Cold As Death (The Mira Morales Series Book 5)

by T. J. MacGregor

  Finch put the edited scenes on a third DVD and switched screens to the live webcam in Adam’s room. The kid sat at the laptop, his hair damp from a recent shower, a can of tomato juice open on the desk. On the floor around him lay clothes, towels, sheets he’d stripped from the bed. The cooler had been flipped on its side and the containers of juice and the few remaining snacks and pieces of fruit were on the windowsill. Dirty dishes and plastic utensils were piled on the floor, the bureau.

  Goddamn slob, Finch thought.

  Suddenly, Adam lifted his right hand and flashed a bird. He scooted away from the laptop, revealing the message on the screen in a 24-inch font: FUCK YOU ALIEN PERVERT VOYEUR.

  How’s he know I’m watching him? “Ditto, you little shit.” Finch decided to make Adam wait a little longer for his breakfast and a refill on the cooler.

  He packaged one DVD and put the other two into a storage tower with dozens of others in his collection. Rather than entrust the DVD to a postal system severely disrupted by the hurricane, he decided he would deliver it in person. But how and to whom? He wasn’t sure yet.

  Finch returned to the kitchen, disengaged the three locks, and stepped out onto the wraparound porch. A suffocating heat had seized the air, so thick and impenetrable that nothing moved—not a palm frond, a bird, an insect. It was as if a crippling torpor had infected everything. The water in the lagoon the house faced and in the canal at the side looked as flat, featureless, and shiny as aluminum foil and held the perfect reflection of the early morning sky, a blinding blue, cloudless. Not a boat or a plane in sight.

  He headed quickly down the length of the porch, trotted down the stairs, and stopped between his two cars, a VW wagon and a Honda hybrid. Each was registered to a different fictitious person who had a credit history, Social Security number, address, and driver’s license. In short, each phony person had a life. In the days before computers, when he and his old man had fled across the country from whoever his father had pissed off most recently, obtaining a new identity had been complicated, time-consuming, expensive. But somehow, his old man had managed to do it.

  By the time Finch had fled Hollywood and needed a new identity, the world had changed considerably and he had the computer knowledge and the means to hack into systems to find ideal candidates. Then, while he worked in Silicon Valley, the birthing of home computers and Internet access for the masses had facilitated the process. Greedy hackers these days stole data on hundreds of thousands of clients from a single company, thus tipping off the feds. His thefts involved just one name from here, another name from there, not enough to alert anyone.

  Spenser Finch paid off his phone bill and DSL connection every month. He paid taxes. He owned a small home in Miami, the VW Wagon, and, as far as the IRS was concerned, was a computer consultant who earned about forty grand a year. This amount was about what Finch took in from various computer consulting jobs that he did throughout a given year, for bogus offshore companies. Finch had no criminal record. Kevin Birch owned the hybrid and a home in Wyoming and was retired. He had a few investments on which he paid minimal taxes each year. The Sugarloaf house was owned in a corporate name.

  He tucked the DVD into the visor of the hybrid so he would be sure to take it with him to Tango, then hastened back upstairs and into the blissfully b1 house. As he prepared Adam’s breakfast, he turned on the small TV set in the kitchen. He had channel-surfed until one this morning, looking for news about Adam, but hadn’t found anything. Maybe seven hours had changed all that, he thought, and went to CNN.

  “We have a breaking story this morning,” announced a younger version of Connie Chung. Her perfect hair, flawless skin, and red blazer testified to the power of correct choices in fashion, dentists, nutritionists, and trainers. Finch turned up the volume. “The thirteen-year-old son of Oscar-winning actress Suki Nichols is missing and we’re waiting for a live press conference that is due to begin shortly. The story now from Luz Hernandez, at our Miami affiliate.”

  A pretty Latina appeared, standing outside the Nichols home on Tango Key. “This morning, the press and paparazzi began converging on this tiny barrier island off Key West that was damaged so severely in Hurricane Danielle. Ms. Nichols and her husband, director Paul Nichols, and their teenaged son, Adam, have lived on the island for the last two years.”

