Shimmer

MIND GAMES

LAST RUN *

SHIMMER *

BLIND FEAR

CHATEAU ELLA

COMPULSION

DEADLY GAMES

FASCINATION

GUILT

IN LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP

LAURA

NO ESCAPE

THE PACT

RALPH'S CHILDREN *

SHATTERED STARS

SPELLBOUND

SUSANNA

TOO CLOSE

TWISTED MINDS

IF I SHOULD DIE (written as Alexandra Henry)

*
available from Severn House

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  

First world edition published 2009

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2009 by Hilary Norman.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Norman, Hilary

Shimmer

1. Becket, Sam (Fictitious character) – Fiction

2. Police – Florida – Miami – Fiction. 3. Detective and

mystery stories

I. Title

823.9'14-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-089-0    (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6784-1    (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-149-2    (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

For Anita Kern

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My gratitude goes to the following: Howard Barmad; Jennifer Bloch; Batya Brykman; Sara Fisher, whose help and support I will sorely miss; Isaac and Evelyne Hasson; huge thanks yet again to Special Agent Paul Marcus and to Julie Marcus (the
almost
real Sam and Grace); Bella Patel; Helmut Pesch; Sebastian Ritscher; Helen Rose (for so
very
much, always); Rainer Schumacher; Dr Jonathan Tarlow, for seafaring expertise again, as well as medical. And, as always, for being a technical wiz, helping with research, and for just about everything else, Jonathan.

Cal liked to write, always had. And to read. He chose the word
‘epistle'
for his private writing, even though he'd looked it up in his Merriam-Webster Dictionary and seen it was a word for a letter, and this was not a letter as such because he wasn't writing it
to
anyone, but on the other hand it wasn't a journal either, it was just his
writing.
The first definition in the dictionary said it was a letter in the New Testament, but he already knew that because he knew the Bible pretty well, knew that the word was repeated over and over – the Epistles of the Apostles – and Cal liked the way that sounded, and even now it clicked regularly into his mind and he found himself saying it out loud like a tongue twister –

‘The Epistles of the Apostles, The Epistles of the Apostles . . .'

Sometimes he'd even sing it and do a kind of little tap dance to the rhythm, which used to worry him in case he was maybe being sacrilegious, because he did respect the Bible and going to church, but on the other hand he'd learned by now that there wasn't any point in worrying about playing around with a
word
, because Lord knew he'd done things far worse.

‘I am sacrilegious,' he'd written in his Epistle, ‘and I know it, and it scares the crap out of me because I know it means that hell's waiting for me at the end of my time, but there's nothing I can think of to change that, and I reckon it's not really my fault, is it?

‘None of it.'

1

South Beach, like a thousand other beaches around dawn, felt and looked almost born again, a whole new world creeping out of the dark, eons away from its strident, semi-pagan late-night self.

Even with the din of music shut off, Ocean Drive was never silent, never seemed entirely at rest. The restaurants and bars were closed, the last Thursday night into Friday morning revellers had gone to their groggy beds, takings had been locked away, waiters and bartenders had soaked their aching feet and crashed; yet even now there were early morning drivers moving slowly up and down the street, a lone jogger down on the beach, his long hair swinging with each bounce, two roller bladers skimming along the promenade, a middle-aged woman walking her dog on the grass, a sleeper stirring nearby, disturbed for a few moments by the growl of the sanitation truck cleaning the gutters and moving slowly onwards.

The morning was warm and humid, no freshness to it, the remnants of last night's thunderstorm still grumbling to the east somewhere in the greyish violet-to-pink-tinted sky, but the beach itself was serene, all primal innocence. The shallow Atlantic waters moved gently, peaceably, the smooth sands, shifted overnight by birds and breezes and rain and other, unseen forces, seemed almost to be posing for the moment in soft beige and pastel hues, taking its rest before people returned again to tread and soil and taint.

Like all beaches in Miami-Dade County, South Beach had rules imposed upon it, a list of prohibitions posted along the promenade and beach. No alcoholic beverages permitted, no glass containers, no walking on the dunes. No animals, no firearms or fireworks and more besides.

No ‘rough and injurious activities'.

Which rule scarcely
began
to cover what Joe Myerson had happened upon in the midst of his Friday sunrise swim.

A regular dawn swimmer, Joe cherished this time.

‘If I ever drown or have a heart attack or just get eaten by a goddamned fish while I'm out there,' he once told his brother, ‘you'll know I went happy.'

Finished now, his almost private ocean-Eden mornings.

Never again.

It had seemed, at first glance, nothing more interesting than a stray rowboat, pink-painted but shabby, bobbing on the calm morning waters.

Joe had noticed it from a hundred or so yards off and felt an instant tug of curiosity; not just because it looked out of place on South Beach, but because even crumby old rowboats were generally kept tied up or beached, and for some reason it occurred to him that it might not be empty after all, that there might be someone inside the boat, someone he couldn't see, someone sick, maybe, lying down.

Lying down, for sure, but way past sick.

Which was more than could be said for Joe.

Worst thing he'd ever seen in his life.

Ever hoped
not
to see again.

‘Mr Myerson dragged it ashore himself,' Neal Peterson – one of the Miami Beach Police Department patrol officers first on the scene – told Detectives Sam Becket and Alejandro Martinez when they arrived a few minutes after eight.

On the beach, right across from Ocean Drive and 10th Street, less than a handful of blocks from their own office on Washington Avenue.