Pulse

by Edna Buchanan

  “No, go, go,” he said, wanting her out of the office before Bowden arrived. “Has Kathleen called?”

  “No.” She looked guilty. “Frank, I don’t want to wind up in the middle of any problems the two of you might have.”

  What was she talking about? He had no time to ask. “I wouldn’t expect you to,” he said briskly. “I would think you’d remember who signs your paychecks.”

  She nodded. “We go way back. We’re like family. I enjoy working for you. My grandkids adore you.”

  Her tone and her searching look was unsettling. What the hell is this? he wondered, then checked his watch: 5:24. “See you in the morning,” he said, and closed the door.

  He unlocked the outer office after she left and waited for Bowden, who arrived precisely on time.

  Frank forced himself to shake Bowden’s hand and offer him a seat. He studied the man and tried to stay civil. Bowden now sported a mustache. He wore a black T-shirt under a white jacket, apparently affecting an outdated Miami Vice look. His hair was long and he wore a heavy gold bracelet on one wrist. Frank wondered bitterly if the man’s bottom was tattooed as well. Was his daughter, that little girl so bright andbeautiful from the day she was born, out of her mind? Was she stark, raving mad?

  Bowden’s eyes swept the room like a furtive character out of a ? movie. “We’re alone?”

  “Nobody else here. What was it you wanted to see me about?”

  Bowden’s fingers explored his mustache as though he was unaccustomed to it being there. “You’re aware that I’ve been seeing Shandi?”

  “That’s hardly news.”

  “Right, and I’m sure you know that I left the security of my teaching gig to take on the title of creative director of the new Green Glades Playhouse.”

  Frank nodded.

  “We’re in the process of putting the first season together, and believe me, Frank, it’s a struggle.” Bowden sighed dramatically and shook his head. “Not easy at all. We’ve lost some important funding that may cost us matching funds promised by the city. We’ve had landlord problems and a thousand other snags and setbacks that I won’t bore you with now.”

  “Good.”

  “Frankly, one of the things that attracted me to Shandi in the first place was how supportive you and Mrs. Douglas were of the arts, how generous you were with our little drama department when she was in school.”

  “And all along I thought it was her beauty and talent you found irresistible.”

  “Oh, that too! That too.” Bowden smiled.

  The image of Rory—or was it Rory?—and him naked together flashed across Frank’s consciousness with sudden power, then he imagined Shandi and Bowden and his skin crawled. He felt queasy. He wanted to end this meeting.

  “What’s on your mind, Bowden?”

  “Here’s the deal.” The man casually crossed his legs as though they had all the time in the world. “It’s obvious that because of our age difference, past student and teacher association, or whatever, you’re not entirely thrilled at the idea of your daughter and me as an item. I can understand that.” He held up one hand as if Frank might protest. “If I were a father, I’d probably feel exactly the same, you know? Daddies are very protective of their little girls. That’s understood.

  “So I’ve come up with a solution that would make us both happy. Because of my current situation, struggling to get this artistic venture off the ground, I’m willing to sacrifice. In other words, you help me and I help you.”

  “What’s the bottom line?”

  “You make an anonymous donation, and I let her down easy, tell her I met somebody else.” His eyes were bright, his expression sly.

  “What if I don’t feel charitable?”

  “Oh, I think you will. I mean, anything could happen. Shandi’s crazy about me. You know how spoiled she is, always has to have what she wants when she wants it, exactly how she wants it. She might even decide to do something crazy—like elope.”

  “I have faith in my daughter’s intelligence, Bowden. She’s strong-willed, but she would never do anything that she knows would hurt her mother and me.”

  Bowden did an exaggerated double take, as if to say Frank shouldn’t be so sure. “If you care to run that risk”—he licked his lips—“be my guest. But, in all modesty, I think that I pretty much call the shots in this relationship right now. You know how emotional young girls in love can be.”

  Frank wanted to dive across his desk and choke Bowden’s tongue out. Instead he tried to look thoughtful.

