Pulse

by Edna Buchanan

  Frank was pacing when he heard the outer door. Lucca saw the open newspaper, the drained coffee cup. “You got here early, boss.”

  He slid an eight-by-ten manila envelope across Frank’s desk. “Tell you the truth, boss, this was a breath of fresh air. Something contemporary, something sophisticated. A helluva lot better, I gotta admit, than standing for hours in some nasty ghetto apartment watching a parking lot where another dead dope dealer got shot off his milk crate.”

  Frank stared down at the envelope.

  “It’s all there,” Lucca assured him. “You were right. This guy obviously had a few problems, but he was no street punk.”

  “What was his name?” Frank sounded hoarse.

  “Mister Daniel Alexander,” Lucca said succinctly. “White male, age thirty-eight. His widow, Rory, age thirty-two, signed the consent form.”

  “Children?”

  “Thought you might ask.” Lucca fished out his spiral notebook. “One, a son William, age eight.”

  Frank winced. “How did Alexander die?”

  “Gunshot wound, self-inflicted.”

  Frank blinked in surprise. “Suicide?” That seemed wrong, not what he had expected. How ironic, he thought; he had fought so hard to live and did, only because another man chose to die.

  “It’s all in there. Even his obit.”

  “What do I owe you?” Frank reached for the desk drawer and his checkbook.

  “I’ll send you a bill. Need anything else? I could run a little credit check on Alexander if you’re interested.”

  “I’ll call if I need something more.” Oddly agitated, he was impatient to peruse the contents of this envelope in private.

  Lucca shrugged. “Pleasure doing business with you, boss. As usual.”

  When he was alone, Frank closed the door to his inner office, poured more coffee, and stared at the envelope. He had asked only for the names, but Lucca had obviously done his usual thorough job. His hands shook slightly as he slit open the flap with the small knife on his key chain and removed the contents.

  Daniel Paul Alexander, a 38-year-old, five-foot-eleven, 175-pound white male, was born in Darien, Connecticut, on June 29, 1959. Place of death, Miami.

  That had to be why the transplant team did not divulge even the usual basic facts about the nameless donor, such as age or manner of death. Too close to home. The thought stunned Frank. He and Alexander might have passed on the street, idled alongside each other in traffic, shared the same dentist or dry cleaner.

  The printout reported Alexander’s driver’s license number. Expiration date: June 29, 2000. The driver had expired long before his license, Frank thought ruefully. He scanned the page. The dead man’s telephone number, a list of his last three addresses, all local. Alexander had no arrest record, no known aliases, no traffic accidents in Florida and no workmen’s comp claims. He did have a concealed weapons permit. Frank wondered if the man had bought a gun to protect his family and then used it on himself. There was even a profile of his home, the purchase date, selling price, and current tax assessment. His vehicle registration was for a Lexus LS 400. The printout included the car’s VIN number, original cost, current value and insurance carrier. Alexander had some sortof business licenses as well. Frank skimmed those details until he found what he wanted.

  Married June 11, 1988, to Aurora Lee St. Jean, white female born March 14, 1966, in Mount Olive, North Carolina. First marriage for both. One child, William Douglas Alexander, born February 4, 1990.

  The printout listed the grid of streets surrounding the Alexander home, along with the neighbors’ names, addresses and telephone numbers.

  The last sheet was a copy of a brief newspaper obituary printed in agate type. Alexander, Daniel P., 38, of Miami, died Saturday. Visitation 5 to 9 P.M. Monday. Van Orsdel Funeral Chapel. Services 11 A.M. Tuesday.

  A Miami Herald clipping was attached, short and concise, dated the same day as the obit.

  RESTAURANT OWNER SHOT IN APPARENT SUICIDE

  The shooting death of a popular restaurant owner was an apparent suicide, Miami police said Sunday.

  Daniel Alexander, 38, was discovered wounded by a single gunshot to the head at his South Coconut Grove home on Saturday. He was later pronounced dead at Jackson Memorial Hospital. Police said Alexander was alone in the house at the time of the shooting. His wife, Rory, 32, found the victim when she returned home and called police.

