Nobody Lives Forever (9 page)

“José López-Gómez.” Dr. Lansing sat at a desk looking glum.

Lester, still wearing only a T-shirt and jockey shorts, sneezed—several times. Miriam was furious. “I told the doctors we needed better security. I warned them. Listen to that,” she said, as Lester sneezed again. “We could have caught our death in there.”

“They took a stiff?” Jim said, slapping shut his notebook and staring in disbelief.

“And locked us in the trailer.”

“With thirty-seven dead folks,” growled Lester, sniffing loudly.

“Thirty-six now,” Miriam corrected.

“Who was it? What did they look like?” Dusty said.

“It was his brother,” Miriam said, her tone accusing. “He'd been calling for hours. He said the family didn't want an autopsy.”

“Who is this missing stiff?” Jim said.

“Case number 89-1582,” Dr. Lansing said, and handed over the red folder. “José López-Gómez, white Latin male, age twenty-seven. Died after a single blow from a martial arts expert outside a bar in Overtown. Arrived with a temperature of 107. He hadn't been posted yet, but I'd say he's a possible OD.”

“Brother my ass,” Rick said. He and Jim exchanged glances.

“Maybe J.L. Sly is not so deadly after all,” Dusty said. “Had López-Gómez just come through customs?”

The doctor shrugged. “Don't know where he was before the fatal episode.”

“Think he's a body packer?” Jim asked.

“Wouldn't surprise me,” Lansing replied.

“If so, Doc, somebody else is probably doing your autopsy for you, right now,” Jim said. He opened his notebook again, trying not to smile as Miriam gazed at him balefully. “How do we classify this, Rick? An abduction? Possession of a stolen stiff?”

The detectives drove back to Overtown. A uniform who patrolled the area had learned that the man was registered at a nearby motel. He had signed in a few hours before his fatal encounter. José López-Gómez had looked fine then, the manager said, though in retrospect he did seem a bit preoccupied. Rick asked him to show them the dead man's room. It was a shambles, drapes and shower curtain pulled down, a lamp and a chair overturned. They found some laxatives and an enema bag in the bathroom. No sign that they had produced the desired results.

A boarding pass lay among the other papers on the night table. He had arrived in Miami aboard an Avianca flight from Bogotá, Colombia, two hours before check-in at the motel.

It seemed clear to the detectives that López-Gómez had succeeded in smuggling cocaine into the country in balloons or condoms, or whatever drug-stuffed little packets he had swallowed. But they must have leaked—at least one did. The drug had paralyzed his intestines and the contraband had stalled, stopped dead in his gut, a fortune in cocaine he could not retrieve. It had killed him. The people he worked for must have realized something had gone wrong, that he was dead. “I guess they decided to get the stash back before the ME found it during the autopsy,” Rick said.

“Oh, lawdy,” Jim said. “I'm glad it ain't me looking for that surprise package.”

Rick nodded. “Messy job. I reckon we'll find him.”

“With our luck, we probably will. I hate it when people who aren't doctors start cutting on bodies.” Jim sighed out loud and shook his head. “What a town. Even the dead aren't safe in Miami.”

Rick knew the house next door would haunt him until he arrested Rob Thorne's killer. Before going home, he checked to see what tips had come in. Not a call, nothing from the street at all, even with the promise of a reward. Strange. He had to make more time to work on the case. But even with all the time in the world, what would he do? Where would he start? The killer has to be the prowler who stalked the Corley home, he thought. What we need is a break, just one lead.

He had hoped to shower and change before Laurel saw him. Rick was always meticulous about his appearance and grooming, conscious of certain niceties most people never need consider. He was not certain that he smelled like the morgue but suspected he did. There was no way to avoid her.

She sat in the breakfast nook, writing a letter, blush-color stationery on the table top in front of her.

“Are you hungry?” The look in her amber eyes was one he had not seen before.

“Nah, not right now. I thought I'd shower and just get some sleep.”

“You're not here or you're asleep.” She sighed and twisted the cap on her pen. “Nice day?” Her voice had a peculiar lilt. It sounded artificial.

“No. Not at all. It's been a bummer so far.” He felt wary, sensing that his day was not about to improve. “Writing your folks?”

“I miss them. I wish they hadn't moved to Orlando.”

“Seems like everybody who retires around here bails out of Miami. Beats me why.”

“Did you and Dusty have a nice lunch?”

