A Dark and Lonely Place (17 page)

“It’s soap opera”—Lucy stabbed her spoon into the heart of her ice cream-smothered brownie—“with no resemblance to real life.” The chocolate on her chin weakened her argument as she glared.

“But we’ve all heard,” Katie said earnestly, “about those rare moments when someone meets a stranger and knows instantly that nothing else matters, even if the timing is . . . inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient?” someone asked. Others groaned.

Under the table, Lucy delivered a sharp kick to John’s left shin. He stared sternly, to make it clear that was no way to behave in his parents’ home. The hostile glare she returned made him glad she wasn’t wearing her steel-toed shoes.

She left shortly after supper. “John?” she said, ignoring Laura, who sat beside him. “Would you walk me to my car?”

“Go,” Laura whispered. “Be kind.”

His father’s old dog snored at Laura’s feet, and his mother’s tuxedo cat, usually invisible to strangers, purred in her lap. Robby had pulled up a chair and was demonstrating his finger work on a guitar fret, while next to her Katie chatted as though they’d been best friends forever.

“Sure.” He followed Lucy out as eyes bored holes in their backs. Her red sports car was parked across the street, obscured by showy trees. She did not look at him as they crossed the median, but he heard her breathing, or hyperventilating.

“John!” Her voice startled him, like the sudden crack of a rifle. “How could you humiliate me in front of your whole family? Have you lost your mind? You, of all people, mixed up with some low-life witness. Flaunting a skank you don’t even know in front of your family? Or”—she paused—“how long
have
you known her?”

“Sorry, Lucy. I never—”

“How long?”

“I met Laura the same day you did—”

“Don’t you lie!” She cut him off. “I thought you were sensitive, enlightened, a cut above.” She spit out the words. “I never dated other cops until you. But you’re just like all the others. Worse! You’d screw a snake! You don’t love me. Never did. You lied! It was all about sex. Well?” she sneered, finally out of breath. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“If you want to break the engagement and give back the ring,” he said, “I understand.”

“You just
try
to get it back,” she said heatedly. “You lying, cheating . . .”

“All right,” he said. “Keep it.”

She walked away, then looked back, tears in her eyes. “John, you can’t mean . . . Are we really over?”

“We are, Lucy. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am.”

“You pig!” Her cry cut through the quiet night. “How could I be so stupid? Was it
ever
real?”

“Of course,” he lied.

“Don’t try to tell me that!”

“Lucy.” He tried to sound reasonable. “Let’s rise above all this. It might be difficult for us to see each other on the job. If that’s a problem, you might want to transfer out of the bureau.”

“You son of a bitch! I’ll still be wearing the badge long after you’re history!”

She stomped across the street to her car, then hesitated. When he made no move to stop her, she wrenched the door open, slid behind the steering wheel, then peeled out.

He winced at the sound and the smell of burned rubber but felt relieved. It was over, at last.

As he walked back to the house, he heard something he’d never forget, something he’d heard before, but not like this. Robby was playing and singing a wistful, familiar folk song. But this time a sweet, sad, voice joined his. He listened from the porch as Robby and Laura harmonized.

Oh, Shenandoah, I love your daughter.

Somehow he knew he’d waited all his life to hear it.

For her I’d cross your roaming waters.

Robby and Frank had seen the news, heard the rumors, and promised to keep their eyes open and their ears to the ground.

Alone together at last, John and Laura switched back to his city car and he drove her north to her hotel.

The star-spackled sky seemed overwhelmingly bright, despite the city lights. Venus, spectacular on the high western horizon, outshone every other point of light in the night sky.

“Your brother Robby
is
a younger version of you,” she said. “How flattering is it to have your brothers follow you into police work?”

He shrugged. “Look,” he said. “There’s Arch Creek, where there used to be a natural bridge. Everybody who arrived or left Miami by wagon
or car used it. The bridge was a local landmark, a historic site, until one morning in the seventies, it was gone, scattered in a million pieces. They thought vandals blew it up. But apparently, it just collapsed without warning. Proof that nothing is forever.”

“Some things,” she murmured, “are forever, John.”

