The Good Die Twice

by Lee Driver

  As Dagger had suggested, Padre took several vacation days so he could work on the case. If anyone at the precinct knew he was working on the Rachel Tyler case, word would get to the press quicker than you could say murder.

  He had covered the beach area, and Maria, the desk clerk, had been right—none of these townhouses was occupied. Matter of fact, the water hadn’t even been turned on until this weekend.

  All the wooded property belonged to the Dunes Resort, so there were no nearby residential houses or streets running alongside which might produce a witness from early Thursday morning.

  Dried twigs crunched under his shoes as he walked west, away from the townhouses. He stopped and looked out on the lake where sailboats dotted the horizon. It was a beautiful view. No wonder the rental charges were anticipated at five hundred dollars a night.

  “Sure thing, Padre,” the police sergeant said to himself. “You can afford a two-week vacation here. Bring the wife and kiddies.” He turned his gaze to the side view of the buildings.

  They could have carried the body out the front door to a waiting car, tossed the body in the trunk. But then, what about the rug? If it were stained the way Dagger described, they would have had to get rid of it, probably use a large truck.

  If they opted to carry her out the patio door and down to a waiting boat, they would still have needed to get rid of the bloodstained rug. Unless the body was still wrapped in the rug.

  Padre turned and followed a path along a bluff, walking slowly and looking for a fresh gravesite. They may not have had time to dig a grave after they killed her but they could have dug it beforehand. He wiped a forearm across his damp forehead and was thankful he wasn’t wearing his heavy blue jeans.

  The underbrush was thick with wildflowers and shrubs. Nothing looked trampled on, disturbed, or moved. Bending down, he pulled on a number of plants to make sure they were real. Over the years he had learned to expect just about anything from creative felons.

  Up ahead he could hear laughter, children’s voices. As he neared the end of the path, he saw an inlet filled with paddleboats and large inner tubes. A slide emptied out into the pond.

  Padre rubbed his stomach. The aroma of grilled hot dogs and hamburgers filled the air. It was time to take a break. Besides, he might find a witness. It was worth a try.

  “Are you sure you weighted down the body before you dumped it in the lake?” Luke asked. He waited until after the waitress delivered their sandwiches before speaking. “You fucked up when you killed the woman. Then you left that earring behind. You two make this whole operation look like amateur night. Now I had to go and promise that we’d get the earring back.”

  Mince shoved a wad of French fries into his mouth. He chewed and smacked his lips while he spoke, causing the craters on his face to appear inhabited, the critters frantically looking for a way out. “You know this Detective Dagger who has the earring?” Pieces of French fries dropped from his mouth and onto his plate. He replaced it with a corner of his roast beef sandwich and took a slurp of his Pepsi.

  They were huddled in a booth in the far corner of the restaurant. Joey placed the newspaper on the seat and cocked his head to eyeball the petite waitress’ rear as she walked away. He said, “He’s just like any other two-bit private dick. They don’t know what else to do and nobody will hire them so they hang out a shingle.” Joey’s eyes followed the waitress around the room. She had firm breasts and a small waist. He licked his bottom lip and mentally peeled off her clothes.

  “Hey.” Luke snapped his fingers in front of Joey’s eyes. “Pay attention. This is pay dirt. You might be able to redeem yourselves.” He leaned his elbows on the table, his massive biceps struggling under his short-sleeved Henley. The waitress came back with the check and smiled at him. To most women, Luke resembled a beefy Paul McCartney because of his, what women termed, bedroom eyes. But he didn’t return the smile and waited until she left before speaking again. “We need to get the earring back. This will eliminate any proof of who the victim was.” His cellular phone rang and he scooted out of the booth.

  Once Luke left the table, Joey asked, “We’re not going to tell him?”

  “No. It’s our only edge. Just look?” Mince gazed out the window toward the entrance where Luke was talking on his cellular. “If we’re in this together, why does he shut us out when he talks to Tyler?”

  “You’re right. How do we know they aren’t cooking up a way to cut us out all together?”

