Slow Burn (4 page)

“Yes, please.”

Still black, one sugar. Exactly the way she'd been drinking coffee since high school.

Some things just didn't change. Like the way he had always felt about her.

He almost slammed her mug down in front of her before returning to the chair behind his desk. He opened a drawer and threw a mile-high pile of folders on top of his blotter. “This is what I've been doing all year, Spencer. There are over two hundred interviews in here, notes on people, places, stakeouts. Five of the files are completely closed—they concern homicides Danny was working on that have been solved and could in no way have anything to do with his death. The Vichy case remains open and may remain open forever.”

“Why?”

“You know Eugene Vichy.”

“I know him?”

“He belongs to your yacht club.”

Spencer frowned. He realized that she probably hadn't been to the yacht club in a very long time.

“He's fifty-something, white-haired, good-looking, always looks like he just walked off a movie set. His wife, the late Mrs. Vichy, was sixty-something, and not quite so good-looking but very rich. She expired from a knock on the head. The house had been ripped up, some diamonds were missing. Vichy claimed to have come in and found the place in disarray and to have been brokenhearted at the loss of his beloved Vickie.”

“Vickie? Vickie Vichy?” Spencer said.

“You know her?”

She shrugged. “The name sounds vaguely familiar—and absurd—but then, maybe Danny talked about the case. I don't remember. But why do you think the case will remain unsolved?”

“Because Vichy passed a lie detector test and he still holds to his story.”

“Maybe he's innocent.”

David shook his head. “I don't think so. Not for a minute. And neither did Danny.”

Spencer sat forward, suddenly very intense. “So Danny was pressuring this man. And Vichy knew that Danny wouldn't quit. And he'd already proven himself adept at murder—”

“Spencer, the cops have to have some kind of evidence to make an arrest.”

“Fine. Go on.”

“Go on?”

“Who else is in the suspect lineup?”

“Spencer, you should go home—”

“I'm not going home until you tell me exactly where you are in this investigation.”

“Spencer, I don't have to tell you anything. I'm not working for you.”

“Then
start
working for me.”

“No.”

“David, financially I can compete with any other clients you have. I need—”

“Damn it, Spencer!” He'd been planning to remain calm. Understanding. They weren't kids anymore; too much of life had already cracked them over the head. But there was something about Spencer. He wanted to either hold her or shake her. Shaking her was a whole lot safer. “I can't be bought, Spencer. You know that.”

“You shouldn't have to be bought!” she lashed back, trying to keep her anger in check. “He was your best friend. He—”

“Spencer, get out.”

“I won't leave until you finish.”

“Spencer, I'll pick you up and put you out!” he warned her.

Her eyes narrowed sharply. “I'll leave on my own accord. I just want to know what else you're doing, who else you're watching.”

He groaned. “They threw you out of the police station, so you've come to torture me.”

“David—”

“Yes, Vichy might have been tired of Danny's determination to prove him guilty,” he snapped coldly, staring out the huge plate-glass window to the garden beyond. A slatted wood fence surrounded the garden, making it private and quiet. A mass of deep purple bougainvillea grew clinging along the fence. Wood chips filled in the space around deep green ferns and impatiens. It was a pleasant and peaceful view, but he felt anything but pleasant or peaceful now. “There are only two other people Danny was investigating who might have had the motive and method to kill him. The first is Ricky Garcia, who—”

Spencer gasped, interrupting him. “I've seen the name. In fact, I definitely remember Danny talking about him. He's a crime boss, the head of a Cuban Mafia-type ring. He controls drug rings and prostitution, gambling—”

“Exactly. He's as slippery as an eel, as well. He can snap his fingers and find a dozen hit men.”

“Then it must be him,” Spencer whispered, her eyes steady on his. “And there must be a way to trap him.”

“If there is, Spencer, the police—or I—will find it. And there's no guarantee that Danny actually had anything on him, or that he had anything against Danny. In fact, he liked Danny.”

“He liked Danny?”

“It's more common than you think for criminals to like the cops who are after them,” he said with a shrug.

“But—”

“Then there's Trey Delia. You must know that name, as well.”

She nodded, frowning. “He's the cult leader.”

“He's not exactly a cult leader.”

“He was the one accused of raiding graves for body parts!” Spencer exclaimed. “For his rituals.”

“He was accused of grave robbing, but the police weren't so certain he was after body parts. They think he might have been trying to hide evidence. A number of his church members were dying inexplicably. He managed to get most of them cremated. Danny thought he was behind the vandalism in several cemeteries. He was digging up some of his own people and making sure nothing could be found if the police did decide to exhume a few bodies. Now, that's it, Spencer. I've given you every name I've got left on my list of possibilities. I haven't been sitting back idle, I'm doing everything I can. Now I want you to get up, go home and forget it.”

She was up, hands on his desk, staring at him as he stared at her. “I can't forget—”

“You have to.” He gritted his teeth, wishing again that he didn't feel the awful urge to either shake her or wrap his arms around her. The last would be one dreadful mistake. She would welcome him with all the warmth and comfort of a porcupine. Nothing would ever be right between them again; Danny's death had made that an even greater certainty. He needed to keep her away from him. He'd always needed to keep her away from him. Temptation was too great when she was near. And temptation with Spencer was pure torment. He'd learned the hard way that there was nothing in the world quite like wanting Spencer. And nothing in the world quite like the way a man could find his soul wrenched right from his being by the void she could leave in his life. She looked as if she belonged on a pedestal. A blond goddess with her perfect alabaster skin. An Anglo goddess with a perfect pedigree. Yeah, Danny had matched her just perfectly.

