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He gently pushed back her wispy bangs. “Missing? You know I’m okay.”

“With everything that’s been happening to you”—she gave him a meaningful look—“I wasn’t sure. You’ve always stayed in touch with me and Sue Ann before. Disappearing is so out of character for you, Frank. I even called the hospital to see if the team had heard anything.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.” He felt embarrassed that she’d called the transplant unit looking for him. What would they think? “You know that if anything happened to me, you’d be the first to know.”

She shrugged. “I wanted to call the police,” she said matter-of-factly, “if it hadn’t been for that detective, Lucca. He insisted that I wait until dark. Said I should call him first if you weren’t back.”

Thank God for Lucca, he thought. “Look, sweetheart,” he said patiently. “You will not believe the day I just had.” He checked his watch. “Let me make a couple of quick calls, then I’ll tell you and the girls all about it. I’ll be right back.”

Frank burst into his study, called his lawyer first, then reached Sam Townsend, a man in a hurry, about to leave for a fund-raising cocktail party. “I’ll see you there,” he said.

“Maybe not.” Frank frowned. “Kathleen didn’t mention it. She’s the one who keeps track of our social calendar. But, Sam, you’ve got to listen to this.” He quickly filled him in onthe financial trials and tribulations of the widow Alexander. “Lousy PR for your institution,” he said in conclusion.

“Jesus Christ!” Townsend replied. “Give me the customer’s name again. I’ll track it in the morning and find out who the hell is responsible. Just like you, you son of a bitch, to drop this on me when I’m on the way out for the evening. But thanks, we’ll roll out the red carpet, make it up to her.”

Frank smiled and hung up. He dialed Lucca’s office expecting his machine, but the man himself answered.

“You safe and sound?” Lucca asked.

“Yeah, sorry I missed our meeting this afternoon.”

“Your bride was ready to send out the bloodhounds. She wanted your picture on milk cartons. Classy woman, by the way.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you kept her from calling the cops.”

“Try to stay in touch, boss. People worry.”

“Listen, I talked to the widow in that other thing.”

“And?”

“I need you to check something out.” He lowered his voice even though he was alone. “I know it’s highly unlikely, but she’s convinced”—he rubbed the back of his neck, pacing up and down in front of his desk—“that her husband was murdered, that he was no suicide.”

“Not unusual. That’s common with suicides.”

“The thing is, there doesn’t seem to be any reason for taking his own life. She’s a gorgeous woman, with a beautiful kid. They had a nice home, no apparent money problems.”

“Gorgeous, huh? The plot thickens.”

“You know me better, Lucca. I just thought that for her peace of mind, we should look into it. She’s sure—”

“Just like your old lady was sure you were upside down in a ditch somewhere this afternoon. She know you were meeting with gorgeous?”

“I’m gonna tell her all about it at dinner. Look, I owe the woman a favor and thought you could look into it.”

The detective sighed. “It’s your money, boss. How far you want me to go?”

“Check out the police investigation, determine if it was thorough. Let me know if you agree with their conclusions. Nobody else has a better instinct for these things.”

“What about her? If I remember correctly, the news story said she found him. If I was to do a full-blown investigation, I’d start with her.”

“She’s still too fragile. Lucca, you should see her.”

“I’d like to. Gorgeous, huh?”

“Yeah, in a slim, tall, graceful sort of way.”

“Big girl, huh? Blonde?”

“No, red hair, long, sort of auburn.”

“Oh ho, a redhead!”

“I don’t believe this conversation. At the very least I owe her …”

“Sure, sure, sure. I’ll see what I can find out without spooking Big Red.”

Frank went downstairs. Casey was munching potato chips in front of a blaring TV and he quickly realized that what she was engrossed in was no action movie, but live news breaking, aerial views of the hot pursuit of a trio of bank robbers by Miami cops. The chase ended before their eyes in a hair-raising crash. There were police cars, innocent victims and the suspects, fleeing on foot, scrambling up an expressway embankment. A running robber let go his bag of loot. Greenbacks fluttered in the air as people scrambled, some on hands and knees, for the cash. A chaotic traffic jam, commuters, cops and ambulances on the ground, news choppers pounding the air and crowding the sky overhead.