  “As for Mrs. Douglas, a lovely woman, I wouldn’t want anything to add to the stress you both have been undergoing.”

  What had Shandi told this guy?

  “Well, I will have to talk to Kathleen. She handles all our contributions to the arts.”

  “Ohhh, I wouldn’t want to burden her with this,” Bowden said quickly. He looked annoyed, as though running low on patience. “I understand you’re pretty quick with a checkbook yourself when the mood arises.”

  What the hell? “What do you mean?”

  Bowden smiled so widely that pink gums gleamed above his teeth. “You know.” He lifted an obscene eyebrow. “Your contribution to the widow’s fund? See, I’m practically a member of the family already.”

  No one knew about the money he had transferred to Rory’s account. Yet news of it had spread from Kathleen to Shandi to this two-bit chiseler. Outrageous, he thought. Sue Ann and Kathleen. How dare they spy on him!

  “I would never stand in the way of Shandi’s happiness,” he said, fighting to remain calm. “If you’re what she wants, and the feeling is mutual …”

  Bowden’s smile faded. “I think that my idea would be more beneficial to everybody concerned.”

  “How much of a contribution are we talking about here?”

  Bowden’s relief was obvious. “Healthy, very healthy, maybe somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy-five thousand?”

  “Seventy-five thousand!”

  “I know it’s three times your donation to the … widow’s fund, but we’re talking family here, and you have no idea how much capital it takes to mount a production.”

  “What would such a sizable donation guarantee?”

  “Well, under the circumstances, you obviously would not want your name listed on the program as a donor.” Bowden looked much happier now. “But it would guarantee no contact. Zilch. Nada. Shandi shows up, I walk away. She calls, I hang up. No ifs, ands or buts. Finito.”

  “Wouldn’t that be cruel, wouldn’t she be hurt, without an explanation?”

  “She’ll bounce back fast.” He sounded confident. “Happens all the time.” Bowden nodded sagely. “Girls that age get over it in a hurry.”

  “Hmmm,” Frank said. “I’ll have to sleep on this before I can commit.”

  Bowden’s eyes registered alarm. “I don’t think you’d regret it, Frank. My solution is best for all of us. If you’d like to just give me a part of the money now …”

  Frank shook his head. “I need to give it some thought before I write a check.”

  “What’s to think? I’d rather not wait,” Bowden said, “and I’d prefer cash.”

  “Here, the same time tomorrow.” Frank got to his feet and extended his hand.

  “The sooner, the better,” Bowden said.

  When he was finally alone, Frank locked his office door, checked his watch and announced the time and date aloud. He unlocked the cabinet, hit the stop button, then eject, removed the videotape from the machine, slipped it into its cardboard casing and scribbled the time and date on the label.

  No time to ponder his betrayal by those he trusted most. He called Lucca.

  “How ya doing, boss?”

  “I need you to find somebody,” he said urgently. “I’ve learned something important.”

  He reported the link between Denise Marie Watson and Alexander, excited, convinced that this would change the detective’s mind.

  Lucca snorted. “You call that a link? A finite
number of people work for the city and there are an infinite number of calls. A lotta those people go back to the same addresses more than once.”

  “And then disappear, with no forwarding address?”

  “People leave police work, leave Miami, if she did indeed leave, all the time.”

  “But the letter?”

  “The man was a letter writer. People who work for the department solicit those letters, like to pad their personnel files with ‘em.”

  “No. No.” Frank was on his feet now, pacing around his desk, phone to his ear. “This is it! Lucca, this is a piece of the puzzle! Harrington’s murder is connected, too. I’m sure of it.”

  “Hold it, hold it, hold it right there. Jesus Christ. Come down to Planet Earth for a minute here. I ran into some of the detectives from the city the other day. Asked about Harrington. They’re looking at robbery, an inside job. Plan to run some of his employees on the lie box. When he cashed that fat insurance check he took a major chunk in cash, apparently stashed it in that two-bit safe in his office. Apparently it was common knowledge among his staff. They’re looking at a dishwasher and a waitress who both came up with minor records. They’re working a coupla angles. Guy was apparently a ladies’ man, or thought he was. Had been doing a coupla the broads working for him. The ME says he apparently got lucky not long before he bought it. Could be a woman involved. Apparently he was flashing green all over the place.”