  Homicide Detective Joseph Thomas said the victim was apparently despondent and had left a suicide note. Alexander and a partner operate the popular Tree Tavern Restaurants in Miami Beach, Coral Gables and Kendall.

  That was it. A man’s life and death reduced to crisp black and white words and numbers, minus the passion, the joy, the sweat and tears.

  How incredibly lucky, Frank thought, that Daniel Alexander did not fire the bullet into his heart. He would have killed us both. Frank had been so weak, so close to death, that within days, if no donor had been found, it would have been too late. He read the news story twice, feeling inexplicably let down. The information brought no enlightening revelation. What had he anticipated? He had no clue. Impulsively he reached for the telephone and dialed Alexander’s number. It rang three times.

  “Hello.” A young woman answered, her voice soft and deep-throated. He realized he had no idea what to say. Words froze in his throat. “Hello,” she said again. “Who is it?”

  He hung up, hating himself. What could he say? What should he? Why did he dial without thinking? What was he doing? How totally unlike him to be so rash, to act without thinking things through first.

  Was Kathleen right? Would his intrusion only inflict pain? Good God, he thought, closing his eyes. The woman’s gift saved my life and I just repaid her with a harassing phone call. He knew how frightening those could be to a woman alone and grief-stricken. His eyes watered, remembering his widowed mother’s tears.

  He read through Lucca’s material again, more carefully this time.

  Alexander lived in a good neighborhood, he had driven an expensive car and owned a business. Most likely he was well insured, his wife and son well provided for. What value could he bring to their lives? His fantasies about stepping in to ameliorate their situation were just that, fantasies. Was he motivated by gratitude or merely morbid curiosity? Kathleen had been right.

  Sue Ann arrived, carrying the mail, as he left. “Hey,there,” she chirped, upbeat as always. “You’re an early bird. Need anything?”

  He shook his head. “I’m going home. I may be back later. The coffee’s fresh.”

  He retrieved the car from the municipal parking lot behind the building and started home. He must at least, he thought, say thank you. He could do that in an anonymous letter of gratitude delivered through the transplant program. That was the soundest course of action. A face-to-face meeting was out of the question. Why didn’t he feel relieved? Without thinking, he turned east, toward the ocean, then north on Collins. Troubled and restless, he parked the Mercedes at a meter, then climbed the wooden plank stairs to the boardwalk, inhaling the salt air and broad horizon. Few sunbathers on the sand this early on a weekday during the off season. He descended onto the beach at Thirty-sixth Street. The ocean slapped its big salty body against the sand as usual, now and forever, evoking a nostalgic sense of longing. He loved the sea and the endless sky and always thought better when walking the beach. A force as strong as the tide was tugging him toward Daniel Alexander’s widow. Common sense told him it was a bad idea, but his heart—his heart, that was funny, he realized, smiling to himself—his heart wanted him to go to Rory Alexander, the person who gave it to him.

  Who knew what can of worms that could open? Better not to know. The woman could be a total bitch who hounded the poor bastard to death. Perhaps she had cheated on Alexander, or intended to divorce him, prompting his last desperate act. If she bore a burden of guilt, Frank would be a reminder of what she had done. Go with the intelligent decision, he told himself, not illogical emotions. Taking the
high road had always worked for him.

  It was time to go, the sky was changing as a thunderstorm boiled up offshore and roiled swiftly toward the beach. He should have joined the few bathers who scooped up their beach towels and fled. But something kept him. He sat on an unattended wooden lounge and watched slanted rain streak the horizon, churning the sea from brilliant blue green to gunmetal gray under low-flying, fast-moving clouds. The air freshened as a skirling and relentless wind whipped his hair. He had never felt more alive, stimulated by the energy of the electrical storm racing across open water. Bam! An earsplitting thunderclap following a lightning bolt that skittered crazily across the sky. Cool, scattered raindrops began to fall. He was alone on the beach now, except for a lifeguard closeted in his pastel art deco station.