  Pan of the house on the hill, tennis courts, swimming pool, the ravaged trees at the back of the property. “The police believe that Adam disappeared sometime between eight p.m. on July 26th and seven a.m. on July 27th, when a local resident discovered the body of the Nichols housekeeper, Gladys Levereaux, who was shot in the chest.”

  A photo of Adam appeared next to a picture of Gladys, then the camera cut to the Asian woman in the CNN newsroom.

  “Who was the resident who found the housekeeper’s body, Luz?”

  Back to Luz, who gripped her mike more tightly and tucked her shiny black hair behind her ears. “A businesswoman, Mira Morales. She’s also a psychic who has worked with the local police and the FBI in the past. Her relationship with the family is unclear.”

  A psychic?

  His mind scrambled back through all the material he had collected on Adam and his family, but he couldn’t remember anything about their acquaintance with a psychic. Then again, he supposed big Hollywood types usually had psychics tucked away among their massage therapists, yoga instructors, gurus, and body trainers.

  “We’re going now to the press conference,” Luz said, and the camera cut to the house, where Suki Nichols walked down the driveway to the gate, Paul at her side. Behind them were Mayor Dawson and a tall man whom Finch guessed was a cop.

  Suki wore the clothes of a regular person—cotton skirt, blouse, sandals. Her thick blond hair, straight and struck through with sunlight, was windblown. But otherwise, she looked humbled, scared, uncertain of herself. When the camera zoomed in on her beautiful face, Finch saw that her eyes and mouth were pinched with fatigue. It delighted him.

  Yet, as she stood at the mike, she pulled herself together in the same way that he’d seen other professional actors do. It was the subtlety of it all that he admired—a slight adjustment in expression, a quick brightening in the eyes, the suggestion that despite what was going on for her personally, she knew she had to get her message across. She was no longer an actress but the victim of a tragedy. You couldn’t learn this, Finch thought. You either had it or you didn’t. And maybe he never had had it.

  “Good morning and thank you all your patience. Like so many others on Tango, we’ve been without power since the hurricane and keep our windows open at night. It’s believed that Adam’s kidnapper took him out his bedroom window. Our housekeeper apparently heard something, and when she went into Adam’s room to investigate, the intruder shot her. I would like to ask that you respect our privacy during this difficult time. I’m going to turn the microphone over to FBI agent Wayne Sheppard and to Mayor Dawson.”

  Before she turned away from the mike, Suki flashed a thumbs up at the camera and mouthed something. A-Okay. That was what it looked like. Finch wondered if it was something she usually did during a live appearance, rather like Carol Burnett’s tug at her earlobe at the end of her show, a signal to her mother that the show went well. Was this her signal to Adam?

  Even if it was, so what?

  The fed stepped to the mike first and said he would take several questions. Had there been a ransom demand? Where were the Nicholses at the time of Adam’s disappearance? Were there any suspects yet? What was Mira Morales doing in the house when she found the housekeeper’s body? This last question interested Finch, too, and he was disappointed when the fed replied that he wasn’t at liberty to say. In fact, the fed didn’t provide any new information, and Finch started to turn off the TV when the mayor stepped up to the mike.

  He looked like a typical bureaucrat, except that he was dressed for the heat in olive-green chinos and a guayaberra shirt instead of a coat and tie.

  “Since Hurricane Danielle, Tango Key has
been operating under emergency management. Only fifteen percent of our power has been restored, just two hotels and one gas station are open, we have no public restrooms, and only a handful of restaurants are open for business. In short, we can’t accommodate several hundred reporters and journalists, their vans and cars, and basic needs. So, all press people who don’t have accommodations must leave the island by six p.m. To remain out here during the day, you will need a pass and to get that pass, you’ll have to show press credentials and ID.”

