Читать книгу The Killing Edge - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 9

The Stirling was one of five boats berthed at the rickety docks off the Florida Bay side of Key Biscayne.

They would be tearing down the docks soon, along with the old bait-and-beer shop that had been there since the 1920s. Miami had officially been a city then, incorporated in 1896, but to many it had still been nothing but a mosquito-infested swamp, stuck between the Everglades and Biscayne Bay. Technically, the Everglades wasn’t a swamp—it was a literal “river of grass,” and a slow-moving river at that. It wasn’t that the city had been kept secret from the world—Fort Dallas had been erected on the Miami River in the early 1800s as an outpost in the Seminole Wars. After that, the city, and all the smaller municipalities that made up Greater Miami, had grown slowly. Hurricanes, heat, humidity, snakes, gators and other pests had combined to limit its expansion. There had been boom in the 1920s, but the hurricane of 1926 had stopped development in its tracks for a while. The thirties hadn’t done much for the area, either, but since the 1940s and the advent of army bases and the industry of war, the city had continually grown. Castro’s rise to power had brought a massive Cuban influx, and soon after, Miami had become the haven of choice for people from every country in the Caribbean, and South and Central America.

A lot of what had first brought Luke Cane to the area was part of a dying past. Didn’t matter. He liked the diversity of what was going on. He regularly heard Spanish, German, Russian and British accents, all in a normal day, just going out for coffee, stopping for a beer.

He would miss it, though, when the old shops and docks finally went down under the wave of the future.

The old way in the Florida Keys—especially the middle Keys—would perish more slowly. He could always move the Stirling farther south.

The causeway led to the luxury residences on Key Biscayne, to the aquarium, the beaches and one of the city’s finest magnet schools. There were research laboratories, boat rentals, picnic areas. His own little patch of heaven was behind a forested road that only the natives tended to travel. Boaters knew the bait shop, where you could also buy beer and exactly two menu items: boiled shrimp and burgers.

When he drove back home that night, he immediately recognized the visitor sitting at the end of the dock as Octavio Gonzalez.

He parked his Subaru on the sand spit that was assigned to his slip and got out. Octavio stood right away and approached him. It was almost 3:00 a.m.

He wondered how long the other man had been sitting there. Probably most of the night.

“Did you see her? Did you?” Octavio asked anxiously. “Is she all right?”

“I didn’t actually speak with her, but she was there, and I know she’s all right,” Luke assured him.

Relief flooded Octavio’s face, but then he turned anxious once again. “But you went as someone else. Why wouldn’t she see you? They have her imprisoned, don’t they?” He was about five-ten, stocky, bald on top, mustached. In his youth he had probably displayed the machismo that went with his heritage, but now he only looked broken and desperate. He set his hands on Luke’s chest, as if he could force him to make everything all right. “That woman—that Myra woman!” he continued. “She won’t let me speak with my daughter. She won’t let me on the property. She called the police when I insisted on speaking with my daughter. She even told them that she didn’t know where Rene was!”

“She told the police she didn’t know where Rene was when they went to see her. If Rene wasn’t there when the police arrived, then she wasn’t lying. She did tell the police that Rene was all right, and they’ll go back to see her again.”

“They should camp outside her door!” Octavio said furiously.

“Octavio, I know how you feel,” Luke said patiently, gently grasping the man’s hands and forcing them down. “Come aboard, sit, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

The aft deck led straight into the central cabin. For many years now, the boat had been both his home and his occupational therapy. He’d spent hours on the woodwork and the old chrome. The galley was up-to-date and fully functional; the main cabin offered an elegant teak dining table with a horseshoe-shaped bench that accommodated at least ten. Across from the table, a long, comfortably upholstered sofa invited more guests, and there were two stationary easy chairs, as well. A set of six steps led to the bridge above, while a hallway led to the master cabin at the stern, passing two additional sleeping cabins on the way, one to port and one to starboard. She was a labor of love and the perfect home, at least for the time being. The water here in a canal off the Intracoastal wasn’t the clearest he’d ever seen, and there was the noise of small boats of all kinds coming through. Still, the constant movement of the water kept it clean enough, and he liked being able to jump in for a swim whenever the hell he felt like it. People relaxed in tubes and floating chairs outside the neighboring bait-and-beer shop, and on a warm summer’s day, there was nothing like the pleasure of being right on the water.

It was a far cry from his native country.

Every once in a while, he still yearned for home, but he figured that was why God had gotten together with the Wright brothers to create airplanes.

Octavio followed him on board, a little more slowly, using the hull rail for support as he carefully crossed over to the deck. Luke led the way into the cabin, helping himself to a beer from the refrigerator as he passed.

“Octavio, beer?” he offered.

“No, no,” Octavio replied.

Luke reached into a cabinet above the sink and found a bottle of cognac. He held it up questioningly, and at first the other man looked as if he would refuse, but then he nodded. He accepted the glass Luke poured for him and sank into one of the easy chairs.

“Why?” he asked, running his fingers through what hair he had left. He sounded baffled and lost. “Why won’t she just speak to me?” He looked at Luke. “But you say she’s there—she’s alive and she’s well. Somehow we have to reach her. She can’t go on that shoot. She will die. I know this.”

