Picture Me Dead Read online

  Jake heard the blood rushing in his ears. He gritted his teeth, desperately fighting the temptation to step forward and bash Bryan Jay in his smug, jowly face.

  “Come on, Jake!” another woman called out.

  He knew her, too. Crime beat from a Broward paper. She’d moved fast to get down here, he thought.

  “Peter Bordon is in prison in the center of the state. As anyone on the crime beat is surely aware, he was never tried for or convicted of murder,” he said.

  “That’s right. Neither was the crazy guy who killed himself in jail. Harry Tennant. He was just a homeless junkie, huh? He claimed to have been the murderer, but then, lots of sickos like to claim they’re responsible for sensational murders.”

  “Due to Mr. Tennant’s death, we weren’t able to investigate his story, Mr. Jay.”

  “Looks like he wasn’t a killer, though, huh? You guys didn’t follow up, and it looks like the murderer is out there and at it again,” Jay said.

  “Mr. Jay, I’m sorry, we’re trying to deal in fact, not supposition. There’s nothing else I can give you right now,” Jake said firmly. He forced himself to speak a level tone. “We live in a great country, and I respect the press beyond all measure. I will not, however, stand here and spout off a bunch of theories when I haven’t got any facts. Journalism deals in facts, right? As soon as we’ve got something to give you, we will. Thanks, and that’s all for right now. We like to let you do your work, and we’re damned appreciative when you let us do ours.”

  He turned and walked away. First thing on his list was a long talk with the jogger who had found the body—before the press got to her. Then he had to work this like a regular case. Swallow the haunting images and bitterness of the past.

  The forensics experts would study soil samples and any microscopic clue that the crime scene investigators could bring in. Gannet would do the autopsy. They had good people working on the case; they would have more to go on as the reports came in. He depended on his associates. He knew that they could practically pull rabbits out of hats. Still, they weren’t magicians, and they couldn’t work miracles.

  As to the obvious…

  A woman had been murdered. Brutally.

  She had been dead for at least several weeks, maybe several months.

  Her ears had been slashed, as if it had been a ritualistic killing.

  He knew damned well that he had to be careful; he couldn’t assume that her death was a continuation of a killing spree from the past. Every possibility had to be explored.

  “Copycat!” Bryan Jay shouted out as he walked away. “There could be a copycat killer out there as well, right?”

  He refused to respond.

  Copycat…

  Yeah, copycat…

  Maybe. And maybe not.

  As he once again approached the murder scene, he saw that Marty, Doc Gannet and Mandy Nightingale were talking together.

  Marty glanced his way, and he knew. They were talking about him. Worrying about him.

  Well, there was no need.

  He was fine.

  This time, he damned well meant to catch the real killer.

  CHAPTER 4

  First thing Monday morning, Ashley was busy digging through the stacks of newspaper Nick had bundled neatly at the back door, ready to go out with the recycling. She was startled when she heard her uncle behind her. “Ashley, what are you doing?”

  She jumped, sorry that she had woken him in her frenzy. The stacks were no longer neat. She had tried first for Saturday’s paper, thinking the accident would surely have been written up in the local section. But she hadn’t been able to find it.

  She grimaced. “Hey, sorry I woke you. We saw an accident on our way up to Orlando. I was trying to find out what happened. Did you hear anything?”

  Nick scratched the overnight growth of stubble on his chin. At fifty-two, he was a great-looking man, with lots of character sketched into the lines of his face. He didn’t look particularly young—a lifetime in the sun and wind had seen to that. But his bone structure was excellent, and all time had done was weather in an appeal that hinted at an intriguing life lived to the fullest. The gray streaks coming into his sandy hair fit well with the original coloring, and he had cool blue eyes that seemed to hold an ancient wisdom.

  Wisdom be damned. At that moment, he shrugged, shook his head and yawned. He was wearing a bathrobe over pajama pants and knotted the robe as he made his way to the coffee brewer, reached for the pot and found it empty. He stared at her blankly. She always made coffee.

