You Only Die Twice (15 page)

“Uh-oh,” he said. “Not exactly the words I hoped to hear.”

“I'm sorry. It's just that…what happened in Daytona was due to the intensity of the moment. We don't even know each other.”

He sighed. “That other guy?”

“No. That's over,” I said. The words sounded shockingly final to my ears. “It's you and me, our jobs, this story, us both being involved in the case. It's unprofessional.”

“We could low-key it.”

Where had I heard that before?

“Just until the case is closed or pushed onto a back burner. Looks like that's happening sooner than later. Emery's not on the case full-time anymore,” he explained. “They've already got him shouldering a full workload again.”

“You're sure?”

“Hey, no new leads, nothing's panned out. The department's spread thin, the brass can't justify the manpower. Lousy for the victim, good for us. No story, no problem.”

“Right. But when that happens, you go home,” I said, “three hundred and fifty miles away. How romantic.”

“That's not so far.” He took my hand. “Why not just go for the ride and see where it takes us?”

“Maybe,” I said. “You want decaf?”

“Naw.” He sighed. “Gimme the hard stuff.”

The crime lab, he said, tried using fiberoptic light sources to shadow, then photograph, the handwriting impressions on the bedside notebook from Kaithlin's
room. No luck. The legal pad had been sent on to the FBI lab in Washington in the hope that more sophisticated techniques could decipher something legible.

“Those guys up there are good,” he said hopefully. “They've got a machine made in England, originally designed to detect fingerprints on paper. In some cases, they've successfully raised handwriting impressions from six sheets down.”

Rychek had also run a check on Zachary Marsh. “Emery was pissed off at 'im. Wanted to see who the hell he was.”

“What's his story?”

“Ran a Rolls dealership, like he said. Married for eighteen years. She dumped him when he got too sick to work. Ran off with an old high school boyfriend, taking most of his bank account and their two teenagers with 'er.”

He and Rychek had talked to Kagan, the lawyer whose office number appeared repeatedly on Kaithlin's hotel bill. He denied knowing her.

“Lots of people call his office every day, he said. Swore he never met her, never talked to her.”

“A guy like him would remember somebody like her,” I said.

“Emery also ran the names of the hotel housekeepers and the bellmen by him, on the off chance they made the calls.”

“They wouldn't bill local calls to her room,” I said, “and any of the hotel employees who needed a lawyer would look for somebody bilingual who handles immigration cases. It wouldn't be him.”

“I agree.” Fitzgerald paused as we carried our coffee
mugs into the living room. “What's that? You hear something?”

I stopped to listen, then heard it too: a low familiar singsong rumble accompanied by a faint grinding sound. Fitzgerald gingerly pushed open the bathroom door.

Billy Boots sat in the sink, eyes closed, chewing contentedly on my toothbrush, still in its wall-mounted holder.

He stopped the loud purring and opened his eyes to stare.

“You let him do that?” Fitzgerald frowned.

“Of course not.” I snatched my cat out of the sink, plucking bristles from his whiskers. “This can't be good for him.”

“Or you,” Fitzgerald said. “Or me.” He grimaced and licked his sexy lips, so recently pressed to mine.

“Very funny,” I said, clinging to Billy, whose tail lashed fitfully as he fixed a baleful, yellow-eyed stare on Fitzgerald.

“You plan on using that toothbrush again?”

“Only before dates with you.”

He kissed me good night gingerly and worked his mouth in the manner of a professional wine taster. “A hint of catnip,” he said. “That must be what turns me on.”

“Either that,” I agreed, “or the hair-ball medication.”

We made a date for dinner the next night. “See you then.” He gently ran his thumb along the line of my jaw the way he did the first time. Was it him I wanted, or a warm, friendly body next to mine? I searched his eyes for the answer, found none, and let him walk away, out into the night. I immediately regretted that he was gone.

 

I called Rychek first thing in the morning.

“I'm up to my ass in alligators here, kid.”

“What's this I hear about Jordan being pushed to the back burner?” I asked. “Isn't this way too soon? It's a big case.”

