Nobody Lives Forever (16 page)

“It's odd,” Rick said. “That we haven't heard from this woman's family. She looks like somebody who would be missed, unless she's a visitor who just arrived.”

“Or maybe her nearest and dearest, the one who would logically be reporting her missing, is the one who did it,” Dusty said. “I wish there had been engraving in her jewelry. I think everybody who wears a watch or a ring ought to have their initials engraved inside.” She pretended to pout. “It should be compulsory.”

“Why stop at initials?” Jim growled from his desk. “It should be their entire name, address and Social Security number.”

“Yeah, along with a list of all their known enemies,” Dusty said.

“And the name and phone number of the next of kin,” Jim said. “It would make our lives easier.”

“I think it would also be very nice,” Dusty said, “if they had their prior rap sheet, if any, tattooed to their inner thighs, along with…”

“I think it's time we go get something to eat,” Rick said. “You two are getting punchy.”

“You buying?” Jim muffled a sneeze.

“Nope.”

“What the hell, let's go anyway,” Dusty said.

They squeezed into a booth at the Star Dust diner on Biscayne Boulevard. Dusty ordered a club sandwich and iced tea, Jim, the pork chop with mashed potatoes and Rick, the homemade meat loaf. He asked for macaroni and cheese on the side instead of mashed potatoes. A smiling red-haired waitress obligingly took their order and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Did you see that?” Dusty told Jim. “That waitress would beat up on anybody else. Look at the menu. It says no substitutions, but our sergeant is soooo cute, and his arm is in a sling too. What a spoiled brat. He always has his way.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” Rick said, looking cocky. “I know Sheila. I've been coming in here for a long time.”

Dusty rolled her eyes. “Now it's Sheila, the redheaded waitress. See what I mean?”

A baby in the booth directly across from them began to howl. The parents glanced around, embarrassed, as he continued to scream, red-faced with anger.

“He's got a temper,” Dusty said, smiling.

“I wonder if he's the same one,” Jim said, his voice nasal, his eyes watching.

“Who?” Rick asked.

“The screaming baby,” Jim croaked. “It's always there, at every restaurant, at every movie you pay six bucks to see. Whatever happened to baby-sitters? Don't people hire them anymore?”

“They're probably a working couple who drag the kid everywhere because they feel guilty,” Rick said. “I won't make that mistake when I have kids.”

“You've obviously given the matter some thought,” Dusty said quietly. “Hey, I've been meaning to ask you all day. What happened to your chin?”

“Yeah, looks like some headhunter was after yours,” Jim said.

“Shaving cut.” He looked sheepish and fingered the wound.

“You ought to have Laurel shave you until your arm is better,” Dusty offered.

“That's an idea,” he mumbled unenthusiastically.

The pint-sized tyrant in the next booth waved pudgy fists and screamed louder. “To hell with ‘Say No to Drugs,'” Jim said, glaring. “They oughta make it ‘Say No to Babies.' Ban the baby!”

“I'll drink to that,” Dusty said, raising her water glass. Her tone was playful, but her eyes were sad.

Rick finished his coffee first and went to the telephone. Shortly after the body was found, a check revealed that the headless woman had never been fingerprinted in Dade County. He dialed records, hoping a search through the National Crime Information Center had borne fruit. As usual, a clerk put him on hold.

“Maybe they've got something,” Dusty said hopefully.

Jim grunted and put down his coffee cup.

“Jim, I'm worried about him. Don't you think Rick's moving way too fast with Laurel? There is something strange about her. And that note, do you…”

Jim glowered for a long moment before interrupting. “I'm telling you again. Start that shit, Dusty, start getting bitchy and putting her down, you lose him as a friend and you don't ever work for him again. Hell, that's the problem working with women. They just can't help being jealous and catty.”

“It's not that, Jim, I swear.” Her blue eyes were earnest. “I admit I may be jealous. But that has nothing to do with it. She's strange. I think she wrote that sick note to herself. Not only that … I think she may have dumped her next-door neighbor's pet kitten in the bay. You should have seen the look on her face when she was asked if she'd seen it. I think she's a sick chick.”

“Sure, and she's the Tylenol killer and did away with Cock Robin too. Forget it,” he said gruffly. “She's a nice kid. You just didn't like getting dumped. Nobody does. But it happens to the best of us. If something is wrong with that broad, let Rick find it out all by himself. He's a big boy. Don't look for trouble, Dusty. That's all you'll get.”