  Murmurs of protest went up from the crowd. Reporters started shouting questions. A chopper flew past overhead, sweeping in very low, and Sheppard and the mayor both glanced up. Sheppard said something to the mayor, who shook his head; then the fed walked some distance away from him and got on his cell phone. Finch guessed the chopper belonged to the press, and wasn’t surprised when it disappeared from view a few minutes later.

  “If I may have your attention, please,” Dawson went on. “Passes can be obtained from the courthouse at the north end of the island, on Toucan Street in Pirate’s Cove. It’s right off Old Post Road. One member of each press party can obtain passes for other members, as long as you have the proper credentials to show for them. At the end of each day, these passes must be returned at the docks, if you’re taking the ferry back to the mainland, or at the airport. They’ll be collected each evening, and new passes will be distributed each day at both the docks and the airport. Any questions?”

  “What about those of us who have reservations at the hotels?” asked one burly reporter.

  “You’ll still need a pass and you have to give the name of the hotel and the room number. If you’ve flown in, we’ll need the make and model of the plane and the call numbers. You’ll have to wear your press pass around your neck at all times. If you’re caught on the island after dusk and don’t have a place to stay, the city jail will be your home for the night.”

  Finch smiled. Mr. Mayor was making this rather unappealing for the press. But that was the point.

  Finch’s cell rang and Eden’s number came up in the window. She probably was watching the same thing he was. He hesitated about taking the call. If he didn’t answer now, though, she would call every five minutes until he did.

  Get it over with. “Hey, hon, what—”

  “Spense, Jesus, have you seen the news?”

  “I just got up.”

  “CNN. Paul’s son. He’s missing.” Her voice cracked. “He disappeared… around the same time I met Paul at the motel. He…they’re saying he was kidnapped and my God, my God, I feel so responsible. If I…”

  Hysteria, rising in her voice. “Calm down, Eden. You’re not responsible for anything.” I am. “You didn’t cause this.” I did. “You…?”

  “And this psychic they mentioned?” Eden rushed on. “I’ve heard about her. She’s supposed to be incredibly good. I know people who have gone to her, who…”

  “Psychics are bullshit.”

  “No, you’re wrong about this woman. I’ve heard her name so many times I can’t tell you.”

  “Look, even if she’s as good as you’ve heard, so what?” You’re not guilty of anything.” But I am.

  “I… I guess I just feel gui1ty, you know?”

  “I know. I understand. But there’s nothing you can do about it, Eden.”

  “You’re right. I know you are.”

  “Look, I’ve got an appointment in an hour and need to get ready. But let’s talk later today. Maybe we can get together tonight or tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got to work for a few hours tonight. Call me before seven or after ten, okay?”

  “Right.”

  “Love you, Spense.”

  “You too.”

  He had calmed her down, but had he convinced her of anything? Even if he hadn’t, what could she do that might put him at risk? Nothing. Yet the conversation nagged at him.

  Outside Adam’s door, he grabbed the alien mask off the hook, slipped it on. Okay, so it had been a stupid idea, more fitting for a five-year-old than a teen. But it served its purpose.

  He pressed the button on the clicker, the door opened, and he stepped inside. The chaos he’d seen on the webcam looked even worse here in the room. Adam was sitting in front of the television, watching CNN. “Hey, Mr. Alien. You believe in psychics?”

  Finch laughed. “So you saw the broadcast too. I hope you’re not banking your hopes on this Morales woman.” He set the tray down next to the monitor. “Here’s your breakfast.”

  “I need more ice and could use some more fruit. So you think all psychics are frauds?”

  “Let’s just say I maintain a healthy skepticism.”

  “Have you ever had a reading with a psychic?”

  “Once. A man. He wasn’t right about a damn thing.”

  “Well, skeptics walk away from readings with Mira with their brains dribbling out their ears.”

  “Really. And just how would you know that?”

  “My mom had a reading with her and she was, like, blown away.”

  Interesting. He hadn’t known this. The connection between the Morales woman and Suki disturbed him precisely because he hadn’t known about it. “If she’s so good, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Psychics aren’t gods.”

  “So she’s a fraud.”

  “You’re not a god either, does that make you a fraud?” he spat.