Luke took the chair across from Octavio, gripping the beer bottle, feeling the sweat. “She’s definitely there, and I was able to speak with a friend of hers,” he said.

“Ay, Dios mio.” Octavio crossed himself in thanks-giving.

“I’ll try to get closer and get her to call you,” Luke said. “But we’re in a tough position. If she was in immediate and imminent danger, I could drag her out of there.”

“Yes, yes! Drag her out!”

Luke shook his head. “Octavio, I’m not averse to pulling a few tricks, but not the kind that won’t get you anywhere—and will get me thrown in jail. What you have to understand is that you can’t keep your daughter prisoner. If I forced her to go home, she would just leave again. She could even accuse you and your wife of abduction and imprisonment if she wanted to.”

“My daughter could do that?” Octavio said, and he looked like a man about to cry, a man who couldn’t begin to understand the stupidity of those around him. “Why doesn’t she see the danger?” he demanded passionately. “She loved Colleen. They played together when they were little girls, they knew right from wrong. Rene cried and cried when Colleen disappeared, but then … she believed the story this agency is telling. She believed those lying bastards who said that Colleen had run away. All because she wants to be a model, to be rich and have men lusting after her.

“Yes, we were strict, stern fathers. We cared who our daughters went out with, when they came home. We didn’t let our niñas get hooked on drugs. We tried to teach them right from wrong. But they watch TV—they see how American woman sleep with so many men with so little thought, how they drink and carry on, all on the giant television screen. I tried to tell my daughter that she mustn’t become like a puta, a whore, because decent men will not want her, decent men who go to work, love their wives and care for their children and their families. Do you know what she told me? She told me she didn’t want a decent man and a decent family. She wanted the American dream. So what is this dream? I ask her. To sleep around like the women on the television set?” He groaned. “So now—now that I don’t care who she wants to sleep with as long as she is alive—she will not even talk to me. Her mother cries every night. It is agony that she will not speak to us, and it is worse to think about Colleen, to think that Rene will be like Colleen and never come home, never get to live a long and happy life. I know you think I am just a worried father, that my daughter is safe and what happened to Colleen will not happen to her, but I know. I know. If she stays there, she will die.”

“Octavio, you have to stay calm,” Luke told him. “There’s no proof so far that anything bad even happened to Colleen.”

Octavio stared back at him with wise and tired eyes. “Colleen is dead. Her father knows it, as does her mother. As I do. Her parents went to Islamorada—because those swine at the agency would not allow her mother to go out to the island they own, the island where she … disappeared. They act like her parents are mosquitoes, an annoyance. My wife went, too. They set up crosses, a memorial for Colleen.” He winced, then downed his cognac in a swallow.

Luke was silent for a minute, then leaned toward Octavio. “I will do everything in my power, but you have to trust me. As of tonight, we know that your daughter is all right. Her friends told me that Rene wants this modeling career very badly—badly enough that she may be avoiding your calls because she doesn’t want you to keep trying to talk her out of it. I can try to get her to talk to you, but no one—not me and not you—can stop her from going on that photo shoot if she makes the decision to go.”

“If she goes, then you must go to the island, too. You must find out what is going on,” Octavio implored.

“I can do that,” Luke agreed.

Octavio stood and pumped Luke’s free hand. “Lieutenant Stuckey told me that I could count on you.”

“I’ll keep you informed,” Luke promised. “But, Octavio, if she calls you, no matter how hard it is, no matter how much you feel it goes against tradition, don’t try to stop her from pursuing her career or interfere with her life. Be open to her dreams.”

Octavio’s eyes betrayed his agony. “Even though I fear for her life?” he whispered.

“Especially because you fear for her life. Stay open so she’ll know she can turn to you if she needs to, no matter what. Rene is seeing what she wants to see, but even if someone at the agency is dangerous, that doesn’t mean the entire operation is corrupt.”

“Myra Allen,” Octavio said knowingly, his brows furrowing. “That woman is corrupt.”

“Everyone involved has been and is still being investigated,” Luke said. “They haven’t closed the case.”

“Officially, no? But in their minds, it is. Another silly girl gone off—that’s what they have chosen to believe. Even when they know it is wrong.”

The long day was starting to make itself felt. Luke repeated, “I’ll do everything in my power to keep your daughter safe, Octavio. And,” he promised, thinking of the job Stuckey had asked him to do while he was undercover helping the Gonzalezes, “I’ll find out what happened to Colleen Rodriguez.”

With that, Octavio nodded and started up the steps, looking older than his years. Luke followed him, jumping to the dock first and offering him a hand. Octavio thanked him, then said good-night and walked down the road toward the bait-and-beer shop, where his car waited beneath a wilting oak.

Luke returned to the Stirling, locking the cabin door once he was inside. His windows had security locks, as well, and he had rigged his own alarm system. Despite that, he didn’t worry a lot about security. If anyone ever really wanted him dead, they wouldn’t worry about gaining entry to the boat. They would just torch it.

