Dead Run (3 page)

Saturday, November 3
9:30 a.m.

R
ick's Island Hideaway was the quintessential Key West bar: Jimmy Buffet on the sound system; killer frozen margaritas; a friendly clientele whose attire never veered far from shorts and Hawaiian-print shirts; walls hung with maritime paraphernalia, including a stuffed sailfish and a signed photo of Key West's most famous onetime resident, Ernest Hemingway. It was the same photo that could be found in about ninety percent of the Duval Street drinking establishments.

And last but certainly not least, a bartender who could charm the skin off a snake.

The ability to do just that came as naturally to Rick Wells as breathing. It was an ability, a gift, really, that Rick depended on but didn't pride himself in. There
were many ways to hide from life, he knew. On a bar stool was one way. Behind a killer smile was another.

“What can I get you?” Rick asked the man who slid onto the stool in front of him. Judging by his starched and pressed shirt and obvious hangover, he was a tourist. And not one who had stopped in for a cup of coffee.

“Uncle Jack, black. Straight up.”

Jack Daniel's, black label.
At only 9:30 a.m., the coffee would have been a better choice, Rick thought. But he wasn't this guy's mother, wife or pastor. Rick poured the shot and slid it across the bar. “Big night last night?”

The man nodded, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth. “This place is all right.” He brought the glass to his lips. “You don't happen to have a
New York Times
I could buy?”

“Tough to get the current
Times
here. They sell out fast for an exorbitant price. It's a matter of geography, my friend.”

The tourist swore. “Great. My wife's going to be more pissed at me than she already is.” He shook his head. “The older wives get, the less of a sense of humor they have.”

“Couldn't say, my friend. That's not my area.”

The man shot him an envious glance. “Not married, huh?”

“Not anymore,” Rick responded, forcing a light tone, cursing the sudden tightness in his chest.

“Well, take it from me, it's true.” The man downed the shot, then nudged the glass back to Rick for a refill. “No
Times.
Imagine that.” He shook his head, his expression a cross between disbelief and bemusement. “You seem like a pretty with-it guy, how do you manage?”

“I don't mind giving up a few conveniences to live in paradise.” Rick refilled the glass, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Besides, the news isn't going to change if I don't read it today. It'll be just as screwed up tomorrow. Or the day after.”

“You've got a point, man. September eleventh fucked everything up.”

“If you want news, I suggest the
Miami Herald.
”

The tourist downed the second shot. “You wouldn't happen to have one, would you?”

“Sure do.” Rick reached under the bar for his copy, which he had already read, cover to cover. He laid it on the counter. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks, I—”

“Marty,” a woman called from the bar's open doorway, her tone disgusted, “I
thought
you were finding me a paper?”

The man rolled his eyes at Rick and stood. “Got it, sweetheart.” He tossed a ten-dollar bill on the bar, scooped up the papers, then hurried toward the door.

“Nice talking to you,” Rick called after him, then smiled as Valentine Lopez strolled through the bar entry. Valentine—Val to everyone but his mother and the priest who had baptized him—was Rick's oldest friend.

“Well, if it isn't Key West's own version of Dick Tracy. I'm honored.”

“You should be, buddy,” Val responded, crossing to Rick. “Still wasting away in Margaritaville, I see.”

“Everybody's got to have a talent.” Rick grinned and motioned to the stool in front of him. “Take a load off.”

The two men were “conchs,” the tag given to Key West natives, though they came from very different
backgrounds. Rick's family was a Key West import, his father a doctor, his mother a socialite from West Palm Beach. On a vacation to the island, his parents had caught what the locals called the “Key West disease.” Before their week-long vacation ended, they had decided they never wanted to leave. His father had sold his Tampa practice and opened one on the island.

Val's family, on the other hand, descended from some of the original Cuban inhabitants of the island. His ancestors had been involved in both the cigar-making and sponging industries. Val's father—now deceased—had been a shrimper. A noble occupation though not a particularly lucrative one.

