Dead Run (4 page)

It was too late to worry about that now.

They were going to have a baby. He was going to be a father.

He needed to be strong for her, he realized. He needed to be strong for them both. Spiritually and emotionally. If he showed her the way, she would follow. Because she believed in him. She loved him.

And he loved her.

He drew her into his arms. “Babe, remember when I told you that I felt I was being called to Key West? Remember when I said I thought God had led me here, but I didn't know why? That I thought He had a special plan for me?”

“Yes,” she replied weakly. “But what—”

“I think this is it, Tara. I think He led me to you. I think He meant for us to make this baby. For us to be a family.”

She tipped her head back and met his eyes. “You do? Really?” The hopefulness in her voice made him ache.

“I do,” he repeated, tone strong now, certain. “Let Him lead you, Tara. If you do, if we do, everything will be fine. This was meant to be.
We
were meant to be.”

Monday, November 5
8:45 a.m.

H
and to her nose, stomach rolling, Detective Carla Chapman bent over the decomposing remains of Larry Bernhardt. It appeared that the man had jumped naked from the third-floor balcony above. He had landed face-down. She would guess broken bones, internal injuries and bleeding. The fall had busted him up—but hadn't killed him. He had dragged himself a few feet before succumbing to either his injuries, pain or both.

Poor bastard. Damn uncomfortable way to go.

Carla spied an open pill bottle peeking out from under the man's left shoulder. She bent closer, examining the empty vial. Quaaludes.

Or maybe not that uncomfortable, Carla amended.

She squinted up at the still-scorching November sun. Today's forecast called for zero cloud cover and a high
of ninety. The same as the last three days. Basically as unrelentingly hot as hell.

That meant Larry Bernhardt's remains had been cooking for some time, the amount to be determined by the medical examiner. Placing the time of death would be tricky, Carla acknowledged. Exposure to heat sped up the decomposition process, playing havoc with the measures they used to determine TOD: rigor mortis, lividity and body temperature.

Let the ME work the formula, she thought, glancing toward Bernhardt's housekeeper, hovering in the doorway to the house. The woman looked a hairsbreadth from falling apart, her dark eyes wide, cheeks ashen. She stared at her former boss, her mouth moving as she worked a rosary clutched in her hands.

Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee…

The prayer ran through Carla's head, a dim but still potent memory from her childhood. How long had it been since she had uttered those words? she wondered. How long since she had gone to mass? Since she had partaken in Holy Communion or confessed her sins?

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…

Jesus, where would she start? To be forgiven, would she have to recant all her sins or only the ones she could recall?

“I can go now, please?”

Carla blinked, refocusing on the housekeeper. She experienced a surge of pity for the woman. She had reported for work this morning only to find her boss's crushed, fly-covered body. Not the most of pleasant good mornings. To top it off, she was now out of a job.

“Go on in, but hang around a while. I expect I'll need to ask you a few questions.”

Obviously relieved, the woman nodded and disap
peared inside. Carla watched her go, then tipped her face to the balcony above. She found Val there, staring down at her. “You called, Lieutenant?”

“If you're finished down there, I could use a fresh pair of eyes.”

“Coming up.” She straightened. “By the way, got an empty bottle of 'ludes down here.”

Her superior nodded. “Looks like he washed them down with Dom. Made his landing a bit softer. Leave it for the crime-scene guys. They're on their way.”

Carla left Bernhardt without a backward glance. She crossed the patio, entering the house through the same door the housekeeper had used. It led to a large, beautifully outfitted garden room.

She moved her gaze over the room. White wicker furniture, French Quarter tile floors and an abundance of tropical plants. Lots of throw pillows in a fresh-looking floral print. White plantation shutters and a gently whirring ceiling fan. Very south Florida, she thought. Very Key West.

After six years on the island, Carla could recognize the style while comatose. Casual. Breezy. Easy-living, island style. It permeated everything on this floating three-by-four-mile chunk of land at the southernmost tip of the continental United States. Clothes. Food. Music. The lazy way people moved and spoke. Their laid-back attitudes and unhurried lifestyles.

She had been enamored with it at first. Key West had seemed a paradise accessible without passport. A world away from her hard-driving, industrial girlhood hometown of Pittsburg, Pennsylvania.