He sighed. “That's why the city commission and the chamber of commerce would be delighted to see it go away. It ain't the only open homicide we got. Plus, we got teen curfew biting us on the ass.”

Rowdy teens had recently invaded the South Beach club scene, fighting, drinking, crowding streets, damaging cars, and strong-arming adult customers. A curfew had been set but largely ignored.

“The commission is pissed,” Rychek said. “They want enforcement, so the chief assigned a lotta the young detectives to a special squad. They're sweeping South Beach every night. Their caseloads are falling on us.”

“Kagan must be lying about the phone calls. Can't you lean on him, subpoena his files?”

“There ain't enough to get a subpoena and the man's a lawyer, for chrissake. This ain't the old days, kid.”

“But you can't just give up,” I argued.

“Never said I did. Something new surfaces, I'll be the first to run it down. But we got nothing right now, 'cept a lotta other cases we're more likely to close.”

 

Already running late, I had a stop to make first.

“Has he been troubled about anything lately?” the doctor asked. “Changes or traumas at home?”

Billy Boots crouched sullenly on the examining table, cranky and glaring.

“I was out of town briefly, but that can't be it. He'd already chewed through four toothbrushes before I left.”

She listened to his heart with her stethoscope. “How's his appetite?”

“Fine. He steals the dog's food and the dog steals his. Each one wants what the other has, just like people.”

“Do they get along?”

“I think they're friends.”

“It could be,” she said, studying his chart, “that he feels a lack of attention or just likes the minty taste left on the toothbrush. He may need to see a psychotherapist. I can give you the number of someone.”

A shrink? If anybody in my household was in need of a shrink it wasn't my cat, it was me.

I held him all the way home, stroking his glossy fur, promising him more time, more toys, more treats. What kind of mother would I be? How could I expect to ever nurture a child when life with me had turned my own cat into an obsessive-compulsive toothbrush-gnawing neurotic?

 

The temperature had suddenly soared back to 80 degrees, catching by surprise people now sweltering in sweaters and long sleeves. Bright, bare limbs and colorful sails flashed in foamy green water on either side of the Rickenbacker Causeway to Key Biscayne. Ponce de Leon sailed into the bay to claim the island for a Spanish king five hundred years ago. What would he think today, I wondered, of this towering, multi-laned
toll bridge favored by cyclists, windsurfers, kayakers, and divers?

 

A huge gumbo limbo, pines, and buttonwood trees shaded the oceanfront building where Dallas Suarez lived. About twenty-five years old, it was modest in size, unlike the soaring structures built today with hundreds of units.

I rang her doorbell at nearly nine, hoping she wasn't already gone or still asleep.

I heard scurrying, as a small commotion erupted inside. Did I interrupt something? I wondered. Did the femme fatale linked to murder, adultery, and big bucks still run true to form?

Someone peered through a peephole, then opened the door. The same black hair, the same woman in the ten-year-old news clips, but far from the sultry siren I was prepared to dislike. Her face looked sunny and free of makeup, with just a trace of lipstick. Large fawnlike brown eyes, freckles sprinkled across her nose. The eyes, exquisitely soft, contrasted startlingly with her hard body. She was fit and athletic, her black tights and oversized white shirt nearly hiding the fact that she was about six months pregnant. The commotion I'd heard had been a little girl, about three, scampering to the door. Her halo of curly hair was lighter, but she had her mother's eyes.

“Alexa.” The mother collared the little one. “Stay in here with Mommy, you can't go out now.” Her voice was throaty, her words warm, with the faintest trace of an accent.

“Dallas Suarez?”

“Svenson.” She smiled. “Dallas Svenson. I've been married for some time.”

Her eyes widened slightly at my name. “Can I talk to you about what happened ten years ago?” I asked.

She stepped back, took a deep breath, and glanced away for a moment, blinking, as though my appearance was painful. “I was afraid of this,” she murmured. Her Bambi eyes refocused on me. “I was afraid the press might look me up.”

