If Looks Could Kill (11 page)

“We'll have to see where they turn up,” Jimmy responded. He shook his head, looking at Kyle. “Jeez, we've got to catch this guy.

“Is Jassy here? Has she been assigned to this case?” Madison asked.

“Jassy's in the lab right now. I'm sure the head man will give her a crack at it. I mean, I'm sure the chief medical examiner will let her have a look and…Oh, jeez…”

A lab tech stuck his head into the lounge area. “Lieutenant Gates? Dr. Sibley has a report for you on the drifter who came in last week. Says he knows you're here on other business, but if you've got a few minutes…?”

“Sure, sure,” Jimmy said absently. “Madison, can you give me a few minutes? I hate to keep you at the morgue—”

“I'll get her home,” Kyle said.

“Hey, guys, I can just grab a cab,” Madison said. “Kyle, you might want to hear whatever Dr. Sibley—”

“No, that's all right, he doesn't need to be here for this,” Jimmy said. “This one's totally unrelated. This guy had no ID, he's almost as old as Moses, and I think he got bumped over the head for the ten bucks he had just panhandled. Kyle can get you home, no problem.”

“Thanks,” Madison murmured.

Kyle escorted her out.

It was a spectacular day. Brilliant sunlight, incredibly blue sky.

“How about some lunch?” Kyle asked, once he had her seated in his rental car and was jockeying out of his parking space.

“I thought you were mad at me?”

“I am. Lunch?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Lunch?”

He shrugged, a half smile curving his lip. “All right. How about a drink?”

“Can you drink on duty?”

“I could probably manage a beer.”

“Sure you want to take a chance giving a drink to someone as susceptible to the intoxicating properties of alcohol as me?”

His smile deepened. “Yeah, I'm willing.”

She looked forward, at the traffic ahead. “Sorry, it's too early for me.”

“Be daring.”

“I have to pick up my daughter.”

“I'll pick her up.”

“It's your first day on assignment.”

“What time does Carrie Anne get out of kindergarten?”

“Two o'clock.”

“I'll be back on the job by two-thirty. I started this morning at six, and I'm my own boss on this one.”

Madison still hesitated. He thought of her as an intrusive witch—when he wasn't trying to pretend that she was a complete quack. Being near him was pure torture.

When she was near him…

She simply wanted him. Sex. Only sex, of course.

But there was a possibility that he was carrying on an affair with her sister.

She shrugged. They would talk, have a drink. She could surely manage to be courteous for that long. “One drink.”

“And by then, you may be hungry.”

She thought about the head.

“I may never be hungry.”

He drove out the causeway to Key Biscayne, stopping at a place that sat directly on the water. They had their drinks, two microbrews, outside at a wrought-iron table and watched as pelicans swooped hopefully around the pleasure craft out on the bay.

Madison was looking out over the water when she felt the intensity of his eyes.

Behind dark glasses.

He was a “suit” today, wearing a stereotypical pinstripe shirt, rep tie and a deep navy suit cut handsomely to the proportions of his body. It was very sunny; she was wearing shades, too. Still, it felt as if he were staring right through her.

“Damn Jimmy,” he said softly, shaking his head. “And damn you. If he doesn't involve you, you involve yourself. But he shouldn't allow it.”

She looked away from him, swallowing her beer. “Kyle, you've been away a long time. Jimmy's been a friend for years. He's never abused the relationship.”

“And I thought you were busy playing singer-slash-model.”

“I do model. And I love jamming with the band.”

“It's just jamming?”

“That and some demo material. Touring doesn't work well with the concept of family.”

“The modeling takes you out of town.”

“When I've got the time.”

“Amazing. You could probably have two flourishing careers and you rein back on both of them.”

“I have a daughter.”

“And you don't want to be famous. Like your mother.”

She stared at him. “I hear you draw exceptionally well.”

He stared at her for a very long moment, a slow, rueful smile curving his lip at last. He lifted his microbrew to the sun. “Touché—maybe. I'm not even sure myself.”

“Have you used your drawing in your work?”

“On occasion. Computers have really changed everything, you know.”

“Computers still have to be programmed.”

“True.” He was staring at her again, shaking his head. “I didn't want Jimmy calling you on this one.”

“I think you already told him that.”

“I don't think either of you listened.”

“Look, Kyle, there's no real difference between this case and any other.”

“There
is
a difference.”

“What?”

“I don't know.”

“Feelings of hocus-pocus?” she asked, taunting him.

Then she sighed. “Look, Kyle, I can't begin to understand all that you've learned about the psychology of killers, but this man mutilates people and chops them up, so he's probably as psychotic as they come—”

“Or smart,” Kyle suggested.

“Sick.”

“Sick—and smart.” He sighed, folding his hands together. “The two can go hand in hand. And if you look at the law, no matter how sick something may be, the person doing it may be judged sane and responsible for his actions, depending on his understanding of them at the time. Bundy was sick—and judged sane to stand trial. Cutting up a body and disposing of it with weighted bricks or in the muck of the Everglades is bizarre, but think of the Everglades. Things can disappear there forever. Between what we've found and what witnesses have told us about the victims, we know we're talking about someone who chooses his victims carefully and is charming enough to get them exactly where he wants them.” He shrugged, lifting his hands. “Look, Miami recently had Conde—who killed prostitutes. But to the best of my knowledge, you haven't been turning tricks on Eighth Street, so it's quite unlikely you could have been a victim of his. But this guy…”

“Kyle! There are more than three million people in this area! Why would
I
be in particular danger?”