The two boys would probably never have met, let alone become as close as brothers, if they had grown up anywhere else. But despite their disparate means and backgrounds Rick and Val had fallen into an unshakable friendship. A friendship tested only once: when Rick married the girl of Val's dreams.

Val sat. “Got any coffee back there?”

“The best café con leche on the island.”

“My mother would argue with that.”

“Second best, then. No way I'm getting into a pissing match with that little woman. She's tough.”

Rick went about preparing the Cuban espresso and hot milk. “How are things down at the department?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the espresso machine.

“Let me put it this way, when you decide to grow up, let me know. I could use you.”

The Key West Police Department consisted of eighty-one sworn officers and twenty-two civilian personnel. Val was the ranking detective on the force and one of five officers who reported directly to the chief of police.

“Use me? Geez, things must really suck.”

Val sobered. “I mean it, Rick. You're a cop. One of the best I've ever—”

“Was a cop,” Rick corrected. He set the
con leche
in front of his friend. “A long time ago.”

“
Are
a cop,” Val repeated. “It's in your blood. It's what you—”

“Joke's over, Val,” Rick muttered. “I suggest you not go there.”

“It's been more than three years. You need to let them go.”

Emotion rose up in Rick, nearly strangling him. “Don't tell me what I need. Don't you…dare tell me that I need to do that. I'll never let them go. Never.”

Silence fell between the two men. Until three years ago, Rick had been a detective with the Key West Police Department and before that with the Miami-Dade force. He'd had the reputation for being smart and fearless, a seasoned hotshot with a killer instinct and an unwillingness to say die.

Tragedy forced Rick out of Miami. His wife had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer and only a handful of months later, he found himself a widower. And single father to a grief-stricken five-year-old son. Despondent, in need of friends, family and a better place to raise Sam, he'd returned to Key West.

Val had quickly gotten him a spot on his team at the KWPD. Although it had been a big adjustment to go from lead detective on complex and high-profile murder cases to investigating open-and-shut burglary and assault cases, Rick had been grateful for the opportunity. And for the small-town pace.

His peace had been shattered only a matter of months later: two armed men had broken into Rick's home in
the middle of the night. Shots had broken out and Sam, awakened by the commotion, had gotten caught in the cross fire.

Ballistics had proved that Sam had been killed by one of Rick's bullets.

Val pushed his coffee away and stood. “I've worn out my welcome this morning.”

“Don't be a jerk.” Rick scowled at the other man. “Drink your coffee or I'll have to kick your ass.”

Val sat, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Kick
my
ass? You wish. You're out of shape, my friend.”

The truth was, the two men were as different physically as they were genetically. Val was small, with a wiry build and the coloring of his Cuban ancestors. Rick was big—six foot three—with blue eyes and fair hair.

“You think?” Rick looked down at his gut. “Can't pinch an inch.”

“It's all about training, my friend. My body's a lethal instrument, while yours—”

Rick burst out laughing. “By any chance, is that the line you use with the ladies? Because, well…I think I should warn you, it's pretty cheesy.”

Val, still single and a self-avowed playboy, grinned. “To you, maybe. But to the ladies, pure nectar.”

“Excuse me while I puke.”

“I know it's hard to take. But it's true, I'm a chick magnet. I could fix you up.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “We could double-date, like we did when we were in high school.”

“Pass on that, buddy. Thanks anyway.”

“Jill's gone,” Val murmured. “Almost four years now.”

Rick averted his gaze, staring at the open doorway
and the brilliant rectangle of light beyond. “That guy who was leaving when you walked in, he was complaining about his wife. Envying my single state. And all I could think was how not a day goes by that I don't wish she'd lived long enough to make my life a living hell.”

Val swore softly. “I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean—”

“Forget it. It's my problem.”

Several moments of strained silence passed between them. Val drained his cup. “Gotta go, crime calls.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Missing person.”

“As in
poof,
gone?”

“Don't know for sure.” Val stood. “The supervisor of Island National Bank's processing center didn't show up for work yesterday. A friend and coworker tried to reach her and couldn't. When she didn't show up for their morning run this morning, her friend called us.”