  More lightning. Frank never flinched. The storm’s awesome power thrilled him. The odds against being struck by lightning were huge, at least six hundred thousand to one, he knew. He was more likely to win the lottery or be mauled by a shark. The odds would be no consolation, of course, should a bolt seek him out. Even if he saw it coming at sixty thousand miles a second, he could never outdistance it. He could run, but he couldn’t hide. But he felt confident, almost cocky. God had granted him a new heart, a medical miracle, a new life. He certainly would not take it away now in a bolt from the blue.

  Frank turned to leave, then saw it. A small boat tossed viciously, out beyond the breakers, helplessly buffeted by the storm. A man stood precariously in the bow, waving both arms, signaling frantically.

  Jesus Christ, he thought. The guy’s in trouble. His cell phone was in the car blocks away. Rain pelted faster now. Frank jogged toward the lifeguard station, shouting, “Call the Coast Guard!”

  He nearly staggered up the wooden steps and pounded on the door. The window slid to one side with a gritty rasp.

  “What’s your problem, buddy?” The guard, snug and dry, eyed him suspiciously.

  Frank gasped for breath. His doctors should see him now, he thought. “Did you call the Coast Guard? That guy’s in trouble out there!”

  The guard’s blue eyes remained flat and uncomprehending. “What guy?”

  “The boat, goddammit! The boat!” He couldn’t help but see it. Frank turned in to the pounding rain to point back to where he had seen the floundering craft. All he saw was raging surf.

  “My God, he capsized.” He squinted, searching for a survivor in the water.

  The guard looked unperturbed, hunched in his Beach Patrol windbreaker. “I didn’t see anybody out there, and if I were you, buddy, I’d get off the beach in an electrical storm. It’s not safe.”

  “Are you crazy? Call the Coast Guard! He was right there.”

  The guard lifted his binoculars, focused, scanned, then shook his head and put them down.

  “I’m telling you, he was right out there. A small boat, about a sixteen-footer.” The needlelike downpour, hard and cold, soaked his shirt, slacks and shoes. This was not the soft, warm, splashy rain of summer. Lightning lit up the sky, thunder crashed.

  The guard picked up his walkie-talkie. “Randy, you see anything out there? Got a guy who claims he just saw a boat in trouble right here off forty-one.” He paused. “Yeah. Me too. Right.”

  He hit another button, apparently accessing a central frequency. “This is forty-one, anybody see a small boat in trouble offshore?”

  The replies were all negative.

  Wet to the skin, hair plastered flat, water cascading down his face, Frank knew how he must look to this stranger.

  “Listen,” the lifeguard shouted, over the sounds of the storm, “sometimes the waves are like clouds. You think you see things. Now, get off the beach, buddy, before you drown. You’re soaked.” He slammed the window shut.

  Gusts of wind-blasted rain nearly shoved Frank off balance as he went down the stairs. He stared at where he had last seen the doomed boater. Nothing but stormy sea. The stretch of beach that curved north toward the Fontainebleau was empty except for the raging surf.

  “You’d better make a report on this,” he shouted furiously, knowing his words would be drowned out by the wind and the rain, “ ‘cuz when that guy and his boat wash up onshore, ‘buddy,’ I’m turning you in!” His eyes stung and his shoes made squishing sounds as he slogged across the wet sand, climbed the steps to the boardwalk and trudged back to his car through the rain.

  He sat shivering in the Mercedes, his water-soaked clothes oozing onto the sculpted leather seats. His Italian-made shoes were ruined. Some poor son of a bitch just drowned out there, he thought. So why am I thinking about that damn woman? Rain pounded the windshield, drummed on the roof, echoing an inner voice demanding that he find Rory Alexander.

  He stopped at the fast-food window of an art deco Burger King, ordered a carton of milk, swallowed his pills, then drove home, teeth chattering.

  Kathleen was horrified when she saw him.

  “My God, Frank. What happened? Did you take your medication? You’ll catch pneumonia!”

  She dispatched Lourdes for towels and hot soup, and insisted on helping him peel off his wet clothes. “There had to be a place to take shelter,” she fussed. “You look like you nearly drowned. Look at those shoes!”

