The Forgotten (29 page)

Beatriz was not moaning as Chrissy Murdoch had been. At least not moaning in pleasure. She was moaning in pain. Her small breasts bounced up and down and Mecho could see her butt cheeks wrinkling with each hard collision against Lampert’s thighs.

Mecho tensed, every instinct he had telling him to attack.

But instead he pulled back, moved swiftly down the hall, and reached the living room. He looked around and decided this was as good a place as any.

He did what he had come to do and then left.

Outside he gave the guard behind the bush a kick in the head, pretending he was Peter J. Lampert.

It felt good.

He did one more thing before he left. The package was placed twenty meters away from the house and next to the Bentley convertible that had a license plate reading “The Man.”

As he crawled over the fence he counted the seconds off in his head.

He reached the beach and kept counting.

Fifty seconds later, when he was back on firm ground, the explosion occurred, lifting the pristine old Bentley five feet up in the air. When it came back down it hardly looked vintage anymore.

The blast lit up the night over Paradise.

Mecho didn’t look up to watch it as he started his scooter.

But he did smile.

Good night, Peter J. Lampert.

The Man.

P
ULLER DROVE TO THE
G
ULL
C
OAST
and checked in. The front-desk person was young and sleepy, or maybe just bored.

He put his gear away in his room and debated what to do next. He called Landry and told her he was on his way. He hopped into the Tahoe and twenty minutes later pulled into the garage in Destin.

It was a humid night with little breeze.

Landry met him at the garage elevator. She had changed into shorts and a tank top with sandals. She held up two bottles of beer and then eyed Sadie.

“You have a dog?”

“By default.” He explained about Sadie being Cookie’s pet.

“I can’t take her, if that’s what you’re thinking. My building is no pets.”

“No problem. I just didn’t want to leave her alone tonight.”

“Let’s do the beach walk. It’s cooler down by the water and you can fill me in on the latest.” She glanced at Sadie. “And you can walk your new dog.”

They trudged across the sand, the breakers rolling over with a growing intensity.

“Surf always this rough at night?” he asked.

“Don’t you watch the news?”

“Not lately, no.”

“Tropical storm Danielle formed in the Atlantic and entered the Gulf. Don’t think it’ll strengthen much, but it’s roiling up the waters. It’ll make landfall around here at some point. They’re not exactly sure when.”

The beach was mostly empty except for several young men stumbling along, beer cans in hand.

Puller spent a few minutes filling Landry in on the details of Cookie’s death as Sadie walked dutifully next to him, occasionally looking up. The animal must have been confused as hell, thought Puller, because it had a far longer way to look up than it had with Cookie.

“What the hell do you think is going on, Puller?” asked Landry after he’d finished.

He shrugged. “If people knew something they’re being silenced quite efficiently.”

“If they knew
what
?”

He shrugged again. “If I knew that I’d know it all.”

He glanced at her as they walked along sipping their beers.

Sadie tugged and jerked on the leash, but she was so small that Puller barely noticed. It was like walking a cricket.

The cold beer made Puller feel warm, warmer than the air around him. The waves crashing with tidal regularity made him more relaxed than he normally would have been, particularly after what had happened to Cookie.

He caught her gazing at him. “You want to go back up to my apartment?” she asked.

“Why?”

She looked down. “I… We…”

Interpreting her unease Puller said, “I’d really like to, but I can’t.”

“Okay, I understand. I know I’m not a girly girl, and I carry a gun at work, but I am a woman. I do like guys.”

“And I’m sure guys like you.”

“I’ve been hit on by every man under sixty who lives around here, or at least it seems like it. And then the young punks come in from out of town and think they’re so hot, but they’re just idiots.”

“Lots of guys are idiots. I’ve been accused of being an idiot.”

She looked up at him, touched his arm. “But not with women.”

He looked down at her. “No, not with women.”

“So that makes you different. And attractive.”

He was very hot now, far hotter than the air. Sweat was on his forehead. He could feel the heat pouring from Landry too. They could have been inside an oven.

He said, “We’re working a case together.”

“But you’re not on the police force. I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were.”

“I don’t think you’re Hooper’s type.”

“He doesn’t quite get that. Never stops trying.”

“I’m sure.”

“But we’re not talking about Hooper, are we?” she said.

“We have no idea where this will lead us, Cheryl. Mixing business and pleasure is never a good idea. You’re a very attractive woman and under other circumstances my answer might be different. But the conditions on the ground are what they are. I hope you can understand that.”

She sighed. “I can. Look, I’m sorry I brought it up. It wasn’t professional of me.”

“We can’t be professional all of the time.”

She smiled resignedly and they resumed walking.

Puller was about to say something when the phone rang.

Landry’s, not Puller’s.

And nothing was really the same after that.

P
ULLER FOLLOWED
L
ANDRY
. Her Toyota flew down the road, and Puller had to keep the Tahoe’s pedal nearly rammed to the floor to keep up. Landry was definitely not following the speed limit tonight. Sadie lay next to Puller in the front seat. He kept Landry’s brake lights, to the extent that she braked at all, in sight.