  Their glares were dangerous, conspiratorial, each untrusting since they had been double-crossed more than once in their lives. This time, they had their best ace in the hole—they still had the body.

  “Is he going to work with us?” Dagger spread the blueprints out on the coffee table. His black denim shirt had the sleeves ripped off, the sides split open to just above his waist. These were his easy-to-maneuver-in work clothes.

  “Yes,” Sara said. “Worm left the restaurant with very little information about me and all kinds of leads and questions about the case.”

  “YOU’RE LATE, YOU’RE LATE, AWK.” Einstein flew over to Dagger’s desk.

  Sara stroked the macaw’s back. “Miss me?” Einstein bobbed his head up and down. “I brought you something.” She handed him a thin branch from an apricot tree. Einstein wrapped one foot around the branch and brought it up to his beak.

  “COMPANY, COMPANY. AWK.”

  Einstein held onto the branch with his toes as he eyed Simon curiously. “MR. POSTMAN. AWK.”

  “Hey, there, Einstein.” Simon reached out to touch the macaw and was met with a gentle nip from his beak. “Whoa, take it easy,” Simon laughed. “Jittery guy.”

  “You know better than that, Simon. Einstein is pickier than a prom queen at a homecoming dance.” Dagger leaned over and whispered to Einstein, “Say you’re sorry.”

  Einstein held his foot up and waved the stick like a peace flag. They all laughed.

  Dagger shooed Einstein to his room. “What have you found out, Simon?”

  “You’re gonna love this.”

  Dagger explained to Sara, “I asked Simon to put out a few feelers about Rachel and Robert Tyler. Simon knows more people in town than anyone else.”

  “Yeah, and I charge triple-time on Sundays.” He leaned his hefty body against the desk. “Well, at first I heard all about the pretty model swept off her feet by a millionaire widower. He flooded her hotel rooms with yellow roses whenever she was on a shoot. They were featured in every tabloid paper you can think of. She had dated the Prince of Belgium or something, went to the Oscars with some heart-throb actor. But when it all came down to it, Robert Tyler was the one who captured her heart. It was a picture perfect couple.”

  Dagger sat on the arm of the leather sofa, arms crossed. “Why do I hear a BUT coming?”

  Sara added, “I have to say it sounds too good to be true.”

  A rolling thunder of laughter started deep in Simon’s chest. “Oh, I guess you can say that. The down and dirty word from the streets is—Rachel and Eric Tyler were knockin’ boots two days before her wedding day.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “Eric Tyler?” Dagger laughed.

  Sara’s dark eyebrows scrunched over in thought. Puzzled, she turned to Dagger and said, “Knocking boots?”

  The two men chuckled. Dagger explained to Sara Simon’s delicate terminology for sex.

  Sara blushed. “Two days before her wedding? What happened to the sweet, flawless model? I thought she loved Robert?”

  “That’s the flaw I was telling you about.” Dagger asked Simon, “What’s the word on the street? Did she marry the old man for his money?”

  “She was always seen wearing designer clothes and jewelry and driving expensive sports cars before her marriage,” Simon replied. “So it’s hard to confirm if she was after his money. Most agree she liked to live in the manner to which she had been accustomed.”

  Worm rubbed his eyes. He had been searching the Internet for any information on Rachel Tyl
er. There were still fan clubs out there holding out hope that Rachel was still alive. Several close-up shots of Rachel filled the screen. She had the longest lashes Worm had ever seen, and the mole below her right eye seemed to be her trademark. He could picture her being a high school prom queen, maybe the princess of a European monarchy, probably the secret love of every serviceman whose locker was plastered with pin-ups. Worm printed out the pictures.

  No matter how beautiful he thought Sara was, no matter how unique her exotic features, Rachel was even more beautiful. She was tall and willowy, with long, corn-silk hair. Her eyes were the color of jewels, and her lips heart-shaped, pouty. Despite all of her country girl charm and prom queen sweetness, she had a certain look in her eye and a slight parting of her lips in the perfume ads that screamed out sultry, sexy. And her eyes smoldered with every dirty little thought reserved only for a girl from the wrong side of the tracks. Yet she wasn’t. She could be all things to all men. And she had touched Worm where no woman had ever touched him before. He had to find out everything he could about her.

