, calling her a credit to the department. About to flip to the next letter, Frank gasped, then froze. The signature at the bottom was Daniel P. Alexander.

Denise Marie Watson had responded to the burglary discovered by Daniel and Rory when they returned from their skiing vacation eighteen months before his death.

Daniel had been impressed enough by her work, or her, to write a complimentary letter. Trying to conceal his excitement, Frank asked to use the Xerox machine, and for fifty cents a page, he copied everything, important or not, even her picture.

Despite his rush to leave, he had to battle more bureaucracy and red tape at the property bureau. For Christ’s sake, he thought, they had called him to reclaim his gun, but now dull-witted clerks fumbled about looking for it, then took even longer to obtain authorization for its release.

Frank cursed traffic as he drove back to the Beach. He had almost forgotten his five-thirty appointment with Bowden. It was nearly five when he arrived at the office. Sue Ann, just leaving, was not as chipper as usual.

“How are you?” she asked with real concern. Her eyes had an odd, troubled look, as though he were ill.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“Want me to stay, anything you need to dictate?”

“No, go, go,” he said, wanting her out of the office before Bowden arrived. “Has Kathleen called?”

“No.” She looked guilty. “Frank, I don’t want to wind up in the middle of any problems the two of you might have.”

What was she talking about? He had no time to ask. “I wouldn’t expect you to,” he said briskly. “I would think you’d remember who signs your paychecks.”

She nodded. “We go way back. We’re like family. I enjoy working for you. My grandkids adore you.”

Her tone and her searching look was unsettling. What the hell is this? he wondered, then checked his watch: 5:24. “See you in the morning,” he said, and closed the door.

He unlocked the outer office after she left and waited for Bowden, who arrived precisely on time.

Frank forced himself to shake Bowden’s hand and offer him a seat. He studied the man and tried to stay civil. Bowden now sported a mustache. He wore a black T-shirt under a white jacket, apparently affecting an outdated
Miami Vice
look. His hair was long and he wore a heavy gold bracelet on one wrist. Frank wondered bitterly if the man’s bottom was tattooed as well. Was his daughter, that little girl so bright andbeautiful from the day she was born, out of her mind? Was she stark, raving mad?

Bowden’s eyes swept the room like a furtive character out of a ? movie. “We’re alone?”

“Nobody else here. What was it you wanted to see me about?”

Bowden’s fingers explored his mustache as though he was unaccustomed to it being there. “You’re aware that I’ve been seeing Shandi?”

“That’s hardly news.”

“Right, and I’m sure you know that I left the security of my teaching gig to take on the title of creative director of the new Green Glades Playhouse.”

Frank nodded.

“We’re in the process of putting the first season together, and believe me, Frank, it’s a struggle.” Bowden sighed dramatically and shook his head. “Not easy at all. We’ve lost some important funding that may cost us matching funds promised by the city. We’ve had landlord problems and a thousand other snags and setbacks that I won’t bore you with now.”

“Good.”

“Frankly, one of the things that attracted me to Shandi in the first place was how supportive you and Mrs. Douglas were of the arts, how generous you were with our little drama department when she was in school.”

“And all along I thought it was her beauty and talent you found irresistible.”

“Oh, that too! That too.” Bowden smiled.

The image of Rory—or was it Rory?—and him naked together flashed across Frank’s consciousness with sudden power, then he imagined Shandi and Bowden and his skin crawled. He felt queasy. He wanted to end this meeting.

“What’s on your mind, Bowden?”

“Here’s the deal.” The man casually crossed his legs as though they had all the time in the world. “It’s obvious that because of our age difference, past student and teacher association, or whatever, you’re not entirely thrilled at the idea of your daughter and me as an item. I can understand that.” He held up one hand as if Frank might protest. “If I were a father, I’d probably feel exactly the same, you know? Daddies are very protective of their little girls. That’s understood.

“So I’ve come up with a solution that would make us both happy. Because of my current situation, struggling to get this artistic venture off the ground, I’m willing to sacrifice. In other words, you help me and I help you.”

“What’s the bottom line?”

“You make an anonymous donation, and I let her down easy, tell her I met somebody else.” His eyes were bright, his expression sly.

“What if I don’t feel charitable?”

“Oh, I think you will. I mean, anything could happen. Shandi’s crazy about me. You know how spoiled she is, always has to have what she wants when she wants it, exactly how she wants it. She might even decide to do something crazy—like elope.”