Landry had taken the call on the beach, the phone mashed to the side of her head. She listened, said almost nothing, and then clicked off and turned to Puller.

“That was Chief Bullock. There’s been an explosion at the Lampert estate.”

Puller had checked his watch. One-sixteen. As good a time as any to have an explosion, he had thought.

“Lampert estate? What the hell is that?” he asked.

“It’s owned by Peter Lampert. The richest man in Paradise—hell, probably the entire Emerald Coast, maybe all of Florida. I don’t know for sure, but he’s loaded.”

Puller had waited in her apartment while Landry hurriedly changed into her uniform. Then he had picked up Sadie, run to his truck, climbed in, and they were off.

He felt that Landry was experiencing extreme guilt. She had not gone back in to work after Cookie’s murder. There was no reason for her to. There was plenty of manpower to work the scene. But then she had been with Puller when the explosion had occurred. Again, no reason to feel guilty, but he knew Landry was the sort of cop who would.

They arrived in Paradise in record time and he continued to
follow Landry through town until they reached the eastern edge. She turned off on a private road and Puller followed. The Toyota skidded to a stop in front of a pair of impressive steel gates that looked strong enough to withstand an Abrams tank assault.

Landry jumped out of her truck. She looked back at Puller as he hurried up to her. He’d left Sadie in the truck with the windows lowered and a full bowl of water.

“You want me to go in with you?” he said.

She looked uncertain. She had asked him to follow her here. But now her dilemma was obvious, he knew.

It was about two in the morning. Why would the pair of them be together?

“I can tell Bullock I heard the explosion, saw you racing through town, and just decided to follow,” he said.

“Thanks, Puller, I appreciate that.”

Boyd was at the front gate. Puller figured Hooper was probably back at Cookie’s house securing that scene. It was good that Bullock had called Landry in. He would need the manpower. Puller doubted the Paradise Police Department was very big.

Boyd looked at Landry the way a man does a woman after he’s been rejected by her. Puller assumed that this was indeed the reason for the look. Landry had said that Hooper and all the other cops had been trying to get her into bed. And it was clear in Boyd’s look that the rejection had not gone down well. When he saw Puller right behind her, his features became darker.

“What the hell is he doing here with you?” he barked.

Before Puller could launch into his cover story, Landry snapped, “He’s here to help us work the scene, Boyd. Take it up with the chief if you’ve got a problem.”

Before he could say anything she bulled right past him with Puller riding her wake.

They first saw the remains of the Bentley. The chrome radiator—now blackened and bent—was the only part left relatively intact to show the model of the car.

Bullock was standing next to it. His crime scene tech was walking the perimeter of the blast site, apparently making some calculations.

When Bullock saw Landry and Puller he waved them over. Unlike Boyd, he didn’t bother to ask why they were here together, so Puller did not need to use his bogus explanation.

“Got here as fast as I could, Chief,” Landry said quickly.

“Looks like the bomb was right under the car,” said Bullock. “Blew out some windows in the house too.”

“This Lampert guy have enemies?” asked Puller.

“Well, it appears likely he has at least one,” replied Bullock.

“What do you know about him?”

“Came here from South Beach about five years ago. Built this place. Well, he was building it before he came here. Took the better part of three years to finish the sucker.”

“How’d he make his money?”

“Finance guy or something. Who the hell knows how those guys make money? They rob Peter to pay Paul.”

“I take it no one was in the car?” asked Puller.

“No.”

“Anything else?”

“Isn’t a car bombing enough?” said Landry.

Bullock said, “Two guards were attacked. One near the rear fence, the other over near the guesthouse.” He pointed in the direction of the building. “Found them both unconscious. They were pretty burly guys. Whoever took them out was a force to be reckoned with. They finally came to. We questioned both, but they never saw who attacked them.”

Puller gazed over at the guesthouse. “Anyone staying there currently?”

“No,” replied Bullock.

“Is it okay if I take a walk around the grounds?”

“Looking for what?” asked Bullock.

“I usually know it when I see it.”

He left them and walked around the edge of the property. He could see men in black shirts with sidearms and MP5s lurking here and there. Security. Who got their asses kicked tonight. And Lampert would probably kick them again.

But why blow up the car? A message? Was it a message enough?

He looked at the main house ablaze in light.

Then his gaze ventured to the darkened guesthouse. Why one would require a guesthouse when you lived in a mansion bigger than the White House was beyond him. But he supposed at that income bracket, there were no items of necessity, only items of desire.

But then certain possibilities occurred to him. Why have security at the guesthouse if no one was currently there?

He ventured to one of the windows of the structure and hit the flowerbed with his penlight.

Nothing.

He moved around the house, checking the dirt.

Nothing.

Until the third try.

Footprints. Big ones. He held his own foot over one of the prints and came up short by a lot. He estimated a size sixteen. A big man. He took a picture of it with his cell phone.

Maybe just a yard worker cleaning the flower beds.

He looked through the window. Clean shot into what appeared to be a bedroom.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t as simple as a yard worker. And the print was on the house side of the flower bed. Why get so close to the building?