“What a mess,” Frank said.

“Cool,” Casey commented, crunching a mouthful of chips. He noticed that her lips and fingers were greasy, crumbs littered the front of her T-shirt.

“Haven’t you had enough of those?”

“Nope.” Her eyes never left the television screen.

“You don’t want your face to break out.”

“What do you know?” she said grumpily.

“Casey, that’s no way to talk to me.”

She glanced up, mouth full. “You’re not my boss.”

“Wrong.” He would have switched off the set, except that testosterone-fueled cops were now grappling with commuters who had been snatching up the cash. Another camera broadcast a live shot as one of the robbers plunged into a canal. News choppers hovered, churning up waves that battered and swamped him. Lunging police dogs and shouting cops with shotguns lined the banks.

No place to run. Frank swallowed and stared, his body tensed. He shared the man’s panic. No way out.

Casey, banished to her room, was permitted to rejoin them for dinner. The sea bass was light and succulent in an orange chervil sauce, and Frank asked Lourdes to open a bottle of white burgundy. His celebratory mood was only slightly dampened by Casey’s truculence, Shandi’s sullen attitude and Kathleen’s slight pout.

“Casey, could you please ask Dad to pass the asparagus?” Shandi asked.

“You can ask me directly,” he said pleasantly, and passed the serving dish. Then he cleared his throat. “As you know,” he said, “we’re all together at our table tonight because of the generosity of another family who will never be together again. Life can’t be taken for granted. And you know that Iwanted to thank the family responsible for the gift that will, hopefully, allow me to see you both grow up, to dance at your weddings and enjoy many more years with the woman I married.”

Kathleen smiled and put down her fork, listening intently.

“Well …” He paused for effect. “I have done exactly that.”

“Could somebody please pass the rolls?” Casey said, ignoring the moment.

“Shhh, don’t interrupt your father,” Kathleen said. Neither girl stopped eating.

“My experience proves again,” Frank went on, “that we have to trust our own instincts. Mine were right and I spent today engaged in a little payback.”

Kathleen’s lips parted, eyes widening. “You located the donor’s family?”

“His widow and son. I spent some time with them today.”

“You actually met them?”

“That’s right.”

“How old is the son?” Casey showed interest for the first time.

“The boy is eight years old, his name is William, better known as Billy.”

“Who … ? How did you arrange it?” Kathleen appeared incredulous.

“Where do they live?” Shandi interrupted.

“In Coconut Grove.” Turning to Kathleen, he said, “I arranged it myself. I am not without resources. And I was right, they did need my help.”

“How on earth did you approach them? Did you just call and say I’m the man—”

“No, I rang their doorbell.”

“Totally unannounced?” Kathleen was astonished.

“Exactly.”

She laughed disapprovingly. “That’s so unlike you, Frank, so spontaneous. And the woman invited you in?”

“Yes. Well, at first she mistook me for someone else, but when I told her who I was, my welcome could not have been warmer, or more touching.”

“Why did you choose to do this alone?” Kathleen seemed annoyed and mystified. “I would have liked to have been there with you.”

Her reaction surprised him. “Well, it didn’t occur to me. You were so against it.”

“I still think it’s a bad idea. Remember what Doctor O’Hara said? I still think it unwise, and out of character, but if it did work out …”

“So whose heart did you get, Dad?” Shandi asked.

“The donor’s name was Daniel Alexander.”

“What did he die of?” Casey said.

He hesitated. “A gunshot wound, evidently suicide.”

“Gross,” Casey said.

Kathleen studied him reproachfully. “Perhaps we shouldn’t discuss it at dinner.”

“Well, I would like to propose a toast,” he said, still perplexed by Kathleen’s negative reaction. “To Rory and Daniel Alexander.”

“To life,” Kathleen murmured, as they touched glasses.

