Pulse (3 page)

Frank nodded.

“You shouldn’t leave that thing lying around.”

“Who would want it?” He felt puzzled. “Nobody could use it to get high.”

Lucca’s weary look said he should know better.

“That stuff’s expensive, right?”

“More valuable to me than money, but you’re right, there’s one pill alone that’s a hundred and fifty dollars every time it’s filled.”

“Exactly. That’s why it’s easy for a thief to sell it back to the pharmacist.”

Frank winced. The thought had not even occurred to him.

Once the detective left, Frank found himself unable to focus on the prospectus he was reading. His mind raced. Lucca would most likely tap into death records, cross-check with the Division of Motor Vehicles. Their licenses designate whether Florida drivers agree to be organ donors. He would list the names of those who died during that time period, then rule out the diseased, drugged or otherwise ineligible, come up with a short list, then narrow it down to the right one by process of elimination. The magic of computer technology. Dead or alive, he thought, nobody has privacy now.

Frank locked the office and strolled Lincoln Road Mall. Renovations, rebuilding and remodeling were under way everywhere. While he was growing up, the once swanky shopping mile was fading into shabby disrepair. Saks Fifth Avenue and Lillie Rubin moved out, replaced by the sleazy shops of gypsies and grifters who preyed on unsuspecting tourists and lonely senior citizens. Once the South Beach renaissance began to flower, artists and performers discovered the neighborhood and its low rents, transforming the pedestrian mall into a Bohemian venue much like the Greenwich Village of the 1950's. Now in full bloom, the area had become the American Riviera, wildly popular with the rich and famous. Property values and rents soared, the artists were being forced out and a glamorous new rebirth had begun.

Frank ordered an iced cappuccino at an outdoor café. Oddly enough, though he had never smoked, he wanted a cigarette. Really wanted one. It would be insane to start now, he decided. A notion intrigued him. What if he had inherited the tastes, the desires, maybe even the characteristics, of the stranger whose heart beat in his chest? During support sessions at the hospital, other recipients had discussed the possibility of spiritual links and emotional connections to the original owners of the organs that now kept them alive. Nonsense, of course. Like the counselor, he had scoffed at the idea. But what if his donor was a chain smoker? If so, Frank was grateful the habit hadn’t damaged the man’s heart. What if his transplanted heart had arrived with likes and dislikes, a personality and memory of its own? Perhaps his odd sleeping habits, his early rising, his troubled dreams, were not his at all, but someone else’s.

The sight of a stunningly statuesque woman, probably a model, interrupted his thoughts. On Rollerblades, she wore skintight short shorts and a tank top and pushed a bright yellow baby stroller. She smiled at him as she skated gracefully by and he sneaked a peek in the stroller. The passenger, a pampered white poodle, wore a flashy rhinestone studded collar and yellow hair bows. Frank laughed aloud. Life was good. Lucca was on the job. Soon he would know all about the donor whose death saved his life. Like a schoolboy at Christmas, he eagerly anticipated what lay ahead.

A low-flying jet, inbound for Miami International Airport, blocked the sun for a moment and a shadow fell across the sunny mall. A fleeting millisecond of doubt followed the chill he felt, remembering the oft-heard warning.
Be careful. You might get what you wish for.

He announced at dinner that night that in a week or so, after he had cleared up a few minor matters, they would all go to Disney World for a few days. He expected squeals of delight.

“Daddyyy,” they chorused in protest. Casey rolled her eyes. Shandi wrinkled her nose.

“You loved it. You both begged to go back last time.” His voice was plaintive.

“Daddddy, I was six and Shandi was thirteen,” Casey whined. “I can’t go now, our first coed dance is coming up.” She lisped slightly through a mouth full of metal. Her braces would not come off for months.

“I’ve got school,” Shandi declared flatly. “I have to study.”

He regarded her thoughtfully, her tricolor hair, dark blue nail polish and studded earlobes. “I’m so glad you’ve finally seen the light and made school your number one priority.”

