Beautiful Storm (Lightning Strikes Book 1) (2 page)

Using her flashlight again, she walked toward the carousel, her tension increasing with each step, but there was no one around. No man, no woman, no knife, no struggle. What the hell had happened? Where had they gone?

She looked around in bewilderment. It had only been a few minutes since she'd seen them—hadn't it? Or had she lost consciousness when the tree had knocked her down?

She didn't think so, but her mind felt hazy and her head ached.

Despite the fuzzy feeling, she couldn't forget the image of the tall man towering over the smaller woman. She could still hear the woman's scream of terror in her head.

She turned slowly around, seeing nothing of significance in the shadowy surroundings. Then something in the dirt brought her gaze to the ground. She squatted down and picked up a shiny, rectangular military ID tag.

Her stomach turned over. She had a tag just like this in her jewelry box at home, the tag that had belonged to her father.

But it wasn't her father's name on this tag; it was a woman's name: Liliana Valdez, United States Navy, blood type O positive, religion Catholic. Her birth date indicated that she was twenty-eight.

The name didn’t mean anything to Alicia, but she still felt an odd connection to the woman who'd lost it. Had it been the woman she'd seen fighting for her life? Had that woman been wearing a uniform?

She couldn't remember. She had the sense that the woman had worn a long, dark coat, but the details escaped her. Maybe she'd caught them on film. That thought took her to her feet.

She needed to get home and develop the photographs. She walked quickly back to the parking lot, pausing for just a moment to get a few more shots of the lightning now streaking across the Miami skyline.

Then she got into her car and sped toward the causeway, hoping she hadn't waited too long to cross before the storm surge made the bridge impassable.

When she reached the bridge, water was splashing over the rail, but she made it back to Miami without incident. She felt relieved to be in the city, but the pain in her temple reminded her of what she'd seen by the carousel. Who were those people? Had something terrible happened? Had she been a witness to…what?

Alicia's gaze dropped to the ID tag sitting on her console—to the name Liliana Valdez. She needed to find Liliana; not just to return her tag but also to make sure she was all right, that she was still alive.

* * *

Alicia lived in the Wynwood Art District, a neighborhood just north of downtown Miami and known for its art galleries, boutiques and charming cafés. She lived on the second floor of a two-story building, and the bottom floor housed the art gallery where she displayed her storm photographs.

The owner of Peterman Art Gallery, Eileen Peterman, had leased her the apartment a year earlier, and Alicia was happy to be close to the gallery and in a neighborhood filled with artists and designers. She'd always been more comfortable among creative people who thought outside of the box, colored beyond the lines, and who put their emotions on display, whether it be in a sculpture or a painting or a photograph. She'd never been able to trust anyone who hid their emotions. It always made her wonder what else they were hiding.

After entering her apartment, Alicia dropped her backpack on the floor, set her keys and the ID tag on the side table, and then took off her wet raincoat and hung it on a hook by the door. She kicked off her boots and walked into the bathroom to grab a towel.

After drying her face, she pulled out the band from her hair and ran the blow-dryer through the damp dark tangles of her unruly mass of dark brown waves. Her hair was thick and long, drifting past her shoulder blades, and it was a constant battle to straighten the rebellious curls, which had gotten more out of hand in the wind and the rain.

As she stared at her face in the mirror, she was a little surprised at the size of the bump on her throbbing forehead. It was turning a lovely shade of purple and black and definitely stood out against her unusually pale skin. A dark-eyed brunette with olive skin, she usually had a vibrant, exotic look about her, but today was not one of those days. What little makeup she'd put on earlier that day had washed away in the rain, and the pain of her aching head injury had put strained lines around her eyes.

She set down the dryer, grabbed some ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet, took two capsules, and told herself she'd feel a lot better in about thirty minutes. Then she walked back to the living room.