“I have faith in my daughter’s intelligence, Bowden. She’s strong-willed, but she would never do anything that she knows would hurt her mother and me.”

Bowden did an exaggerated double take, as if to say Frank shouldn’t be so sure. “If you care to run that risk”—he licked his lips—“be my guest. But, in all modesty, I think that I pretty much call the shots in this relationship right now. You know how emotional young girls in love can be.”

Frank wanted to dive across his desk and choke Bowden’s tongue out. Instead he tried to look thoughtful.

“As for Mrs. Douglas, a lovely woman, I wouldn’t want anything to add to the stress you both have been undergoing.”

What had Shandi told this guy?

“Well, I will have to talk to Kathleen. She handles all our contributions to the arts.”

“Ohhh, I wouldn’t want to burden her with this,” Bowden said quickly. He looked annoyed, as though running low on patience. “I understand you’re pretty quick with a checkbook yourself when the mood arises.”

What the hell? “What do you mean?”

Bowden smiled so widely that pink gums gleamed above his teeth. “You know.” He lifted an obscene eyebrow. “Your contribution to the widow’s fund? See, I’m practically a member of the family already.”

No one knew about the money he had transferred to Rory’s account. Yet news of it had spread from Kathleen to Shandi to this two-bit chiseler. Outrageous, he thought. Sue Ann and Kathleen. How dare they spy on him!

“I would never stand in the way of Shandi’s happiness,” he said, fighting to remain calm. “If you’re what she wants, and the feeling is mutual …”

Bowden’s smile faded. “I think that my idea would be more beneficial to everybody concerned.”

“How much of a contribution are we talking about here?”

Bowden’s relief was obvious. “Healthy, very healthy, maybe somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy-five thousand?”

“Seventy-five thousand!”

“I know it’s three times your donation to the … widow’s fund, but we’re talking family here, and you have no idea how much capital it takes to mount a production.”

“What would such a sizable donation guarantee?”

“Well, under the circumstances, you obviously would not want your name listed on the program as a donor.” Bowden looked much happier now. “But it would guarantee no contact. Zilch.
Nada.
Shandi shows up, I walk away. She calls, I hang up. No ifs, ands or buts.
Finito.”

“Wouldn’t that be cruel, wouldn’t she be hurt, without an explanation?”

“She’ll bounce back fast.” He sounded confident. “Happens all the time.” Bowden nodded sagely. “Girls that age get over it in a hurry.”

“Hmmm,” Frank said. “I’ll have to sleep on this before I can commit.”

Bowden’s eyes registered alarm. “I don’t think you’d regret it, Frank. My solution is best for all of us. If you’d like to just give me a part of the money now …”

Frank shook his head. “I need to give it some thought before I write a check.”

“What’s to think? I’d rather not wait,” Bowden said, “and I’d prefer cash.”

“Here, the same time tomorrow.” Frank got to his feet and extended his hand.

“The sooner, the better,” Bowden said.

When he was finally alone, Frank locked his office door, checked his watch and announced the time and date aloud. He unlocked the cabinet, hit the stop button, then eject, removed the videotape from the machine, slipped it into its cardboard casing and scribbled the time and date on the label.

No time to ponder his betrayal by those he trusted most. He called Lucca.

“How ya doing, boss?”

“I need you to find somebody,” he said urgently. “I’ve learned something important.”

He reported the link between Denise Marie Watson and Alexander, excited, convinced that this would change the detective’s mind.

Lucca snorted. “You call that a link? A finite number of people work for the city and there are an infinite number of calls. A lotta those people go back to the same addresses more than once.”

“And then disappear, with no forwarding address?”

“People leave police work, leave Miami, if she did indeed leave, all the time.”

“But the letter?”

“The man was a letter writer. People who work for the department solicit those letters, like to pad their personnel files with ‘em.”

“No. No.” Frank was on his feet now, pacing around his desk, phone to his ear. “This is it! Lucca, this is a piece of the puzzle! Harrington’s murder is connected, too. I’m sure of it.”

“Hold it, hold it, hold it right there. Jesus Christ. Come down to Planet Earth for a minute here. I ran into some of the detectives from the city the other day. Asked about Harrington. They’re looking at robbery, an inside job. Plan to run some of his employees on the lie box. When he cashed that fat insurance check he took a major chunk in cash, apparently stashed it in that two-bit safe in his office. Apparently it was common knowledge among his staff. They’re looking at a dishwasher and a waitress who both came up with minor records. They’re working a coupla angles. Guy was apparently a ladies’ man, or thought he was. Had been doing a coupla the broads working for him. The ME says he apparently got lucky not long before he bought it. Could be a woman involved. Apparently he was flashing green all over the place.”