Rick frowned. “That's Naomi Pearson, right?”

“Yeah. You know her?”

“I'm a bartender. I know almost everybody on the island.” He searched his memory for how or when he had first met her. “I financed the Hideaway through Island National. I think I met her one time when I was up there. I hope she's okay.”

“I'm sure she is. Probably met some guy and took off.” Val saluted. “Give me a call sometime. I'm in the book.”

Saturday, November 3
4:30 p.m.

“H
ey, boss man,” twenty-year-old Mark Morgan called as he entered Rick's Island Hideaway. “What's shakin'?”

Rick sat with his back to the door, head angled toward the television mounted from the ceiling behind the bar. He was watching the five-o'clock local news.

He glanced over his shoulder at him and smiled. “Not much. There was an anthrax scare up in Homestead. A jealous husband sent his soon-to-be ex a letter containing a powdery substance.”

“Which turned out to be?” Mark asked.

“Cornstarch. But the hoax closed the entire office building where the woman works. What's with these people?”

“No joke. Sick.”

Rick glanced back at the tube. “It's official. Fantasy-Fest attendance was way down this year. No surprise there.”

Fantasy Fest, a nine-day adult Halloween celebration that culminated in a huge costume party on Duval Street, was the wildest thing Mark had ever seen. “If attendance was down this year, I'd hate to be around when it's up.”

Rick snapped off the TV. “Libby called. She's running late.”

“No problem. I'll clock in.”

Libby, one of the nighttime bartenders, was consistently late. The original party girl, she stayed up all night and slept most of the day. In anticipation, Rick had begun scheduling her an hour before he needed her.

Mark smiled to himself, crossed to the time clock and punched in. That's the kind of guy Rick was. Flexible but demanding; a laid-back perfectionist, if such a thing was possible. He wanted what he wanted but wasn't averse to finding a roundabout way to get it.

Mark liked that about his boss. He enjoyed working for him. He figured God had been looking out for him big-time when he sent Rick Wells his way.

Like a lot of folks on the island, Mark was relatively new to Key West. Two years before, he had graduated from high school in Humble, Texas, concluded much to his family's dismay that he'd had enough of school for a while and set off to see a bit of the world. After bumming around the Southeast, he landed in south Florida, then Key West.

He had found Rick's Island Hideaway by chance. A Help Wanted sign in the window had propelled him inside. Rick had hired him on the spot. Mark wasn't sure if Rick had given him the job because they'd hit
it off right away—which they had—or because Mark didn't touch alcohol, a rare commodity on this island.

“How was your day?” Rick asked from the doorway.

Mark thought of Tara, his girlfriend of three months. He had beeped her half a dozen times throughout the day, but she hadn't responded.

Had she tired of him already?

He lifted a shoulder, feigning indifference. “It was pretty cool. How about yours?”

“Good. Business was steady, but not nuts. Val stopped by.”

“Great.” Mark slipped on an apron and headed out to the bar. Florida law required a person to be twenty-one to serve alcohol, but he did just about everything else around the Hideaway, from washing glasses and replenishing stock, to mopping behind the bar and sweeping the walk in front of the Hideaway. It wasn't a glamorous job, but then Mark wasn't qualified for glamorous.

“Anything in particular you want done first?” he asked Rick, who had followed him out front.

“Glasses, then straighten up for the rush. Wipe all the tables and chairs, sweep the floor.”

“You got it, boss.”

Mark worked in silence, his thoughts turning to Tara once more. They'd met shortly after he'd gotten the job at Rick's. He'd been working; she'd been out partying with her friends. They had looked at each other and something had happened—it had been instant and electrifying.

Love at first sight.

Problem was, she was only seventeen and still in high school. A senior, she would graduate in May. Worse than her age, however, were her friends. She was part of a closely knit group, more a club than simply a clique
of friends. They partied, used drugs and were sexually active. They espoused ideas that went against Mark's upbringing, materialistic ones about the existence of only the here and now, about living for today not tomorrow, about enjoying the moment and all it had to offer.