He shook his head. “Recently, as preservationists began organizing to save it, a crew rolled in with sledgehammers and heavy equipment and demolished Saint Stephen’s, a little church built by pioneers in 1912, in Coconut Grove. They worked fast, so nobody could stop them. In fifteen minutes they’d knocked the original cross off the roof. They smashed the bell tower next. How can people be so greedy, with no regard for the past? Whenever an old building goes we lose another piece of history.”

She held his hand.

In an hour or so Officer Mona Stratton would report to cover the next shift. She’d been thrilled at the prospect of an easy night. He swung into the hotel parking lot. No one followed. No strange parked cars. Everything looked secure, with one exception. The parking lot was less brightly lit. One of the four security lamps was out. No broken glass. Probably just the bulb.

Laura moved closer. He wanted to kiss her, but didn’t. He scanned their surroundings instead, opened the passenger side door, and walked her briskly to her room. The hotel key and the key to the new double dead bolt both operated smoothly. Nothing tampered with, all secure, exactly the way they left it.

Eager to be alone with her, he ached to throw caution to the winds and sweep her into his arms . . . but didn’t. He opened the door. As they stepped inside, into the dark, his senses became instantly alert. Everything was wrong.

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
ime slowed. The air conditioner hummed as lustily as before. Yet the room was slightly warmer, the air moist. And John sensed, more than felt, a wraithlike summer breeze that carried faint traffic sounds and the calls of night birds. In the distance he heard a mockingbird burst into an eerily familiar full-throated, heartbreaking song in the night.

Somebody’s in here, he thought. How? Who is it?

Laura sensed it too. “John? Something’s wrong,” she whispered.

He pushed her roughly to the floor between the wall and the bed and drew his gun. She gasped but did not resist or cry out. He saw the bathroom door now in brilliant relief. It stood an inch or two ajar. He’d firmly closed it before they left.

The door flew open and a shadowy figure opened fire as John dove to the floor.

The blast buzzed like a swarm of deadly insects over his head. He heard solid hits, pings, crashes, and whines. Dust rose from the carpet and drapes. The sound was deafening, the muzzle flash a blue flame a foot and a half long. What the hell is he packing? Shoulda worn a vest, John thought, as he returned fire one, two, three times at the shadow behind the flame. With each squeeze of the trigger, another question resonated. Who? How many? How did I let this happen?

Glass shattered. Wood splintered. The horrendous howl of a wounded animal, quickly followed by grunts, gasps, and desperate thuds as it scrambled and bounced between door frame and wall.

Is he hit? Diving for cover? Setting me up? Instinctively, John had returned fire in the dark. He knew the dangers of overconfidence.

He kicked shut the door they’d entered and threw the thumb latch to
keep anyone else out. Instead of calling for backup at once, he trusted his instinct.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

She hiccuped.

“Laura!”

“Yes, John. Are you?” To his huge relief, she scrambled to her knees, about to get to her feet, and hiccuped twice more.

“I’m fine. Stay down! Don’t move!”

She dropped to the floor. No questions, hysterics, or drama. Only hiccups? Who is this woman? he wondered in awe.

He moved quietly toward the bathroom, light on his feet. Inside, something snorted like a wild creature, then gurgled. Blood-chilling sounds. The agonal breathing that followed would be difficult to fake. John paused until it stopped and the room went quiet. He stepped forward, gun in hand, flipped on the light switch, and blinked. A gloved man dressed entirely in black lay on his side, knees drawn up, his face concealed by a black hood, his gun still in his right hand.

John recognized the weapon, a Taurus Judge, a handgun that can fire both .45 caliber bullets and shotgun shells. The shotgun shells fired at them would leave no ballistic evidence, no match to the weapon.

He should have known; he had seen the weapon demonstrated for police officers. A shotgun shell fired from a Taurus Judge had pulverized its target, a frozen thirty-pound turkey. Tiny bits of flesh and bone had been scattered over a wide area. He kicked the gun out of the man’s reach.

No need. The gunman, in a fetal position between the tub and the toilet, wasn’t faking. He didn’t move, but his blood did as it spread slowly across the pale green tiles and finally flooded the floor of the tiny room. Careful not to step in it, John felt for a pulse. Nothing. He reached for his cell phone to call it in, but something stopped him.

Laura, close behind him, hiccuped.

“I told you to stay down, darlin’,” he said. “There may be somebody else outside.”