“Rory said he liked to do that, but—”

“Rory! Boss, if you are banging that broad, you’re nuts! Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to get involved with anybody who has less money or more problems than you do? Stop thinking with your dick.”

“That has nothing to do with this! I’m telling you, Lucca, Daniel Alexander did not kill himself. He—”

“Listen.” The detective’s voice dropped to a guttural growl. “You are making yourself and everybody around you nuts. You got your old lady ready to throw a net over you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You heard me, boss. Look, I already said more than I should have, but listen to me. You better straighten out your act damn fast or life as you know it is in for some big changes. See ya.” Lucca hung up.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

H
e fought panic. He was close, too close to allow anyone or anything to stop him now. He reread the pages from Denise Watson’s file, then drove back to her former home, still empty, still waiting.

The house next door was noisy and full of children. The chubby blonde woman opened the door wearing fresh lipstick and a bright blouse. “You’re in luck,” she told him. “They were in the first place I looked.”

She had found only one good snapshot of Denise among those taken at the barbecue. Smiling inscrutably at someone or something over the photographer’s shoulder, she wore long, shiny earrings and held a drink in her hand. It was not her smile or her low-cut blouse that left Frank reeling this time, it was another face. A man hovered protectively at Den-ise’s elbow, nearly out of focus. Tall, lean and dark-haired, he wore jeans and a western-style shirt. He held a can of beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

“Who is that, the man with her?” Frank asked hoarsely.

“Oh, that was Nick, the live-in boyfriend, the one who left. Nick … can’t think of his last name. Bolton, I think. Nice fella, had an accent, from Texas or Oklahoma, I think. Somewhere like that. Supposedly was a heck of a football player in high school and college. Hard to believe he was an athlete, always had a cigarette in his hand.” She squinted at the picture. “See, you can see it there. Said he picked up the habit in the service. Nice fella, he got along with everybody, but he was crazy about Denise,” she said nostalgically. “Surprised me that he finally left her. But she was always on him ‘cuz he wasn’t ambitious enough. Can’t remember what he did for a living. Had some kinda job, but it didn’t bring in enough for her. He wasn’t a bad fella,” she said absently, shuffling through the rest of the pictures of the neighborhood party. “Put Tabasco sauce on everything.” She wrinkled her nose. “Even on my homemade baked beans with barbecue sauce. Denise said he even poured it on his eggs. But he got along with everybody,” she said again, glancing up from the pictures. “You know him?”

“I’m think I’ve seen him,” he whispered.

Information had no listing for a Nick Bolton; Frank did not expect to find one, but checked anyway. He went back to Denise Watson’s file for the name of the only other person who might help him now.

He called Kathleen from the car. “I may be a little late for dinner, sweetheart. Why don’t you guys go on without me?”

“Where are you? What are you doing?” Her voice, toobright, too casual, tightened his stomach. He did not know her anymore.

“Checking out a piece of real estate,” he replied, just as casually. “I’m thinking of getting in on a development deal here.” Lie number one, he thought. “I’ll be home soon.”

The dying rays of the setting sun spilled a bloodred stain across the rooftops of Overtown, no-man’s-land during the last riots. He found the address, half a mile and a million light-years from police headquarters. He took a chance and left the Mercedes at the curb. He had no choice. He knocked on a grimy door that opened onto the street, praying that she was still there.

A mountainous black woman inched open the door and eyed him suspiciously.

“Is LaKisha Henricks at home?”

“Whatchu doing here? Whatchu want her for? She eight years old.”

Behind her were skinny children, all arms and legs, all ages and sizes.

“Please, it’s important. I’m here to talk to her about her big sister, Denise Watson, from the police department.”

The woman closed the door, slid off the chain and opened it.

“We ain’t seen her in months.” The woman’s bulldog face wore an offended expression. “She done took off, jes’ like that chil’s father. They s’posed to get her another big sister.” She looked Frank up and down and scowled. “Not a big brother. I’d just as soon they never gave her no big sister, ‘stead a one that just go off and break her heart again.”

“I’m sorry about that. Is LaKisha here?”

“Yeah,” she muttered, and turned her back.

