Picture Me Dead (30 page)

“Apparently,” Rona continued, “she had no family, no close family, anyway—at least that's what she said when she explained her move to this area. She said she'd been working in the middle of the state. All of her references checked out. She'd come to Miami because she'd some friends down here, and because no matter what was going on in the world, people were going to want to live in Miami. She was here maybe three weeks, and she had just started selling…and then she called in and said the world had changed, she was going in a different direction. I tried to talk to her about it, of course. But that's all she would say. I never met any of her friends, and I don't think any of the other agents did, either. I have her last known address in the files, and a list of our people so you can talk to them yourself…but I don't know what else to give you. I would love to help, what happened must have been so horrible…. If there's no family, the firm will handle the funeral. Not that she was with us long, but…it seems like the right thing to do.”

“That's up to you, Ms. Palacio,” he said. “What about her work area?”

“I'll show you her desk and her computer. But we've had other agents working there since she left, of course.”

“Of course. But anything might be helpful.”

Minutes later, he had lists of agents and an address, and had been escorted to Cassie Sewell's former work station. A friendly young assistant with wide eyes and a definite empathy for the dead woman helped him go through the computer and find the properties she had been representing. With another list in his hands, he knew that the legwork and interviews were now going to be endless. Well, they'd wanted something to go on; now they had it.

He spent much of the morning speaking with Cassie Sewell's fellow agents. The company wasn't large, and the people who had worked with her were more than willing to talk to him; unfortunately, they had little to tell him beyond what he had already learned from Rona Palacio. Cassie had been lovely, friendly and yet, in her way, a loner. She had only talked to two of them before she left, telling them what she'd told Rona: that she'd chosen a different life and was leaving the company.

No one had ever seen her with a friend. She hadn't even spoken about friends, other than saying she had some in the Miami area.

Franklin from the FBI called while he was in the middle of a session with one of the real estate agents, and he excused himself. He had to hand it to Franklin; the man had been through endless files, put agents in the middle of the state to work and already knew a great deal about their victim. The national computer had compared their crime to several others around the country, but nothing matched—other than the cases from five years earlier. He'd discovered that Cassie had worked real estate in Orange County as well, and people there had gotten to know her better than her co-workers in Miami had. She had been friendly and thoughtful, religious, and at one time had considered becoming a nun. She had been greatly liked by those with whom she worked. She had resigned, letting everyone knew she was moving down to Miami because she had made some new friends from the area, and thought that she might have a better opportunity to meet the right kind of man in a church group. However, after running through the parishioner lists of several local Catholic churches, they had so far come up with nothing. He decided to visit a number of priests in person that afternoon, bringing the picture with him.

“Think she got mixed up in something that promised more than Catholicism?” Franklin asked. “Listening to her profile, it seems the obvious conclusion. And since you're going by the theory that something has been reawakened down here…”

“You don't sound convinced.”

“We'll get something now that we know who this woman was,” Franklin said.

“I've gotta tell you something, Franklin. I'm impressed with what you've discovered in so little time.”

“You're a good cop, Jake, and I know you think I'm an asshole. I don't have your touch with people, it's true. But I had a masters in criminology before I even entered Quantico. And you can't imagine the training we go through there. Hell, we spend days learning to fold paper just right so we don't lose a microfiber while transferring evidence. I've worked hard.” He was quiet a minute, then said ruefully, “I don't mean to be a dickhead.”

“You're not a dickhead,” Jake told him, and wondered if he'd ever thought of Franklin with
exactly
that word.

“Yeah, well, when it comes to details, I've got it covered. The instinct thing…well, that's your ballpark. So if you get any of those instincts going, let me know. I can work the evidence end of them.”

“Sure. Though right now, I don't have squat,” Jake told him. He was lying though. He knew he was missing something. Something in front of him.
Smoke and mirrors.

“Anything else?” Jake asked, breaking his own train of thought.

“Yeah, just wanted to make sure you knew—Peter Bordon comes up for parole and may be out by the first of next week.”

“I knew it was coming up. Thanks.”

They hung up. Jake continued with his interviews. While the young assistant gathered details on the property lists, Jake called forensics and asked an old friend, Skip Conrad, for a favor.

“Hell, Jake, I can't get out there until tonight. And your place will be a mess when I'm through. You know that. You certain you want me to do it?”

“Yes. I don't care if the place comes out pitch-black. I'll owe you. And do me another favor—don't say anything to anyone else. Oh, and if I'm not there, Nick Montague, at the bar, has a key.”

Skip was quiet for a minute. “You sure Nick hasn't been in your place?”

“I'm not sure of anything.”

“What about Brian Lassiter?”

“No, I can't guarantee he hasn't been in there, either.”

A moment later, he thanked Skip and hung up. Hell, Skip was bound to find Brian's prints. The guy had been on his boat, drunk as a skunk, touching everything in sight. Finding Brian's prints wouldn't mean a damned thing. He rubbed his temples wearily.

His phone rang again. It was Marty. “I'm at the last known residence of Cassie Sewell. The place is rented to a family, but they don't mind us looking around.”

“I'm on my way.”

Jake gathered the lists and left. In his car, he glanced at the addresses.