  “Rory said he liked to do that, but—”

  “Rory! Boss, if you are banging that broad, you’re nuts! Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to get involved with anybody who has less money or more problems than you do? Stop thinking with your dick.”

  “That has nothing to do with this! I’m telling you, Lucca, Daniel Alexander did not kill himself. He—”

  “Listen.” The detective’s voice dropped to a guttural growl. “You are making yourself and everybody around you nuts. You got your old lady ready to throw a net over you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You heard me, boss. Look, I already said more than I should have, but listen to me. You better straighten out your act damn fast or life as you know it is in for some big changes. See ya.” Lucca hung up.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  He fought panic. He was close, too close to allow anyone or anything to stop him now. He reread the pages from Denise Watson’s file, then drove back to her former home, still empty, still waiting.

  The house next door was noisy and full of children. The chubby blonde woman opened the door wearing fresh lipstick and a bright blouse. “You’re in luck,” she told him. “They were in the first place I looked.”

  She had found only one good snapshot of Denise among those taken at the barbecue. Smiling inscrutably at someone or something over the photographer’s shoulder, she wore long, shiny earrings and held a drink in her hand. It was not her smile or her low-cut blouse that left Frank reeling this time, it was another face. A man hovered protectively at Den-ise’s elbow, nearly out of focus. Tall, lean and dark-haired, he wore jeans and a western-style shirt. He held a can of beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

  “Who is that, the man with her?” Frank asked hoarsely.

  “Oh, that was Nick, the live-in boyfriend, the one who left. Nick … can’t think of his last name. Bolton, I think. Nice fella, had an accent, from Texas or Oklahoma, I think. Somewhere like that. Supposedly was a heck of a football player in high school and college. Hard to believe he was an athlete, always had a cigarette in his hand.” She squinted at the picture. “See, you can see it there. Said he picked up the habit in the service. Nice fella, he got along with everybody, but he was crazy about Denise,” she said nostalgically. “Surprised me that he finally left her. But she was always on him ‘cuz he wasn’t ambitious enough. Can’t remember what he did for a living. Had some kinda job, but it didn’t bring in enough for her. He wasn’t a bad fella,” she said absently, shuffling through the rest of the pictures of the neighborhood party. “Put Tabasco sauce on everything.” She wrinkled her nose. “Even on my homemade baked beans with barbecue sauce. Denise said he even poured it on his eggs. But he got along with everybody,” she said again, glancing up from the pictures. “You know him?”

  “I’m think I’ve seen him,” he whispered.

  Information had no listing for a Nick Bolton; Frank did not expect to find one, but checked anyway. He went back to Denise Watson’s file for the name of the only other person who might help him now.

  He called Kathleen from the car. “I may be a little late for dinner, sweetheart. Why don’t you guys go on without me?”

  “Where are you? What are you doing?” Her voice, toobright, too casual, tightened his stomach. He did not know her anymore.

  “Checking out a piece of real estate,” he replied, just as casually. “I’m thinking of getting in on a development deal here.” Lie number one, he thought. “I’ll be home soon.”

  The dying rays of the setting sun spilled a bloodred stain across the rooftops of Overtown, no-man’s-land during the last riots. He found the address, half a mile and a million light-years from police headquarters. He took a chance and left the Mercedes at the curb. He had no choice. He knocked on a grimy door that opened onto the street, praying that she was still there.

  A mountainous black woman inched open the door and eyed him suspiciously.

  “Is LaKisha Henricks at home?”

  “Whatchu doing here? Whatchu want her for? She eight years old.”

  Behind her were skinny children, all arms and legs, all ages and sizes.