He followed her inside.

A TV blared. The children in the tiny living room weremostly male. The oldest, about eleven or twelve, gave Frank a hostile stare.

“LaKish. Com’ere. This man wants to talk wit you.”

Winsome and dark-skinned, LaKisha was small for her age, with pink plastic barrettes, pigtails and a gap-tooth smile.

“My name is Frank Douglas,” he began. “I guess you miss Denise.”

She looked up shyly from beneath her eyelashes and nodded.

“You used to have fun together.”

“Yeeah.” She dragged out the word and put a finger in her mouth.

The other children gathered around, noisy and curious, distracting LaKisha, who seemed to withdraw.

“Can I talk to her alone?” he asked the mother.

“You show me where you be alone around here,” she muttered.

“How about out back?”

“It be getting dark.” She shrugged. “Antwan,” she told the older boy, “you go wid ‘em.” She glared at Frank. “And you watch ‘im.”

They sat on a broken back step, facing a garbage-strewn courtyard littered with discarded pieces of furniture. Antwan stood like a sentry, several feet away, arms crossed, watching.

“You can talk to me, LaKisha.” The child quietly studied the pitted concrete. “What did you and Denise used to do together?”

“Go places sometimes.” She spoke in a small, barely audible voice.

“That’s nice. Did she come say good-bye to you before she left?”

She shook her head, pigtails bobbing. “She say she goin’ away. But she don’t be saying good-bye.”

“What did she say?”

LaKisha shrugged and fiddled with one of her braids.

“Did Denise tell you where she was going?”

“No.”

“When is she coming back?”

“Don think she be coming back.”

“Do you know where she might be now?”

She shrugged again, stealing a sly, self-conscious glance at her brother.

Frank’s heart sank. A dead end. He had come for nothing and had so little time.

He sighed and got to his feet. “I know a girl who would be a nice big sister for you. Actually she’s not much older than you, but she could teach you a lot and maybe help with your schoolwork. Her name is Casey. Do you know how to swim?”

She shook her head.

“Well, it’s time you learned. Casey could teach you.” He took her hand, small and warm. “There are some things I have to finish first, but then I’ll work on it. Thank you very much for talking to me.”

They went back inside, the boy sauntering behind them.

“Satisfied?” the mother demanded.

He thanked her and headed for the door, hoping to find his car where he left it. The girl’s mother still fumed and muttered. “She act like it don’t matter. But it do. Every day she be out there looking for the mailman. Looking for the postcard. That woman done promised her, but it don’t never come.”

“The mailman?”

“Yeah.”

He glanced at the girl, who was still obsessed by the errant braid. “LaKisha, Denise said she’d write to you?”

“Yeeah. She say she be sending me a postcard.”

He swallowed hard. “From where?”

The girl looked annoyed, scrunching up her face as though it would help her to remember.

Please, he thought.

“She say she gonna send me a postcard from Seattle. It dint come yet.”

“You’re sure she said Seattle?” He crouched in front of her, intent.

She nodded solemnly. “She say when she get there, she’d send me a postcard.”

“Thank you.”

He turned to the mother at the door. “This is important,” he said. “You think she’s telling the truth?”

“If LaKish say Seattle,” the mother said, “it be Seattle. She ain’t learned to lie yet. How you think she’d know ‘bout Seattle if Denise didn’t tell it to her?”

“Would you happen to have a picture of Denise?”

The woman scowled, then scrounged through a drawer until she found it. Denise and the little girl, standing in front of headquarters, apparently when they took the tour of the station.

He promised LaKisha he would bring it back.

He knew what he had to do as he drove home, then wondered what was happening there. Throw a net, what exactly did that mean? It occurred to him that Kathleen had been dogging his steps when he was there. If he went out on the patio, she followed. If he went upstairs, she was behind him. Not to be with him, but to watch him.

He joined his family, already at dinner, acutely aware now of their attitude toward him, the pity in their eyes. How had it gone this far? Twice he saw Kathleen check her watch, expecting someone, or a telephone call.

He had no appetite and ate little. He felt too tense. He said he was tired, thought he’d take a shower, do some reading and retire early. Kathleen followed him upstairs. While he undressed, she disappeared into her office down the hall. He stepped into the master bath, turned on the shower full blast, then slipped back out into their bedroom. The bedside phone set had one line lit, hers.

He didn’t dare pick it up. She might hear him.