He shook his head. “I don't know. I just don't like it.”

He smiled at her suddenly, swirling his beer. “What a world! Some murders are just as sad and terrible as others—but easier to solve. I remember one down here years ago, when a young cop comes down the street and sees a naked guy walking around with a severed head. He tries to throw the head at the cop. Lucky for the cop, he misses. It was his girlfriend, but he said she was the devil. He'd stabbed her over a hundred times before severing her head. There's a crime of passion for you. Heartbreaking for the poor girl's family, but you've got your killer quick. People can shake their heads and sympathize, but they can sleep at night, as well. This guy is dangerous because he doesn't go walking around naked, he doesn't carry a head, he doesn't suggest that his victims are the devil. Whatever his fantasies are, he keeps them hidden. He leads a normal life. He's smart. He probably lives alone. He has his own transportation easily available. He might have started off pulling the wings off of flies as a kid, throwing rocks at dogs, burning kittens. Whatever he started with, he escalated to murder. And he's enjoying the hell out of himself right now, knowing that he's left very few clues and that the cops are going to be scrambling all over themselves trying to find him.” He hesitated, then winced. “Well, I guess I haven't done a lot to make you hungry enough for lunch.”

She smiled. “We can order.”

They went inside. Kyle ordered snapper; she opted for the grilled mahimahi.

“So Darryl's down,” Kyle murmured, taking a swallow of coffee. “How does that work out?”

“What do you mean?” she asked warily.

But there didn't seem to be any underlying insinuation to the question; his glasses were off, and he seemed to be asking out of concern and curiosity. “Carrie Anne. She's a very sweet, charming and outgoing child—and she seems to have a wonderful relationship with you both.”

Madison smiled. “Thanks. We're lucky. Really lucky. Neither one of us played any games with Carrie Anne or tried to use her to hurt the other. Darryl adores her, and he's a great father. Until kindergarten, he had her one week out of four. I'd fly up with her and leave her with him, then he'd fly back with her and leave her with me. Now that she's starting ‘big kids' school,' as she calls it, we've worked around her schedule. When there's a holiday or they have teacher-conference days, she goes up to see him. I didn't have that much of a chance to talk to him the other night, but it seems he's going to be working down here for several weeks, at least. Which is great. Carrie Anne will get to spend a lot of time with him.”

“And do you spend time with them, as well?”

Madison arched a brow, sipping her iced tea. “Sometimes,” she informed him.

“Why the divorce?”

“None of your business.” She took another sip of tea. “How about you?” she suddenly demanded.

“Me, what?”

“No steady woman in your life?”

His smile faded, and he shrugged, attacking his salad with sudden interest. “No.”

“You've become celibate?”

He looked at her. “No.”

“A host of one-night stands?” she inquired.

“It's none of your business.”

It hurt. Funny, it hadn't felt hurtful when she said it to him.

She pushed back the salad she'd been toying with and folded her fingers together on the table. “No one will ever be Fallon, but sex is a natural instinct, so when the urge occurs, you follow?”

He looked back up at her. “Is that how you view intimacy?”

The way he was staring at her, she wanted to slap him. But her heart was suddenly thumping in double time; her palms were clammy, and a hot streak was saturating her bloodstream.

Instinct, yes. They could manage a few civil exchanges, but then they were at one another's throats. And yet he was right, that was exactly how she was viewing things.

Pity they had to talk at all.

If only she could just…touch him. She wanted to feel his flesh, his lips against her skin. It had been a very long time….

She felt her cheeks growing warm and red, and remembered what Sheila had said to her at her father's house the other night about her wanting to sleep with Kyle.

How awful.

But it was true.

Get a grip, Madison! she warned herself. And she leaned back. “Kyle, you son of—”

Thankfully, the waitress made a timely arrival with their check. She was a chatty young woman, and she pointed out the weather—clouds brewing in the east.

“Spring—it's just that time of year!” she said cheerfully. “The mornings can be absolutely gorgeous, and by afternoon, wham! Pitch-black skies, lightning to rip up the sky and buckets full of rain. Of course, the great thing about south Florida is that after the rain, the sky is all blue and beautiful again!”

“Yes, it's a great place,” Kyle said.

“I mean, bad things do happen, but they can happen anywhere, right?” the girl said, her smile still in place.

“Definitely,” Madison agreed.

“It
is
going to storm soon,” Kyle commented.

“Storms are great to watch from here,” the waitress said cheerfully.

She left the table, hips swaying slightly. A nice girl, friendly, vivacious.

Like their killer's victims, Madison thought suddenly.

She looked from the remains of her fish to Kyle and realized, as his eyes touched hers, that he was thinking the same thing.

“Think you ought to warn her?” Madison asked.

Kyle didn't seem surprised, or unnerved, that she had read his thoughts.

“Yeah, probably. When we leave, I'll suggest that she not go anywhere with anyone without telling someone close exactly what she's doing.” He looked at Madison. “You need to live the same way. Don't go anywhere with anyone without someone else knowing exactly what you're doing.”

“Kyle, I'm not a fool!”