He was Dane’s second cousin, and he had mixed blood, as well. His just wasn’t quite so complex of a cocktail, as he liked to tell Dane.
“When did you start locking the door?” Jesse asked him.
“Today. I’m setting up surveillance cameras, too.”
“Your chosen line of work is getting to you?” Jesse said.
“Maybe. Come on in.”
Dane opened the screen door, then unlocked the old Dade County pine door behind it. Both men stepped in.
The house was concrete block and stucco and Dade County pine, built against the storms that periodically ravaged the area. It had withstood a great deal, even being pounded by hurricanes, because the construction was so strong. The man who had owned the island before Dane’s grandfather had been blown out even before they’d started naming storms. All he had wanted to do was unload the place; he’d called it Hurricane Bay, and the name had stuck. It was Dane’s grandfather who’d built the house. Dade County pine was at a premium because it was almost impossible to acquire anymore. It repelled termites and stood strong against most of the dangers inherent in a subtropical climate. The living room was completely paneled with it. The house boasted two coral rock fireplaces, one in the master bedroom and the other in the living room. A large mantel had also been chiseled to match, and on it stood one of his father’s great treasures, a stuffed ’gator called Big Tom in life, and—since the taxidermist had been excellent at his craft—for posterity. His father had caught the alligator, which had been terrorizing a residential canal in Homestead. The reptile hadn’t gotten hold of any children, but he had managed to consume two poodles and a too-curious cat before being taken down.
A soft leather sofa, matching love seat and two armchairs rounded out the grouping in front of the fireplace. The walls boasted some fine Audubon prints and interesting family photos.
“Want a beer?” Dane asked as they entered.
“Sure.”
Jesse followed Dane through the dining room. The antique claw-foot dining table held Dane’s computer and stacks of papers. They passed through the dining room to the kitchen, which fronted the house, along with the living and dining rooms. Way back when, his grandfather had figured people would want to be outside, so both the dining room and kitchen had large windows that could be opened up to the porch, where there were outside counters and rough wood tables. The back of the house faced both the dock and the little spit of man-made beach, so the floor plan made it easy to be outside most of the time.
Jesse leaned against the kitchen counter, looking out at the night and the water as Dane went into the refrigerator.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been out here,” Jesse said, accepting the can Dane handed him.
“Yeah?”
“Of course, you haven’t been back all that long.”
“Almost six months.”
Jesse didn’t comment. He knew what had brought Dane back. There was no need to talk about it.
“Okay, so what’s going on?” Jesse asked. “Do I have a stray tribal member harassing the tourists? Is some local all pissed off because he lost big at bingo or something?”
Dane shook his head, thinking that his second cousin’s dry expectations might have amused him at a different time.
“No, actually, I need to ask you about something.”
“Shoot.”
“A couple of months back, you found a strangling victim out in the Glades.”
Jesse frowned and nodded. “Yeah, I found the body,” he said. He studied his beer can. Then he looked at Dane again, his forehead still furrowed. “I’ve seen a hell of a lot, between Miami-Dade and just living out where fools can go astray. But…hell. That was bad.”
“Mind telling me about it?”
“I think I talked to you at the time.”
“You did, but I’d like to hear about it again.”
“You have a reason.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Are you planning on sharing it with me.”
“Soon. I just need a little time.”
“You haven’t found another body?”
“No.”
Jesse studied him for a long moment but accepted the fact that Dane would tell him everything when he was ready.
“I think it was just about three months ago now. The first body was found three months before that, up in Broward County.”
“And the Miami-Dade boys and Broward homicide think it was the same killer?”
Jesse inclined his head. “Looks like it. It’s a tough case. Both bodies were found in such a bad state of decomposition, it’s been a bitch for forensics.”
“That’s why it was so bad when you found the girl?”
“She’d been in the water almost two weeks, in a canal in the Everglades. I don’t really need to tell you what that means, but suffice it to say that nature takes its course.”
“So you think she was thrown into the canal by someone who knew the Everglades?”