  “Sorry, I’m afraid this accident has been haunting me,” she said, reaching behind him for a filter in the cabinet while he poured water into the carafe.

  “No, no…it’s all right. I am capable of making coffee, you know,” he said, his tone a bit indignant. Of course, that was Nick. He was an independent man. He’d raised her. And he could damn well take care of himself. Nick was impatient with anyone who couldn’t manage the basics of getting by on their own.

  “You really didn’t hear anything about an accident?” she asked him.

  “Hey, it’s Miami. There are lots of accidents. In fact, it’s a strange day where there isn’t a pile-up on one of the highways,” he reminded her.

  “Do you know where the local section from Saturday is? There ought to be a blurb or something. I mean, a man was killed. At least, I’m pretty sure he was dead.”

  “Um…yeah, I’ll get it for you. It’s in the bedroom.”

  “I can go.”

  “Sharon is in the shower, I think,” he murmured.

  “Oh. Well, I can wait until you have your first cup of coffee. It’s just been bugging me all weekend.”

  “You didn’t have fun?”

  “Of course I had fun.”

  “Thinking about a dead man on the highway the whole time?” he queried. “You want some toast or something.”

  “No, thanks, I’m not hungry.”

  “You’re going off to a full day at the academy. You should eat.”

  “I had something ghastly late last night at a rest stop,” she told him. “That will do me until lunch.”

  “Something ghastly?”

  “I think it was supposed to be a hamburger.”

  “Ah, so you young ladies crawled in really late. Of course, I figured it had to be late, since we keep the place open ’til twelve on Sundays and I didn’t turn in until after one.”

  “Three,” Ashley admitted.

  “Great,” he said, mildly sarcastic. “You’ve had lots of sleep, and you probably have a full day ahead.”

  “Every day is a full day,” Ashley admitted. “But I’m young. I’m sure I can deal with lack of sleep at this point in my life.”

  Nick arched a brow, trying to decide if her response was in respect to the fact that he wasn’t quite so young anymore and decided he wasn’t going to wait any longer for coffee. He pulled the carafe out from beneath the dripping coffee and slid in a large mug in its place. He was quick—only a few drops missed the mug and hit the heating unit below.

  “I’m pouring you a cup anyway, because you may be young—and implying that I’m old—but you sure as hell look as if you’re going to need it. Did you sleep at all on that trip?”

  She laughed. “I would never dream of implying that you’re old. You’re in your prime. And, yes, honestly, we did get some sleep. We went to a show on Friday night, then went to one of the dance clubs, got in late and slept until three the next afternoon. We didn’t stay out so late the next night and still slept until twelve, which put Karen into a panic, because she didn’t want to get charged for an extra night. So I’m actually in pretty good shape—even if your comment implied that I’m looking haggard.”

  He sipped his coffee, leaned on an elbow and grinned. “Most of the good cops I know look haggard. Goes with the territory.”

  “So you think I’m going to be a good cop?”

  “You’d better be. And I’ll get that paper for you. Good almost-cops don’t sho
w up at the academy late. Hop in the shower and get dressed. I’ll find the local news from Saturday for you.”

  She nodded, drained the coffee he’d poured for her, and headed off for her room and a shower.