Something in her voice made it all fall into place. Rick blinked. Then he began to explain—too much.

“We were trying to figure out what to do about our case in court today. Norman Sloat pulled one out of a hat and our child killer walked. Then, a few minutes after I called you, we got sent out on an investigation. I just came from there.”

Laurel nodded slowly, her expression said she was not buying it. “I know you and Dusty slept together, Rick.”

“Not today!” He said it quickly, without thinking.

“I knew it!” Her face was pink. “With a thousand cops in the whole damn department, why is she suddenly assigned to work with you? On the midnight shift, which somehow now extends…” she studied the kitchen clock, a queer expression on her face, looked away, then turned to stare at it again, as if astonished “… to three o'clock in the afternoon?”

She fled into the living room without waiting for an answer. He was torn between going after her and taking a hot shower, which he wanted very much. He followed as far as the doorway and tried to sound reasonable. “It's all part of the job, hon, going to court in the
A
.
M
. and getting called out when there's a development in one of your cases.”

“You and Dusty had an affair.” She stated it solemnly as though announcing the six o'clock news.

“A long time ago, nothing serious, before I met you.”

“You really cared for each other?”

“Nah,” he said, then hesitated. “It might have been more serious on her part, but I didn't know it at the time.”

“When did you find that out?”

“She mentioned it today. I never realized.”

Laurel sank down on the pale, flowered sofa, small hands clasped in front of her, her chin quivering. “Is that why you insist on working nights, to be with her?”

“Of course not.” Rick massaged his forehead with the palm of his hand. “She's a good detective, a good person. The job is all we have in common.” His voice was tired.

“How long have you known her? Was she ever married?”

“She came from someplace in Iowa. I met her a couple of years ago when she was first transferred to the detective bureau. I don't think she's been married. She doesn't talk a lot about herself. We worked together. One thing led to another. It ended when you and I got serious.”

“You were still sleeping with her when we met?”

Rick disliked the interrogation, but he did not want to appear evasive.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“When was the last time?”

“I don't remember. Meeting you blew my mind.” He flashed his most winning boyish grin and stepped toward her, placing his hands on her soft shoulders.

“What's that smell?” she said, grimacing.

He sighed. “It's not another woman's perfume.”

She looked intense. “Why didn't you tell me about you and Dusty before?”

“It was no big deal. We'll probably run into a lot of women I've known. Believe it or not, I had a life before we met. Most of them are very nice women, and they all know that you are special. I never moved any of them in here. Just you.

“A lot of cops' girlfriends have to cope with ex-wives, ex-in-laws, ex-out-laws and his and her kids by ex-marriages. All we're dealing with here is something as nonthreatening as a partner on the job. It's nothing, sweetheart.”

“You've had her in our home. You see her every day. Someday your life could depend on your partner, you say that yourself. How can you trust somebody you jilted? Somebody you threw over? Don't you think she's hurt and angry?”

“Nope. She's a professional, a grown-up, a good woman.”

“And I'm not?” Tears coursed down her cheeks and she looked like she was beginning to hyperventilate.

“This is getting us exactly nowhere,” he said, exasperated. “I'm taking a shower.”

He stood under needles of water as hot as he could stand, then twisted the faucet until it was ice-cold. Hell, everybody else was punishing him, he might as well do it to himself. The house was quiet when he stepped out of the shower. He walked naked to the bedroom, peeled back the sheet and settled into bed with a sigh. His thoughts were a jumble of Dusty's and Laurel's tears, Latino body snatchers, a homicidal child molester on the loose and the mystery of who killed Rob Thorne.

He should get up, he thought, to find Laurel and talk to her. But what if it wound up in a bigger argument? Better to cut his losses now, get some rest and give her a chance to cool off. He thought he heard a sound in the hall. Uh oh, he thought, bracing for an angry onslaught. He opened his eyes. Laurel was peeping around the door frame, her blond bangs tousled into bad-girl curls. She tiptoed into the room with exaggerated small steps and a mischievous expression. She wore pink baby dolls he had never seen before and clutched a battered teddy bear and a small bedraggled blanket.

“Hi, Daddy,” she cooed in a little-girl voice. She ran and jumped onto the bed, giggling. He opened his arms.

“Laurel…”

“My name isn't Laurel,” she lisped. “It's Jennifer.” Her right thumb was in her mouth, and she sucked it loudly, peering coyly at him from under her tangled bangs. She pouted prettily for a moment, then began to playfully explore his naked body under the sheet as her pink tongue flicked across her lips.