The garden room metamorphosed into another, more formal living space. That led to a cavernous
three-story foyer. Marble floors. Chandelier. A wide, central staircase.

Carla climbed the staircase. The upstairs hallway was wide, carpeted in a pile so thick her toes would get lost in it—if she took off her shoes and socks.

She had a big picture of that.
“Oh, hey, Val. I just wanted to experience what real wealth feels like against the bottoms of my feet.”

Val appeared in a doorway at the end of the hall. “In here.”

The bedroom was pure opulence. Huge four-poster bed carved out of some light, no doubt rare, wood. Satin and velvet drapes in a gold color. Tassels as big as a linebacker's fist. Mirrors, gold framed, ornate. Carla's lips lifted. Positioned, cleverly, to both the left, right and head of the bed.

Larry Bernhardt had lived like royalty. And, apparently, he enjoyed watching the fun his money could buy.

“What are you thinking?” Val asked.

Carla glanced at her boss. He stood, hands on his hips, head cocked slightly to the side as he studied her. Sometimes Valentine Lopez took her breath away—he was that handsome.

Too bad he had never given her a second glance.

“That Larry Bernhardt was self-indulgent, self-important and more than a little bit naughty.”

Her boss's eyebrows shot up in question, and she smiled. “Check out the mirrors. And I'm sure with his assets, he didn't lack for company.”

Her superior knew exactly what kind of assets she referred to. “Money,” he murmured with a hint of bitterness, “the international language of love.”

Carla nodded, agreeing with the comment and understanding the bitterness. For a woman it wasn't money,
but youth. A killer body. Big breasts. The ability to suck a golf ball through a garden hose.

What about personality? Carla thought. What about brains, loyalty and a good heart? She glanced back and caught a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors. Sun-streaked sandy hair, pert nose, wide-set hazel eyes. Too many freckles, each earned on the beach while baking.

A lump formed in her throat. She looked old, she thought with a sense of shock. Not the dewy-eyed twenty-four-year-old who had accompanied a man she barely knew for a weekend on Key West, packing little more than lip gloss and a string bikini.

Six years.
It seemed impossible. She had officially become what the locals referred to as a “freshwater conch” just this past January.

The same month she had turned thirty.

She swallowed hard, remembering that twenty-four-year-old girl. She had dumped the guy and begun a passionate love affair with Key West. And like all such affairs, it had burned hotly but gone cold fast.

Not that she regretted her decision to move here. But the fact was, she was no longer twenty-four, no more a total babe in a string bikini. Now, instead of worshiping the sun, she feared it for the damage it had done to her skin. Now she recognized that the most eligible bachelors on the island were beyond her reach—they were all tourists; they didn't stay.

Carla wanted stability. A good man who loved her. Kids.

She feared she would die single and childless.

“This look like the scene of a crime to you?” Val asked.

Carla blinked and glanced at her boss, confused. “Crime? Looks like a suicide to me.”

“No note.”

“Leapers don't always leave a note.” She moved her gaze over the bedroom. Other than the unmade bed, the room was
Home and Gardens
neat. It appeared the man had awakened, walked out onto the balcony and jumped.

She shook her head. “What makes someone like Bernhardt kill himself? Looks to me like he had just about everything a guy could want.” When Val remained silent, she frowned. “You think someone helped him over that rail?”

“No, that's not what's bothering me. This place cost big money. Too much money. He was a loan officer, for Pete's sake.”

“A VP. I imagine those guys make good salaries.”

Val narrowed his eyes. “But Island National isn't exactly Bank One. The smaller the bank, the smaller the compensation. Come in here.”

He led her to the bathroom. At first all Carla saw was the sheer size and opulence of the room. The marble garden tub, with its gold fittings, could comfortably accommodate four. A gold cherub perched on each corner of the tub; each held an urn that served as a water spout. As in the bedroom, mirrors had been strategically placed for maximum viewing pleasure. A TV had been mounted from the ceiling at one end of the tub.

“It's kind of tacky,” she murmured. “Don't you think?”

“I wasn't pointing out the décor. Take a look at this.” Val pressed a button hidden beneath the counter: a panel of the cabinetry below the sink popped open, revealing a chamber filled with a cache of drugs and drug paraphernalia.