Once he had learned what she was a part of, he'd told her it was over between them. But she had begged him to see her again. She loved him; she would break away from her friends, distance herself from their beliefs.

So far, she hadn't been too successful at doing that. But then, it didn't seem to him that she had tried all that hard.

Is that where she had been all day? he wondered, hoisting a tray of clean glasses onto his shoulder and heading out to the bar. Running around with her friends? Seeing other guys? Partying the way she used to?

Anger rose up in him, swift and white-hot. He fought to get a grip on it. Anger was a powerful, destructive force. One of the seven deadly sins. The one he had to battle often. The one that had gotten him into trouble before—big trouble.

Tara had changed, he told himself. He had to believe in her, he had to trust. He loved her.

Mark sighed. Tara didn't understand his religious convictions; he didn't understand her lack of them. Raised in a strict Southern Baptist family, the church had played a major part in his childhood. In fact, in first grade he had announced that when he grew up, he was going to be a preacher. His conviction to do so hadn't wavered until just months before his high-school graduation.

Suddenly, he had felt called in another direction.

His change of heart had both shocked and dismayed
his family. They'd begged him to reconsider, had asked their pastor to intervene. But Mark had held fast to his decision. He had argued that he needed to experience sin firsthand before he preached against it. After all, how could he counsel others on spiritual strength if his had never been tested?

Mark loaded the glasses onto the shelves behind the bar, aware of Rick at the other end, chatting with a pair of tourists about the area's best bone fishing and where to hire a guide. He swallowed hard and acknowledged the irony of it all: he was knee-deep in sin and spiritual warfare, and most days, not faring so well in the battle.

Glasses done, Mark moved on to the tables and chairs, aware of time passing, and that the trickle of customers entering the bar would soon be a surge. Libby had arrived and was flirting with a pair of guys drinking shots and beer. Locals, Mark recognized. They came in a couple times a week, always together and always wearing matching Miami Dolphins caps.

So, where had Tara been all day? Why hadn't she returned his pages?

She had been acting strangely of late, jumpy and distracted, crying a lot. She'd lost weight and looked tired all the time, with dark circles under her eyes.

Maybe she didn't really love him. Maybe she loved her friends and their wild lifestyle more.

Business grew brisk, and Mark managed to put all thoughts of Tara aside until a lull offered him the opportunity to call her.

Using Rick's office phone, he dialed. At the sound of her voice, twin emotions of relief and anger cascaded over him. “Where have you been?”

“Nowhere,” she answered immediately, tone defensive.

“I paged you five times today. You didn't call me back.”

“The battery's dead. Geez.”

A twinge of guilt speared through him. He quashed it by mustering indignation.
After all, she could have called him.
“Did you do it today? Like you promised? Did you tell your friends you didn't want to see them anymore?”

“Why are you acting this way!” she cried. “I didn't do anything wrong! I didn't even see my friends today.”

He let out a sharp breath, wishing not for the first time that he had broken it off with her when he discovered who her friends were. “You made a promise to me, Tara. You haven't kept it.”

“It's not that easy! You don't understand.”

“Is it me you don't want to be with anymore, Tara? Is that what you're trying to tell me?”

“No! I love you, you know that.” Her voice broke. “But today…I—”

She bit the words back and emotion balled in his chest, part frustration and part despair.
Another of her excuses. Why of all the girls in the world, had he fallen in love with her?

“I'm so tired of this conversation, Tara. So tired of you claiming you love me then turning around and—”

“I have to go.”

“Don't do this to me, Tara. All day I worried and now—”

Rick popped his head into the office. “Need you out front, Mark. Wrap it up.”

Mark nodded and held up one finger, indicating he needed just a moment more.

When the other man had exited the office, he returned to Tara. “Please, babe, talk to me.”

“Meet me later.” He heard her parents in the background calling to her. “Our regular place.”

He fought frustration. “Are you sure you can get away? Last time you didn't show.”

“I'll be there. I—” her voice cracked “—I love you, Mark.”

Before he could respond, she had hung up. Mark held the silent receiver to his ear a moment, conflicting emotions roiling inside him. Finally, he hung up and hurried back out to the bar area. Rick looked at him, brow furrowed with concern. “Everything okay?” he asked.