  “Please, it’s important. I’m here to talk to her about her big sister, Denise Watson, from the police department.”

  The woman closed the door, slid off the chain and opened it.

  “We ain’t seen her in months.” The woman’s bulldog face wore an offended expression. “She done took off, jes’ like that chil’s father. They s’posed to get her another big sister.” She looked Frank up and down and scowled. “Not a big brother. I’d just as soon they never gave her no big sister, ‘stead a one that just go off and break her heart again.”

  “I’m sorry about that. Is LaKisha here?”

  “Yeah,” she muttered, and turned her back.

  He followed her inside.

  A TV blared. The children in the tiny living room weremostly male. The oldest, about eleven or twelve, gave Frank a hostile stare.

  “LaKish. Com’ere. This man wants to talk wit you.”

  Winsome and dark-skinned, LaKisha was small for her age, with pink plastic barrettes, pigtails and a gap-tooth smile.

  “My name is Frank Douglas,” he began. “I guess you miss Denise.”

  She looked up shyly from beneath her eyelashes and nodded.

  “You used to have fun together.”

  “Yeeah.” She dragged out the word and put a finger in her mouth.

  The other children gathered around, noisy and curious, distracting LaKisha, who seemed to withdraw.

  “Can I talk to her alone?” he asked the mother.

  “You show me where you be alone around here,” she muttered.

  “How about out back?”

  “It be getting dark.” She shrugged. “Antwan,” she told the older boy, “you go wid ‘em.” She glared at Frank. “And you watch ‘im.”

  They sat on a broken back step, facing a garbage-strewn courtyard littered with discarded pieces of furniture. Antwan stood like a sentry, several feet away, arms crossed, watching.

  “You can talk to me, LaKisha.” The child quietly studied the pitted concrete. “What did you and Denise used to do together?”

  “Go places sometimes.” She spoke in a small, barely audible voice.

  “That’s nice. Did she come say good-bye to you before she left?”

  She shook her head, pigtails bobbing. “She say she goin’ away. But she don’t be saying good-bye.”

  “What did she say?”

  LaKisha shrugged and fiddled with one of he
r braids.

  “Did Denise tell you where she was going?”

  “No.”

  “When is she coming back?”

  “Don think she be coming back.”

  “Do you know where she might be now?”

  She shrugged again, stealing a sly, self-conscious glance at her brother.

  Frank’s heart sank. A dead end. He had come for nothing and had so little time.

  He sighed and got to his feet. “I know a girl who would be a nice big sister for you. Actually she’s not much older than you, but she could teach you a lot and maybe help with your schoolwork. Her name is Casey. Do you know how to swim?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, it’s time you learned. Casey could teach you.” He took her hand, small and warm. “There are some things I have to finish first, but then I’ll work on it. Thank you very much for talking to me.”

  They went back inside, the boy sauntering behind them.

  “Satisfied?” the mother demanded.

  He thanked her and headed for the door, hoping to find his car where he left it. The girl’s mother still fumed and muttered. “She act like it don’t matter. But it do. Every day she be out there looking for the mailman. Looking for the postcard. That woman done promised her, but it don’t never come.”

  “The mailman?”

  “Yeah.”

  He glanced at the girl, who was still obsessed by the errant braid. “LaKisha, Denise said she’d write to you?”

  “Yeeah. She say she be sending me a postcard.”

  He swallowed hard. “From where?”

  The girl looked annoyed, scrunching up her face as though it would help her to remember.

  Please, he thought.

  “She say she gonna send me a postcard from Seattle. It dint come yet.”

  “You’re sure she said Seattle?” He crouched in front of her, intent.

  She nodded solemnly. “She say when she get there, she’d send me a postcard.”

  “Thank you.”

  He turned to the mother at the door. “This is important,” he said. “You think she’s telling the truth?”

  “If LaKish say Seattle,” the mother said, “it be Seattle. She ain’t learned to lie yet. How you think she’d know ‘bout Seattle if Denise didn’t tell it to her?”