“I checked,” she said quietly. “No one’s out there. Who is he?”

John knew better than to disturb a shooting scene, but he peeled the black hood away from the dead man’s face.

One pale blue eye stared at the wall.

John grabbed his hair and lifted his head for a better look, then let it go and stepped back. “Holy shit!”

Laura gasped. “It’s Manny, the one who drove away with Summer before she . . .”

“I need to get you out of here fast. Now! Get your things together! Wait, give me your cell.” He took it from her and punched in a familiar number.

“I need you, bro,” he said, when a voice answered. “There’s nobody else I can trust. Everything’s turned to shit. You know the place I told you about tonight?”

“Sure do.”

“I need you to come get her out of here. Fast!”

“Got it. I’m on the way.”

“No lights, no nothing. Slide in under the radar, soon.”

“I’m a ghost.”

John doused the lights, locked Laura inside, and walked quietly to the back of the building, flashlight in one hand, gun in the other. It was summer; surrounding rooms were empty and the commotion had apparently gone unheard. This older wing was solid and well built. Had someone called 911, he’d have heard sirens by now.

The window glass lay on the ground in the dark. The intruder had attached suction cups to it, used a diamond cutter, and lifted it out in a single piece. Then it was simple to reach in and open the latch to the burglar bars. John had underestimated the skill of his adversary. But the man had underestimated John and his desire to protect what was his. The man who tried to kill him was a city cop who’d advanced rapidly. He’d seen it all, learned from it, and clearly conspired with crooked county cops. How high, John wondered, does the conspiracy go?

He took photos with Laura’s cell phone, returned to the room, and photographed the dead man from every angle. Then he doused the lights again and watched until a car rolled into the lot, headlights off. Robby had arrived faster than John expected. What a blessing a brother can be, he thought, and thanked God he was not an only child.

He flashed the room lights. Robby rapped moments later.

“What’s up, bro?”

John showed him the bathroom.

“
Nice
shooting, bro.” Robby frowned. “Where the hell did you fire from?”

“The floor.”

His brother nodded, even more impressed.

“And what the hell was that dude firing?” Robby took in the damage, then crouched to take a closer look at the dead man’s gun. “Is that a Judge? Yes, it is. Dumb son of a bitch fired it at my brother! Well, he knows better now.”

John had hit him all three times, twice in the upper torso, once in the neck.

Robby’s expression never changed. How cool is my little brother? John thought, impressed by the man he had taught to swim, swing a baseball bat, and shoot a gun.

“Anybody you know?”

“My captain,” John said. “Armando ‘Manny’ Politano.”

“Uh-oh.” Robby gave a long, low whistle. “Damn. That complicates things. How’d he get in?” He jerked his head at the new hardware on the door.

“Cut the glass out of that back window, reached in, and unlatched the burglar bars.”

“Slick,” he said.

“The minute we walked in, we both knew somebody was in here.”

Robby turned to Laura, who had set her suitcase near the door. “You okay?” he asked.

She nodded, as though they’d just crossed paths at the mall or at the supermarket. “Nice to see you again, Robby. Didn’t expect it to be so soon.”

Robby turned to his brother. “Your call, John. I’m up for whatever you wanna do.”

“Just get her to a safe place. Then I’ll call it in.”

Robby blinked, his gray eyes puzzled. “That’ll stir up a shit storm with you in the middle, John. Sure that’s what you want?”

“No other option.” John shrugged helplessly.

“We could come up with a few.” Robby moved to the far side of the room and dropped his voice to a near whisper. “One is to take him outta here. Dump him somewhere, anywhere. Or plant him where he’ll never
be found. Let whoever sent him try to figure out what the hell happened to him.”

He glanced at the bathroom, eyes speculative. “Shoulda rolled him up in that shower curtain right away, before he bled all over the damn place. We’ll need lots of bleach, but the three of us can mop up this mess in no time.”

“I hear you, Robby. But I can’t involve her, or you. And that’s not what I do. And you know that even if we did a bang-up job, the techs can always find forensics, or pretend to. I’m shocked at what they’re teaching you over at the county, but thanks for sticking your neck out. I’m lucky you’re my brother, but I’ll go by the book and try to get to the bottom of it.”