He glanced back at Casey, busy attacking her dessert. “I just thought it would be nice for us to spend some time together as a family.”

“Why start now?” Shandi asked flippantly.

He didn’t like her attitude or the way she simply seemed to push the food around on her plate without eating.

“That’s no way to talk to your father,” Kathleen said calmly.

“What is it with that nail polish?” He could not resist the question.

She studied her manicure. “Everybody wears it. It’s vamp.”

“It makes you look like you should be thawed out.”

Casey giggled.

Shandi shot her a contemptuous look, then smiled unexpectedly at her father. “It’s really popular. All the models wear it. Dad, do you think I could borrow the new car this weekend?”

“What’s wrong with yours?”

“That piece of junk?” She made a face. “It’s embarrassing to be seen in.”

“It’s a pretty decent set of wheels for a college kid without a job. When I was in college—”

Shandi groaned. “I know, I know. You worked, you paid your own way. You didn’t have a car. But,” she added boldly, “you didn’t have a father. I do.”

He put his fork down. “Your car is only four years old. If it is a piece of junk, that means you’re not taking responsible care of it. Maintenance is important, and given what happened last time you used my car—”

“Not my fault,” she said quickly.

“That’s right,” Kathleen said quietly, “the officer said she was clearly not at fault.”

He didn’t like being double-teamed. “Well,” he said, “if you hadn’t let her drive it—”

“She didn’t!” Casey burst out, her freckled face flushed. “Mom said she couldn’t, but Shandi took it anyway.”

The painful silence that followed told him it was true.

Lourdes, on her way in to pour coffee, heard the exchange, turned around and disappeared back into the kitchen. He pushed his plate away. “Is that true?”

Shandi stared sullenly at her nails.

Casey watched, eyes expectant.

“It doesn’t matter,” Kathleen explained haltingly. “At least no one was hurt.”

He ignored her. This was the time to wrest back control. “You’re grounded for a month, except for school.”

“A month!” Shandi looked astonished. “You can’t do that!”

“Oh, yes, I can.”

“Mom said it wasn’t my fault. You heard her.”

“But it was my car you wrecked after taking it without permission. I’m not your mom, I’m your father and I’m still in charge.”

Shandi looked to her mother for support and saw none. Kathleen avoided both their eyes.

“I’m a grown woman, in case you hadn’t noticed. You can’t just, just put me under house arrest!”

“My house, my rules.”

She started to respond but didn’t. “When does this start?” she finally muttered.

“As of now.”

“No way!” she yelped indignantly. “I have a date tonight.”

“Call and tell him it’s postponed.”

“I can’t do that!” She checked her watch. “He’s already on the way. Mom, do something!” she demanded.

“Perhaps there could be a compromise,” Kathleen suggested, slowly folding her napkin. “Since this date was preplanned, perhaps Shandi could start … house arrest after this evening.”

What the hell was going on? He felt bewildered and a bit betrayed. They had always backed each other up on discipline. On the other hand, perhaps canceling this date would be unfair to the boy.

“That’s doable, I guess. Who is this boy?” he asked.

Casey giggled.

“Someone new,” Kathleen said casually, and began to clear dishes from the table as Shandi dashed upstairs to get ready.

After a short time, the bell rang at the front gate and Shandi scampered downstairs. “That’s him,” she sang out. “See you later.” She headed for the door.

“Hold on,” Frank said. He pushed the buzzer that opened the gate. “I’d like to meet him.”

“Daddy!” Her tone was exasperated.

“Sit.”

She sat nervously on the arm of a chair.

“Remember,” he said. “I always meet your dates.”

“Not for more than a year.”

“From now on, we’re back in the habit.”

She sighed audibly.

He answered the door. The visitor was not who he expected. Frank stared. They had met before. Shandi’s high school drama teacher, Jay Bowden.

Bowden stepped confidently inside. Kathleen rushed forward, took his arm and turned to Frank with a bright smile. “You remember Jay, don’t you?”

