Jim's eyes widened when he recognized Dusty's picture, shot a few years earlier for her detective ID card, but he said nothing. Viola Sneath hesitated, then picked it up for closer study.
“This one looks familiar,” she said.
“Is that the woman?” Rick asked softly.
“I told you I can't be sure. But she certainly looks familiar. The hair was similar, quite blonde. It could be someone like this.”
Jim and Rick stared at each other across the table.
“I couldn't say for sure. I told you, it was dark, there were sirens, my glasses ⦠But she sort of looked like that, on that order. I think I've seen that face.”
“You think if you saw a live lineup, with real people, that you might be more positive?” Rick asked.
Viola Sneath sighed, pulling her sweater more tightly around her. “I really don't know,” she said quite honestly.
Rick took her hand. “Thanks for all you've done. You'll hear from us.”
“Whaddayou, crazy?” Jim raged once she was gone. “What the fuck is going on, and why didn't you tell me?”
“I didn't have time and I wasn't sure myself.”
“She's a pro, she's a cop! You're saying⦔ Jim could not bring himself to say the words. He looked around the office as if the whole world had gone mad.
“I feel the same way you do, but it all fits. There is something wrong, she's always been secretive. She goes off to the shopping center and never arrives, but the robber does.”
“But that meansâwhoever was at the shopping center killed the Thorne kid and the convenience-store clerk.”
“Yeah. She just happened to be the first at the scene when Rob Thorne was shot. She was off when the clerk bought it. The opportunity was there every time. And whoever did it used a .38 detective special.”
“That don't prove nothing. Half of Miami owns .38s. Why? What motive? Why would sheâ?”
“Maybe she was after somebody else the night Rob Thorne got killed.”
“Who, for Christ's sake?” They stared at each other. “No.” Jim was shaking his head. “No way.”
“Laurel could have been the target. I started thinking last night about how secretive Dusty has always been about her past. Every time the subject of her life in Iowa comes up, she gets hinky and snaps shut like a clam. I called out there this morning. It looks like she is hiding something, something serious. She might be really screwed up, Jim. Remember that note, that obscene note that Laurel got? I think Dusty wrote it. I think she's got problems.”
“Not the least of which is you. You're saying the motive is jealousy, that all this might have happened because you dropped her for another woman? What makes you think you're such a⦔
“Back in Jericho, Iowa she got into a love triangle and some people supposedly got killed. Evidently that's why she left town and came here.”
“What exactly happened?”
“I won't know until I talk to the chief, and he's out of town.”
“I ain't buying it,” Jim said flatly. “Did you happen to compare Laurel's handwriting to that note?”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“Come on, I never mentioned it 'cause I thought you'd figure it out all by yourself. She's pissed 'cause you're working midnights, especially with Dusty. She's lonesome. Little girls crave attention. They get lonely. We see fake rape reports all the time. Lonely little girls who want attention. Sometimes lonely little girls even report phony threats.”
“Bullshit! Not Laurel.”
“She wants you to rush home and hold her hand.”
“Give me a break, Jim. I know what her handwriting looks like. It wasn't hers.”
“You sure? You know how cops all have a blind spot when it comes to people we're close to.”
“Son of a bitch. You're the one who's blind. She was scared as hell. Laurel may be young and somewhat spacy. Sometimes I don't even know who she is. I don't think she knows herself. But that kind of crap, it's beyond her. She wouldn't do a thing like that in a million years.”
“Sure. She's such a perfect angel that you decided to camp out at Pigeon Plum the other night.”
“Now, that's really your problem, isn't it, Jim?” He jabbed his index finger fiercely. “You're jealous. You've always wanted to ball Dusty yourself, haven't you? I admit I got carried away the other night⦔ He gestured helplessly. “Because of it, I could be in deep shit right now.”
Jim glared straight into his eyes. “Exactly where you belong in my book, pal.”
“It's time we hand it off to internal affairs.”
“What? Without even talking to her, giving her a chance?” Jim was incredulous.
“We can't compromise the cases. Christ, two people are dead, Laurel could be in danger, and the suspect is our partner.”
“Damn straight she's our partner!”
“Jim, I care about her too. Too damn much, in fact. But something's not right. It could be real wrong. We have to report it to IA so if she is in trouble she can get help, so nobody else gets hurt and so we all don't go down with her. I'm going to catch heat anyway, once they find out about the other night. Jesus, what a mistake.”