“Not necessarily. There are a few pretty decent roads leading off of the Tamiami Trail. And the day I discovered her was…a Tuesday. Right after those torrential rains we had when it was supposed to be dry season. A Mack truck could have driven back there and the tire prints would have been washed out. Of course, a Mack truck would have sunk in the swamp, but you know what I mean. In that area, after heavy rains…you’re not going to find anything resembling a print or a track. And since the body was in the water, tangled up in some tree roots, there wasn’t even a way to tell exactly where it had gone in, since it might have traveled with the current.”
“From what you told me at the time, and what I read in the paper,” Dane said, “they knew she’d been strangled with a necktie, because it was still around her throat.”
“Right. And it was a tie manufactured by the thousands, available in any department store in any state.”
“Anything else?”
“She was naked, except for the tie. That’s about it.”
“Did you notice anything in particular when you found her?”
“Yeah, that she was dead. I didn’t need to feel for a pulse. And where I found her…it’s in an area that might be considered reservation land and might be counted as county. It’s not one of those places anyone really wants to fight over. I roped off the scene where I found her and called in the Miami-Dade homicide guys. Specialists. She wasn’t one of ours.”
“You knew that from seeing the body?”
“I couldn’t even have guaranteed you that she was a she from seeing the body,” Jesse said.
“Then…”
“I’d have known if we’d been missing anyone,” Jesse said. “We’re one damned small tribe out there, you know. Less than five hundred. They pretty well wiped out the big numbers during the Indian wars and relocation. Bingo and the casino have been our best revenge, you know.”
“They did identify her, right?”
“Cherie Madsen. Twenty-three, a dancer at a Miami strip club. She’d been a missing person at the time, and she was identified by her dental records.”
“And did the police have any leads?”
“Sure, they had leads, but no real suspects. They traced every name they could find for the night she disappeared, but lots of guys who go to strip clubs use cash and aren’t necessarily regulars. They talked to all her old boyfriends, same as they talked to everyone about the murder in Broward County. The first girl was found in a canal off I-595. Same thing—she was in the water at least a couple of weeks before she was discovered. Strangled, tie around her neck. There had been rain that time, too. The body had probably traveled. The girl was naked, and once again the tie could have been bought anywhere. No way to get any prints. The girl hadn’t scratched her attacker, so there were no skin cells beneath her nails, nothing. I have a friend in homicide at the Broward sheriff’s department, if you want to talk to him further about the case. And you know the guy handling the case for Miami-Dade. It’s Hector Hernandez.”
“Yes
, I know him. I’ve known him for years. Big-time fisherman, down here a lot. He’s a good cop.”
“Yeah, he’s definitely a good cop. He can help you more than I can, since you’re apparently after something. I kept up with the case some, since I found one of the victims,” Jesse said quietly. “But not being Miami-Dade homicide anymore, I don’t have the same access to the experts. And it’s not my case anymore, anyway. You know how small the Miccosukee force is. Something like this, Miami-Dade comes in.”
“Did you hear anything about a psychological profile?”
Jesse nodded again, taking a long swallow from his can. “The cops in both counties got together and asked the FBI to give them a hand with the profiling, and they brought in an expert who has been pretty right on with each case he’s profiled that has been solved. White male, twenty-five to forty-five, has a day job, maybe a wife and family, maybe not. Even though the second girl was found out in the Everglades, the profiler is certain the killer is a white male. Someone who knows the area and may even know what happens to a body in the water. He probably looks decent, maybe he’s even good-looking, and he may have a certain charisma. He’s an organized killer. Nothing is left to chance. He’s smart enough to keep his prints off any traceable materials, use a condom and dump the bodies where nature will take care of the rest. There might be two different killers, one copycatting the other, but the homicide guys don’t think so. They kept a few details about the first body secret, and those same details were also consistent with the second victim.” Jesse shrugged, taking another long swallow from his beer can. “In private, of course, the homicide guys admit to having just about nothing to follow up on. Both girls were strippers. They’ve questioned every man they could get a lead on who was at either club the night the girl was last seen. They’ve questioned family and old boyfriends. They’ve looked for witnesses. They don’t have prints, fibers, tire tracks or anything else. They haven’t given up, but they’ve followed every lead they had, and the trail hasn’t gotten them very far. It would be bull to suggest they’re not hot on it because of what the girls did for a living. They’re just working with nothing.”
“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 pa
trol 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.
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