Drop Dead Gorgeous (14 page)

That
thought made him laugh. And he laughed.
And
laughed.

9

T
hat evening, Sean went back to the South Beach club with Ricky.

The bartender was a pretty woman of about thirty, a little world-weary, but still friendly, and unafraid of dealing with the police. She seemed glad that Ricky, point man on the homicide task force, had returned to ask questions again.

“You guys just can’t give up on this one,” she said, smoothing back a lock of medium brown hair. “I wish I could help you more. I remember the girl who was killed, I just can’t remember s
eeing her with anyone special…
except for the German fellow, and you said that he’s in the clear?”

Ricky nodded. “He was with friends the rest of the night, in plain view at the News Cafe.”

The woman, Shelley, smiled at Sean. “I remember you.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, you’re the writer, right? A celebrity.”

“Only in his own mind,” Ricky teased.

Sean smiled. “He’s jealous.”

“Yeah, but I admit it,” Ricky said.

“Shelley,” Sean said, leaning forward, “Ellie’s friends and coworkers apparently thought that she was especially nice—that she would dance with most guys who asked her, that she had a kind word for most people. Still, you don’t need to be trying to remember a monster. If killers all had horns, we’d recognize them right away. Was there anybody you saw her especially interested in
…
s
omeone she may have left with…
?”

Shelley shrugged. “We had several good-looking guys in here that evening—we used to be busy,” she said glumly. “Honest to God, I’d help you if I could. She was here, she left. Her friends left, all about the same time. If I can think of anything, anything at all, I will let you know. Can I get you another drink?” she asked Ricky.

“No—he’s driving,” Sean answered for him. “Give him a soda. I’d love a beer.”

He smiled. She smiled back. Nice girl. Ricky frowned at him, laughed, and drank his soda.

S
ean wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t. Ricky left him off after midnight. He lay on his bed in his hotel room. Alone.

Around one he dozed.

At three he was back up.

He walked over to the desk where he’d set up his computer. He was a writer, he was supposed to be here writing. The city was full of stories. Sad, tragic, frightening, amusing. The stuff of life.

He stared at the blank screen in the darkness of his room.

Then his fingers started moving over the keys.

He wrote about Ellie. About how beautiful she had been in life. Beautiful in her enthusiasm and kindness. They said she’d kept from bitterness, an accomplishment in itself, when the years began to go by, when fine lines began to move into the face, when the heart had begun to fill with the dreams that remained just out of reach.

And then he wrote of her death. Of seeing her on the autopsy table, the last terror she felt in life still somehow there within her once lovely eyes
…

He hit the power key, deleting all he had written.

He pressed his head between his palms, plagued by a sudden unease that seemed to make no sense.

He showered. Dressed, prowled his room.

At six, he called an old friend.

“Sean?” Arnie Harris said, hearing his voice. Arnie was up, sipping his coffee. Sean could see him seated at the table on the porch of his hilltop retreat. Arnie had been retired for five years.
He still woke promptly at five-
thirty, and sat with his coffee by six, watching the day begin over his Virginia farmland.

“Yeah, how are you, Arnie?”

“Waiting for your call.”

Sean arched a brow, staring at the phone.

“Hear there’s been some trouble down there.”

“How’d you know I was in Miami?”

“The dates of your tour were listed in
PW.
Maggie told me what you were up to. My wife is always careful to watch for your comings and goings. She considers you a personal victory.”

Sean laughed. He did give Maggie Harris credit for getting his writing career going. He had been with Arnie, describing a theorized death scenario after studying a cache of bones, and Maggie had suggested he turn his imagination toward paper. “And fiction! Make it fiction. You don’t want to get sued by anyone, and since you have been involved with so many real people
…
well, people who were once real
…
”

“So what’s up?” Arnie asked. “Have the local police allowed you in on this sensational murder case? One corpse, and they’re shouting serial killer.”

“Yes, some of the cops are old friends.”

Arnie snorted over the phone wires. “Where were they way back when?”

“Arnie, I knew the girl.”

“Yes, I know,” Arnie said after a moment.

“You do?” Sean inquired.

“Well, I’m retired, not dead. And I still have access to information from all over the country. I pulled the files on Eleanor Metz, found out that she’d gone to school with you, and studied the old newspaper articles from there.”

“She was Mandy’s best friend when Mandy died,” Sean said.

“Interesting.”

“Mandy drowned. I was there when it happened. And I was at the autopsy for Eleanor Metz, Arnie. It was different. Ellie was butchered.”

“Completely different.”

“Yes.”

“But
…
you think that you’re seeing a connection between something that happened nearly fifteen years ago and this murder?”

“I don’t know. Am I just spooked being back here? Talk to me, Arnie. How can there be a connection? So many years have gone by. The M.O. is nothing at all alike. But something bothers me terribly here. You were with the first profilers, you studied psychos, you know what makes them tick, how they’ll act. What’s a killer like who shreds a woman the way this guy killed Ellie. She was knocked out, but not killed by the blow to her head. Her throat was severed.
After
she’d been beaten and stabbed. The body was found without clothing or identification. Half buried in the mud. She might never have been discovered except that you know what Florida’s like heading from spring toward summer. Thunderstorms almost daily. Rain might have washed her up.”

“The killer sounds very organized,” Arnie said. “He was careful not to let her be identified too easily, and he was probably careful when he disposed of her body. I’d need to see more on the victim and study her habits, see the autopsy report itself, and find out what else the police know to give you a really educated opinion on this. But if you’ve got a victim who
was totally savaged, this probably isn’t the killer’s first victim. Was the girl raped?”

“Yes.”