“So you're gonna blow the whistle? Listen to me. Whad I tell ya about cops and sex? Think about it.” Furious, he lowered his voice as Mack Thomas and another detective passed by, looking curious about their heated discussion. “You're so ready to run to IA, but what have you got? You'll make us look like damn assholes. We've got nothing but your own guilty conscience which brought on this stroke of genius. You know the first thing they'll do when they start investigating her is find out if she's been screwing around with any other cops who might be involved. You'll blow the whistle on yourself. This thing could backfire.”
He stared grimly at Rick, letting the words sink in. “If I thought for a minute that Dusty was guilty of murder and robbery, I'd put her ass in jail myself, in a heartbeat.” He glowered at Mack Thomas, now talking into a telephone across the room. “You know anybody who hates bad cops more than me? Let's talk about this rationally and see what we got.”
“The witness, Mrs. Sneath⦔
“Who says âlooks familiar, can't be sure, new glasses, it was dark, the fireâ¦' Christ, the woman's bifocals are as thick as the lenses in Mount Palomar.”
“Jim, I tell you again, you're the one who's blind. You want to protect Dusty, you care about her. You'd sell your soul for a night in the sack with her. But she's hiding something, always has been, about her past. You know yourself that some people who become cops shouldn't, that there are behavior patterns, skeletonsâ”
“No problem,” Jim said. “I'll find out the particulars, like you should do before making accusations. If you're right, I'll be the first to admit it, but I think there is some explanation for all this, and I think your imagination has run off half-cocked because of your screwed-up sex life.”
Rick opened his mouth to protest, but Jim stopped him. “I know all about your gut feelings, but this one ain't right, Rick. It ain't right.”
“Nonetheless, while she's not here, we've got to start drafting a memo to IA, just in case we have to move fast and send it upstairs to cover our own asses.”
“It's your decision, but don't be too quick to put your foot in it. She ain't going anywhere. She loves this job, she loves Miami. And she's nuts about you.”
“Thanks a lot, partner,” Rick winced. “I really needed to be reminded of that.”
Jim's reply was scathing. “A helluva lot better man than you would consider themselves damn fortunate.”
Dusty did as always when troubled. She pulled on a T-shirt and shorts and drove to the beach. The weather wavered between beautiful and threatening, a kaleidoscope, sharp bursts of blue sky and green water, changing form and color into gray sky and slate sea. The day mirrored her life lately, bright moments of passion and exhilaration evolving, swiftly into dull heartache and frustration.
Her spirits had soared, knowing it was not over forever with Rick after all, pleasure heightened by the quick solution of the Vandermay case, one of those puzzles that starts out complex, then suddenly fits together with ease, click, click, click. She should have known such a roll could not continue. Winning steaks never last. But what the hell was happening now? She was baffled. After their night together, she was certain Rick would go on wanting her. At least for as long as they were in close proximity, working together. Dusty was a realist. She knew that if her job was in jeopardy, the relationship could be too. They were perfect together, but out of sight is out of mind. What was wrong? Was it something she had done? Or not done? Was he having a case of the guilties? Or trouble with Laurel? She had been totally unable to read him. Jim seemed just as puzzled, although by now he must know what the hell is going on.
She could not resist. She parked her red Datsun near the boardwalk, dropped a quarter into a pay phone and dialed homicide, willing Jim to answer. If anyone else did, she would hang up. She did not want her voice recognized and her name called out within Rick's hearing. She hated callers who hang up. She hated herself.
Jim did not answer. “It's me,” she said miserably. “Can you talk?”
“Not exactly,” he said.
“Rick's there?”
“You bet.”
“Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“Could be, but no sweat,” he said, not unkindly.
“Whatever it be, I isn't guilty,” she wailed in a mock lament.
His only reaction was a grunt. The situation must be worse than she thought.
“Well,” she said briskly. “Whatever it is, put in a good word for me. You still are my buddy, aren't you?”
“Count on it.”
“I'm off to the beach,” she said with false gaiety, and hung up.
She wanted to cry. Instead she took a deep breath. She would use the energy to burn calories, give her heart and lungs a good workout and refuse to think about it, she decided, sniffling a bit. Son of a bitch, she thought. Whatever it was, she would know soon enough. What was that old prayer AA uses? “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the widsom to know the difference.” Later, she decided, she would pamper herself with a long hot bath and a good dinner, maybe even cheesecake, without guilt, if she worked out hard enough. Hell, it's a day off, she thought and vowed to enjoy it, no matter what. Pressing her hands against the seawall, she leaned into it, stretching her hamstring muscles, then trotted down onto the sand.
It was a Winslow Homer sort of day, she thought, brilliant blues, muted greens and a wash of gray along the shoreline. Running on the beach always instilled in her a sense of freedom and well-being. A gusty northeast wind kicked up low clouds of gritty sand that discouraged sunbathers, so the beach was almost all hers. She watched the surf evolve to a phosphate green. A wall of white fleecy clouds tumbled together on the endless eastern horizon.