In the master cabin he stripped off his suit and stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He didn’t know why, but Octavio got to him. The man was filled with passion, convinced he knew a truth everyone else was ignoring. Once, long ago, he, too, had known that kind of passion, known what it was like to know the truth, while others refused to see it. That was what had brought him here.

Stuckey had brought Octavio to him, just as Stuckey—and some of his friends—brought him most of his work.

He didn’t spy on philandering spouses, schoolgirls who might be smoking pot in the park after school or college kids gambling or stealing exams, and he didn’t like corporate intrigue unless it was connected with something more intriguing.

He worked for people who had gone through all the proper channels to find justice but run up against the brick walls that were inevitable in any system.

He didn’t have many friends, but those he had were close, and he liked it that way.

He lived alone now, and he liked that, too. He wasn’t a decent companion for anyone else.

He felt the slight rocking of the boat while he pondered his next move. The first step would be to get closer to Chloe Marin. She was his ticket to getting to know everyone else, and since her pretense for being there was as false as his own, she could hardly object or else he would blow her cover.

Light from distant street lamps played dimly on his ceiling, and as he watched the shadows stretch and fade, he wondered what would have happened if he’d caught up to Rene. At least he had learned what he needed to know: the girl was alive, and she was living at the mansion. But what he didn’t know was what had sent her down from the balcony and running for the beach in the first place.

And then there was Chloe Marin… .

He punched his pillow with annoyance. The strawberry blonde certainly knew her moves. Subduing her had been more difficult than if she’d been a man his own size and weight.

It was almost as if he’d been thrown off balance by a supercharged Barbie. Maybe that was what was most annoying.

But she wasn’t a living Barbie. She was a woman with entrancing eyes and a suspicious nature. In fact, where he was concerned, she seemed downright hostile. And yet, when he touched her …

Something happened to him when they touched. He was filled with a sudden raw heat unlike anything he’d felt in years.

He’d seen a dozen spectacularly beautiful girls that night.

But somehow, she was different.

He punched his pillow again. He had to get to know the woman, whether he liked it or not. She was key to cracking this case, no matter how annoying he found her—and his own attraction to her.

He had a job to do.

He forced himself to watch the shadows, to close down his mind, and finally he slept.

He didn’t dream, hadn’t in years. Not anything that he remembered, at least.

But that night he dreamed, only it wasn’t a fantasy, it was a rerun of the past.

A scene … just that one scene. He was running. Down the streets of Kensington. Up the steps to the beautiful flat they’d kept for three short months. He heard himself calling her name.

And then he saw the blood. The trail on the stairs, drop by drop, as if the killer had collected it and used a paintbrush to arrange it for maximum effect.

And then he heard himself screaming … screaming her name.

He fought the dream. He didn’t want to reach the bedroom. But he couldn’t stop the replay, couldn’t stop himself from running up those stairs and seeing …

Miranda. Her face was still beautiful, her black hair spread out all around her. Her arms, though, had been battered and bloody from the fight she had waged. She looked like a doll, a Sleeping Beauty, except for the band of crimson around her throat.

Luke awoke with a start, screaming her name.

He was sweating as if the cabin were a hundred degrees, even though the air conditioner was humming away.

He stood, shaking his head to clear away the memories. It was all so long ago.

He walked into the head, turned on the shower and let ice-cold water pour over him.

He stood there until he felt himself start to shiver, then turned off the water, whipped his towel off the rack and went back to the cabin to dress for the day.

He liked it better when he didn’t dream, didn’t feel.

Chloe was jolted awake by the phone ringing and decided to let the answering machine pick up.

But whoever was calling just hung up on the machine, then called again.

She rolled over and picked up the receiver, feeling tired and sluggish, as if it were still the middle of the night. Glancing at the alarm on her bedside table, she saw that it wasn’t the middle of the night, but it was ridiculously early, given how late she’d been out: 7:00 a.m.

“Chloe, are you there?” someone asked before she could even grunt out a hello.

Stuckey. What the hell was he doing, calling her so early?

“I’m here. What’s going on?”

“You shouldn’t have been playing detective last night,” he said, ignoring her question.

“I was invited. I might even go on that swimsuit shoot,” she said.

“Yeah?” he asked. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Thanks a lot.”

“Well, for one thing, I thought you liked to keep a low profile. You’ve never even wanted your name in the paper before, much less your picture out there for the world to see.”

Because in my way, I’m still a coward, she thought.

“Look, my point is, you’ve been snooping around, and now you’re planning to keep snooping out in the middle of nowhere, in the same circumstances where a girl went missing. And that could be dangerous.”

“It can be dangerous to fall asleep at night, too,” Chloe told him, her grip on the phone growing tight.

“I’m not stupid,” she told him. “I won’t go anywhere alone, and I’ll be rooming with Victoria. In fact, I’d be worried sick if I let Victoria go out there on her own. And if she’s there, you know Brad and Jared will be there, too. I could be a big help to you. Just think about it. The case isn’t closed, but no one is doing much about it.”

“Hey, don’t get on my case for that. It wasn’t my jurisdiction.”