“That reminds me, I talked to Sam Townsend earlier, from Southern Savings. He assumed he’d see us at a benefit for the Youth Museum tonight. What happened? Are we out of the loop?”

Kathleen looked up from her lime sherbet and patted her lips with her napkin. “I declined for us.”

“Why? I would have liked it. I haven’t seen some of those people for a while.”

“I didn’t think you were really ready to go out and mingle yet.”

“What do you mean? You should have run it by me. I need to get back into the mainstream.”

“Not just yet,” she murmured.

Something about her patronizing tone irritated him. He could not dispel the image of the fleeing bank robber, the chopper-driven waves breaking over his head, shotguns and dogs waiting.

“Shall we discuss it later?” She shifted uncomfortably before his stare. “It’s just that … we want to keep you all to ourselves for a while longer, don’t we, girls?”

He and Kathleen took their coffee out on the pool patio. A high-flying full moon lit up the night and the rippling surface of the bay.

“So what’s she like?” asked Kathleen, reclining in a lounge chair.

“The widow? Young, bereaved, incredibly naive about money.”

“Is she attractive?”

“Some might say so,” he said warily.

“An attractive woman, her age, I’m sure she’ll remarry once she recovers from the trauma.”

“It’s hard to say. Apparently they were quite devoted.”

“I’m really sorry I haven’t met her, too.”

“Oh, you will.”

“When?” She raised her head and looked puzzled.

“I thought we could all go out to dinner once I’m finished.”

“Finished with what?”

“Kath, when I arrived there this morning, the woman’s car had just been repossessed.”

“And so it’s up to you to handle it?” she said, clearly exasperated by this new revelation. “Did her husband leave her flat broke?”

“No,” he said defensively, “quite the contrary. She’s just been too shocked and numb to cope. Evidently he handled all their finances and after his death she couldn’t even bring herself to look at an envelope with his name on it. She was hoarding sacks of unopened mail and bills dating back to the day it happened.”

“I’m sure the poor thing was traumatized, but you don’t have to inherit the problems her husband left. Dayton can handle it. Why don’t you put it all in his hands?”

“No, it’s something I want to do myself.”

“Why?” She sat up straight and faced him. “He’s a superb accountant. You’ve said so yourself, many times. You can pay his bill and your good deed is done.” She waited for his answer.

“Because this is something I feel strongly about. I need to do it for myself as much as for them.”

“Why?”

Frank had grown weary of explanations. “Look, Kath, it’s the difference between making an impersonal donation and getting involved. The difference between writing a check and working on Thanksgiving Day at the soup kitchen for the homeless. Remember the year we all did that? True thanks as opposed to lip service?”

She was silent. He couldn’t see her expression in the dim light.

“You could just write out a check to the museum, which you do,” he pointed out, “but no, you also choose to serve on the board, attend meetings, help make the day-to-day decisions, pitch in and do the actual labor because it’s importantto you. Helping Daniel Alexander’s widow and their son is as important to me.”

“At this particular point in time,” she said, her voice distant, “don’t you think it far more important to spend time with your family?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

K
athleen arose when he did, at dawn. Uncomplaining, she brewed coffee while he scanned the newspaper.

The robber he had seen on TV was dead. Drowned. No one tried to rescue him after he had slipped beneath the surface of that murky canal. Not until police divers in wet suits arrived twenty-five minutes later. When did the world change? Frank wondered. Where had the heroes gone? He remembered them, cops who unhesitatingly kicked off shoes, stripped off gun belts and plunged into deep water, even a cloudy canal, to save a life, even that of a fleeing felon. Heroics were in nobody’s job description now.

We are alone in this world, he thought. All alone.

“You know,” Kathleen chirped, “your idea about a few days up in Disney World, in Orlando, was excellent.” Shepoured coffee and sat opposite him in the breakfast nook. “Let’s all go this week. It’ll be fun! I’ll just throw a few things in a suitcase.”