  Insolent little shit, he thought, and grabbed Adam’s jaw, forcing the kid to look at him. “Let’s be clear about a couple of things, Adam. You’re here until I decide otherwise. That makes me God in your corner of the universe.”

  The kid stared at him, his mouth puckered up, cheeks sinking where Finch’s thumbs dug into the flesh. When Finch was sure he’d gotten Adam’s attention, he released his jaw. Adam didn’t make a sound—not a gasp, sob, nothing. He lowered his eyes, swiveled his chair around, and raised the volume on the television, barricading himself behind a wall of noise.

  Finch spent a few minutes straightening up, the blare of the TV filling the silence. He set out fresh towels and sheets, stuffed the dirty laundry into a pillowcase, tossed the clean sheets on the bed. Then he lowered the volume on the TV

  “Fresh sheets and linen. If you’ve got dirty laundry, dump it by the door. I’ll bring in a fresh cooler.”

  “I do my own laundry at home.”

  “Good try, Adam. But you’re not leaving this room. If you want to do your own laundry, you can do it in the bathroom sink and hang the clothes up in the shower.”

  “How come there are so many pictures of me and my family on this computer?” He jerked open a desk drawer and brought out one of the photo albums that had been stored in the closet. “And in this album?”

  Excellent. Adam had searched the computer and the room. Finch had hoped that he would. Anything that kept a teenager engaged was good. And a teen on a quest for information was even better. He had removed any potential weapons before he’d taken Adam and knew he had been exceptionally thorough in that regard. Everything that remained in the closet provided fodder for the kid’s search.

  “Because I did my homework.”

  “And you’re still spying on me.” He stabbed a thumb behind him. “I figure back there somewhere you’ve got a hidden webcam set up.”

  Finch didn’t confirm or deny it. Adam looked at him, his eyes glinting with something Finch couldn’t read. “I know as much about computers as you do.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Adam clicked on the pictures file and brought up a photo of his father and Eden. Even though her face wasn’t fully visible, it was obvious the woman wasn’t Suki. “Who is she?” Adam asked.

  “His lover.” Finch took a certain satisfaction in saying it, rubbing it in that the Nicholses definitely lacked in the storybook-perfection department. “Her name’s Eden.”

  Adam laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Awesome. The lovers in the Garden of Eden. He’s had a lot of lovers. That’s what he does. Sneaks off with lovers and gamb
les and blows his money on fast cars and booze and that’s why he can’t direct anymore. He thinks my mom and I don’t have a clue. So now he writes and teaches about directing because he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s pathetic.”

  The lack of emotion in his voice surprised Finch. “So you’ve got a dysfunctional family.”

  Adam shrugged. “Just a fucked-up old man.” His eyes narrowed pensively as he glanced at Finch. “Like you.”

  “You don’t know anything about me, Adam.”

  A sly smile shadowed his mouth, that indecipherable quality came into his eyes again. “You plan well. You researched everything before you brought me here. You’re smart. And you really know computers, but you’re not as smart with them as you think you are.”

  “Uh-huh. So you said. Give me an example.”

  Adam thought a moment, then rattled off a programming algorithm that left Finch speechless.

  “You rewrote a lot of the programming code on this system,” Adam went on. “You’ve got remote access to some other computers, like maybe my mom’s? Or my dad’s? The motherboard is a custom job, a really beautiful custom job, so I figure you work in the computer industry. Or used to work there. Or should work there.”

  Holy shit, Spense, he’s got you nailed.

  “I don’t think you read many books, but you’ve, like, studied my tastes enough to know what kinda stuff I read and what amuses me. You’re obsessive-compulsive, have a thing about clutter. I could feel your reaction to the mess in here and I bet if I walked out into your kitchen, I’d find that every dish, every piece of silverware, every pot, every little fucking thing in your pantry has its place. I’m betting you’ve got some sort of fixation or obsession about a part of your body too. Compulsive types like you need to order their personal environments because their childhoods were total chaos.”