“I’m not getting on you, Stuckey. You know, Uncle Leo pulled a lot of strings to get me something on the case. He doesn’t believe she just took off. And I went to court one day last week to pick him up, and her parents were out on the steps of the courthouse, holding a press conference, and they made my heart bleed. They believe she’s dead, and they’re desperate for someone to figure out what happened, for justice.” She was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t know her well, but I met her a few times at the mansion. She was nice. She deserves justice. Remember how you told me once that guys like this—like whoever killed her—aren’t rocket scientists. They eventually make mistakes.”

“But they’re still dangerous. Let Luke handle this. He’s a licensed professional.”

“Yeah, right. He showed me his fishing license.”

“You two got off to a bad start, and I’m sorry about that, but I asked him to help out with this because I do want something done about it, and I don’t want you in danger.”

“But I can help. I can get Rene to talk to him, for one thing.” Could she? Maybe. The words had come to her lips without her realizing what she was going to say. All she knew was that something inside her felt it was important for her to be part of this investigation, so she had to get him to calm down before he went to her uncle. She was an adult; she made her own choices. But she loved her uncle, and she didn’t know if she could stand up to him if he insisted she get out of there.

“Actually, that’s what I called you about, and why I had to call so early, before you got a chance to talk to anyone.”

“Oh?” She smiled, sinking back into her pillow. The tables were turning.

“You heard what I said when I dropped you back at the mansion last night, right?” he asked.

“Yes, I heard what you said. Don’t tell anyone Luke Cane’s real name or his real identity. Whatever I do, don’t jeopardize his position. I heard you. You said it three times,” she told him.

“Yes, and I meant don’t tell anyone. Not even Victoria.”

“But I’m going to be asking Victoria to help me—to watch and listen—it’s only fair to tell her the truth. I mean, let’s get serious, how long is anyone going to believe that ‘Jack Smith’ is a designer?” Chloe demanded.

Stuckey chuckled. “He’s got some help. He’ll pull it off. You’ll be surprised. Chloe, I’m asking you this because it’s important. Promise me you won’t say anything?”

“I promise.”

“Good. See ya soon,” Stuckey said, and hung up.

Chloe replaced the phone and crawled out of bed, then walked over to the drapes and threw them open so she could look out at the pool. Her bedroom was on the second floor of what had once been a carriage house, and she could see the sparkling water and casual rattan furniture that surrounded it. She could see the main house where Uncle Leo lived as well, with its red-clay tile roof, balconies and two turrets. The house had been built in the 1910s and was one of the oldest in the area. Her great-great-grandfather had purchased the land and drawn up the plans for the house. Once the family had owned twenty acres. Then ten. Now they had one acre remaining, with Bayshore Drive and civilization right around the corner. But the area was still overgrown and wild in old-Florida fashion; oaks dripped moss, and bougainvillea grew everywhere in a riot of color.

Chloe knew she was welcome in the main house anytime; Leo had always told her that it was hers more so than it would ever be his. She had grown up in the main house, and when she had finished college, she had contemplated the idea of getting an apartment with Victoria, but they’d both remained traumatized by the past, no matter how far they had come. Uncle Leo had come up with the solution: refurbishing the old carriage house so Chloe would have her privacy but still feel safe, and Uncle Leo wouldn’t spend his life worried about her.

The arrangement had worked out well. She carried emotional scars, a few wounds that might never fully heal, but her uncle had helped her find a purpose and enjoyment in life.

He had always been her rock.

The two of them were the only family they had left. Chloe didn’t remember her parents at all; she had been two when they died in a bizarre train explosion that had taken out almost twenty cars and their occupants. She had grown up with Leo, and he had been a good parental figure. He was with the district attorney’s office, a position he could afford to hold because he had family money and the insurance from the accident. On top of that, he was brilliant with stocks, no matter what the economy was doing, so they had never needed to worry about paying the bills.

She felt a moment’s unease, hoping that Stuckey wasn’t already calling him, warning him that Chloe was getting herself too involved with the Colleen Rodriguez disappearance. No, Stuckey wasn’t a tattletale. And even while he was telling her to keep her nose out of things, she knew he also realized that she was in a perfect position to obtain information the police might never discover themselves. Like so many Miami-Dade officers, he had been touched by the desperation of Colleen’s family, and he had been on a task force assigned to search the area from Florida City to the Broward County line, but all the cops had been reassigned after six weeks. The case wasn’t closed, but it wasn’t anyone’s priority, either.

Her phone rang again, and as she turned to answer it, she let out a little cry of surprise.

And fear.

Someone was there, watching her. A woman, transparent and ethereal.

Oh, God, no! Not again.

She’d fought so hard for her sanity. She’d thought she was finally done seeing people crying out to her for help—dead people—done with longing to help them when she couldn’t. After the massacre, she had seen images, dreams, ghosts, ectoplasm—whatever. She had seen them in hospitals; she had seen them on the streets. Strangers who had stared at her beseechingly and, even more terrifyingly, her own dead friends. She’d had therapy, lots and lots of therapy. But now she was regressing, seeing things again, no doubt because her world was changing. No, she told herself. She was stronger than that. She did not see things! Or if she did, then if she was strong, then they would fade away.