They all bordered the Glades.

And they were all too damn close to the place where, nearly five years ago, Nancy Lassiter had gone into a canal and died with whatever secrets she might have discovered.

 

There were long moments in which Ashley questioned her own sanity as she drove. She didn't know the man sitting next to her, and she didn't even really know where she was going—or why. David was definitely a normal enough looking man, a handsome one even, with shrewd eyes and a quick smile. He was in jeans and a knit shirt that day, again, very normal. His hair was worn a little long, but people wore their hair all different lengths these days. As she drove, she noted that for a journalist, he was in great physical shape. He must spend time in the gym to maintain the breadth of his shoulders and chest, tapering to trim hips and long legs.

“I think the turnpike is best,” he said as they started out.

“Probably,” she agreed. “Where exactly did you find this address? And how come it took you so long to find?”

“Stu left some magazines at my place. They all had articles about the Everglades. When I was flipping through, trying to see what he was actually after, I found a piece of paper. He'd written a few names on it, names I'd already given the police,” he said ruefully. “But when I flipped it over, I saw he had written down an address, as well. Took me some time to see it. He'd written in pencil, and it had smudged.”

“So are you sure we're even going to the right place?”

“Of course,” he said. “I think.” He turned in the seat. “Hey, do you think you ought to try talking to Nathan Fresia again? When those cops show up to play bodyguard, he's going to wonder why.”

“All right. I'll try to get him. Hand me my phone, would you?”

Nathan sounded somewhat better, but wary, when he came on the line. She talked quickly, explaining that since they were all worried about Stuart, and since she was certain she hadn't pulled any plugs, she'd thought that having a few off-duty officers guarding Stuart wouldn't be a bad thing. Nathan told her that the first cop had already arrived, and that he'd assumed Carnegie had set it up. After a moment he thanked Ashley and told her that she was welcome at the hospital, but to please come alone, because he wasn't sure if they would be letting anyone else in with Stuart for a few days.

She rang off and looked at David. “The first cop is already there.”

“You really do know the right people.”

She decided that she should call Jan and Karen. Even if she couldn't get them, she could leave messages about the latest events. She called Karen's school, only to be told that Karen had called in sick. She didn't answer at home or on her cell, and Ashley remembered that Len Green had taken her home the night before. So she left a message, then tried Len at his station and was told that he, too, had called in sick.

“What's up?” David asked her.

“A budding romance, I think,” she said, and called Jan. Jan didn't answer, either, so Ashley left another message.

“I think we should take this exit,” David said, as they came in sight of a turnoff.

“Have you been out here before?”

“Well, I've been in the area before.”

“But you don't really know where we're going?”

“No.”

He moved forward, adjusting in the seat. His knee hit the glove compartment door, and it popped open. Ashley's gun and badge were there; she hadn't had a chance to bring them back down to headquarters and turn them in, as required, since she had accepted the civilian position.

“Hey, that's cool. We're armed and dangerous,” he said.

“Shut that.”

“I'll bet you can use that gun, too.”

“Yes, I can.”

He smiled, closing the glove compartment. She felt an edge of unease at his expression and made a mental note to put the gun in her handbag and keep it on her at all times until she turned it in.

“Are you familiar with guns?” she asked him, trying to sound casual.

“A crack shot,” he told her. She glanced his way and he shrugged. “ROTC.” He pointed to the right.

“There…let's try following west, then turn south.”

She did as he suggested. They hit a canal and had to turn back.

“Great directions,” she muttered.

“Is it my fault we're practically in a primeval swamp and there are canals everywhere?”

After a number of false starts, they found a road that went through, and at last reached what they thought was the address. At least, by the numbers, it had to be somewhere within the long expanse of fields they had arrived at.

Ashley pulled over to the side of the road, which itself was scarcely more than dirt and gravel. Maybe it had been paved once. There seemed to be the remnants of asphalt beneath the tires.

As she turned off the engine, they both stared out the windows. “It's a big farm,” Ashley said.

“I don't even see a house,” David murmured.

“Yes…back there. And see…there's not exactly a barn, but it's an outbuilding of some kind. Maybe a silo.”

“A silo? That's not a silo.”

“Then what is it?”

“Not a silo. They're growing strawberries.”

“What is that building, then?”

He stared at it and shrugged. What they saw appeared to be a round tower attached to some kind of storage shed or barn.

“It might be a big tower with a window so that the farmer can watch his strawberries grow,” David said with a sigh. “I don't know. Wish we could get into it. Wanna look?”

“It's not legal for us to go traipsing around on someone's property, David.”

He stared at her and grinned slowly. “I'm a journalist. I'm supposed to be heedless of the law. You're a—an ex-cadet or something.”

“David, we have no right—”

He ignored her. “Up farther…closer to the house. That looks like a vegetable garden. That's a big house. Looks like they grow a
lot
of food.”

“David, farmers grow a lot of food. That's how they make their money,” she said irritably.

“They have a lot of the place planted…yet look, if you really look across the fields, the back is a big tangle of trees and underbrush.”

“Amazing,” Ashley said. “They can't stop the underbrush from growing on what may not be their property.”

He stared at her. “The place really looks like a farm. They've made it look like a farm.”