  He let the phone ring, regarding it as a pain-in-the-ass interruption. But soon relented and was immediately sorry he picked it up.

  “Sheila, you told me to find out everything I could on Sara.”

  Worm’s modest apartment was just off Taft Avenue, above a flower shop owned by his uncle. Furnishings were a mixture of hand-me-downs from his mother and aunts. Friends had joked that his décor was early flea market. Worm moved the phone to his other ear and separated his notes on Rachel.

  “So? What did you find out?” Sheila demanded.

  “I’m still working on it. Since Sara was home-schooled, there are no high school records. Her parents died when she was six. Just let me work on this at my own pace. It isn’t easy trying to trace someone who uses an alias.”

  “Alias? Maybe she’s a fugitive.”

  Worm could hear Sheila sucking on a cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a huff.

  “Not a fugitive, Sheila. But Native Americans have a given name. You know, like Little Foot or Big Bear. I did find out her grandmother’s name so I’ll have a place to start.”

  “When are you going to see her again?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Are you coming back to the office?”

  Worm pulled his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. He signed off AOL and accessed his word processing program. “Have too many leads to follow, Sheila. I’m sure Linda can get your coffee. Gotta go.” Worm hung up and smiled. He opened a new document. At the top of the page he typed:

  RACHEL TYLER

  The Death of America’s Sweetheart

  CHAPTER 20

  Dagger drove up the long driveway to the house, the wind riffling through his long hair, the beam from the motorcycle’s headlamp bathing the tree-lined road in a spray of light. Sara hadn’t answered the intercom from the front gate so she was either in the shower or not at home. He didn’t like the fact that the gate had been left open.

  He drove into the garage, noticing briefly how bright Einstein’s aviary was. The timer on the fluorescent bulbs should have decreased the light in the room. Right now, the lights should be completely off except for a nightlight. It was close to midnight and way past Einstein’s bedtime.

  Maybe Einstein was sick and Sara was with him, that’s why she couldn’t answer the intercom. But if that were true, why was his skin tingling? Why did it feel as if the hairs on his arms were standing on end?

  The garage door closed as he made his way up the sidewalk. From the outside, everything looked in order. The electric blinds on the windows were closed. Everything was quiet. But something didn’t feel right. Slowly, he pulled his gun from his ankle holster and opened the kitchen door.

  Lingering odors from the shrimp and steak Dagger had grilled earlier hung in the air. A coffeecake was sitting on a rack on the counter. Dagger touched the cake. It was cool. He listened for music, the running of shower water. Nothing. What bothered him most was that he didn’t hear Einstein.

  He kicked into mercenary mode. Clicking off the safety on his Phoenix Raven .25 semi-automatic pistol, Dagger pressed his back to the wall and slowly made his way to the living room. A man sat at his desk going through the drawers.

  “Hold it right there.” Dagger leveled his sight on the man. “Hands up and back away from the desk.”

  The pudgy-faced man at the desk regarded him briefly, then went back to his work.

  “Are you deaf?” Dagger yelled.

  From behind him, a voice said, “You first.”

  Dagger felt a searing pain across the back of his head. Then everything went dark.

  The gray hawk circled the Tyler mansion one last time, passing the East Wing where Edie was arguing with the nanny on why Eric Jr. shouldn’t be taken out of his bed when he cries at night. Robert Tyler was reading at his desk, steam drifting up from a cup next to the phone.

  The hawk landed on the railing outside Nick Tyler’s room. The air was cool, a welcome change from the humid temperature during the day. From a side window which was cranked open, residuals of a strong floral odor could be detected by the hawk’s keen scent. It bowed its head, one eye scanning the dark recesses of the room looking for movement. Nick wasn’t home. There were no signs of the three men who had met with someone in this house a couple days ago.