She picked up Liliana's ID tag and took it over to the kitchen table. Opening her laptop computer, she typed in Liliana's name, age, and birth date. The Valdez surname would be common in Miami, a city made up of thousands of Cuban and Puerto Rican immigrants, so she was expecting her search to be complicated and long.

Surprisingly, it was neither.

The headline of the first article jumped off the page:
JAG attorney missing in Miami
.

As she read through the news story, she discovered that Liliana Valdez, a Navy lieutenant and attorney with the Judge Advocate General, had gone missing while visiting Miami in late July for the wedding of her sister. She'd last been seen in the parking lot outside of Paladar, a popular Cuban restaurant in Little Havana. The vehicle she'd been driving had been recovered from the parking lot, but there was no sign of a struggle or any other clues to her whereabouts.

Alicia let out a breath and sat back on the couch, staring out the window where rain now streamed against the panes.

Liliana Valdez had disappeared two months ago, and no one had seen her since.

Alicia picked up the ID tag, still a little damp and gritty with dirt, and ran her fingers over Liliana's name, feeling the same sense of connection she'd felt earlier.

She had a clue to a missing woman. She needed to take it to the police.

Jumping to her feet, she paused, struck by the thought that she might have more than one clue. Retrieving her camera, she took it into the walk-in closet off her bedroom that she'd turned into her personal darkroom.

Unfortunately, as the pictures developed, Alicia's enthusiasm began to fade.

The couple she'd seen by the carousel did not appear in any of the shots. The lightning was spectacular, but it was so close, so bright, it was impossible to see anything but shadows beyond the light, certainly nothing that clearly defined a person, which meant she had no other clue besides the military tag. Still, it was something. Hopefully, it would be enough to help find the missing woman.

Two

It was after nine o'clock when Alicia sat down in a hard chair next to the desk of Detective Ron Kellerman of the Miami-Dade Police Department, Criminal Investigations Unit. The detective was a middle-aged, balding man with a few extra pounds around the gut. He'd been called away from his Friday night plans, and during the past hour he'd asked her many of the same questions two and three times. She was beginning to feel like she was more of a suspect than a witness.

"Let me get this straight," he said. "You were shooting storm photographs when you saw two people fighting by the carousel. Lightning hit the tree next to you and a branch knocked you on the ground. During that time, the couple disappeared. Is that right?"

She sighed. "Yes, yes, yes. How many times are you going to ask me the same questions?"

"As many times as it takes to get every detail correct." He gave her a sharp look. "How's your head?"

"I'm fine. I just want to help find Liliana."

His brows drew together, a speculative look in his eyes. "You say her name as if you know her."

For some odd reason, she felt like she did know Liliana, but she wasn't about to try to explain that odd feeling to this cynical and suspicious police detective. "No, I never heard of her before tonight. I looked her name up on the Internet when I got back from the park. When I realized she was a missing person, I thought I might have found an important clue to her disappearance."

"You said you were in the park between five and six. It's nine. What took you so long to come down here?"

"I wanted to develop the film I'd taken to see if I'd captured the fight. Unfortunately, I had not."

"Did you bring the photographs with you?"

"No. They didn't reveal anything, so I didn't think they were important."

He glanced down at the paper where he'd jotted down notes during their interview. "The man was wearing a hood and the woman had a long, dark coat. Is that correct?"

"I think so." She frowned, wishing she could provide a better description.

"Did you get a feel for size, weight, hair color?"

"The man was taller than the woman by at least six inches. That's all I could see."

"Were there any words spoken between them?"

"Not that I could hear."

"Did they see you?"

She hesitated, surprised by a new question. "I don’t think so." Worry followed her answer. Had they seen her? She really didn't know what had happened in those few minutes when she'd been knocked off her feet. "Do you have any suspects? Can you tell me what's going on with the investigation?"

"I'm afraid I can't disclose details of an ongoing investigation. Thanks for coming in. We'll take it from here."

