Krewe of Hunters Series, Volume 5

by Heather Graham

  She almost felt silly.

  Grady, Rick and Adrianna were about to head out to a nearby restaurant for dinner. She agreed to join them and finally began to feel better.

  Along the way to the restaurant, she even tried to convince herself that everything she’d seen had all been in her imagination.

  No, she had seen the man. She had never set eyes on him before she had seen him at Sea Life, but she had known it was the same man when she had seen him in her yard.

  She didn’t think he wanted to hurt her.

  So why was he there, watching her?

  Meg was coming, and Matt with her. And they had already helped save her life once.

  Lara smiled drily to herself. She was educated, she was savvy—she’d been in politics, for God’s sake. She was strong. She wasn’t a coward, and she could handle this, whatever this was.

  Liar.

  This was creepy. Body parts turning up in the lagoon and men who simply…disappeared.

  All right. She was starting to get scared at last. But friends were on the way.

  The idiot in front of her suddenly slammed to a stop in order to cross three lanes of traffic. She swore beneath her breath and gave her full attention to her driving. To her relief—and, she was sure, to that of the drivers all around her—a siren instantly sounded. Didn’t happen all that often, but that was one jerk who was going to get caught.

  She turned her radio on just in time to hear the deejay remind people that this was Talk Like a Pirate day.

  A pirate phrase quickly came to her mind.

  Dead men tell no tales.

  She couldn’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—they did.

  CHAPTER 6

  Brett was frustrated.

  Their boss, Special Agent in Charge Colin Marshall, had texted them the image one of the boys had captured on his cell phone—then shared with half the world via social media—and the police sketch. While the phone image was pretty low-res, it was enough to show that the police artist had done an excellent job—especially because, Marshall had assured them, the drawing had been done without the artist having seen the photo.

  It was the perfect image of a dead man. A dead man who’d attacked the man who had been his best friend in life.

  Brett and Diego weren’t going to be able to reach the doctor who had signed Randy Nicholson’s death certificate until late that night or the next day; he was in transit back from a medical convention in California. With only so many hours left in the day, they decided that the first thing would be to see the family and request that they approve an exhumation, which would make things much easier than trying to proceed without the family’s agreement. Randy Nicholson’s son, Henry, was appalled that people thought his dead father had risen from the grave, not to mention that he could have killed a friend. He was incredulous that anyone could believe that it was even possible, and he was willing to prove that it wasn’t. Better yet, he spoke for the whole family. He’d seen the digital photo, of course, along with the police sketch, and he agreed both looked just like his father.

  But he’d been with his father in the hospital when he’d died, so as far as he was concerned, a picture wasn’t worth a thousand words or much of anything else.

  Brett told Henry that they would waste no time; he intended to see that the body was exhumed by the next day.

  Once that was set, Brett and Diego decided to see the three boys who had witnessed the crime. The parents could have stood in their way, since the boys were adolescents, but they didn’t. In fact, they offered to bring the boys in, but Brett wanted to talk to each boy individually. He wanted to make sure that their stories jibed and didn’t sound rehearsed.

  Brett and Diego went to see each boy in turn. Two were fourteen; the oldest was fifteen.

  They talked to Thomas Clayton first. He had a little sister who hid behind her mother when Diego and Brett arrived, and his father remained in the living room as they talked, silent, but there to protect his son if need be. But despite his growing obsession with the case, thanks to his connection to the Gomezes, Brett knew how to tamp down his personal feelings and interview an adolescent. In a few minutes Thomas was talking easily about seeing Arnold Wilhelm on the platform. Ricardo Clemente, one of the other boys, had been showing them a video when they’d seen the other man—the killer they’d describe to the police. Thomas said the victim had looked surprised but also pleased, as if he’d been about to go and hug the guy. Then Ricardo had decided to take a selfie of the three of them on the platform, and it was as they’d been setting up the shot, their backs to the older men, that the killer had rushed his friend, right when the train was coming.

  The boy started to cry. He’d never seen anyone die before, and Brett hoped he never had to see it again.

  He and Diego rose and thanked Thomas then, and Diego offered the boy’s father a card with the number of a therapist the local Bureau office recommended, and then they left.

  Their next stop was the Clemente house. Ricardo and his family were from Uruguay, and his parents spoke very little English. Brett’s Spanish was passable, but Diego’s was very good. He assured them that the boys weren’t in trouble but, on the contrary, were being a big help. Ricardo’s story was much the same as Thomas’s. He said he wasn’t sure where the man had come from, because he’d been showing a video to his friends until he’d decided to take the selfie. When he described the murder, he turned white, clearly as shaken as Thomas had been.

  The last boy was Ricky Brito. His mom was Chilean and his dad was Cuban, but both had been in the United States since they’d been kids. They told Ricky just to tell the truth and he would be fine. His story was the same, not because it was rehearsed in any way, Brett was certain, but simply because the boys had all seen the same thing.

  It was nearly ten by the time they finished. Diego, who had patiently gone along with every one of Brett’s plans on how to proceed, finally told him, “Brett, we’ve got to call it a night.”

  “We still have to see the doctor who signed the death certificate.” Brett looked at his notes. “Dr. Robert Treme.”

  “And you think he’s going to see us now?” Diego asked.

  “His plane is due to land shortly,” Brett told him.

  “He’ll be getting off a cross-country flight. We can see him at the exhumation. I’m sure we can make sure he’s there,” Diego said.

  “A man he declared dead is walking around killing people. I’d think he’d want to see us as quickly as possible. His job and his reputation are on the line.”