“Get out, Spencer.”

“Damn you, David!”

“When I know something, I'll tell you. If you can do something, I'll tell you. Until then, leave me the hell alone so that I can keep working.”

“David…”

She fell silent as he approached her with pure menace. He forced himself to close his hands around her arms with some control—but not a lot of it. He turned her bodily around and ushered her out of his office as quickly as he could, wishing even for those few seconds that he didn't have to touch her at all. He could smell her. He didn't know what the scent was, only that she had worn it as long as she had worn a bra, that it wasn't just cologne or perfume, it was soap and body lotion, as well. It was subtle, mixed with something that was just plain Spencer, and it was also intoxicating and sensual. Feelings of guilt instantly began to creep over him, like a crimson tide. He felt the attraction just as he had felt it when Danny was still alive, just as he had felt it when he and Spencer had both been young and a little bit wild and alive with the sheer power of their youth and growing sexuality. He wanted Spencer, he'd always wanted her, had never stopped wanting her, even when she had been married to his best friend. But he would never have touched her when she was Danny's wife, and as Danny's widow, somehow she seemed twice as taboo.

“David, damn you,” she began again, as he escorted her past Reva's desk and through the reception area.

“Say goodbye to Spencer, Reva. She's got to go out and get on with her life now.”

Reva looked up miserably from her desk. Furious, Spencer snatched her wrists away from David. “Thank you, Reva,” Spencer told his sister; then her eyes, ice blue now, met his. “And thank
you,
of course. For your unconditional support and assistance!”

“Spencer, how many times can I say this? I swear, I'm doing everything I can!”

“It's not enough, David. It's just not enough.”

But that was Spencer's final volley. She was out the front door of his office. He watched her heels click smartly on the pavement as she marched to the small parking area just off Main Street.

Maybe he should have put his office out on the beach, he thought. Up in Miami Springs, or over on Key Biscayne. Somewhere other than where Spencer had always lived. No, he had always lived here, too. And Spencer and he would be entangled now even if he'd moved his office to Never Never Land.

He turned around. Reva was staring at him. Something seemed to close around his heart. “What?” he snapped to his sister. “You think she's right? You think there's something else I can do that I haven't?”

Reva shook her head, watching him almost sadly. “I know that you've spent more than a year trying to trace Danny's killer,” she told him flatly. “I just feel so sorry for her.”

“Wonderful. She bursts in here like hell on wheels, and you feel bad for poor, poor Spencer.”

Reva ignored that with a shrug. “None of us could believe what happened to Danny. It seemed that everyone in the world loved him. I mean, can you remember a time in our lives when Danny didn't come through for anyone? And Spencer was married to him. The rest of us may be able to accept that, as awful as it is, the killer will never be found. But Spencer…Spencer will never be able to rest until the case is closed.”

David swore softly, turned away from his sister and headed toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Reva asked him.

“Somewhere quiet. To visit Danny.”

To visit Danny…

Well, at the very least, it really was quiet. After he'd stopped the car, at least. He drove an accelerated Mustang, not ostentatious, not a junk pile, and fast enough to follow just about anything on the road. And besides, Michael MacCloud had always believed in buying American.

The cemetery wasn't far. Just through Coconut Grove and north past downtown Coral Gables, then to the right where it became the City of Miami again. Danny's grave was almost at the center of the graveyard; he'd been laid to rest beneath a marble angel. David stood over the grave. The grass was all grown in, and a bouquet of fresh flowers sat in the brass vase just above the headstone that stated Danny's full name, his rank and “best friend, beloved husband, always cherished within our hearts.”

Sometimes, he still couldn't believe that Danny was gone.

“Why couldn't you have talked to me, buddy?” he said softly. “You didn't tell me anything about the killer—you had to whisper her name! Well, I suppose I just might have done that, too. But it would have helped me a hell of a lot now if you'd just given me a clue.”

There was a slight motion behind him. He wore a gun beneath his jacket, but instinct told him that he wasn't in any real danger in this realm of the dead. He turned around slowly, expectantly.

Sly was there. Sly Montgomery. David wasn't sure just how old Sly was—but it was definitely
very.
He'd come south with some of the earliest pioneers, not too long after Julia Tuttle had sent Henry Flagler an orange blossom to convince Flagler to bring his railroad south. Sly was somewhere in his nineties—unless he'd hit a hundred—but age didn't seem to affect the man much. He was slim as a reed and straight as an arrow. He'd never lost his hair. It was snow-white, but there was a lot of it. And he had the most intense blue eyes David had ever seen anywhere—unless he compared them to Spencer's. Sly had made enough money to retire anywhere on earth, but this was his home, working with his hands was his craft. When David had been young, Sly had told him that he intended to die working. He'd meant those words.

A smile curved old Sly's lips. “David. How nice to see you.”

David arched a brow. “We just happen to be out here at the same time?”

“Of course not.”

“Then…?”

“Reva told me where you were.”

“Why were you looking for me?” he asked, then sighed, staring at the grave again and speaking once more before Sly could answer the question he'd been asked. “Spencer was by, and I've got to tell you the same thing I told her. You can't hire me to look for Danny's killer. I'm already doing everything I can. You've both got to believe that. He was my best friend. I don't need to be paid to put everything I've got into it.”