Her throat constricted, her muscles tensed, and then she blinked and the image was gone. She laughed nervously at herself; she must have seen the drapes reflected in the mirror.

She had stopped seeing ghosts long ago.

They were nothing but remnants of the fear and trauma.

A decade had passed, and she was fine. She was just imagining things because of Colleen.

She still felt shaken.

She left the window and went to stand over the phone, waiting for the answering machine to pick up. When she heard Victoria’s voice, she grabbed the receiver.

“Hey,” she said. “What’s up?”

“Are you ready?”

“Am I ready for what?”

“Third Sunday of the month. Meeting of the Fighting Pelicans.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course. I’d forgotten all about it. You didn’t mention a word last night,” Chloe told her.

“Last night. Well, last night was just weird,” Victoria said.

“I’ll say.”

“I’ll be by for you in twenty,” Victoria said.

“All right.” Chloe hung up and headed straight for the shower.

They had been meeting Brad and Jared at an old breakfast place out on the Rickenbacker Causeway since forever, when they had all attended a magnet high school for the arts out on Key Biscayne. They called themselves the Fighting Pelicans because even though their school had no sports teams, it had been overrun by pelicans, since it sat right on the water.

Chloe showered and threw on a long casual halter dress, then headed down the stairs. She keyed in the code to open the gate in the fence that surrounded the property, and waited on the sidewalk for Victoria. She thought back to the ghost she’d thought she’d seen and gave herself a shake to banish the memory.

She saw Victoria’s little Subaru sweep into the cul-de-sac and hurried out to meet her. As she slid into the front seat, she asked, “Are you sure Brad and Jared are showing up today? I’m not sure I’m ready to be awake, and they were still at the party, last night, when I left.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Victoria asked her. “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

It was just an expression, Chloe told herself. And here, in the bright light of the sun, sitting next to Victoria, the memory seemed absolutely ridiculous.

“I’m fine. So what do you think? Are they going to make it?”

Victoria shrugged. “They were talking to Myra when I left, but it looked like they were getting ready to leave, so I imagine they’ll drag themselves out of bed.”

“I like Myra,” Chloe said. “When you think about her position, it’s pretty amazing. She’s not cold or snobby or any of that.”

“Yeah, but she can be hard as nails, too. You should see her when she’s negotiating,” Victoria said. “Watch out, that’s all I can say.”

“Well, I know she was questioned intensely when Colleen Rodriguez disappeared, and the cops were impressed with her.”

Victoria glanced over at her. “And you know this because …?”

“Because my uncle’s office was involved.”

“But Colleen disappeared in the Keys and he’s Dade County.”

“Doesn’t matter. Both counties were involved in the investigation, not to mention that cops talk. My uncle doesn’t believe for an instant that she just took off.”

Victoria flashed Chloe a glance as she drove. “You’re forgetting that I was on that shoot, too.”

“I know you were.”

Victoria shook her head. “There was nothing, just nothing, to suggest that anyone did anything to her. I do know she’d sort of been seeing one of the bar managers down there, a really nice guy. He’s half American, half Bahamian, and he’s so gorgeous he should be modeling himself, but he wants to go into hotel management. He wasn’t with her that night, though. And even though they seemed to really like each other, they hadn’t been together all that long. Who knows? Maybe she did meet someone else. Or maybe—just maybe—she disappeared on purpose. You know, some kind of a publicity stunt.”

“I doubt it. From what I know about Colleen, neither scenario sounds like her.”

They had reached the restaurant by then, so they stopped talking and turned the car over to the valet. Brad came walking down the steps just as they started up them. “I was afraid you two had forgotten about breakfast. I just sent you a text message, Vick.”

“I was driving, and I don’t text and drive,” Victoria said.

“Sorry,” Brad said. “Anyway, come in. Jared is holding down the table.”

They walked through the crowded restaurant and found Jared at a table next to the plate-glass window that overlooked the bay—one of the best in the place. It wasn’t that they were such big spenders, just that they showed up regularly, in season and out, and had been doing so for years.

“Hey there,” Jared said, standing and giving them each a kiss on the cheek as they were seated.

“You’re looking good,” Victoria told him.

He blushed, and Chloe wondered if Victoria had any notion that Jared was in love with her, that he had been forever. She didn’t understand why he tried so hard to hide his feelings. In the beginning, she was certain, he hadn’t let on because he was convinced, as they all were in those days, that they were damaged goods, too scarred psychologically to form relationships based on anything other than shared trauma. They had lived through a nightmare, and the aftermath had just been a nightmare of a different sort. They had been hounded by the media, and whenever they met people, whether at school or work, or even casually at parties, they were items of curiosity. Everyone wanted to know the gory details, details the four of them were trying hard to forget.

At least the killers had been found.

Dead.

The sketch Chloe had done of one of them—an image burned into her memory when she and the killer had stared each other in the eye—had allowed the police to identify him when his body was found.

Brad took a seat next to Victoria and picked up the menu. Chloe found herself watching him and feeling a sense of pride. Brad had a trust fund, but he worked hard and had grown his business into a real success, even though one day soon he and Victoria would inherit the entire family fortune. And he never acted like a rich jerk.