“Bowden, isn’t it? Jay, what brings you by?”

“I’m just here to pick up Shandi,” Bowden said. “Good to see you again, Frank.”

Shandi whisked him away as Kathleen told them to have a good time. “Drive carefully,” she called after them, then closed the door.

“That’s her date?”

Kathleen nodded, expression resigned, expecting his reaction.

“Jesus Christ! The man is nearly as old as I am! He’s thirty-nine if he’s a day. His goddamn hairline is receding and he’s got a ponytail. Was that an earring he was wearing?”

“I knew it wasn’t a boy,” Casey trilled, from a front-row seat on the wide staircase. “He’s an old guy.”

“Baby, I want you upstairs. Now.” He watched as sheobeyed, a pout on her face. He wanted to hug her. Was she the only one in this household who wasn’t hiding something from him?

“We need to talk,” Kathleen said softly.

“Damn straight. You knew she was seeing this guy? You went along with it? She’s been out almost every night lately. Is it with him? How long has this been going on?”

They sat in the Florida room, knee to knee in wicker chairs.

“Sweetheart, I’m sure you know it wasn’t easy trying to keep everything under control all that time you were sick.” She sounded hurt, eyelashes lowered. “They’re both spirited girls, Frank. I had to make you my top priority.”

“But you had to know that dead or alive, I would not approve of that guy,” he said, less vehemently. “Something is obviously wrong with a man that age who is interested in nineteen-year-old girls.”

“But that’s exactly the point, Frank, she is of age. She’s nineteen. If we try to ground her or forbid her to date a particular individual, she is perfectly capable of moving out, or even marrying inappropriately, because she is so headstrong. Many of her friends already have their own apartments. She could find a roommate and be gone tomorrow.”

“Who would pay the rent on this apartment? It might do that girl some good to get a job and learn how to live like a responsible adult.”

“If she moved out, we’d have no control whatever.”

“Looks like we have none now.”

“She’s safer living at home. What do you think I would have done at that age had I been told I couldn’t date you?”

“I see your point, Kath, but that was different. I was a fellow student, not some predatory professor. Does the schoolknow about this? If it’s not illegal, it’s certainly unethical for him to date teenage students.”

“He quit teaching. He’s the artistic director at the new Golden Glades Playhouse. Frank, I trust her to have enough good sense not to—”

“Like you trusted her not to take the car when you said no?”

“You’re impossible! I don’t know what’s wrong with you lately!” She sprang to her feet, flushed and angry. Left alone, he tried to figure out where he had gone wrong. As he saw it, his only crime was suggesting a wholesome family vacation they could spend together. Now everybody was pissed off at him. He thought of the promises he had made in the hospital, how he would make it up to them if he lived, be a better father, a better husband. He remembered Kathleen holding his hand all the way to the operating room, praying aloud. “… though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death …” She had urged him to pray with her.

“You pray. I’ve got other things to think about,” he had said, focusing every fiber on survival, on his will to live, determined to do his part. He had made it, and now he had to focus on keeping his promises. Though he knew the thought was ludicrous, he wondered if they wished he had never come home from the hospital.

He poured a drink. Scotch and soda. The first sip was good. He carried it up to his study. The red light on his message machine was flashing. He punched the play button.

“Hey, boss,” Lucca said. “Got what you wanted. You were right. This guy wasn’t some street punk. See you tomorrow.”

CHAPTER THREE

F
rank was the quarterback. Fans stomped and roared, rocking the stands. He had the ball. A voice he should recognize, but didn’t, urged him on, entreating, demanding. But what was the play? Where were the goalposts?

Frank had worked since age eleven, he had never played football, yet that predawn dream left him as frustrated, breathless and bathed in perspiration as a man accustomed to a helmet and shoulder pads. Some suppressed desire, a latent childhood fantasy? He went to the office early, and studied the morning paper. The usual madness in the streets had spread to the halls of justice where a robber had filed suit against the city for his injuries, suffered in a crash while trying to flee police. He alleged that their roadblock endangered his life, violating his rights.

