“File would be better. No use getting the family all upset for no reason. If you get hold of it, fax it to us at the sheriff’s substation in Islamorada.” She gave him the number and terminated the call.
“So you think you can tie Jack to an old homicide,” Lovejoy said. He executed a U-turn near a closed-down gas station; a huge fiberglass mermaid loomed over the service island, tail looped in multicolored serpentine coils. It was not the tackiest thing Moore had seen in the Keys.
She shrugged. “It’s a long shot, I know.”
“Not necessarily. The Behavioral Science profile indicated a high degree of probability that Mister Twister had experience in homicide prior to the first known killing.”
“So I recall. But this Turner girl ... She used to baby-sit for Jack. If he did kill her when she was twenty-two, he must have been only a teenager.”
“There’s no shortage of teenage sociopaths—or even subteens, nowadays—capable of murder.”
Moore nodded, remembering Oakland’s mean streets. “True.”
Something made her shiver—perhaps memories of adolescent gangbangers, their eyes flat and dead as nail heads, or perhaps merely the chill of the air conditioning.
The sedan was cool, but the humid heat outside still pressed against the windshield, straining to seep through. For most of the afternoon Moore had felt curiously like a space traveler sealed in a capsule, gliding through an alien environment inimical to life. Occasional forays out of the car had meant plunging into a steaming sauna, to emerge bathed in sweat.
There had been little time to concern herself with comfort. The second half of the day had been as busy—and perhaps as fruitless—as the first.
She and Lovejoy had arrived in Islamorada at two-thirty and had promptly learned several discouraging facts.
First, an Islamorada postmark indicated only that Al Dance’s cards had been mailed somewhere along the fifteen-mile stretch of real estate running from the town of Plantation to the waterway called Channel Two at the southern tip of Lower Matecumbe Key. The Islamorada post office served the entire area.
Second, even if the search was limited to Islamorada, the town’s dramatically reduced summer population meant a large supply of vacant housing. Jack could easily break into any empty cottage and hole up inside.
Third, as an unincorporated part of Monroe County, Islamorada had no police department, and the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department, headquartered in Key West, maintained only a substation here.
Fourth, the substation’s personnel and resources were too limited to permit the exhaustive search Lovejoy and Moore required.
The upshot: For the past four hours, Lovejoy had driven up and down U.S. 1, through Plantation, Windley, and Upper and Lower Matecumbe Keys, veering onto the parallel Old Overseas Highway at times, exploring short side streets that dead-ended at the water and mangroves, while Moore had studied every passing car, looking for either of the two vehicles lifted from airport parking last night.
She’d spotted two white Sunbird hardtops and one silver Dodge Dynasty LE. None had the right license number, but she and Lovejoy had checked out each in turn, anyway; plates could be switched. In every case the car had proved to be legally registered to its driver.
Along the way they had stopped at all the local marinas. None of the security guards had seen anyone matching Jack’s mug shot, and there had been no report of any boat stolen in the last sixteen hours. Of course, boat owners didn’t necessarily visit their vessels every day; many were snowbirds spending the summer in Maine or Montana, gone for months.
Hotels and motels had yielded no results, either; likewise for a sample of restaurants and tiki-bars. If Jack was here, he was keeping himself well hidden.
The sole positive development since their arrival had been the disappearance of Peter’s chronic sniffles and sneezes. The Keys were virtually allergen-free. Moore had not seen her partner use a Kleenex in hours. He was a new man.
Lovejoy pulled back onto Route 1, heading south. The westering sun blazed through the passenger-side window.
“Dark soon.” Moore averted her face from the glare. “What will we do then?”
“Keep looking.”
“You’re sure he’s here, aren’t you?”
“It’s our most promising hypothesis.”
Lovejoy squirted fluid onto the windshield. The wipers ticked briefly, erasing a paste of accumulated bugs.
“Just because he visited this area as a teenager ...” Moore let her words trail off.