“Okay, little girl, wild child. It's Jennifer,” he said, relieved and pleased at this turn of events. This girl knew games he had never played before.

“Teddy wants to kiss it,” she said in her baby voice, and pressed the staring face of the stuffed bear against his private parts. “Now Jennifer wants to kiss it.”

Rick leaned back on his pillow and closed his eyes, but not for long.

Her kinky role playing was wonderful and so exciting. Her body seemed almost like a child's. In a slightly disturbing, wonderfully guilty way, it almost made him know what it was like to be a child molester.

Later they shared more forbidden goodies, chocolate chip cookies and milk in bed. She curled up and went to sleep next to him, with Teddy in the middle. Unsolved crimes and jumbled thoughts drained from his mind, Rick drifted off to sleep. He awoke at nine that night feeling refreshed, recharged and strong enough to go back out and fight the world. He awoke Laurel and Teddy with kisses and breakfast in bed. Slow to awaken, she seemed dazed and confused, still unable to adjust to his backward schedule, he realized.

When the phone rang, he was glad it was not Dusty.

“I just got a call and I'm going in early,” Jim said. “I thought you might want to do the same. It looks like we've got a suspect in the Thorne case.”

“Hallelujah! See you there shortly, pal.” Oh, yeah, Rick thought, it looked like Laurel-Jennifer and Teddy had changed his luck.

Alex cruised along tree-shaded Brickell Avenue, where the bold shapes and colors of Arquitectónica architecture sweep the dark sky. The buildings resemble giant whimsical Tinker Toys, bursting with life, big bucks and commerce by day. By night it is a different and peaceful world. No high-crime lights here either. He turned due east, across the Rickenbacker Causeway, the car windows open, the salt breeze bracing. A damn shame to be forced so far afield, he thought. But he had promised Harriet he would do nothing illegal in their own neighborhood again. The cops were all over the islands anyway, with their watch orders and beefed-up patrols. He stayed on top of their every move, amused by their efforts. He would not have minded playing a little more cat and mouse, but he would not really miss it or mind the inconvenience tonight. He was fond of Key Biscayne anyway.

During the day, especially on weekends, traffic was bumper to bumper, wall-to-wall used cars, huge tie-ups. Everybody headed for places to play, the Seaquarium, the marine stadium, the beach, the marina, and Cape Florida, where the old lighthouse still stands. And Miami drivers always find a way, he thought, to make the jam-ups worse. They slow down to a crawl just to watch some poor slob change a tire. If there is a wreck, forget it. They will abandon their cars in traffic to run and watch.

On weekends, at the beachfront barbecue pits, black, Latin and redneck teenage gangs engage in hand-to-hand combat. They wield clubs and knives, and sometimes guns. But late on a soft summer weeknight like this one, there is little movement across the broad bridge, only motorists headed home late from the Key's few nice bars and restaurants and, of course, the occasional lovers parked among the trees down near the water.

He swung into the customer parking lot of a big waterfront restaurant that features white-glove service, tropical rum drinks and fancy dinners. The place was still open, and he sat quietly, watching. Inside, the lights were soft and the music mellow, a romantic place to dine. A narrow wooden bridge stretched from the entrance to the parking area, across a pond with ducks. The landscaping was lavish, red passionflowers with their spidery tendrils, birds of paradise and—palm trees.

Palms are making a comeback, he thought. The place known for palm trees and beaches had had little of either for a while. Lethal yellowing disease had killed nearly all of South Florida's picture-postcard coconut palms, and Miami Beach had eroded away to a twelve-foot strip of sand at high tide. But a blight-resistant palm had finally been developed and the federal government had spent millions to replenish the beach. They had dredged shells and coral rock from the ocean floor, pulverized the mixture and dumped it ashore. The result is not as fine as sand and will occasionally cut your feet. But spread it out into a big broad beach, and the tourists, they don't know the difference. They see a wide beach and palm trees and think Mother Nature did it. Just bring your cash and credit cards, Alex thought. There is one born every minute.

He watched a couple emerge from the restaurant. Holding hands, smiling, bellies full. What's next? he thought. The man was a big guy, a horny bastard too, shoving her up against his car, making sure he got his money's worth before they even got out of the parking lot. All giggles, she's loving it. Good times tonight. Alex was almost tempted to join them.