She began to run south, barefoot in the wet sand, the wind at her back. A cruise ship, probably the
Emerald Seas
, was sailing out the channel into open ocean from the port of Miami, bound for fun and frolic in the Bahamas. She smiled wistfully. Once she and Rick had talked about escaping for a weekend in the islands. Someplace remote and lazy with white sugar beaches and no telephones, where they would not have to see anyone or dress up, a hideaway for swimming in crystal-clear water, basking in the tropical sun and making love. What had gone wrong?
She let the wind and the salt sweep the clutter of the past few days from her mind and concentrated on the slap of her feet on the hard wet sand, her breathing and the sound of the wind in her ears.
Her hair whipped against her face. The pink Art Deco tower of South Pointe rose in the distance. She fought intrusive thoughts of Rick and headquarters by counting the freighters and fishing boats and the occasional sail rising where the sea meets the sky.
The light changed in an instant, scattering seabirds before it. Stormclouds, dark and ominous, were boiling up in the west, moving swiftly, spirited squalls heralding their arrival. The few sunbathers fled, their beach towels and blankets flapping uncontrollably in the gathering storm. Summer lightning pirouetted crazily across the western sky. The wind and the dropping temperature made running and breathing easier. She was able to pick up speed, pumping hard.
She welcomed the storm without fear, in no mood for caution. Lightning lit up the west again, closer now, over Miami. It will strike in the same place twiceâor more, she thought, remembering the man struck by lightning more often than anyone else who ever lived. A park ranger, he had drawn lightning to him like a magnet. He had survived seven strikes before committing suicide.
Fatal lightning strikes more often in Florida than any other state, but she knew that in Miami people stand a far greater chance of being murdered. She had handled several lightning deaths during her police career. Life can be so deadly and so unpredictable, she thought, like this city she loved. What was it Jim always said about death? It's the last thing you do, when it's the last thing you want to do. She remembered the men caught on the golf course by a storm. Nine people or so. Only one hit. The small change in his pocket was blackened by the electrical charge. The worst, she thought, was near the Japanese Garden on the MacArthur Causeway. Tourists and their six-year-old son walking, snapping pictures. The boy ran ahead, chasing a squirrel. The sky was still postcard-perfect blue, although a summer storm stalked the horizon. The boy was hit, the parents spared. He died after weeks in a coma. She remembered the others, ticking them off in her mind. The teenager carrying a boom box that apparently lured the fatal strike. The old man fishing from his small boat. The lightning that killed him danced right up the fishing line and the pole he was using.
Shaken survivors had described to her the tingling, the hair on their arms and the backs of their necks standing on end in the split second before the fatal strike. It is not the voltage but the amperage that kills. A quarter of an amp at precisely the right moment will stop your heart.
She had read all the police brochures and booklets advising Miamians how to protect themselves against a welter of perils, including the murderous side of Mother Nature. One dealt with lightning, sternly warning those caught out in the open not to seek shelter beneath a tree during a storm but to lie facedown in a ditch. Dusty had never met anyone who had done so. She imagined a golfer shouting to his partners, “Hey, guys, looks like a storm, let's go lie facedown in a ditch.”
The thought made her smile. Another flash, closer now, over the bay. Out of control, she thought. That was why she was so upset. Her life seemed out of control. She was accustomed to being in charge. After what had happened back in Jericho she had sworn that her life would never slip out of control again.
Turning at South Pointe, she plunged headlong into the wind without stopping, retracing her steps north. Salt air stung her face, along with tears, and she felt chilled despite the exertion. Roiling clouds were dumping their rain at sea in a solid gray wall visible from the shore. The sun suddenly broke through as the fickle storm briefly battered the beach with high winds again, then sailed swiftly to the southwest. Breathing hard, she saw a brilliant green-yellow-pink rainbow appear in a wide arc over the eastern horizon, across a bottle-green sea that faded to pale jade at the water's edge.
She slowed her pace to absorb the colors and the beauty. A light rain was falling, as soft and sweet as a baby's kiss. It felt cleansing and warm on her skin. As she gazed up in awe, the rainbow doubled into a second, wider arc sweeping across the entire horizon in breathtaking splendor.
Miami, with its stunning rainbows, storm and summer sunsets, this is where I belong, she thought. I belong with Rick too. The double rainbow was an omen. She had ridden out the storm and was still strong, still on her feet. Things can't be all that bad, she told herself. It will be all right. It will.
She carried that thought with her.