Carla whistled low, under her breath.
Ecstasy. Co
caine. Mirrors. Razor blades.
She lifted her gaze to Val's. “Drugs, sex and rock 'n' roll. So much for the image of the buttoned-down banker.”

“Trust me, this guy didn't miss a trick. Check this out.”

Val opened the top left vanity drawer, revealing vials of prescription drugs lined up in neat rows, like small, brown soldiers.

Carla pulled on the rubber gloves she always carried and sifted through them, reading the labels.
Zanax. Quaalude. Vicadin. Prozac.
“Seems Bernhardt had a dependency problem.”

“It would seem so.” Val frowned. “Notice that the same doctor's name appears on all these labels. I want you to pay him a visit. Let's make sure he had a medical reason for prescribing these drugs. Let's find out how the combination could have been affecting Bernhardt's moods.”

“Got it.”

“Charlie's been called?”

Charlie was a local mortician whose funeral parlor housed bodies until the medical examiner, who serviced all the keys and was located on Marathon Key, could pick them up.

She answered that he had and followed Val back out to the bedroom.

She watched as he moved his gaze assessingly over the room. Valentine Lopez was one of the smartest people she had ever known. She loved to watch him work. The truth was, he awed her.

“The pieces don't fit,” he murmured, looking at her. “This is the home of a millionaire.”

“He could have family money,” Carla offered. “Or he could have been dealing.”

“Could have,” Val agreed. “When we finish up here, I want you to head over to Island National. Talk to Bernhardt's boss. Find out the man's salary, if he comes from money, if he recently came into some sort of windfall—an inheritance, big bonus, winning lottery ticket, anything like that.”

Carla took out her spiral and carefully noted Val's requests, word for word. She had no illusions about being a super sleuth. She was a meat-and-potatoes kind of cop: dependable, conscientious and loyal, both to Val and the department. Those were all good qualities. Admirable. She was proud of them.

But a whiz kid she would never be. She would never be the one who broke the big case, never be the one who uncovered the missing piece of the puzzle or made the front page of the
Key West Citizen.

Valentine Lopez was. Rick Wells was.

At the thought of Rick, her chest tightened. They had been partners and friends. Then she had made the mistake of falling in love with him. A mistake because he had been a man incapable of loving her back—first because he had been reeling over the loss of his wife, then his son.

As if loving him from afar was stupid enough, she had allowed him to use her for physical solace.

Use her?
She had thrown herself at him, had all but begged him to become her lover. She had been certain he would fall in love with her. He had been in so much pain. He would be grateful. Gratitude would become need, love would follow.

She had been blinded by love. Had allowed wishful thinking to pass for logic. The moment he began emerging from his grief-induced fog, he had felt guilty. Because he didn't love her. Because he felt like a heel,
an opportunist. And because only then had he realized how much she cared for him.

It had been over almost before it started.

It still hurt sometimes more than she could stand.

“Speak with the housekeeper before you leave,” Val continued, cocking his head. From downstairs came the sound of the other officers arriving. “Ask about Bernhardt's mood of late, his social life, if he was dating anyone.” He glanced at his watch and started for the door. “We need to contact next of kin. I heard he was divorced. Has a couple grown kids. Keep me informed.”

“I will,” Carla murmured, not lifting her gaze from the spiral. “You want me to take another look around here?”

“You can, but I checked it out pretty well. The evidence guys will go over the place with a fine-tooth comb.”

“Gotcha.” She flipped the spiral shut. “After you, Lieutenant.”

They made their way down the stairs to the central foyer. There they parted company. Carla found the housekeeper in the kitchen, sitting at the table, staring blankly at the doorway. She blinked when Carla spoke.

“I'm sorry, what did you say?”

“Are you all right?”

“I don't know what to do. There's laundry. And shopping and…”

Her voice trailed off and again Carla felt pity for the woman. “I think you can go home,” she murmured, tone gentle. “Before you do, I need to ask you a few questions.”

The woman nodded, and Carla opened her spiral. “Your name?”

“Maria Charez.”

“How long have you been in Mr. Bernhardt's employ?”

“A year last month.”

“Did Mr. Bernhardt seem upset about anything?”

She shook her head.

“Was he depressed at all? Moody?”

“No, no, he seemed happy. He was good to me. Never a cross word. Generous.”

“Generous? In what way?”