Nothing is more fun or thrilling, he thought, than watching people who don't know you can see them. They act natural for a change, he told himself, instead of being such goddamn hypocrites and phonies. He still thought about that house on the island, the pretty girl asleep, never knowing he was in her room with the power in him to do any damn thing he pleased. Nobody could have stopped him. Now, that was a turn-on.

A flash of blond hair caught his eye, inside, at a table. For an instant it looked like the bitch. His stomach tightened, filled with fury, a sensation like ice cubes pressed against his groin. He knew, of course, that it could not be, that it was not her. Yet his eyes were riveted now, straining the distance. They left their table, moving toward the entrance. He would soon see. She wore white, her light hair pushed up in swirls. Dangling earrings dancing in the light. The man held the door. Alex sat frozen in the warm night air, his hand pressed against the cold metal weight of the gun in his belt.

She stepped out into the night smells and shadows. She was taller, a little heavier. It was not the bitch, but he despised her anyway, for the resemblance. Look how she holds her head and turns to him, Alex thought. He's nothing, a dark-haired, middle-aged man with a little paunch under a good suit.

Nice car. They climb right in, no monkey business. The man jams the key directly into the ignition, and they are moving. I could run them off the road, he thought. I could do anything I choose to them, but what is there to gain? Something had to make it worth the effort. He sat quietly, to think and to soak in the warm wet sea of night. There are so many more stars in the sky out here, he thought. Out in the Glades, far from the city lights, you can see even more. He wondered what the Indians still out there did on nights like this? What they thought. It would be nice to smoke a little dope or have a drink, he thought. It was that kind of night. He was sure that was what some of the kids parked down by the beach were doing.

He decided to see, and started the engine. The dark narrow street to the beach seemed carved out of jungle that overwhelmed both sides of the roadway and mingled in the tree tops overhead. It was like driving through a dense green tunnel. What a place to get lost in, he thought, if you like scorpions and snakes. What a place to leave something you don't want found. He would have to remember that.

He stopped at the edge of the beach and decided to walk along the tree line, where an occasional car was parked. He placed his keys up on the back wheel, where he could snatch them quickly for immediate departure should that become necessary. At the edge of the paved parking lot his running shoes crunched on scattered fragments of shattered glass bottles—within sight of a trash bin. He hated that. The slobs think it a treat to smash their Coors and Corona bottles on the pavement. The goddamn pigs—he would relish rubbing their faces in it. Some people are really disgusting, he thought.

It felt good to stretch his legs and stroll in the night breezes off the water. There were lights on the horizon, it looked like a freighter. The downtown skyline glittered in the distance. It was quiet, except for the sounds of the crickets and sea birds. Then laughter from down on the sand. A couple on a blanket. On the Fourth of July the beach had been blanket-to-blanket people who had come to watch the fireworks. The holiday fireworks had ended weeks ago. This couple was busy working on their own.

He stepped quietly, as close as he could, then crouched to watch. They were teenagers. She was demurring and then giggling, every step of the way. He was undaunted, working diligently on removing her clothes. Her bra was unfastened, her breasts exposed. It was a tug-of-war. Every time he lifted her blouse, she giggled and pulled it back down. She made other sounds when he nibbled her nipples. Now the blouse was off, in one swift motion, over her head. Amazing, in the bright light from the stars you could even see the bikini lines where her suntan ended. They had a bottle of wine. Alex noted that the kid was imaginative enough to trickle some over her breasts and lick it off. Loud smacking and sucking sounds. Both were laughing and squirming around a lot. Nothing is nicer than a hard teenage body, Alex thought. The boy's shirt was open, then off. A good-looking, muscular boy, like that dumb Thorne kid who'd tried to stop him on the island. The girl hesitated, trying to sit up, asking the time. The boy lied. She relaxed and went back to tonguing his ear and nudging his groin with her bare knee. His hands were busy, busy. Her skirt was down around her ankles. Little bikini panties—was he really trying to remove them with his teeth? What a kid, Alex thought.

Things were moving a lot faster now. Hey, didn't anybody tell these kids about safe sex? What
is
this? Alex was having such a good time, vicarious as it might be, that without thinking, he laughed. He stifled it with the hand that was not on his crotch, but too late.

He was only a dozen feet away and the breeze, blowing in their direction, carried his little snorting sound.

“Mario!” Sudden panic was in her voice. “Somebody's there!”