Frank was pacing when he heard the outer door. Lucca saw the open newspaper, the drained coffee cup. “You got here early, boss.”

He slid an eight-by-ten manila envelope across Frank’s desk. “Tell you the truth, boss, this was a breath of fresh air. Something contemporary, something sophisticated. A helluva lot better, I gotta admit, than standing for hours in some nasty ghetto apartment watching a parking lot where another dead dope dealer got shot off his milk crate.”

Frank stared down at the envelope.

“It’s all there,” Lucca assured him. “You were right. This guy obviously had a few problems, but he was no street punk.”

“What was his name?” Frank sounded hoarse.

“Mister Daniel Alexander,” Lucca said succinctly. “White male, age thirty-eight. His widow, Rory, age thirty-two, signed the consent form.”

“Children?”

“Thought you might ask.” Lucca fished out his spiral notebook. “One, a son William, age eight.”

Frank winced. “How did Alexander die?”

“Gunshot wound, self-inflicted.”

Frank blinked in surprise. “Suicide?” That seemed wrong, not what he had expected. How ironic, he thought; he had fought so hard to live and did, only because another man chose to die.

“It’s all in there. Even his obit.”

“What do I owe you?” Frank reached for the desk drawer and his checkbook.

“I’ll send you a bill. Need anything else? I could run a little credit check on Alexander if you’re interested.”

“I’ll call if I need something more.” Oddly agitated, he was impatient to peruse the contents of this envelope in private.

Lucca shrugged. “Pleasure doing business with you, boss. As usual.”

When he was alone, Frank closed the door to his inner office, poured more coffee, and stared at the envelope. He had asked only for the names, but Lucca had obviously done his usual thorough job. His hands shook slightly as he slit open the flap with the small knife on his key chain and removed the contents.

Daniel Paul Alexander, a 38-year-old, five-foot-eleven, 175-pound white male, was born in Darien, Connecticut, on June 29, 1959. Place of death, Miami.

That had to be why the transplant team did not divulge even the usual basic facts about the nameless donor, such as age or manner of death. Too close to home. The thought stunned Frank. He and Alexander might have passed on the street, idled alongside each other in traffic, shared the same dentist or dry cleaner.

The printout reported Alexander’s driver’s license number. Expiration date: June 29, 2000. The driver had expired long before his license, Frank thought ruefully. He scanned the page. The dead man’s telephone number, a list of his last three addresses, all local. Alexander had no arrest record, no known aliases, no traffic accidents in Florida and no workmen’s comp claims. He did have a concealed weapons permit. Frank wondered if the man had bought a gun to protect his family and then used it on himself. There was even a profile of his home, the purchase date, selling price, and current tax assessment. His vehicle registration was for a Lexus LS 400. The printout included the car’s VIN number, original cost, current value and insurance carrier. Alexander had some sortof business licenses as well. Frank skimmed those details until he found what he wanted.

Married June 11, 1988, to Aurora Lee St. Jean, white female born March 14, 1966, in Mount Olive, North Carolina. First marriage for both. One child, William Douglas Alexander, born February 4, 1990.

The printout listed the grid of streets surrounding the Alexander home, along with the neighbors’ names, addresses and telephone numbers.

The last sheet was a copy of a brief newspaper obituary printed in agate type.
Alexander, Daniel P., 38, of Miami, died Saturday. Visitation 5 to 9 P.M. Monday. Van Orsdel Funeral Chapel. Services
11 A.M
. Tuesday.

A
Miami Herald
clipping was attached, short and concise, dated the same day as the obit.

RESTAURANT OWNER SHOT IN APPARENT SUICIDE

The shooting death of a popular restaurant owner was an apparent suicide, Miami police said Sunday.

Daniel Alexander, 38, was discovered wounded by a single gunshot to the head at his South Coconut Grove home on Saturday. He was later pronounced dead at Jackson Memorial Hospital. Police said Alexander was alone in the house at the time of the shooting. His wife, Rory, 32, found the victim when she returned home and called police.