“I'm serious.” She sighed and stared out the window at passing traffic.

“So am I. She's a kid, that's all. You forget what it's like to be that young. She makes him happy. At least somebody around here is happy.”

They looked up expectantly as Rick rejoined them. “We did not get lucky,” he said, sliding into the booth. “The FBI had nothing.”

“Look,” Dusty said. “If the labels she was wearing were bought in South Florida, chances are she shopped Neiman-Marcus in Bal Harbour. The shopping center is open late tonight. How about if I go up and canvass?”

“You just want to go shopping,” Jim accused.

“Till I drop,” she said. “But not tonight. Would you rather I go to the autopsy while you go to Neiman's and Saks and describe her ensemble to the buyers?”

Jim and Rick quickly agreed that Dusty would canvass the shopping center. Rick would attend the postmortem and Jim would enlist recruits to handle the phones.

This is my favorite season, Alex thought, pleasant weather with a hint of danger. Unpredictable storms, all with the potential to grow into killer hurricanes, lurking out at sea, and something in the air, a crackling energy and tension. Miami is actually cooler and more comfortable in late summer than most places in the nation. The city's highest recorded temperature is ninety-eight, and refreshing breezes constantly sweep in off the sea.

Yes, this was the best place to be, Alex thought, and tonight he would drastically alter their life-style. It was time to do a little shopping, shopping for dollars. Money makes everything easier, including justice.

He drove north on Miami Beach, sharing the long and winding ribbon of Collins. A venue with the off-season tourists in their rental cars. They all streamed along in the shadow of the big high-rise condominium towers and the old-time hotels that look like pink castles out of a dream, left over from the days when a new luxury hotel opened every year, before builders got greedy and began to clutter the landscape with condominiums. It might be a blessing if that storm in the Caribbean whips up into a monster hurricane, Alex thought. A direct hit is what we need to clean up this town—instant urban renewal. It happened once.

The big one in 1926 was Alex's favorite chapter in Miami history. Nobody then knew about hurricanes or the eye of the storm. When the eye passes over, wind and rain die down, followed by a stillness as calm as death. The sun emerges in a sky of balmy blue. They did not know then that the other half of the storm was yet to come. People thought it was all over, and many decided to go off to see the damage in Miami Beach. Miamians loved eyeballing disaster even in 1926. The survivors piled into their Model Ts, packed up the kids and the grandmas and chugged out onto the wooden causeway, the only bridge to the Beach. It was bumper to bumper with sightseers when the second half of the killer storm struck. The rusted hulks of old Fords and the bones of their passengers are scattered there still, on the sandy bottom of Biscayne Bay between Miami and the Beach.

Some people learn everything the hard way, Alex thought. The water, the weather and this city can be deceptive. The placid eye of the storm, the sun-dappled bay with its soaring seabirds, the lush evergreen city they all look so inviting, so sunny and innocent but they can be killers at heart. Like some people. Look at me, he thought.

Too bad about Barry. He could have sworn the guy was gay. Well, Marilyn could go on a shopping spree after tonight. That would make it up to her. She and Barry had really been cozy when Alex came out and spoiled their fun. He probably did over-react, he thought. A matter of pride and machismo. But he was not sorry. Nobody will be allowed to spoil things before Rick marries the girl. The errand, to deposit a little package—“the Best of Barry,” Alex chuckled—with the scorpions and the snakes in the dense jungle growth near the beach on Key Biscayne, did delay him, but now he was making up for lost time. He liked staying busy.

The shopping center. Posh city, stores with no price tags in the windows. Banks of colorful flower beds, topiary, tinkling fountains, brambles of bougainvillea peeking from huge hanging baskets, lavish landscaping with prices to match, outdoor cafés where they charge $450 for a cup of coffee, Gucci and Saks and Neiman Marcus. No bargain basements here. Alex knew the place well. There had been a misunderstanding some time ago. “I'm back,” he announced, to no one in particular. “You won't catch me shoplifting. This time I walk away with everything you
'
ve got.” The parking lot attendants dress in red and white uniforms with helmets, like Bahamian police. It pissed Alex off that they charge for parking. He thought it outrageous to pay admission to spend money. What a rip-off.