Mark hesitated. Rick was his friend. He was a smart guy. He would be able to help. Offer advice, support.

Mark opened his mouth to respond, the whole story—of how he and Tara had met, her wild friends, his doubts about her—springing to his tongue. From the corners of his eyes he saw Libby glance their way, obviously curious.

Mark thought forward, to the possible consequences of unburdening himself to Rick. Tara was underage. He didn't think Rick would go to her parents, but if he did…anything could happen. He could be arrested for contributing to the delinquency of a minor.

Her parents would tear the two of them apart.

Mark hadn't even met them yet. Tara had been almost rabid on the subject, growing hysterical the couple of times he had tried to push the issue. They were strict, she said. They wouldn't want her to date an outsider, an older boy. Fearful word would get back to them, Tara had insisted they keep the seriousness of their relationship a secret from everybody, even her friends.

Mark swallowed the words and forced a smile. “Everything's just great, boss man. Thanks for asking.”

 

The lush, walled garden at Paradise Christian Church had become Mark and Tara's personal Garden of Eden. Although the garden entrance was locked at sundown, Tara, as one of the church's volunteer tour guides, had a key.

The first time they'd made love had been in the garden, the thick grass soft beneath them, the fragrant scent of the night jasmine, sweet olive and ginger filling their heads. The experience had been so perfect, so incredibly sweet, Mark had almost been able to forget that it had been a sin.

They weren't husband and wife. She was underage. For all intents and purposes, they were breaking into God's backyard. Sinning under his nose.

But was it a sin when they loved each other? When they had vowed to stay together forever?

Suppressing a twinge of guilt, Mark approached the garden door. The night was still; nearly 3:00 a.m., the street deserted. He saw that the latch was open. Glancing quickly over his shoulder, he sidled up to the door then ducked inside.

“Tara,” he called softly, securing the door behind him. Something scurried through the underbrush. A bird roosting in one of the trees screamed protest at the noise.

Mark jumped at the sound, then moved farther into the garden. “Tara,” he called again, annoyed, “I'm not in the mood to play this game tonight.”

One moment became several. A sudden unease rippled over him. He opened his mouth to call out again, when she stepped out from behind one of the banyan trees at the back of the garden, a petite figure dressed in white.

Joy at seeing her warred with irritation. He felt as if she was toying with him, with his emotions. “What was that all about?” he demanded when he reached her. “For a moment I thought…something had happened to you. That you weren't here.”

He saw then that she had been crying. He brought a hand to her damp cheek. “What's wrong?”

She covered her face with her hands and bent her head, her long dark hair spilling over her fingers.

“Talk to me, babe.” He caught her hands and drew them away from her face. “Tell me what's wrong.”

Her big, dark eyes filled with tears. “I'm pregnant!” she cried. “I went to the doctor today and he…he—”

She burst into tears. The anger and jealousy he had battled all day evaporated. He struggled to find his voice. When he did, it came out strangled. “But I thought we… Weren't we…careful?”

The force of her sobs increased. He kicked himself for his lack of tact.
Obviously, they hadn't been careful enough.

“I'm sorry, Tara. Don't cry. I love you. It's going to be okay.”

“How? What are we going to do? An abortion costs—”

“Never,” he retorted fiercely. He caught her hands again, squeezing them tightly. “I love you. You love me. This is our baby, our
child.
” A feeling of certainty flowed over him, easing his fear. “We'll get married. We'll be a family.”

“But…how? We're… I'm afraid, Mark,” she finished helplessly.

“I'll take care of you, Tara. I promise you that.”

“And we'll be happy,” she murmured, voice cracking. “Really happy, right?”

She sounded young and frightened. Too young to become a wife and mother.

They were both too young. They were not ready for the responsibility of raising a child. Neither emotionally nor financially.

Sudden and total panic washed over him. What was he doing? Tara had been involved in things that went against everything he believed in. What kind of pastor's wife would she make? What kind of role model for their children?