“He might have started out as a rapist, then moved on to rape and torture, and then to the ultimate thrill—the kill. He needs to be in control, needs to feel powerful. I would imagine, though, that he performed some pretty wicked deeds before this murder; he probably worked up to it over many years.”

“Right,” Sean said. He’d listened to Arnie’s lectures, heard his friend’s advice to law enforcement officers desperately looking for any clue with which to help nab a killer.

“What you’re really asking me,” Arnie said, “is whether someone might have drowned a girl fifteen years ago, and come back to slay another one of your friends. While you just happen to be in the city. You do sound spooked. And a more frightening thought is this—if there is such a connection, people might be thinking that it’s you.”

Sean gritted his teeth together. “I didn’t kill Mandy, and I sure as hell didn’t kill Ellie.”

“I know you didn’t. I know you.”

Sean let out a sigh, disturbed to realize just how deeply the old wounds still cut. Why had he been the scapegoat way back then?
He’d been the outsider. The others had drawn together, leaving him on the outside looking in
…

“You there, Sean?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said softly. “Thanks, Arnie.”

“You don’t need to thank a friend for being
a friend, Sean,” he said gruffly. “Why don’t you take a few days and come up and see us? Maybe get the hell out of there for a while. Might do you good.”

“Maybe I will, but not right now. I’ve got a few things here I’ve got to settle.”

“Anytime you need some help, call. I like retirement, mostly. But every once in a while, I feel about as useful as a potted plant. If the soup gets any thicker, bring me what you’ve got. Maybe I can help.”

“Thanks. I may take you up on that.” Sean said good-bye and hung up. Still restless, he looked at the clock.

What the hell. It was creeping toward real morning. He just couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling. He felt like a caged tiger.

Time, he thought, to move.

L
ori had just poured her first cup of coffee when she heard the horn beeping. She ignored it, thinking someone was picking up a neighbor for work, but then she heard the pounding on her own door and hurried toward it. She checked her watch. Seven-thirty.

Sean was on her doorstep. She hated the way her heart seemed to leap at the simple sight of him; the way her palms felt clammy, and adrenaline seemed to race through her. This wasn’t good, it wasn’t healthy.

“Sean. Do you know how early it is?”

“Yes. Michael said he asked you down to the Keys yesterday, and you said yes.”

She stared at him. She was holding a coffee cup, wearing a terry robe. Her hair was half up on her head; she had no makeup on.

He, in contrast, looked good. Cutoffs, T-shirt, sandals, dark RayBans, baseball cap. He was freshly shaved; his hair remained slightly damp from a shower.

“The Keys? Now?”

“Yeah. Why waste the day? He said that you wanted to come down.”

“I—I—” she stuttered, then waved her coffee cup in a circular motion. “I didn’t say that I wanted to come at seven-thirty this morning! Michael told me about working with dolphins and manatees and I said I’d love to see the facility—he didn’t say when—”

“Well, why not go before you have to start work?” he asked.

“Yes, but—”

“Today looks like a good day to me,” he said. “Brendan home? Maybe if you’re not up to it, he’d like to come along with me?”

She took a step back, somewhat outraged. But then, they had been best friends years ago, so there wasn’t a thing in the world wrong with him suggesting he take her son for a drive. Not if she honestly believed in his innocence.

“Brendan’s got to go to school soon, right?”

“Yes, I decided to give him a few days to adjust.”

“So?”

“He’s adjusting.”

“Let him adjust in the Keys. He’ll fall in love with Florida.”

“We don’t have to be in such a hurry—the
world does still recognize weekends, doesn’t it?”

Sean smiled. “Cop out. What’s the matter with
today? Make up for that Friday
night dinner you’re getting out of.”

“I’ve had no warning, that’s what’s wrong. You just came barging in here—”

“Mom? Who’s here?” Brendan called. He came into t
he living room, shirtless, bare
foot, wearing just his jeans. “Hey!” he said with pleasure, seeing Sean. “Hey, great. Want some coffee, Mr. Black?”

Lori cast her son an evil glare. He didn’t notice. Sean did, but he chose to ignore her. “I’d love coffee.”

He stepped past Lori, following Brendan into the kitchen. Lori swore, slammed the door, and fumed.

“I’m going to shower!” she called to them.

“Dress in a bathing suit,” Sean called after her.

“Why?” Brendan asked, his eyes widening.

“I’m taking you two down to the Keys with me,” Sean explained.

“Wow. Great. Cool!” Brendan said happily.

“Lori?” Sean’s brow arched, but his tone remained polite.

She could protest, she knew. But it would just make her look bad in the eyes of her son. A drive down to the Keys would be nice for Brendan. It was a beautiful day. They did have to get going with life soon, and Michael’s work had sounded fascinating.

“Sure, what the hell?” she muttered.

Thirty minutes later she was in the front passenger seat of Sean’s rental car, and they were heading south on the turnpike. Brendan had come up with the idea to call Jan and beg her to let Tina play hooky. To Lori’s amazement, Jan had agreed. She was going to drive down later and meet them at a restaurant called Marker 88—fittingly, since it was at mile marker 88 along U.S. 1, the ribbon of road running from Miami to Key West.

It wasn’t hard to keep conversation flowing on the way down—the kids never shut up. Tina was thrilled to be out of school, and Brendan was thrilled to have Tina with them. They talked about the latest movies, music—who was coming to what arena next—books, birds, plants, and crocodiles.

They sto
pped in Key Largo at a mom-and-
pop place for breakfast; it was rustic, pleasant, and right on the water with a little spit of beach. While Sean paid the tab and the kids wandered back toward the car, Lori found herself doffing her shoes and strolling out toward the water. It was glorious. With a clear blue sky above her, the bay was at its most beautiful, true turquoise in color, the waves rolling in with a gentle, beguiling motion.