He padded down the hall in his bathrobe, his bare feet sinking into the carpet’s thick pile. Her door was slightly ajar. He heard her voice. He stood with his ear to the door, listening. If one of the girls came upstairs now, he would be caught red-handed.

“He’ll probably never forgive me,” Kathleen said fretfully, “but it’s the only way. Phil said I have to protect myself and the girls, as well as Frank. And he’s right, of course. I know, I know. I just want to get tomorrow over with. I’m so nervous. We’ve been through so much together in the past year. This is the last thing I ever thought I’d have to do. But the sooner the better. No, no, Ann, you haven’t seen him, heard him. There’s no doubt it’s the right thing. There’s no other way to get him under control. I mean, who knows what he’ll do next? It’s absolutely nerve-racking.”

His stomach churned. Someone on the stairs. He hurried back down the hall and into the master bedroom just in time.

“Mom?” He heard Shandi in the hall.

He stripped off his robe and stepped into the shower. He let the water run hot, soaped and scrubbed his skin furiously, teeth clenched in outrage. Whatever was happening was tomorrow. She had been talking to her sister, Ann. Why didn’t Ann try to talk some sense into Kathleen? This was his house, his family.

He was so close, but who would listen to him now?

“Your skin is so red. Was the water too hot in the shower?” Kathleen asked. “You could have scalded yourself.” Her cool hand touched his forehead. “You feel almost feverish.”

He lay in bed watching her.

“Kathleen …”

She brushed her hair, watching herself in the mirror. “Yes, dear?”

He wanted to confess how flawed a man he was, to ask her forgiveness, to explain why he had to finish what he had started. “Was that you on the phone just now?” he asked instead, “when I came out of the shower?”

“No.” Her eyes met his in the mirror. “It must have been one of the girls.”

She tucked him in again, as though he were a child.

She was restless. It took a long time, but when he was certain she was sleeping, he slipped from their bed. Her office door was locked, something she had never done before. He used the master set of keys from his study.

Her desk was also locked. He found that key almost immediately, tucked beneath her desk blotter. Her daily journal, a shiny red book, lay in the top drawer, along with files and copies of affidavits. Kathleen was thorough. She had always been thorough. The grounds for her action were neatly delineated, laid out like a shopping list.

Franklin D. Douglas

• Recent heart transplant patient, on medication.

• Experiencing bad dreams, hallucinations, hears voices.

• Obsessed with the belief that his heart donor is still alive, has become inappropriately involved with the dead man’s widow.

• Depleting family assets, gave more than $25,000 to a stranger.

• High-risk behavior, witness in a murder, discovered the victim in another murder, interviewed as suspect in the latter (present newscast video as evidence).

• Paranoid behavior, recently purchased a handgun, despite a lifelong aversion to weapons, and displayed the loaded firearm at the home he shares with his wife and two young daughters, installed security cameras and alarms at home and office, calls to police, retained a private investigator.

• Due to mental state, may not self-administer his life-sustaining medication as directed. Due to this and all of the above, he presents a danger to himself and others.

Persuasive. Had Frank read all this about a stranger, it would convince him that the individual should be committed.

His hands shook as he shuffled through the files. Kathleen had been seeking sworn affidavits from other parties. That had to be how Lucca found out, he was sure. She must have approached him, seeking either an affidavit or information about the work he had been hired to do. A black line was drawn through Lucca’s name. He apparently did not cooperate. But Dr. Lassiter had, advising hospitalization. Sue Ann’s name was followed by a question mark.

With or without an affidavit from his secretary, there appeared to be more than enough to persuade a circuit judge to issue an immediate pickup order in an ex parte proceeding. The room felt icy cold, the chill coming from within him. Kathleen’s notes, her crisp copies of legal papers, made it clearwhat to expect. Deputies would find him, then take him in custody to either Highland Park or Dodge Memorial, expensive, private locked-down psychiatric hospitals.

A note from Phillip Grayson assured Kathleen that should the court balk, resulting in some unforeseen delay, she could resort to the Baker Act, an emergency procedure. Local police would take Frank into custody and involuntarily commit him to Jackson Memorial Hospital’s psychiatric unit for a seventy-two-hour evaluation. “Not as pleasant an atmosphere as the private hospitals,” Phil wrote, “but a very viable alternative.”

Fury overtook him. Grayson must be enjoying this. How many people had the son of a bitch told? How much was he charging Kathleen? How could she listen to him?