He worked out, and he spent time with his friends. He loved women, loved going to the parties Victoria got him into. He’d been deeply religious before the massacre, but he had lost his faith in the aftermath, so now, since he’d never found the woman, he played the field and they remained a platonic foursome.

Jared, of course, had no desire to be platonic where Victoria was concerned, but since he wouldn’t speak up …

Like Brad, he, too, was extremely good-looking and hardworking. There was no inheritance ahead for him, but he was brilliant with the money markets, and he womanized alongside Brad, while he pined for Victoria.

She wondered if any of them would—or could—get it right in the future.

Brad caught her staring and lifted a brow. “Why the serious look?”

“Just thinking, you two are getting kind of old for a life of nonstop partying and debauchery,” Chloe teased.

“Excuse me,” Brad said, “but what’s so wrong with appreciating beautiful women?” He smiled. “Luckily for us, there will be at least twelve of them on the calendar shoot.”

“Speaking of, you are doing the shoot with me, right?” Victoria asked Chloe. “Myra told me that she’s reserved June for you, so if you’re not interested, you need to tell her right away.” Victoria smiled. “Myra really loves your look. When you think of all the women who try to get hired by the agency, it’s really cool that she’s offered you a spot.”

Chloe laughed. “Was that a compliment, or are you wondering why she’d choose me?”

Victoria laughed. “It was a compliment. Cross my heart and hope to die. It’s just that you don’t care, and so many people do. I heard her talking to Harry Lee last night, and she was wishing you’d take a greater interest in a modeling career, and he agreed.”

“But you are going to be Miss June, right?” Brad asked.

“Yes,” Chloe said. “Yes, I’ll do it.” She’d been hoping she would be asked. She needed to be a part of things so she could get onto the island and see what was going on. And Stuckey didn’t need to be afraid for her; she would be in the company of dozens of other people the whole time.

Of course, Colleen Rodriguez had been in the company of those same people, a little voice nagged. Then again, no one had been suspicious then; there had been no need to be. This time everyone would have their guard up.

“And if anyone comes after you, you can just hit them with that jujitsu stuff you do,” Brad said, then grew suddenly pensive. “Not that even that would have helped … then.”

For a moment she had no idea what to say. Finally she managed to mumble, “Mixed martial arts. I do mixed martial arts.”

He reached across the table, touching her hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up the past, not really,” he said huskily.

Chloe shrugged and squeezed his hand in return. “You just took me by surprise, that’s all. It doesn’t bother me to talk about it. In fact, I do talk about it now and then. I still don’t believe the finale, though.”

“Why not?” Victoria asked, frowning. “They found the guys. They were dead.”

“Two guys, dead, and a suicide note taking full blame in the name of the Church of the Real People? I’m sorry—the rest of the world may have bought it. I still don’t,” Chloe said.

Jared cleared his throat. “Chloe, the experts said it was a ritualistic murder and that it all made sense. And I did a lot of research into cults myself, after that, and I have to agree.”

“The church officials were horrified, and of course their membership really dropped,” Brad said.

Chloe looked back at Brad. They’d all grown up going to the same beautiful church in the Grove. She had found comfort in returning to that church, but Brad and Jared had gone in the opposite direction. It made her feel sad that Brad, in particular, had lost something that had once meant so much to him.

“Earth to Chloe, you’re staring at me,” Brad told her.

“Sorry,” she said. “But I still don’t buy it.”

“Chloe, you’re the one whose sketch ID’d the one guy,” Brad said.

“The dead man was one of the killers, yes. I just don’t think it stopped with the two of them.”

“Chloe,” Jared said, “if there had been someone else—a Charles Manson or whatever—the killing wouldn’t have ended when it did.”

“I know what you’re saying makes sense, but I’ve just never believed it, that’s all.” She picked up her menu to end the conversation. “I’m thinking waffles, but the eggs Benedict are really good, too.”

She could feel her friends looking at each other and knew they were worried about her.

She looked from one to the other of them. “Honestly, I’m fine. It’s just the way I feel.”

“It’s okay. We still love you. So, how about I get the waffles, you get the eggs Benedict, and we share?” Jared suggested.

Luke was surprised by how quickly and easily he had learned so much about Chloe Marin. She had started college late, after going on an extended tour abroad after high school, earning a double major in psychology and art at NYU. She had worked with patients doing art therapy at the Dade County Hospital for three years after graduation, and had been working freelance, with an office on Brickell, for the last two.

She had survived what they called the Teen Massacre during her senior year of high school. Eight of her friends had been slaughtered. Chloe had survived by being one step ahead of a pair of killers, Michael Donlevy and Abram Garcia, members of the Church of the Real People, a cult with socialist leanings and strict versions of the code of God—their God. To their way of thinking, the teenagers had been sinners, and the killers had saved them from eternal damnation, or so claimed the suicide note found carefully sealed in a Baggie next to the bodies in a wildlife park just off the Tamiami Trail in the Everglades.

Information regarding the massacre had been easy to dig up—the newspapers had carried the story until there was nothing new to carry.

The details were horrifying.