Mario rolled over, looked dazed, and saw Alex. “Son of a bitch!” he said. The words set off a frantic thrashing and a scrambling that Alex found comical, like a cartoon. Arms, legs and for an instant, a round white bottom shining pale in the dancing lights from sky and water. They were pulling on clothes so fast that the wine bottle was kicked over and gurgling in the sand. He saw the kid reach for it and grasp the bottle like a weapon.

Time to leave. Alex had been so engrossed that it took a moment to get his bearings and remember exactly where he had left the car. “Who is it, who is it?” Alex heard her say, some of the words muffled as she pulled her blouse down over her head. She sounded scared

“Son of a bitch,” the boy said again. Alex could scarcely blame him. The boy hopped around for a second, got his other leg in his trousers, pulled the zipper and flew in his direction.

Alex had bolted like a jackrabbit, but after the initial spurt he had settled down to a steady jog, watching, waiting to see what the boy would do. He had really hoped the kid would not be dumb enough to try to chase him.

But he did, clutching the bottle in his hand and yelling. “Hey, sicko, want a good look? Come on back here! I've got something to show you.”

They both ran, beneath the stars in the dark, the warm sand under their feet. Alex was panting and perspiring, more out of excitement than fear. The kid was fast. Alex knew he was in good shape, but the boy seemed to be gaining, probably propelled by frustration and anger and the need to show off for his little girlfriend, who was calling, “Mario, don't leave me here! Dammit, Mario! Come back!”

Her voice was quavering and moving now, like she was running too. Swell, Alex thought, both of them. He would have to shoot them both. Sex and death—they were so much alike. He never thought of one without the other. He concentrated on his breathing and scanned the empty beach for trouble as he ran. If other people heard the commotion and called the cops, he could have a problem. There is only one way off the Key by car. In emergencies, Alex thought, the cops radio ahead and the bridge tender raises the fucking thing. Then nobody leaves the island until they know what the hell is going on and find whoever they're looking for.

He remembered the parking lot and quit beelining for his car, veering off, ducking under some low-hanging vines and pounding onto the pavement. He could hear the kid behind him, breathing even harder than the huffing and puffing he had been doing on his beach blanket. Alex darted into the lot, across the broken bottles, the boy close behind him. He heard the cry of pain, turned, saw him hopping, and then he was down. He had run right onto the glass with both bare feet. Alex jogged back to the car, exhilarated.

He snatched the waiting keys off the back tire and slid into the driver's seat. “Mario, where are you?” It was the girl. Those two never give up, Alex thought. She was running right toward the car. He flipped on the key and floored it. The wheels spun in the sand, but the car did not move. He had hit it too hard, the back tires spun, whined and dug themselves deeper into the loose sand. Christ! The girl looked uncertain now, but was still coming, head-on. “Mario? Is that you? Don't leave me.”

The engine roared and the tires turned crazily in the sand with a sickening, zizzing sound. Cars get stuck out here all the time and need tow trucks to pull them out, Alex thought. How would he explain this to AAA? How would he explain this to Mario, who was most likely limping in his direction at that very moment?

He tried to remember the proper technique. The girl, her dark hair tangled, was still trotting determinedly in his direction. Despite his situation, he managed to note that though she was wearing her blouse and skirt she had never put her bra back on. He wondered about the bikini pants, then reversed gears and gently gave it the gas, using a little more control, turning the wheel. The car jumped back, then lurched forward as he hit the horn and the lights. She was right in front of him. The lights blinded her. Her eyes were big, her mouth open, but he could not hear the scream. At the last moment she threw her hands out in front of her. He cut the wheel hard and the car whomped her to one side, off the right front fender. It was a soft thud of a sound, like hitting a big rag doll. It was no high-speed impact. He looked back as he cut the lights and headed toward the main road. She was up on all fours, swaying, probably not hurt bad, but too dazed to even try to read his license tag.

It worked out just fine, he thought, flicking his headlights back on and pulling cautiously onto the causeway. It was nice to use smarts, instead of the cold steel of a gun or a knife. And it had worked out especially well for the teenagers. They would never forget him—or this night. They almost had sex, and they almost died—sex and death. Of course they would never know how close they came. He wondered how they would explain what happened at the beach to their families. He hoped he had taught them a lesson.

Smiling to himself, he switched on some easy-listening music as he drove up onto the expressway and headed home.