It would not be advisable for him to park in the lot anyway. It was not his style to wait for some old geezer in a pith helmet to lift the exit arm and allow him to drive out should he have to leave in a hurry. That would not do at all. He was an impatient person. By necessity. The nice little street in adjacent Bay Harbor Islands, right behind the shopping center, better served his purpose. Must remember to feed the meter. The little things are the ones that trip people up, he thought. One must always appear law-abiding, like the average good citizen. Deception again, the name of the game. No wonder he identified so well with this fun city and wanted a life here. It had not been much of a life so far, but it was getting better—fast. He was the strongest and becoming even stronger all the time.

The shopping center, double-decked no less, with its exclusive shops, was like a showboat of light and color on a river of darkness. Across four lanes of Collins Avenue stood elegant old hotels and swank condominiums, set back from the street, regally facing the sea. Behind the center are curved and quiet small-town streets with houses and apartments owned mostly by winter visitors. This was not exactly the height of the tourist season. At this hour, just past twilight, no one walked the street and motorists were preoccupied, headed north toward Golden Beach and Hollywood or into the front parking lot of the center, where they stopped to be issued time-stamped tickets by the old geezers.

The covered, double-decked rear parking lot was shadowy and less than half full. Nobody around. It was almost time if the men he was waiting for arrived on schedule. Speak of the devil. The neatly painted red truck was precisely on time. This was it. Nothing could stop him now. The driver parked at an angle near the far back door of an exclusive shop. The courier stepped out, smiling at something the driver had said. Not even in uniform, carrying no gun. More discreet, less attention-getting, that was their thinking. Sounded dumb to Alex. The courier looked casual, a well-built guy about twenty-seven, striding alone to the back of the store, around the sweeping curve of a building, punching a button, speaking into an intercom and stepping into an elevator.

In approximately twelve minutes, he would emerge carrying a bank bag swollen by the day's receipts. When he stepped, alone, off the elevator, Alex would be waiting. He had to take him before the man moved back into his driver's line of vision. It was chancy, but Alex was fast. The courier had to give up the money and be back on that elevator, dead or alive, when the door slid closed. It would not open again unless activated by security personnel upstairs. The elevator would rise to the third-floor office, and by the time the victim reported what happened, Alex should be out the other side of the parking garage and back to his car. The waiting truck driver would not become suspicious or impatient until the troops came barreling off that elevator. It should take a good five minutes before that happened. Local police would be rolling by then. They would probably block both auto exits and the Bay Harbor Causeway west to Miami. By that time Alex should be driving south, already in the next police jurisdiction, the town of Surfside, which was just four blocks away. That little municipality, which has its own police department, is just eight blocks long and less than a mile wide from the bay to the sea. Nine blocks and three traffic lights later, Alex would be rolling through Miami Beach police jurisdiction. Since their radios operate on totally different frequencies, they would remain unaware of any crime unless and until the local cops here made a point of notifying them. So many cops, so many departments, so little communication. That is what he always heard them say.

If the fellow gave him a hard time or refused to give up the money, that would be another story. If he had to use the gun, the driver might hear the shot, even in his air-conditioned truck with the motor running. If so, he might think it just a backfire. With all the echoes in the parking garage and the elevator, he would not be sure where it came from. Drivers have orders not to leave their trucks. But what if he was curious, curious enough to step out and investigate? People don't always follow orders. The driver was armed. He could be a problem. Alex decided he would worry about that if it happened. Maybe it wouldn't.

Waiting alone in the dark, he felt cool and confident. His heart beat faster and his skin tingled, but those were not unpleasant sensations. He reminded himself not to run, but to walk briskly. The money would go right into the folded shopping bag under his arm. He could dump the checks and the change later. The countdown was on. Four minutes to go. He assumed his post in the shadow of a concrete urn flowing with philodendron, just two steps from the elevator door. The weight of the gun was comforting. The knife was also in his belt. It would be quieter, if he was forced to use a weapon, but a blade could be messy and dangerous. If you fail to hit somebody just right, in a vital spot, they are sometimes more angry than hurt. Even when you do hit them just right, it often takes a long time for them to stop what they are doing and fall down. It was not like he had a hell of a lot of time here. The gun was his favorite, the trusty old .38-caliber. So nice and impersonal. Solve all your problems with the twitch of a finger. Never even get your hands dirty. It will stop somebody, get them permanently off your case without even mussing a hair or rumpling your clothes. Guns command respect and usually make people quite agreeable, even eager, to do exactly as you wish. He would not dare to try and pull this off without a gun.