Death to defilers! written in blood, on the living-room wall. Eight dead, six wounded, two who had been passed out on the beach, unaware of the tragic events unfolding inside, and four who had miraculously escaped.

Victoria Preston, Brad Angsley, Jared Walker—and Chloe Marin. Victoria claimed that Chloe had saved her life, but Chloe hadn’t wanted to talk about any of it. She had given one interview, and that was that. He’d found a picture of her standing at a news podium, with a tall man at her side. There was a definite family resemblance. He had to be her uncle, the A.D.A., Leo Marin. Chloe had long hair then, falling nearly to her waist. Bangs, and huge eyes. Innocent eyes showing the pain of what she’d been through. She’d been so young, seventeen, and she’d been forced to grow old overnight.

The survivors had spent hours in the police station, giving their individual statements. They hadn’t been able to shed much light. The killers had worn black dive suits with hoods, working swiftly and efficiently in the dark.

Only Chloe had been able to give a description that had been any help at all. She had even drawn a picture of the man whose face she’d briefly seen. A picture that had matched one of the bodies that had been discovered later.

Death to defilers! And something else. An odd drawing … like a hand.

Everything done in blood. Obviously the work of a cult.

There were also pictures of the two “brothers” who had been found dead in the Everglades. Apparently, Brother Abram Garcia had killed Brother Michael Donlevy, then turned the gun on himself. They had done God’s work, saving the teenagers from the greed and gluttony of their parents, the cruelty born of excess, and sent them to God before they could sin beyond redemption.

Brother Abram was tall and looked strong enough to kill. Brother Michael was a smaller, slimmer man. Somehow, he didn’t look like the kind of guy who could overpower a bunch of high-school jocks—even drunk jocks, and even in the dead of night.

Luke typed in the name of the sect church and was surprised to find that it still existed, that it even had a welcoming Web page. Those who were lost and seeking the real truth of God were invited to a potluck supper on Thursday night.

Luke sat back. He’d always found it fascinating to explore the mind-sets, religions and philosophies of people the world over. A potluck dinner would be a perfect opportunity to see what made the Church of the Real People tick.

He drummed his fingers on his desk. He wasn’t sure why he had such a fascination with Chloe’s ten-year-old horror. He had a job to do, two cases to work, and he didn’t see how the dinner was going to get him any closer to finding out the truth behind Colleen Rodriguez’s disappearance, but he had to eat—and he couldn’t fight the desire to know more about Chloe Marin.

He searched until he was able to go back ten years, then made a list of known members of the cult at the time of the murders, but nothing he tried got him to a site where he could find a list of current members. In fact, for the five years following the massacre, the church hadn’t kept any kind of a Web site at all. Now, however, the Church of the Real People had been revived.

As he contemplated that, he heard a car coming down the path. He closed the page and went topside.

He didn’t need to go see Stuckey. Stuckey was coming to see him.

“You busy?” the cop asked.

Shirtless, barefoot and in swim trunks, his hands on his hips, Luke said, “I think I can spare a few minutes.”

Stuckey hopped down onto the boat, wiping his hand across his brow. “Hot out here today, huh?”

“The cabin is air-conditioned,” Luke said.

“You could just live in a house, like normal people do,” Stuckey told him.

“I could. But I like the boat. I can leave without packing whenever I get the urge.”

Shaking his head, Stuckey ducked and went down the steps to the cabin, heading straight to the refrigerator, helping himself to a beer before flopping down on the sofa. Officially, Sunday was his day off. Unofficially, he was a workaholic and used the weekends for the cases that weren’t technically his to solve.

“I got a present this morning,” Stuckey told him.

“Oh?”

“A food basket. Rene Gonzalez’s folks sent it. They think you can save Rene, and they wanted to thank me for sending them to you.”

“So you got the food basket and I got nothing?” Luke said, then helped himself to a beer as well, and sat down across from Stuckey.

“Can you really do anything?” Stuckey asked him. “Is she even in danger? None of us believe Colleen just disappeared, but we can’t prove any differently. So maybe we’re wrong. Maybe it’s a publicity stunt.”

“A six-month publicity stunt?” Luke asked.

“Right. I know. And not that it would change anything where Rene is concerned. She’s hell-bent on going out to that island.”

“And she’s over twenty-one, so if she wants to go, she can.”

“And that leads me to my point. She will go on the photo shoot, but so will you.”

“So far, so good,” Luke said. “As long as Miss Marin doesn’t give me away.”

“Chloe Marin is as solid as the day is long,” Stuckey assured him.

“Yeah, I’ve been reading up about her. Why the hell didn’t you tell me who I was dealing with?” Luke demanded, shaking his head. “That she survived a massacre like that? The kind of work she does? That she’s not just some wannabe?”

“You know, in hindsight, I should have told you about her and what she was doing at the mansion for us. She was raised by her uncle—A.D.A. Leo Marin—so she learned a lot from him, and she comes in when we need her to sketch for us. It started the night of the massacre. She drew a likeness that helped us identify one of the cult members found dead in the Everglades.