  Nick’s had been there forever. In one of those strange twists of fate, her uncle had bought the place from another Nicholas, an old-time seafarer who had bought the house and restaurant on the beach in the nineteen-twenties, when the Greater Miami area was still in its small-town infancy. Times had changed since then, and the land value had risen quite high. But Nick’s remained the same. It was largely built out of Dade County pine, wood that was now rare and valuable. A dock led straight to the restaurant from the marina, where many people kept pleasure craft and some maintained houseboats. The long bar and restaurant area were at the front, facing the marina. The more intimate family kitchen and an expansive living room for the main house could be accessed from both the restaurant kitchen and the office, which sat behind the bar. Nick’s bedroom suite was above the living room, while Ashley had her own wing on the ground floor. She could get to it through the living room or through a small private entrance to the right of the restaurant. Like the rest of the place, it appealed to her. There was a rustic feel to the entire setup, but just the same, Nick was a stickler for cleanliness, codes and organization, so though it all had a comfortable, homey feel, it was also well-kept and aesthetically pleasing—at least to anyone fond of the sea and nautical decor. Above the entrance from the living room to her wing, the teeth and jaws from a great white shark had been mounted, and a nineteenth century ship’s bell sat encased in a show cabinet beside it. The wall itself was lined with photographs—as well as mounted fish—and she loved them. There were many of her parents, some of her mom and Nick when they’d been growing up, some of her with her folks. One of her favorites was her with her dad in his uniform, and another was of her with both her mother and her father on the day she’d caught her first big snapper in a children’s tournament.

  Of course, such an old place had its downfalls. Like hot water in the shower. She remembered that Nick had said Sharon was in the shower the minute she stepped under the lukewarm water. No matter, it made her hurry. Afterward she briskly toweled herself dry. There was nothing wrong with their air-conditioning system. Nick had maintained it well, knowing that his lunch crowd didn’t want to come in from a blistering morning in the hot sun and not find a spot of sweet cool solace.

  Dressed and ready in fifteen minutes, she hurried back out to the kitchen. She was surprised to see that Nick, too, had already managed a quick—and probably downright chilly—shower. He was in cutoffs and a polo shirt, leaning over the kitchen counter, a grim look on his face as he scanned the newspaper in front of him. Sharon was standing beside him, gravely regarding the newspaper, as well. Her uncle’s girlfriend of nearly a year was an incredibly attractive woman. Petite, no more than five foot two, and that was in shoes with at least a wedge of heel, she was also slender. She loved a rigorous workout, though, and her efforts showed in the elegance of her compact figure. She was probably a few years younger than Nick—in fact, she could almost pass for thirty—and often seemed too elegant and refined for the dockside bar where she spent so many nights. She could be a tiger in pursuit of a business deal or in regard to her newest passion: politics. But she was pleasant to Ashley at every turn, showing a real interest in her life. She wore her hair in a natural style that just brushed her shoulders. It was almost platinum, which went well with her huge blue eyes. She was an arresting woman, assertive rather than aggressive, intelligent, and a great deal of fun, as well. She was up for any adventure, which made her a good companion for Nick.

  “Hey, you all found an article on the accident?” Ashley said.

  Nick looked up, startled. He caught her eyes and nodded, that serious look still drawing his face.

  “Morning, dear, and we’re so sorry,” Sharon said, those great blue eyes of hers on Ashley then, full of compassion.

  “Sorry? What is it?” she asked.

  “It took some doing to find the article—there was a storm on Saturday night, and there were two fatal accidents, as well as that pedestrian being struck on the highway. But there is an article in the local section. The body you passed, Ashley,” Nick said. “It’s a kid you went to school with. He’s not dead, though. In a coma, suffered lots of internal injuries, and the doctors are offering his family little hope.”

  “What? Who?” she asked, frowning as she looked from one to the other of them, then walked to the counter herself, anxious to see the story in black and white.

  “Stuart Fresia,” Nick said.

  “Stuart?”

  “I understand he was a good friend of yours,” Sharon said.

  Ashley was startled as she took the paper, quickly gazing over the words and finding them hard to comprehend.

  Stuart.

  Not just a kid she had gone to school with, an old friend. Granted, she hadn’t seen him lately, not in a few years. But he’d been a smart kid, the kind to turn into a smart adult. He’d been one of those people able to tread the lines between popularity, peer pressure and academics. He’d always talked about law school. He’d known how to go out, sneak a few drinks when they’d gotten hold of some beer, and never get wasted. He’d smoked cigarettes—and a cigar on occasion—but never become entangled in drugs. She’d envied him sometimes. While it seemed that she lived vicariously through the heartache of divorce—and sometimes remarriage and divorce and remarriage again—with the parents of a number of her friends, she’d gone home with Stuart many times to find two people who still loved one another, and their son, more than anything else in life.