“It was more than a single visit. As far as we can ascertain, this was the only area in Florida to which they returned on a repeated basis. Four years in a row.”
“Small towns, though. All of them. Hardly more than rest stops on the way to Key West. Even given the number of unoccupied cottages available, it would be tough to lose yourself here for long.”
“Jack can manage it.”
“How?”
“I told you before. He’s the devil. He can do whatever the hell he wants.”
Moore glanced reflexively at a white hardtop passing them on the left. A Sunbird? No, it was a Chevy Cavalier, the driver a blond woman tanned nut brown like everyone in the Keys.
A billboard advertising an alligator farm in the Everglades blurred past. The gator’s toothy smirk struck Moore as arrogant, cocksure.
She thought of Jack Dance. Was he smiling like that? Was he safely ensconced in a bungalow on Plantation Key—or a hotel room in Dallas, or a cabin in British Columbia—following the news on TV and leering at the hopeless, bumbling efforts of his pursuers?
When we catch him, she told herself gamely, we’ll rub that grin off his face.
The phone chirped again. Moore identified herself and heard the graveyard voice of Deputy Associate Director Drury in reply.
“What are you two doing in Islamorada?”
Drury did not shout. He never shouted, never cursed. His chilly self-control was somehow more unnerving than any angry tirade.
To Lovejoy she mouthed: Drury. “Sir, we have reason to believe the suspect may be here—”
“You’re supposed to be in Miami, Agent Moore, supervising the field investigation, not chasing down hunches. Anyway, it looks like your hot lead just turned cold.”
“What do you mean?”
“It means the Dodge swiped from Miami International turned up an hour ago in Fort Myers.”
“Have you confirmed that Jack stole it?”
“We haven’t scrambled a search team yet, can’t say if there are prints or not. May not matter; your boy always wears gloves, anyway. Important thing is, Fort Myers P.D. informs us that two locals saw him in a convenience store near the spot where the car was dumped. They’re concentrating the search in that vicinity.”
Moore tersely relayed the news to Lovejoy.
“Give me the phone.” He drove with one hand, cradling the handset against his ear with the other. “Mr. Director, this is Agent Lovejoy. What was he buying at the convenience store?”
Moore could not hear Drury’s answer, only a faint, tinny buzz.
“I would have to say, sir, that I don’t think it was Jack,” Lovejoy replied. “The man is concerned about his health. His kitchen was stocked with low-fat foods. He had a gym membership and used it. Kept himself in shape. In a convenience store he might buy tuna fish or canned fruit or nonfat milk, but not potato chips and a quart of ice cream. Those purchases, in my judgment, are out of character. Sir.”
Moore listened, astonished. Was this really Peter, her partner, weak and defensive, mealy-mouthed and officious? And was he actually holding his own with the deputy associate director? Disputing his superior, standing up for himself?
Incredible. She remembered wondering if she’d underestimated him.
Drury buzzed again, briefly. Moore had the impression that he might be on the verge of losing his notorious cool.
Lovejoy remained calm enough. “My understanding, sir, is that there were two cars stolen from long-
term parking in the appropriate time frame. Why are we assuming that the Dodge is the one he took? From what I gather, Latent Prints hasn’t even dusted it yet, and of course we both know that an eyewitness identification is always problematic. It’s possible Fort Myers is a blind alley. Islamorada, on the other hand, is where he and his father used to vacation every August ... Yes, August. It’s my belief that he’s come back to a place he’s familiar with, a place he associates with safety ... I understand, sir ... I’m willing to take that chance ... Yes, sir ... Yes, sir.”
A click as Drury broke the connection. Lovejoy handed the phone back. Despite the air-conditioned chill, his forehead was suddenly measled with sweat.
“What?” Moore prompted when he remained silent for too long.
“He wants us in Fort Myers. Insists it’s the investigation’s best lead.”
“And?”
“I made no commitment.”
“No commitment?” Moore was torn between newfound admiration for her partner and trepidation at where his recklessness might lead. “Peter, for God’s sake, we can’t refuse an order.”
