Читать книгу Dead Run - Erica Spindler, Erica Spindler - Страница 16

Tuesday, November 6 Noon

Carla sat at her desk, staring at the fax she had received only moments before. It was the facsimile of an e-ticket, one-way, to the Cayman Islands. The name on the ticket: Larry Bernhardt. The travel date: November 9, 2001.

This coming Friday. A week to the day after he had leaped out his bedroom window.

She might not be an ace detective, but that didn’t make sense to her.

But then, much of the information she had amassed in the past twenty-four hours hadn’t. Bernhardt had been well thought of at Island National, liked and respected both by his co-workers and superiors. His boss believed he had come into a sizable inheritance this past January, though he hadn’t known from where. That’s when he had bought the oceanfront home.

He had been married twice; he and wife number two, the barely-out-of-her-teens Mrs. Bernhardt the housekeeper had spoken of, had divorced shortly after they’d moved into the Sunset Key home. He had two grown children, a boy and a girl, from his first marriage, both of whom he was close to. Carla had spoken with the daughter, who had been stunned. Devastated. The young woman had talked to her father the week before, she’d said; his mood had been jubilant.

His mood jubilant. Carla frowned. That had been a recurring theme. Everyone she’d talked to had described Bernhardt as happy, relaxed … on top of the world—personally and professionally. In fact, the night of his death he had been out to dinner with friends. He had talked with them about his children, his work, the future.

He hadn’t mentioned a trip, however. And he certainly hadn’t mentioned thoughts of taking his own life.

Carla tapped the fax, curious. The only dissenting opinion about Bernhardt’s psychological state had come from his shrink. Dr. Irwin Morgenstern had stated that he’d been treating Bernhardt for severe depression and anxiety. He had prescribed a number of different medications in an attempt to stabilize him.

Considering what everyone else had said, Carla figured that was bullshit. Bernhardt had been a recreational drug user—either wittingly or unwittingly, Dr. Morgenstern had been his supplier.

A one-way ticket. She frowned. Typically, a person who bought a one-way ticket was either someone without a job or personal responsibilities or someone who was running away from something. Or somebody. A bad marriage. Financial responsibilities. The law.

So, what had Bernhardt been running away from? And why did a man with a one-way ticket to the Cayman Islands, a beautiful home and plenty of money, on top professionally and, from what the housekeeper and other friends had said, getting laid frequently, take a swan dive out his third-floor bedroom window?

He didn’t. No way.

So maybe Bernhardt had been helped out that window.

Carla shifted her attention to the evidence report. They hadn’t found much. The fingerprints on the champagne bottle and pill vial were Bernhardt’s. They’d collected several pubic hairs from the bed; the satin sheets had been stained with what appeared to be semen. Fresh stains, the report said. Not ones that had been laundered in.

Carla frowned, something plucking at her memory. Maybe she should head over to Bernhardt’s, take another look around?

She slid her gaze to the clock mounted on the wall across from her. Just after noon. Val was at lunch. He had an appointment with the D.A. afterward. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Val liked to be kept abreast of his detectives’ activities; she respected that, and she certainly trusted his instincts a hell of a lot more than she trusted her own.

But she didn’t feel like sitting on her thumbs all afternoon waiting for him to give her the go-ahead. Screw it, she decided, pushing away from her desk and standing. Val had made it clear that Bernhardt’s death was priority one, and she had nothing else to do this afternoon. She’d just go and take another look at Bernhardt’s bedroom.

Within ten minutes Carla stood at the Hilton/Mallory Square boat dock, waiting for the ferry. A murder on Sunset Key presented some interesting challenges, she acknowledged. The key was accessible only by boat, a twenty-four-hour ferry that motored guests and residents to and from the mainland. With the exception of “official” battery-powered carts, no motorized vehicles were allowed on the island. And other than a sign warning Private Property, Sunset Key Residents Only, security was nonexistent. People came and went; nobody asked for proof of resort registration or residency.

Typical Key West, Carla thought. Not a care in the world.

The ferry, a handsome, thirty-two-foot powerboat, arrived. Carla waited for several passengers to disembark, then she climbed aboard. She caught the captain’s curious gaze and met it. He looked away.

After waiting five minutes for more passengers to arrive, he set off. Carla faced forward, holding her hair away from her face to keep the wind from tearing at it.

“You’re a cop, right?”

Carla shifted her gaze to the ferryboat captain once more. “Right. How did you—”

“I ferried you over on Monday. I heard you and your colleague talking.” He looked away, then back, squinting against the brilliant sun. “Shame about Bernhardt. He seemed like a nice guy.”

“You knew him?”

“Not really. I’ve only been on staff a month. It’s just … I mean, I ferried him back and forth.”

“I bet you’re from Boston,” she said, tilting her head, deciding he was cute. “Judging by your accent.”

His lips lifted. “My family’s still in shock. They just don’t get why I like it here.”

She slid her gaze to his left hand, found it ringless and smiled. “Mine didn’t either.”

“You know—” He cleared his throat. “I ferried him the night … he did it.”

Carla straightened, flirtation forgotten. “That so? How’d he seem to you?”

“Same as always. Friendly. Relaxed. Nice guy,” he said again, easing up on the throttle as he neared the dock.

“Anybody with him that night?” she asked as he cut the power, then maneuvered the craft against the dock.

“Not that night.” He hopped up, tied off the bow, then stern. That done, he turned back to her, a frown marring his forehead. “Bernhardt seemed to have it all. So why’d he do it? I don’t get that at all.”

That made two of them. She stood and allowed him to help her disembark, though she was capable of managing on her own.

“I’m Detective Carla Chapman.” She handed him her card. “You think of anything, give me a call.”

He slid his dark gaze over her. “I’ll do that … Carla.”

For a split second, she thought he might suggest they get together sometime. He didn’t, and she quashed her disappointment and returned her attention to Bernhardt. Since his death hadn’t been officially classified yet, his home was still considered a crime scene. She ducked under the police line and entered. The interior was dim and cool. The housekeeper had drawn the drapes and closed the blinds when she left.

Carla climbed the stairs. The air conditioner kicked on. Other than the bed having been stripped by the evidence guys, she found the bedroom just as she had left it the other day. She moved her gaze slowly over the room acknowledging that she had most probably wasted her time by coming here.

Suddenly she realized what had been plucking at her memory. The housekeeper had told her that Bernhardt had insisted on fresh bedding every day. Which meant, when he had climbed in the sack the last night of his life, the sheets had not been stained. She narrowed her eyes. Sure, the man could have jacked off one last time before taking the plunge. The hairs could be his.

But they might not be. And if they weren’t, that meant Larry Bernhardt had not been alone the night of his death.