“I have no plans to rehash old news,” I assured her. “I'm just trying to piece things together, to find out where Kaithlin was all this time.”

Polite but wary, she let me in. We sat in a sunny breakfast room, her little girl busy nearby with a coloring book and crayons.

“I almost didn't recognize you,” I said.

She smiled and patted her stomach. “I'm not surprised. I guess it's obvious I'm not doing much skydiving, flying, or skiing these days. Life changes when you have kids, you know.”

“But you look happy, as though you have no regrets.”

“Happy? Yes,” she said. “Regrets, sure. Have you seen him?” She lowered her eyes. “Have you seen R. J.?”

I nodded.

“How is he?”

“Older,” I said. “Bitter.”

“Who could blame him?” she said. “Even I didn't believe him. Oh, I did at first. But the police kept questioning me. They were so sure. Everybody believed he did it. So, eventually, I believed it too. I should have known better.”

“Why did he prefer you to his wife?”

“That was the hell of it,” she said, smile rueful. “He didn't. He loved her. I knew he'd never get her out of his system, no matter what he said.”

“What was she like?”

“Stupid,” she said, without hesitation. “She had to be the world's most stupid woman. He craved attention, needed love and affection, tender loving care. He didn't get it from her.”

“His reputation and his press clippings seem to indicate that he never lacked attention.”

She clasped her hands, taking a deep breath. An impressive diamond-studded wedding band and an oval amethyst winked on her long slender fingers. “I thought the same thing when we met. That facade of his masked a great many insecurities. He looked like a Greek god, larger than life, with a roguish, wild-Indian sort of charm. He never lied about being married. He had to qualify when he bought the plane. I was his flight instructor. We both loved to fly. What started as a harmless flirtation became serious for me once I got to know the man. When I saw his sensitive, vulnerable side, I fell.”

She sighed, soft eyes caressing her little girl.

“He hated the family business,” she said. “It was all his parents thought about when he was growing up. They gave him everything except what all kids crave; that's why he ran wild. Ironically, he finally married a woman he loved and she rejected him too, by becoming involved with the same rival, the family stores.”

“But it all would have been his eventually.”

“He wanted no part of it.” She stopped to praise a picture colored by little Alexa. “They insisted he study business administration,” she continued, lifting the
child onto her lap. “He hated that. Did you know he wanted to study architecture?”

“No,” I said. “I never heard that.”

“You should see his sketches. He was so talented, absolutely wonderful. He talked about it all the time. He dreamed of designing buildings, timeless structures to shelter people and their children. He had no interest in operating retail stores, selling cosmetics, clothes, and jewelry.

“It was a crazy time,” she reflected, smoothing her little girl's hair. “It was the usual thing. The same sad story. You always hear it. I loved him, he loved her and she loved…”—her voice trailed off—“who knows? Her picture was always in the newspaper. She was a community activist, she helped women, was involved in civic projects that were good public relations for the company, but what did she ever do for him? She couldn't even get pregnant, and he wanted a family more than anything.”

“It meant money,” I said cynically. “His parents promised—”

“He didn't care about the money,” she said derisively. The child abruptly wriggled off her lap and eluded her grasp.

“Wanna go out, wanna go,” the little girl insisted, romping toward the door.

“She's so willful.” Dallas rolled her eyes in mock desperation. “What will I do with her?”

“Wait till she's sixteen,” I said, thinking of Kaithlin.

Recaptured after a minor skirmish and a few wails, the child settled down with a cookie and crayons to work on another picture.

“Where were we?” Dallas asked. “Oh, right. R. J. didn't care about the money. He believed a baby would save the marriage, make it work. That Kaithlin would stay home to be a wife and mother. She'd promised to work only until they had a family. But it didn't happen. R. J. had a wife, they slept in the same bed, but he was lonely. When they talked about it, she suggested he become more involved in Jordan's, to put on a suit and go to the office every day. He tried, but he hated it.”

“What about the money?” I said. “The prosecutors and the jury believed he stole it, in part to lavish on you.”