“She has something that’s close to a photographic memory, and an eye for detail.” He shook his head. “The night of the massacre … I can only imagine the terror. Chloe got Victoria out of there, and Brad and Jared were there and survived, too. The four of them have been close ever since, but it changed their lives in ways I don’t think they’ll ever completely get over. Victoria could have done a dozen fashion shoots in Paris, but she didn’t accept. You know why? She works down here because she can be with her friends. Not one of them has ever formed a serious romantic relationship. They pretty much lose themselves in their jobs. Brad has a trust fund and his boat business, and he and his cousin Victoria stand to inherit a fortune when their maternal grandfather dies. Jared trades stocks. And Chloe counsels trauma survivors, in addition to her work for us.”

“I should have known all this before I went into that house.”

“Other than the fact that Chloe was there to listen in for us, what does the past have to do with a missing girl in the Keys? With a father who worries about his daughter, since it was her best friend who went missing?” Stuckey demanded. “Besides, you said you wanted total anonymity. In my defense, you’ve been worried that Chloe is going to spill the beans about you. If she didn’t know about you, she couldn’t have said anything.”

“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have known about her. And now that she does know about me, how the hell am I going to keep my anonymity if Chloe Marin is as close as you say with the others?”

“I told her not to say anything, and she won’t,” Stuckey insisted.

“Not even to Victoria—who’ll end up telling someone else?”

“No. Believe me. Chloe’s rock solid. So what’s your next move?” Stuckey asked.

“Let’s go back for a minute. You were sure, absolutely sure, that the men who committed that massacre were the two men found in the Everglades?” Luke asked.

“Why are we back on the past? I’m sure. The killers were found, along with a bag holding black, hooded dive suits, one with the mask ripped, and knives covered with dried blood from the victims were found. Not to mention that one of the men matched Chloe’s sketch. Yeah, we’re sure. Why?”

“Those ‘killers’ just didn’t look the type, that’s all,” Luke said. “Especially the smaller guy.”

Stuckey shrugged. “They were found two days after the murders, with enough evidence to put my grandmother away. And the suicide note—the Church of the Real People denied any involvement, of course. They were devastated, claiming they had never condoned murder, that the killers must have been insane. The church pretty much fell apart after that, though it started rebuilding a few years later.”

“What I find interesting, if not out-and-out suspicious,” Luke said, “is that the kids were all killed with knives, but Abram Garcia shot Michael Donlevy, then himself.”

“What would you rather do? Cut yourself or die clean and neat from a bullet to the head?” Stuckey asked.

“So Garcia shot Donlevy in the head?”

“Yep. Point-blank range. Then himself.”

“He didn’t put the gun in his mouth?” Luke asked.

“No, shot himself in the temple.”

“Hmm.”

“Why ‘hmm'?” Stuckey sounded annoyed.

“I just find it odd. Suicides have a tendency to eat the gun.”

“Maybe he never took lessons on the proper way to commit suicide,” Stuckey said, sounding exasperated. “Here’s another thing. The killers were found, and nothing like the killings happened again.”

“Sounds odder still,” Luke said. “They weren’t caught, so why stop? They could have kept going with their mission and ‘saved’ more kids from going on to lead lives of sin. Instead, they just killed themselves.”

“It was guilt,” Stuckey insisted. “You should have seen that place. It was a bloodbath. Those kids died without ever knowing what hit them.”

“There’s another thing,” Luke pointed out.

“What now?”

“Think about it. Mass murders are generally messy. People die trying to get away. This was methodical. Organized. Someone knew enough to wait, and then those kids were killed before they were really awake. And you know as well as I do, as easy as it sounds, it’s damn hard to slit a throat. Slice right through. It takes skill and strength, and it’s pretty hard to believe no one struggled and alerted the rest, which makes me think there were more than two killers, so it all got done quickly.”

Stuckey groaned. “What do you want me to do? Reopen the case? It was closed over ten years ago. And it has nothing to do with whatever happened to the Rodriguez girl. She’s what we have to worry about now.”

Luke shrugged. “Well, I promise you, I will find out what happened to Colleen Rodriguez, and if need be, I’ll keep it from happening to Rene Gonzalez, too. Because until we know what happened to her, every young woman out there could be in danger. Victoria and Chloe are going on that shoot. Something could happen to them, too.”

“Don’t you think I’d stop them if I could?” Stuckey demanded.

“Is that really why you called me?”

Stuckey shook his head. “No. I called you because one girl’s missing and another girl’s parents are scared. And I sent you in undercover because there’s a strong possibility an insider is involved. And does it bother me that two women I know, women who have already been through more than their share of torment, may be in danger, even when no one can put a finger on what that danger might be …? Of course it does. But I’m a cop—I have to act like a cop. I have to follow the letter of the law, not to mention that this isn’t even my investigation. My hands are tied precisely because I’m a cop.”

“Stuckey, what exactly do you want from me?”

Stuckey paused for a moment, then said, “I pulled you in because you’re not a cop, but you’re no-nonsense and you have integrity. I want you to do whatever you have to do to discover the truth. Without warrants. Without reading anyone their rights. Just do me a favor, huh? Don’t go getting caught—or shot up or sliced to ribbons—when you’re doing whatever illegal thing it is you need to do to get to the truth.”