  She filled the Jacuzzi in the master bath, ordered him into the steaming water and returned with a big stoneware mug. The soup was hot, aromatic. Chicken. Homemade. Jewish penicillin. She sat on the marble ledge around the oversized tub and spoon-fed it to him. Then she lathered his hair with her fragrant shampoo, massaging his scalp. Had he been a cat, he would have purred.

  He knew what she was doing, of course. This was in part a diversion, a warm, delectable and delicious diversion from their squabble the night before. He had heard Shandi come in from her date at about 2 a.m. He had never suspected Kathleen’s motives before, but right now he was in heaven, the moment too good to spoil. Who knows, he thought, perhaps the situation with Shandi would resolve itself. Some do.

  He felt completely relaxed. “Something happened at the beach, Kath.”

  “What was it?” She rubbed conditioner into his hair.

  “I saw a boat in trouble, floundering in the storm.”

  She paused. “Anybody aboard?”

  “One man, he saw me and was signaling for help.”

  “Did they save him?”

  “By the time I got the lifeguard’s attention, he was gone. Nobody else saw him.”

  “What about all those cliff dwellers in the high-rise con-dos and hotels along the beach?” She sounded cheerful and matter-of-fact. “Lots of them have nothing better to do than scan the horizon with their telescopes and binoculars. Youknow how eager they all are to be the first to spot dead bodies, beached whales and Haitian boat people. Surely they saw him and called for help.”

  “I hope so,” he said doubtfully.

  She handed him the cup and he drained the last satisfying dregs. He smiled up into her eyes, the water easing the tightness in his muscles. “You saved me again,” he said, his head clear. “Home is really the place where they have to take you in.”

  “I was so worried when I woke up and you were gone. Where did you go off to at the crack of dawn?”

  “To the office, had an early meeting.”

  “Don’t ever do that again without telling me first.” Her voice was tender, though she shook her head in mock exasperation. “I worry about you.” She brought him towels from the warmer, thick and fluffy. “What you need now is a nap.”

  She was right. He meant to thank her, to tell her she had been right about everything, all along, but he felt drowsy. He wore his bathrobe into the bedroom, sank into bed and pulled the down comforter over him.

  He awoke refreshed, the room in soft shadow, the setting sun spilling its golden glow between narrow cracks in the blinds, the sheers billowing in the breeze off the water. Disoriented for a moment, he was not sure whether it was dawn or dusk.

  He was sure he was not alone. Someone had just spoken his name. Someone was sitting in
the comfortable overstuffed chair between the bed and the fireplace, where Kathleen often sat reading to him when he was ill.

  “You don’t have to watch me sleep anymore,” he mumbled. “I’m okay now, Kath.” He rolled over to reassure her,comfortably drowsy in the fading light. “I’m sure you have …”

  The stranger smiled faintly, his eyes bright.

  Frank jerked to a sitting position. The shock sent cold fear coursing through his body. The man looked familiar, though his face was in shadow. The high-backed chair blocked the waning light from the window behind him.

  His rumpled clothes seemed stained and spattered in the uncertain light. The intruder remained still, exhibiting no threat, no sense of menace.

  “Who the hell are you? What are doing in here?” Frank fumbled for the bedside keypad, then mashed the panic button.

  The shrill siren howled an earsplitting warning, automatically alerting the monitoring station. Police would be notified. But the man seemed to take no notice. Still seated, he extended his right hand in a gesture of supplication.

  Frank scrambled out the far side of the bed, the down comforter sliding to the floor. He pulled his robe tight around him, eyes on the intruder, and edged toward the door.

  “Kathleen!” he bellowed. “Lourdes!” The alarm continued to wail.

  He heard voices, somebody pounding up the stairs.

  “Call the police!” he shouted. “Call the police!”

  The door burst open. The siren’s shrill sound spilled even louder into the room. He took his eyes off the man and saw the frightened faces of Kathleen, Casey and the housekeeper. His daughter was wide-eyed, hands over her ears.

  “Frank, what is it?”