“He didn’t issue an order. Said he’d let us pursue the Islamorada angle if we choose to. But if it doesn’t pan out—well, let’s just say he’s not in the mood to cut us any slack.”
“He’s out to get you, isn’t he?”
“It would appear so.” Lovejoy swallowed, his composure faltering slightly. “Look, forget about me. I blew the arrest. Violated the unwritten first rule of the FBI: Never embarrass the Bureau. If I’m lucky, they’ll transfer me out of Denver, post me at a resident agency in the Ozarks or someplace equally out of the way. If I’m not lucky, they’ll simply put me on unpaid administrative leave. Management’s subtle way of suggesting that possibly I should consider another line of work.”
“Maybe you’re overreacting.”
“Uh-uh. I understand bureaucracy, remember? I know how these people think. The higher-ups will hang me out to dry in order to save themselves.” He showed her a half smile. “The simple fact is—in my estimation—I’m finished.”
“Peter, I’m sorry …”
He brushed off her sympathy. “Given my own penchant for rearguard action of the CYA variety, I can hardly criticize Drury for doing the same thing. But here’s my real point, Tamara.” He rarely used her first name; the sound of it was mildly startling to her. “As far as I can determine, you’re pretty much okay so far. Not being the team leader, you can’t be blamed for the screw-up in L.A. In all probability, you can maintain your Denver post and keep your career on track. Unless ...”
“Unless”—Moore completed his thought—“we stay here in Islamorada and Dance surfaces in Fort Myers.”
“Correct.”
“Then I’m up shit creek. Without a paddle.”
“Without even a canoe. Drury is certain to punish you for your bad judgment. Field duty in Alaska and a black mark next to your name in your personnel folder—something like that.” He turned to her, his face blushing in the red glow of sunset. “So I’m not the one who should be deciding this. How do you want to play it? I’ll leave it as your call.”
Moore sat back in her seat, thinking first of her long climb from the Oakland slums to graduation day at Quantico, then of Jack Dance.
“Potato chips,” she said finally.
Lovejoy nodded. “Lay’s.”
“And ice cream.”
“Store brand. One quart.”
“What flavor?”
“Vanilla.”
“You’re right. Doesn’t sound like Jack. Jack’s not a vanilla man.”
Lovejoy studied her, caught the beginning of a smile at the corner of her mouth, and answered it with a grin of his own. “Not vanilla. Of course.”
“More like rocky road.”
“Extremely rocky.” His smile faded. “You shouldn’t feel obligated to do this. You’re risking a great deal more than I am.”
“We’re partners. We share the risks.”
“You’re certain?”
“Just drive.”
Low over the horizon, the sun was a crimson smear, garish in death, its long horizontal rays bloodying the blue-green shallows of Florida Bay.
27
Steve found Kirstie in the kitchen, peering into the oven, squinting against a wave of heat.
“Where’s Jack?” she asked without looking up.
“Bathroom.”
He leaned over her shoulder and breathed in dinner’s spicy aroma, a blend of garlic, chicken, and cheese.
It occurred to him that after tonight he would never again taste his wife’s cooking, set the table, help her clean up afterward. These mundanities of domestic life seemed suddenly more important than any grand romantic moments.
“Smells good,” he said, holding his voice steady. “What is it?”
“Chicken breasts Parmesan.”
“Fancy.”
“Quite practical, actually.” She shut the oven door. “There were a lot of odds and ends I needed to use up.” She moved away from him, to the counter, and began serving a tossed salad into three porcelain bowls. Red sunlight, filtering through the bottle-glass windows, glimmered in her hair like a nimbus of fire. “And speaking of odds and ends ...”
“Yes?”
“When is Jack leaving?”
“Tonight.”
“After dinner. Right?”
“Dinner and ... coffee.” He fingered his pants pocket, feeling the shapes of six small capsules, then withdrew his hand with a stab of shame.
“He’s not sleeping over,” Kirstie said firmly.