Her enthusiasm struck a false note. She was never so bright and chatty at this time of day. She usually wasn’t even awake. Frowning, he folded the newspaper and reached for his coffee mug. “I thought nobody liked the idea. But swell, if you can convince the girls. Just put it off a week or so, until I finish this job.”

She sighed and did not bring it up again.

Frank took Rory to reclaim her car.

She wore lustrous lipstick, and smelled again like vanilla, but there were bluish shadows beneath her eyes. “How are you today?” he asked.

“Oh, I’ll be perky as a puppy once I git my wheels back.” She settled into the car beside him. The utility and credit card companies had responded positively to her calls, she reported.

“Lookit that skyline,” she said, as they swung up onto the expressway. The city’s hard edges, metal, stone and glass, glittered in the sun, crisp and clear-cut against the vast morning sky.

“Always blows me away,” she murmured.

He asked where she hailed from, though he knew the answer from Lucca’s report.

“Small town. China Grove, less than eight thousand population. Smack-dab in the middle a North Carolina, four hours from the Blue Ridge Mountains and five hours from the ocean. Stores down one side of the Main Street, railroad tracks down the other. The big boss in town is the cotton mill, they make sheets and towels. Charlotte is the closest big city. That’s where I went to college, at the University of North Carolina.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Miss the seasons some.” She casually crossed her legs, exposing the graceful curve of her ankle. “The trees, the frost on the leaves. Four absolutely, positively distinct seasons changin’ right on cue.” She stretched and leaned back, red hair spilling across the leather headrest. “You know it’s spring because the dogwood, the azaleas and the crocus tell you so. I
don’t
miss chiselin’ ice off my windshield. Or tree limbs fallin’ and power lines snappin’ because of the ice. Don’t miss chains and snow tires.”

“So you got married and came to Miami?”

“I came to Miami first.” She leaned forward, more animated, her words picking up speed. “After I graduated from college, with a bachelor of fine arts degree, I’m thinkin’ it’s time to git a car, an apartment, some money. How do I find a job? My two roommates said, ‘Let’s go to Miami and become flight attendants.’ I was like, ‘Yuck. Waitresses in the sky?’ But I came along for the ride, to see Miami—and guess who was the only one to land the job? I couldn’t believe it. Airlines want you there on time. I go out sightseein', get lost in Little Havana. Can’t find a soul who speaks English. Outa seventy applicants I’m the only one who sneaks in late, stood out like a hooker in church. They ask me, ‘Are you honest?’ and I give ‘em an honest answer: ‘Sometimes.’ And they say, ‘Your physical is tomorrow.’ ‘Oh, whoa,’ I tell ‘em. ‘Wait a minute.’ And they say, ‘But we have to send you to Honolulu right away for three weeks of trainin'.’

“All right, I think, neat. Cool. It was like a whirlwind. I thought I was a jet-setter. It was waitress-in-the-sky time.”

“So how did you meet Daniel?”

“On the job.” The dimples flashed. “I was workin’ in first class, kind of eyin’ this handsome guy, and I guess he noticed me too. During a layover in New Orleans, they put on theseextra-special fancy French pastries including four fat little chocolate éclairs on ruffled trays. I was starved, so I closed the curtain to try one when I was alone in the galley. It was so good that I ate another one, then couldn’t stop until I finished ‘em all!

“The curtain musta been cracked open. Cuz when I went out, all polite and proper, to serve what was left to the passengers, Daniel smiles up to me and says, ‘I’d like a chocolate éclair.’ I opened my mouth to tell him we didn’t have any, and he says, ‘Wait, before you say anythin', check out a mirror.’ “ She paused. “I had a chocolate smear from my upper lip to my nostrils.” She tossed her head back and laughed, the sound drawing him in until they were laughing together.

“I could not look him in the eye. But he refused to git off that plane without a chocolate éclair or my phone number—and there were no chocolate éclairs. That was Daniel.”

The repo man had stashed her station wagon amongst sad rows of repossessed cars hobbled by locking devices on their front wheels.