Homicide Detective Joseph Thomas said the victim was apparently despondent and had left a suicide note. Alexander and a partner operate the popular Tree Tavern Restaurants in Miami Beach, Coral Gables and Kendall.

That was it. A man’s life and death reduced to crisp black and white words and numbers, minus the passion, the joy, the sweat and tears.

How incredibly lucky, Frank thought, that Daniel Alexander did not fire the bullet into his heart. He would have killed us both. Frank had been so weak, so close to death, that within days, if no donor had been found, it would have been too late. He read the news story twice, feeling inexplicably let down. The information brought no enlightening revelation. What had he anticipated? He had no clue. Impulsively he reached for the telephone and dialed Alexander’s number. It rang three times.

“Hello.” A young woman answered, her voice soft and deep-throated. He realized he had no idea what to say. Words froze in his throat. “Hello,” she said again. “Who is it?”

He hung up, hating himself. What could he say? What should he? Why did he dial without thinking? What was he doing? How totally unlike him to be so rash, to act without thinking things through first.

Was Kathleen right? Would his intrusion only inflict pain? Good God, he thought, closing his eyes. The woman’s gift saved my life and I just repaid her with a harassing phone call. He knew how frightening those could be to a woman alone and grief-stricken. His eyes watered, remembering his widowed mother’s tears.

He read through Lucca’s material again, more carefully this time.

Alexander lived in a good neighborhood, he had driven an expensive car and owned a business. Most likely he was well insured, his wife and son well provided for. What value could he bring to their lives? His fantasies about stepping in to ameliorate their situation were just that, fantasies. Was he motivated by gratitude or merely morbid curiosity? Kathleen had been right.

Sue Ann arrived, carrying the mail, as he left. “Hey,there,” she chirped, upbeat as always. “You’re an early bird. Need anything?”

He shook his head. “I’m going home. I may be back later. The coffee’s fresh.”

He retrieved the car from the municipal parking lot behind the building and started home. He must at least, he thought, say thank you. He could do that in an anonymous letter of gratitude delivered through the transplant program. That was the soundest course of action. A face-to-face meeting was out of the question. Why didn’t he feel relieved? Without thinking, he turned east, toward the ocean, then north on Collins. Troubled and restless, he parked the Mercedes at a meter, then climbed the wooden plank stairs to the boardwalk, inhaling the salt air and broad horizon. Few sunbathers on the sand this early on a weekday during the off season. He descended onto the beach at Thirty-sixth Street. The ocean slapped its big salty body against the sand as usual, now and forever, evoking a nostalgic sense of longing. He loved the sea and the endless sky and always thought better when walking the beach. A force as strong as the tide was tugging him toward Daniel Alexander’s widow. Common sense told him it was a bad idea, but his heart—his heart, that was funny, he realized, smiling to himself—his heart wanted him to go to Rory Alexander, the person who gave it to him.

Who knew what can of worms that could open? Better not to know. The woman could be a total bitch who hounded the poor bastard to death. Perhaps she had cheated on Alexander, or intended to divorce him, prompting his last desperate act. If she bore a burden of guilt, Frank would be a reminder of what she had done. Go with the intelligent decision, he told himself, not illogical emotions. Taking the high road had always worked for him.

It was time to go, the sky was changing as a thunderstorm boiled up offshore and roiled swiftly toward the beach. He should have joined the few bathers who scooped up their beach towels and fled. But something kept him. He sat on an unattended wooden lounge and watched slanted rain streak the horizon, churning the sea from brilliant blue green to gunmetal gray under low-flying, fast-moving clouds. The air freshened as a skirling and relentless wind whipped his hair. He had never felt more alive, stimulated by the energy of the electrical storm racing across open water. Bam! An earsplitting thunderclap following a lightning bolt that skittered crazily across the sky. Cool, scattered raindrops began to fall. He was alone on the beach now, except for a lifeguard closeted in his pastel art deco station.

