Heather Graham - Hurricane Bay

“I never suggested they weren’t working every angle.”

“You didn’t, but some guy wrote it up in the paper that way.”

“Was he questioned?”

“You bet. He was just some jerk who’s down on the police. He writes up every scrap of corruption he can get his hands on. He tried to suggest years ago that the cops didn’t really give a rat’s ass when a psycho was killing hookers on Eighth Street. Then the cops cornered the killer and he had to eat his words. But there were witnesses on that case. At least they had the make and color of the car to go on. They don’t seem to have a damned thing this time. Then there was the guy a while back who was killing working girls, cutting them up and stuffing them in suitcases. They thought they had it all solved when they were able to trace a guy to the last victim—except she hadn’t been a prostitute, she’d been a lounge singer, and the guy they traced was her ex-boyfriend. Turned out he hadn’t killed the prostitutes, he was just hoping to get away with murder by disposing of the body in the same manner. They caught him, but they still don’t know who did in the other women.”

“Think it could be the same man?”

“With a change in style? I don’t know. I don’t know enough about criminal psychology to answer that, but the guys I know seem to think they’re looking for two different killers. Since they haven’t found new bodies in suitcases in a while, they’re afraid the guy they called the ‘Bag-man’ might have moved on. He was a slasher. This guy strangles. Apparently a different psychology brings about the difference in methods. Hey, you took a lot more classes in criminology than I ever did. You should know.”

Dane shrugged. “It’s not likely that a slasher would become a strangler,” he said. “In this case, though…well, I just hoped you might have some insight. You saw the body in situ and all.”

“I told you—I called in the specialists the minute I found her. I mean the minute. I knew damn well that I didn’t have the manpower or equipment to investigate a crime scene like that, to protect every little hair and fiber that might turn up.” He was quiet for a moment, studying Dane. “So why your renewed interest in the case?” Jesse asked.

“Sheila’s missing,” Dane said. He was comfortable saying that much.

One of Jesse’s dark brows arched against his forehead. “What do you mean, missing? Sheila is always off somewhere, and she always turns up again. Why are you worried and connecting her to this case? She doesn’t fit the victim profile. Or has she started wearing pasties and dancing?”

“No. But…she was running pretty wild.”

“She may still be running wild. Sheila’s taken off for long periods of time before, hasn’t she? I don’t think she came back to Key Largo much before you showed up down here again. And before that, if I understand it right, after her divorce from Larry, she took off for Europe for a while, came back and gambled in Vegas, then hopped around some more before settling into renting that duplex with Cindy. Why would you suspect she might be a victim just because she didn’t share her plans with anyone? Cindy told me that even after they rented the duplex, Sheila often went off for a few nights. Cindy would start getting worried, and then Sheila would suddenly call her from the Bahamas or somewhere to say she was all right.”

“She hasn’t called anyone this time.”

“Still…well, you’re talking about Sheila.”

“Call it a hunch,” Dane said.

Jesse stared at him. “It’s more than a hunch, but, hey, you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

“I’m still dealing with it myself,” Dane said.

“Have you been to the local cops?”

“No, but Kelsey is down. She was supposed to meet Sheila here. And she said something about having gone to the cops.”

“I’m sure they mollified her and filled out a report. And that’s about all you’re going to get. Not that you haven’t got decent guys working the Keys. It’s just that Sheila is a grown woman, a woman known to leave her home for long periods of time without giving notice to those around her. She’s over twenty-one and doesn’t really owe explanations to anyone.”

“She hasn’t just gone off. I have to find—” He paused, wondering if he was being an ass, if he shouldn’t just bring Jesse in on it now. But he wasn’t ready. It was just this morning that he had seen the photograph. “I have to find her myself.”

“If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

“Thanks. How are you doing out there?”

“I’m doing well,” Jesse said, swallowing the rest of his beer. “And I’m going to get going on this one beer. I don’t think it would make for good public relations if a Miccosukee cop was stopped for driving under the influence. Come out and see me sometime. I’ll show you where I found the girl, and I’ll let you see the file I have on the incident.”

“Great. Thanks. I’ll take you up on that.”

“Let me know when you’re coming, so I can be available.”

“You’ve managed to get your hands on a cell phone that can find a signal in the Glades?”

Jesse laughed. “No, not really. But the office can rouse me on the radio if I’m not around.”

“I’ll be out soon.”

Dane walked Jesse out through the front of the house. A broad hallway stretched from the living room to the front foyer, a formal room decorated according to his mother’s era, with a library to the right and a breakfast room to the left directly behind the kitchen. A curving stairway led to the two big bedrooms that took up the entire second floor of the residence.

They all used to slide down the banisters when they’d been kids. It had driven his mother crazy.

Jesse left by the front door, and Dane went along with him as he got into his car—his own, a beige Jeep, and not the patrol car he used when he was on duty. Jesse preferred his Jeep, though he was free to use the patrol car when he chose. There had been some torrential rains lately. Maybe he’d been afraid the road to Hurricane Bay would be badly rutted.

And sometimes he liked his own car when he was off the reservation because he got tired of tourists pointing at him as if he were Tonto on a pinto.

“You know, when you feel you’re ready for my help, I’m there,” Jesse told him.

“Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

Jesse drove away.

Dane started back to the house, but hesitated, looking at the eaves over the porch that led to the roadside, the official entry, of the house. He mentally placed a security camera in the eaves. He’d get on it tomorrow.

He walked back in, heading for his computer. He sat down, keyed in some entries and followed them. For an hour, he gave his attention to every detail he could glean from the news articles he was able to call up online.

After a while, mind churning, he logged off, stretched and walked out back. He stared at the dock and walked around the angular corner that brought him from the dock and the deeper water to the spit of shallows and beach.

That was where she had been.

Rain, surf, sand, time. Nothing. The area looked as peaceful as ever.

He walked back into the house and looked around the living room, feeling a renewed surge of fury, sorrow and anger.

In his own room, he threw open the closet door, looked at the organized rows of clothing. The space where an article was missing. He’d been through it all in his head, over and over. He’d searched the house.

He went over it again.

The entire house, top to bottom. Out back, he trod lightly over the small dock, hopped aboard the Urchin and once again went slowly and minutely over every detail of his boat.

At last he went back to the house, locked both doors and made certain that his .38 special was loaded and beneath his pillow.