“There it is! There it is!” she said, excitedly pointing out the Sable to the guarded caretaker. “My poor little car. Mommy’s come to git you and take you home.”

The confirmation and paperwork took half an hour. “Don’t I need to write a check or somethin'?” She opened her cloth purse.

“Not yet.” Frank’s restraining hand closed over hers and he shook his head. “No checks until we get a green light from the bank later today. My lawyer handled this.”

“So do I owe him or you?”

“Let’s not worry about it now. Let’s just get it out of here before they change their minds.”

“I will pay you back.”

He nodded, then followed her back to Twin Palms where she parked in her driveway and patted the hood.

“The car-pool mommies will be so happy that this baby’s home,” she crooned.

“Tell them the police recovered it,” he said, as she unlocked the front door.

She laughed conspiratorially. “If I kin just keep Billy’s mouth shut.”

Frank braced himself before stepping back into Daniel Alexander’s study, but still felt chilled and claustrophobic, as though some malevolent presence were sucking the air from his lungs. Forcing himself to focus, he hastily booted up Alexander’s IBM PC, and copied the contents of the hard drive onto a backup tape. Downstairs he used the tape to reenter the contents into his laptop.

The most recent file was the suicide note left on the screen the day Daniel died.

“Do you mind?” he asked Rory.

“No,” she whispered. “I want you to see it. Then you tell me if it makes any sense.”

Farewell, Rory. We had good times. This is the road I must travel now. Remember, I love you and Billy. This is not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault but mine. Don’t make any fuss. I want to be cremated, to blaze as bright and as brilliant as the sun for one final moment. That’s how I want you to remember me. Do as I ask, please. Then carry on. Raise Billy to be as good and as strong a human being as you are. Don’t hate me. I love you, sunshine. Daniel.

A computerized suicide note definitely lacked the personal touch, Frank thought, gazing at the screen.

“What is that?” Rory demanded, leaning over his shoulder. “Can you tell me?” She turned away and paced the dining room. “It explains nothing. He couldn’t have done it.”

“Had he received any threats?”

“No, not that I know of,” she conceded, slumping into a seat at the table.

“Enemies?”

She shook her head.

Few murder victims, he had once read, die at the hands of strangers. “What about criminal connections? Did he know any dangerous characters?”

“You meet a lot of people in the restaurant business …” She shook her head again. “But none that I ever knew of.”

This is Miami, he thought, where anything is possible. Police can and do make mistakes. What if she was right? Did he feel a rush of excitement because he believed her, or was it merely the thrill of playing amateur detective with a beautiful woman?

“Were either of you ever the victim of a crime before?”

She chewed her lower lip, then nodded. “The house was burglarized about eighteen months before Daniel died. We were on vacation, skiin’ in Aspen, just the two of us. Billy stayed with Daniel’s mom. When we got home, we found the house had been broken into. Sounds small time, but God, it was awful. The TVs were gone, the VCR, Daniel’s computer, all the small appliances. The silverware, what jewelry I had, even Billy’s bicycle and some of our clothes. God, what a feeling. Months later, we’d look for something and realize, ‘Oh God, they got that too.’ That was our big brush with crime.

“The police were nice and all, even dusted for prints, but they never caught the burglars or recovered a thing. Said there’d been a rash of cases in the neighborhood. We had insurance. But the worst part was that feelin’ of violation, theidea of strangers in our house, rummagin’ around through our stuff, pawin’ through our things.

“After it happened, a course, when we had nothin’ left to steal, Daniel took the advice of the police and we burglar-proofed the entire house. That’s when he bought the gun,” she said bleakly, and paused. “We trimmed the hedges way back, too, installed new locks and had the security system put in.”

“I’ve noticed how you use it,” he said reprovingly.

“I guess I should,” she said softly. “He wanted to protect us.”

“Did the burglars steal anything out of the ordinary? Like your husband’s business records …”

“Not that I recall.”

“Who profits from his death?”