More lightning. Frank never flinched. The storm’s awesome power thrilled him. The odds against being struck by lightning were huge, at least six hundred thousand to one, he knew. He was more likely to win the lottery or be mauled by a shark. The odds would be no consolation, of course, should a bolt seek him out. Even if he saw it coming at sixty thousand miles a second, he could never outdistance it. He could run, but he couldn’t hide. But he felt confident, almost cocky. God had granted him a new heart, a medical miracle, a new life. He certainly would not take it away now in a bolt from the blue.

Frank turned to leave, then saw it. A small boat tossed viciously, out beyond the breakers, helplessly buffeted by the storm. A man stood precariously in the bow, waving both arms, signaling frantically.

Jesus Christ, he thought. The guy’s in trouble. His cell phone was in the car blocks away. Rain pelted faster now. Frank jogged toward the lifeguard station, shouting, “Call the Coast Guard!”

He nearly staggered up the wooden steps and pounded on the door. The window slid to one side with a gritty rasp.

“What’s your problem, buddy?” The guard, snug and dry, eyed him suspiciously.

Frank gasped for breath. His doctors should see him now, he thought. “Did you call the Coast Guard? That guy’s in trouble out there!”

The guard’s blue eyes remained flat and uncomprehending. “What guy?”

“The boat, goddammit! The boat!” He couldn’t help but see it. Frank turned in to the pounding rain to point back to where he had seen the floundering craft. All he saw was raging surf.

“My God, he capsized.” He squinted, searching for a survivor in the water.

The guard looked unperturbed, hunched in his Beach Patrol windbreaker. “I didn’t see anybody out there, and if I were you, buddy, I’d get off the beach in an electrical storm. It’s not safe.”

“Are you crazy? Call the Coast Guard! He was right there.”

The guard lifted his binoculars, focused, scanned, then shook his head and put them down.

“I’m telling you, he was right out there. A small boat, about a sixteen-footer.” The needlelike downpour, hard and cold, soaked his shirt, slacks and shoes. This was not the soft, warm, splashy rain of summer. Lightning lit up the sky, thunder crashed.

The guard picked up his walkie-talkie. “Randy, you see anything out there? Got a guy who claims he just saw a boat in trouble right here off forty-one.” He paused. “Yeah. Me too. Right.”

He hit another button, apparently accessing a central frequency. “This is forty-one, anybody see a small boat in trouble offshore?”

The replies were all negative.

Wet to the skin, hair plastered flat, water cascading down his face, Frank knew how he must look to this stranger.

“Listen,” the lifeguard shouted, over the sounds of the storm, “sometimes the waves are like clouds. You think you see things. Now, get off the beach, buddy, before you drown. You’re soaked.” He slammed the window shut.

Gusts of wind-blasted rain nearly shoved Frank off balance as he went down the stairs. He stared at where he had last seen the doomed boater. Nothing but stormy sea. The stretch of beach that curved north toward the Fontainebleau was empty except for the raging surf.

“You’d better make a report on this,” he shouted furiously, knowing his words would be drowned out by the wind and the rain, “ ‘cuz when that guy and his boat wash up onshore, ‘buddy,’ I’m turning you in!” His eyes stung and his shoes made squishing sounds as he slogged across the wet sand, climbed the steps to the boardwalk and trudged back to his car through the rain.

He sat shivering in the Mercedes, his water-soaked clothes oozing onto the sculpted leather seats. His Italian-made shoes were ruined. Some poor son of a bitch just drowned out there, he thought. So why am I thinking about that damn woman? Rain pounded the windshield, drummed on the roof, echoing an inner voice demanding that he find Rory Alexander.

He stopped at the fast-food window of an art deco Burger King, ordered a carton of milk, swallowed his pills, then drove home, teeth chattering.

Kathleen was horrified when she saw him.

“My God, Frank. What happened? Did you take your medication? You’ll catch pneumonia!”