Two minutes and counting. The air was so still behind the shopping center, where buildings blocked the wind from the sea and the rumble of big air-conditioning units drowned out the roar of the ocean. He hated not seeing a big, open expanse of sky. He could glimpse only a strip of starless velvet from where he waited. Deep cerulean with steel gray clouds burgeoning on the horizon. We may see rain yet tonight, he thought. He must remember to drive carefully, the streets are very treacherous when rain first begins to fall. Mix a little water with the coating of oil and dust on the surface and the blacktop becomes slick enough for cars to hydroplane, sailing out of control off the road or into oncoming lanes. This would be very poor timing for a little fender bender. No, that would not do at all. No off-the-wall slipups. He remembered the story Rick had told of the bank robber who locked himself out of his getaway car. How embarrassing. And the street kid who stole a car loaded with loot, stranding a greedy burglar who had re-entered the house for more. To say nothing of the dope dealer who stood to use a pay phone—they always use pay phones—and turned to see his Mercedes, loaded with cocaine and $120,000 in cash, driven away by a sixteen-year-old car thief. The victim did not report it, of course, and the cops were totally unaware until the Liberty City kid, a ghetto high school dropout, came to their attention by paying cash to buy motorcyles for all his friends. He was probably fortunate that the cops found him first. Rick always brought home such wonderful stories. Alex would miss them, he thought, after Rick was dead.

One minute and counting. Here it comes! He could hear the automatic doors opening, then closing, with a clang that made his heart lurch. The grinding of the elevator as it descended. This was it. A deep breath, pull down the cap, pull out the gun. This guy better deliver if he wants to go home tonight. Open sesame. The courier stood dead center, legs slightly apart, eyes straight ahead, the moneybag under his left arm, supported on the bottom by his right hand.

He blinked, his eyes not yet adjusted, as Alex stepped forward out of the shadows. “Hey!” he said, and took a step back. Alex planted himself between the doors to block their closing. The muzzle of the gun was leveled at the man's heart. Alex gestured for him to hand over the bag. He hesitated. Alex cocked the gun. The dull metallic click made an impression. The man's mouth opened, but he swallowed the words. His gray eyes were speculative, daring behind Alex, who did not like that. It made his finger tighten on the trigger. The man saw it and raised his right palm slowly, in a staying gesture. Alex liked the scared look in the eyes, now totally focused on him as they well should be.

He gestured quickly, impatiently with the gun. The man gave up the moneybag. It was heavier than Alex expected, and he grasped it in a strong grip, then stepped back, smiling, releasing the doors. At the final instant, he realized the man was making a move. He saw it in his face, the grimness in his eyes and the tensing of the muscles in his jaw. The man lunged for the control panel. Alex thought it was to keep the doors from closing, but it was an alarm bell. The man's thumb was on it, and it was damn loud. Son of a bitch! As the doors glided closed, Alex fired two shots. The sound of the damn bell was unnerving, and the moving doors kept narrowing his target. The man inside had hurled himself to the left, so that even at such close range Alex missed He saw the slugs slam into the elevator's back paneling.

Shit! Shouts behind him. Where the hell did he come from? A uniformed security guard. Not one of the old codgers, but a young one, wearing a holster. He was walking fast, now running, approaching from the direction Alex had planned to take. He was fumbling as he moved, unsnapping the holster. The damn bell was still ringing loud enough to wake the dead. The elevator was moving. The courier inside was already yelling for somebody to call the cops. That son of a bitch, Alex thought. He should have killed him. He never should have given him the chance to pull this shit. When that elevator spits him out on the third floor, he will come back down, with reinforcements.

The damn security guard and his gun blocked the escape route. Alex couldn't run the other way, past the truck. The driver was armed and mobile and had a two-way radio. No way Alex could outrun a truck. The security guard had a radio too, strapped to his belt. There was no place to run, except toward him. The guard hesitated, apparently afraid to shoot first, uncertain of what exactly was happening. “Halt, stay right there!” he shouted. He was about a hundred feet away. I'll shoot his damn ass off, Alex thought.