She frowned, wanting a lot more information than he was willing to give her. "Do you think the tag will help you?"

"I hope so. It's the first clue we've had in two months. We'll get a search party out to the park as soon as we can." He rose to his feet. "Have you spoken to anyone else about the tag or what you saw in the park?"

"No," she said, standing up.

"Not anyone at the
Chronicle
?"

"No. Why?"

"I'd like to release the information to the press without using your name—for your own protection."

A chill ran down her spine at his words. "Am I in danger?"

"I don't think so, but we don't know who we're dealing with, and one woman has already disappeared." He handed her his card. "Call me if you remember anything, or if you have any concerns."

"Thanks. You know, you're scaring me a little."

"Better to be scared and more cautious is what I always tell my daughters."

It's what her mother had always told her, but she'd never listened. Like her dad, she had a tendency to be more courageous and less careful than she should be, more determined to live her life than to protect her life. Maybe she should think about changing that...

* * *

The sixteenth floor of a building under construction was a dangerous place to be at night, especially when there were no walls, no windows and a storm with high winds and rain blowing across downtown Miami, but Michael Cordero walked off the elevator of what would one day be the Barkley Center Office Building with not a thought to the potential hazards.

As a project manager for Jansen Real Estate Developments, he'd become accustomed to walking through tall buildings in every stage of their development, and many of those buildings soared high into the sky. His grandfather William Jansen had built a company as big and as huge as his dreams, and his properties always reflected that same sense of grandeur.

The Barkley Building, with its decorative scalloped balconies and floor-to-ceiling windows, would be the cornerstone of a new outdoor mall that would encompass three city blocks and would eventually house a luxury hotel, convention space, upscale condos, restaurants, and retailers, all within view of the Atlantic Ocean. It would take two years to finish, but it would change the city of Miami forever.

Miami.
He sighed as he looked out at the city where he'd been born, the city where he'd gotten into trouble—not once, but twice.

He should have known better than to come back. But it had been eight years since he'd been home for more than a weekend, so when the project had come up, he'd decided to take over the management for at least the first phase of the project. His grandfather had told him it was a bad idea. He'd said you can't go home again, and even if you can, you shouldn't.

He really should have listened to his grandfather, because three weeks after he'd arrived, all hell had broken loose. Not with the project. The construction of phase one was on budget and on time. His professional life was in sync, but his personal life was a mess.

All because of Liliana
.

A gust of wind sent a chill down his spine. He'd felt restless all day, and the storm that had just ripped through the city had felt like an extension of his unsettled emotions.

During the daytime, he could work his thoughts away, but at night they always came back. With those thoughts came the guilt, the vicious circle of unanswered questions.

He'd tried to exercise his thoughts away, but the five-mile run he'd taken in the wind and the rain had done little to ease his tension, so he'd come here—to this tall, half-finished building that he hoped would open up his mind and ease his tension.

Drawing in several long, deep breaths, he tried to get Liliana out of his mind, but since she'd disappeared, her image seemed to permanently reside there. Every time he saw her in his head, her dark brown eyes pleaded with him to find her, to save her. But he didn't know where the hell she was.

He hadn't actually seen her in person in eight years—since that one and only weekend trip home after his graduation from NYU. They'd texted and emailed since then, but not on a regular basis. Their childhood friendship had been left behind a very long time ago. Which was why it was so strange that she'd sent him a dozen texts the day she'd disappeared, telling him that she needed to see him, and he needed to say yes.

He had said yes, but he'd been late getting to the restaurant—twenty minutes late. In that time, Liliana had gotten out of her car in the parking lot of his father's restaurant and vanished.

The police had been all over him after her disappearance, asking him dozens of times about the nature of their relationship, what she wanted to talk to him about, why she'd been so determined to see him, why he'd been late—everything. He'd had no answers that satisfied the police or even himself. He didn't know why Liliana had asked to see him after so many years apart, why her texts had felt urgent and important.