  Satisfied that everything was secure, the hawk opened its wings and glided off the balcony. Its wing beats were long and powerful, and in a matter of a few minutes, the reservation was within view. Flying over the skylights, the hawk noticed the lights on in the aviary, saw several figures in the living room and heard voices, loud and threatening. It sensed danger, smelled blood, heard sounds of distress.

  Landing outside the opened second floor balcony door, the hawk changed shape and Sara stepped nude from the balcony and into her bedroom. She dressed quickly, opened her dresser drawer, and felt for her Sig P-245 compact pistol. The voices grew louder and she heard books clattering to the floor. Stealing a glance outside her bedroom door, past the catwalk and down into the living room, she saw Dagger. His hands were tied and the rope looped around the catwalk railing. He was suspended like some calf prepared for slaughter. Blood was trickling down the front of his tee shirt.

  Sara recognized the men. The balding man with the cratered face and the thin, beady-eyed lech were the ones who had killed Rachel. The third man, the one the size of a football player, had been at the Tyler mansion the day of Nick’s party. The brute now loomed over Dagger.

  “I’m going to ask you one more time, where is the earring?”

  “Go to hell.”

  The football player jammed his fist into Dagger’s stomach producing a painful groan.

  Sara wanted to flee, to shift back into the hawk where she could escape danger. But the cold, solid feel of the gun in her hand gave her a sense of security. And Dagger was in danger.

  Sara saw Einstein fly over to a perch by the birdbath. “WHERE’S THE EARRING. AWK.”

  “Einstein,” Dagger yelled. “Shut up!”

  The football player shifted his attention to the macaw. “What’s your name, bird?”

  “AWWWKK, EINSTEIN’S THE NAME, BRAINS IS MY GAME. AWK.” Einstein paced nervously, tap dancing on his perch, his head weaving and bobbing.

  The man laughed. “Is that so? Well, why don’t you tell us where the earring is?”

  “IN THE BOX. AWK.”

  “Einstein, I told you to shut up!” Dagger moaned.

  The large mass of muscles glanced quickly around the room and immediately spotted the box on the table. He lifted the lid, then smiled. “Well, what do you know? That parrot is an Einstein.”

  “You know,” the balding man said, “that damn bird’s worth at least five thousand dollars. It’s a scarlet macaw. Might even be an endangered species.” He made a move toward Einstein.

  Sara stepped onto the stairway. “I wouldn’t touch him if I were you.” She pointed the gun at the big man closest to Dagger, the o
ne who seemed to be in charge.

  The big man barked, “I thought you checked the upstairs rooms.”

  “I did.”

  “Obviously not good enough.”

  Sara placed both hands on the gun. “I just learned how to use this so please forgive me if I miss an arm or a leg and accidentally hit your head, heart, or other vital parts of the anatomy.” Smiling sweetly, she slowly moved the gun to the man holding the earring.

  The football player chuckled. “Well, well. Aren’t you a fine looking piece of ass.” Turning to the thin man he said, “Go get that bitch.”

  Sara’s steady arm fanned the gun over to a new target—the rope tied around Dagger’s hands. To Sara’s enhanced eyesight, the target was no farther than a foot from her. She fired once, cutting the rope and sending Dagger sprawling to the floor. She called out his name as she threw him her gun.

  The men watched in amazement as Sara swung herself over the railing and twenty feet down to the living room floor with the agility of the wolf.

  “Hey!” The bald man let out a cry as a bullet tore through his shoulder and embedded in the door to Dagger’s bedroom. That left it two against two.

  The thinner man leered as he circled Sara, looking for the right opportunity to get in a good hit. Sara had a feeling he had more than murder and mayhem on his mind. There was a glint in his eyes, a scent of sweat, musk, a man in heat. And all it did was motivate her, anger her at how they had torn her house apart, how they had hurt Dagger.

  He made a dive for her and came up with a handful of thick hair. Sara drove a knee into his groin, turned and high kicked her foot, planting it on the side of his head and sending him sprawling over the sofa and onto the coffee table.

  When the intruders made a run for it, Sara started to take off after them. But Dagger grabbed his stomach and doubled over.

  “Dagger, are you okay?” She turned quickly and helped him to the love seat.