  And despite the natural scrapes he had gotten into while growing up, he had adored his folks. He’d recognized a certain responsibility at an early age, being an only child.

  Stuart. On the highway. In his underwear. It didn’t make sense.

  Neither did the article. Not to Ashley.

  She read it through several times. According to eyewitnesses—and the heartbroken driver who had hit him—Stuart had simply started sprinting across the highway, heedless of traffic. No one knew where he had come from, other than the far side of the highway. His car had not been nearby. He had not carried any identification. He had just been there, in that pair of white briefs, on the highway. He had sustained numerous injuries, including severe damage to the skull. After hours of surgery, he was in a coma, clinging to life with the assistance of machines. Doctors were doing everything they could, though it was unlikely he would make it. Still, the surgeon also stated that with a young man in the prime of life, and with a will and natural instinct to survive, there was always hope.

  As to how the accident had happened, what had made him go racing across the highway, heroin seemed to be the answer. Blood and urine tests had come up positive for the drug.

  “No,” Ashley murmured.

  “I’m sorry,” Nick told her softly, standing behind her to place supportive hands on her shoulders.

  “No, no, I mean, it’s all wrong. Stuart on heroin? He wasn’t a junkie.”

  “Ashley, it’s been a while since you’ve seen him, right?”

  She set the paper down and looked at Nick. “It’s been a while, but I still can’t believe it.”

  “People change, Ashley,” Sharon said.

  Ashley shook her head, frowning. “Stuart always wanted to give blood when they had all those drives at church or school when a disaster struck. They always turned him down, because he was one of those people who fainted when you came at him with a needle. This is all wrong.”

  Nick took her into his arms and gave her a warm hug. “Ashley, it happened. You saw the body, and you’ve read the article. Maybe Stuart was a good kid, a great kid. Maybe he’s still basically a really good man and he just got in with the wrong people. But…hey, he is still alive. There’s hope.”

  “You’re right. At the moment, anyway, he’s still alive. If he’s made it since Saturday. What
if he hasn’t?” She stared at Nick in horror. “I’ll go through the—the death notices for Sunday and today…that’s today’s paper over there, isn’t it?”

  “I checked already—there’s no notice,” Sharon said.

  “Thanks,” Ashley told her.

  Nick said, “Listen, you have to get to work. I’ll call the hospital, ask for his condition and leave a message on your phone, and you can check it when there’s a break. All right?”

  She nodded. “Great, Nick. Thanks, both of you.”

  She started out the kitchen door. When she opened it, she found a man standing there.

  It seemed to be happening on a daily basis now.

  But she knew Sandy Reilly well. He’d been hanging around Nick’s for at least seven years. He looked as if he were about ninety, he was so weathered and wrinkled. She thought he was probably more like seventy, but no one ever asked him, and he never offered information regarding his age. He lived in one of the houseboats down along the pier, or, at least, he supposedly lived in his houseboat. But he spent most of his time at Nick’s.

  “Hi, Sandy.”

  “Hey there, kid, you’re looking spiffy in that uniform.”

  “Thanks, Sandy.”

  “Cops, cops, cops, we got ’em all over the place.”

  “We do?”

  Sandy laughed.

  “You don’t know how many cops come in here all the time?”

  “I know of several, of course. Not as many as you seem to think we get. But this is a public establishment, Sandy. We don’t ask people what they do for a living when they come in.”

  “Curtis Markham, the gray-haired guy who drinks Coors and sits in the corner with his son, a boy about twelve. Plays a lot of pool. He’s a South Miami cop. Tommy Thistle—you know Tommy. Miami Beach police.”

  “Yep, I know Tommy. And Curtis. I put them both on my list of references.”

  “Then there’s Jake.”

  “Jake?”