“That’ud be me. Me and Billy, I guess. There was an itty bitty little old life insurance policy that his mother had on him. Then there’s the business, the restaurants. He and Ron, his partner, had … What do you call ‘em? You know, those life insurance policies that pay off to keep the business goin’ if anythin’ happened to either one of them.”

“Key-man policies?”

“Right. That’s it. They were with the same company as our life policy. They had ‘em from the start, from when they opened the first location. Ron didn’t get his insurance check yet either. I spoke to him last week.”

“How much were they for?”

“A million dollars.”

Now, there’s a motive for murder, he thought. “Any trouble between the two of them? Hard feelings about Daniel leaving the business?”

“Not that I knew about,” she said, with a dismissive gesture. “Those two knew each other forever, they had theirmoments, but never anythin’ serious. They fought like brothers.”

“Well,” Frank said briskly. “I’ll run through these computer files looking for your bank statements. Think you could rustle up some coffee?”

While she was in the kitchen, he made hasty notes of their conversation to fax to Lucca when he got back to the office, along with a copy of the suicide note.

Daniel Alexander’s computer files yielded little. Frank spent several hours scrolling through routine correspondence. Nothing relevant in his E-mail. The man had been an inveterate letter writer. There were complaints to food distributors about late deliveries, to the Miami city manager about the homeless people who panhandled and intimidated diners outside the Coral Gables restaurant and a strongly worded objection to a city of Miami Beach proposal to double the outdoor table tax paid by restaurants.

Frank started a tax file, failed again to reach Townsend, who had been unreachable, in meetings all day, and left, promising to call Rory after speaking to the banker.

On his way back to the office, he stopped to pick up the gun. His background had apparently passed muster. The gun shop operated a pistol range in an adjacent building as cold as a refrigerator. The number of Miamians blasting away at paper targets surprised him. Suburban couples, middle-aged businessmen, even little old ladies brandishing firearms. He enlisted the help of an instructor, donned safety glasses and ear protectors and took the only free cubicle. The next slot was occupied by a young Latino with a huge handgun, a .44-caliber Magnum. Each time he fired it, Frank feared the concussion would make his nose bleed.

He thought of his father, hands shaking as the paunchyinstructor with small, pale blue eyes coached him. “Don’t jerk the trigger, squeeze it gently like it was a woman.”

The sound startled him as the gun recoiled in his hand like something alive. The paper target, the dark outline of a man, jumped. His bullet had punched a hole in the lower left-hand corner. The instructor said Frank had a good eye. He began to feel more comfortable with the weapon, more confident. After thirty minutes, the target was riddled and torn. Surprisingly, he liked seeing it buck when his bullets slammed through it. Then the range master announced, “Lights out,” and the room went dark.

“To simulate combat conditions,” his instructor explained. Frank wondered why Miamians felt the need to be combat-ready, but enjoyed seeing flames spit from the muzzle, the smell of the gunsmoke, the power and heat from the metal. Someday, when he had more time, he thought, he would practice regularly, become proficient, maybe even join a target-shooting club and compete. He learned how to clean the weapon and departed after a few final words of advice.

“Never aim your weapon at another person unless you’re prepared to shoot ‘im,” his instructor warned. “And if you ever have to shoot somebody, make sure you kill ‘im. You wind up with fewer problems that way.”

Frank stepped back out into the afternoon sun, the added weight of the weapon in his briefcase, and thought of Daniel Alexander. He, too, had bought a gun for protection.

Sue Ann was cheerful, despite her sneezes and the handkerchief held over her nose. Workmen were drilling, installing the security cameras, and she was allergic to dust. Townsend had called twice, she reported. She tried him, but the banker was again unavailable. Frank printed out his notes, along with Daniel Alexander’s suicide letter, then faxed them to Luccahimself, declining Sue Ann’s offers of help. She was bubbling over the upcoming visit of her Marine son and his family. Her grandbabies’ arrival was enough to make his secretary giddy. Frank arranged tickets to the current production at the Coconut Grove Playhouse for the adults, insisting that he and Kathleen would take the youngsters for the night.