“Of course not.”
“I don’t want him here when we’re in bed.”
“Why not?” Steve tried to be funny. “Afraid he might join us?”
Kirstie turned to him. “To be honest, I can’t say what I’m afraid of. I just don’t trust him.” She held up a flour-stained palm. “And please don’t tell me he’s a great guy. I’m tired of hearing it.”
Steve hadn’t been planning to say it, anyway.
“He’ll be gone soon,” he replied simply. We both will.
Her gaze flicked to the nylon jacket he still wore. “You’re not worried about sunburn now, are you? It’s nearly dark.”
“Guess I just feel more comfortable with it on.”
“You sure you’re not coming down with something?”
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that. How come I don’t believe you?”
“Because you’ve got a suspicious nature.”
Smiling, he kissed her lightly on the mouth. As their lips met, he wondered if he would ever again be this close to the woman he loved.
* * *
Jack left the bathroom quietly, checked to be sure he was unobserved, and crept down the loggia into the master bedroom.
The bundle of scuba gear had to be somewhere. Steve had hidden it after returning from the reef. This afternoon Jack had searched most of the house without success. But he hadn’t looked here.
The bedspread was wrinkled, the bed still indented with the imprint of Steve’s body; he had lain there for hours, dispirited and fearful. Jack smiled. Conscience was such a weakness. Fortunately, he had never suffered from it. To him, the moral sense he’d glimpsed in others was as utterly alien as the weather patterns of Jupiter, and as remote from his own concerns.
In the middle of the room, he stopped, quartering the area with his gaze. What was the most obvious hiding place? Under the bed? No, not enough clearance for the bulky carrying case.
The closet, then. He looked inside.
Clothes on hangers. Suitcases on the floor. Nothing else.
Wait.
A small pool of water ringed the largest suitcase.
He unclasped the latches and opened the lid.
The bundle of gear had been hastily crammed inside, wrapped in a towel in a futile attempt to prevent water leakage.
Jack removed the bag, rummaged in it, and found his Swiss Army knife.
/> There were other knives in the house, of course. Steak knives, carving knives. But those were difficult to conceal. And any of them, unlike this weapon, would be unfamiliar in his hand.
He practiced extracting and retracting the spear blade, pleased by the sharp snap it made with each release.
When he slipped the knife into his pocket, he felt complete again, revitalized. His old sense of power and control was back.
Sometime tonight he would find a way to feed this knife of his.
It was hungry now. Hungry for blood.
28
Silence around the dinner table.
Kirstie ate slowly, watching Jack Dance and her husband, who watched each other.
Strong violet light, the last glory of the sunset, flooded through the French doors, dimming the bulbs in the wrought-iron chandelier to a mere afterthought. The faces of the two men were murky and strange in the purple glow.
Jack, chewing industriously with his elbow on the table, delivering forkfuls of food to his mouth with conveyor-belt efficiency, was an engine single-mindedly stoking itself. Steve, barely nibbling at his portion, seemed lost in dark thoughts.
On the floor by Jack’s feet, Anastasia whined. Absently, Jack offered her a bite of chicken.
“I wish you wouldn’t feed her,” Kirstie said. Her voice seemed loud and startling in the stillness. “I don’t want her begging for table scraps.”
Jack shrugged. “She’s a good dog.” His smile, meant to be ingratiating, was merely insolent. “Deserves a little attention now and then. Don’t you, sweetheart?”
He ruffled Ana’s fur. The wolfhound made a contented purring sound.
“She gets plenty of attention, but not at the table.”
Kirstie looked at Steve, hoping for support. “Anyway, she’s already eaten.”
“Still seems to have an appetite,” Jack said.
“Dogs always have an appetite.”
“Well, that’s why they should be fed.” He gave Anastasia another scrap, then let her lick his fingers. “See how she loves her Uncle Jack?”
Kirstie studied his face, his hazel eyes, and saw no benevolence there, no fondness for the dog, no enjoyment other than malicious satisfaction.
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