  “The police spoke with him, and he’s aware that we want to interview him once he’s back. But if you really want to see him tonight, we’ll call him after the plane has landed and reach out. But he hasn’t landed yet, so can we stop for a sandwich first? I’ll be no good to you if I pass out from hunger.”

  Brett realized that they hadn’t eaten all day, but this case mattered to him, and he felt compelled to keep forging ahead. He knew their boss had put them on it precisely because he and Herman Bryant both felt there was a possible connection to the murder of Maria Gomez. Still, Diego had a point.

  “Yeah, we’ll eat. What’s still open around here?”

  “It’s Coconut Grove, take your pick.”

  They opted for an open-air restaurant in the middle of the mall. Diego flirted with the waitress a bit, asking her if they could get their meal as quickly as possible. She promised him that she would put a rush on their order.

  Brett had his phone out and was reading the press coverage of the recent murders. He shook his head. “Diego, this thing is bad. We’re national news now.”

  Diego nodded. “Yeah, and it’s not going to be solved overnight, no matter how loud the media yells.”

  “I know. The whole thing makes no sense. Randy Nicholson died in a hospital, with doz
ens of people around. He was taken to the Diaz-Douglas funeral home over on Bird. The place has been there forever. It’s beyond reputable. I looked up this Dr. Robert Treme, and he’s been respected in his field for a good thirty years. No complaints have ever been issued against the man.”

  Diego shrugged. “And we’ll do the exhumation and find Nicholson sleeping peacefully in his grave. People look alike. Maybe we’ll find out he had a twin. They say everyone in the world has a doppelganger somewhere.”

  “We thought Miguel Gomez was dead.”

  “Because the body had been burned beyond even scientific recognition,” Diego said. “This guy died in a hospital, had a viewing at a funeral home and was buried.”

  “Now we just have to figure out how all three murders are related,” Brett said.

  “Okay, let’s lay it all out in the order things happened.”

  “All right, we’d assumed that Miguel Gomez was burned—literally and figuratively—by the Barillo crime family. And even though it was out of character, we assumed Barillo had also ordered Maria’s murder.”

  “But then you got a call from Anthony Barillo claiming he didn’t kill Maria—or Miguel. And then another call, from his son.”

  “Here’s the thing. Barillo is a major-league criminal, and law enforcement has been trying to get enough evidence to arrest him for years. He’s never called before to claim he didn’t commit a crime.”

  “So you think we should believe him?”

  “I’m not sure. I find it curious that the man denies a murder—when I’m sure that if he did kill Miguel and Maria, we’d never be able to trace it to him because he would have ordered the hit. He would never kill anyone himself. I don’t think he cared so much what we thought about Miguel’s death. Seems as if his motto is Live by the Sword, Die by the Sword. He did care about Maria. About me believing he didn’t kill her.”

  “Go on,” Diego said.

  “A neighbor swore he saw Miguel—alive, even if not exactly well—going to the house. Shortly afterward, Maria gets thrown off her balcony into a tree. The next thing we know, pieces of Miguel wind up in Biscayne Bay. Then nice, gentle retiree Arnold Wilhelm is killed on the Metrorail platform, and all three eyewitnesses gave the same description of the killer, who just happens to be a dead ringer—no pun intended—for the victim’s best friend.” He was quiet for a moment. “So you’ve got two victims, each one apparently killed by someone close to them—someone who was already supposed to be dead. Setting aside the whole question of how the dead could rise…why? Why kill someone they loved? Did someone make them do it? How? What the hell is the connection? What’s going on?”

  “It will help when we dig up Nicholson tomorrow,” Diego said. “Because then you’ll know that the dead didn’t rise.”

  “And hopefully Phil Kinny will have something for us tomorrow. He told me that if he had a head—Miguel’s head—he should be able to tell us more about cause of death.”

  Diego started to speak, then stopped, looking past Brett, who turned to see what was going on. Two of Miami’s finest, probably on duty, were strolling through the mall. Brett realized that they knew one of the officers: Greg Dewey. He’d helped them when they were homing in on a crack house about a year back.

  Dewey saw Brett and Diego and walked over to their table. Brett and Diego stood, and they all shook hands as Dewey introduced his partner, Carlos Martino.

  “You guys on duty? Or can you join us?” Diego asked.

  “Just got off shift,” Dewey said, pulling out a chair. The first thing he asked after he sat down was “What do you guys think about this zombie invasion talk?”

  “We’re trying to nip it in the bud,” Brett said.

  Dewey shook his head. “Man, I hope you can. There’s nothing but this zombie stuff on the news—but it is uncanny how much that police sketch looks like the victim’s dead friend. You guys running this? The briefing before our shift, they said you feds were taking the lead. Actually, I have to admit, I’m damned glad it’s not us.”

  “We’re all on this one,” Brett told him.

  Martino shook his head. “I hope we get this solved quickly. It’s already starting to make people a little crazy, you know?”

  “Who’s gone crazy?” Brett asked.

  “Kind of an exaggeration,” Dewey said, grinning at his partner.

  “Yeah, actually, it would have been nice if she’d begged us to stay awhile,” Martino said, grinning, as well.

  “She, who?” Diego asked.

  “What are you talking about?” Brett asked, feeling more keyed up than he knew he should be. Maybe he was still spooked by seeing the ghost of Maria Gomez sitting at the foot of his bed, but he was getting worried that he was losing it.

  But some kind of a sixth sense alerted him that anything could be important right now. This wasn’t—or wasn’t only—obsession on his part.

  “We got a call tonight from a woman who was certain there was a man in her yard,” Dewey said. “Gorgeous young blonde, lives alone, really nice even when she was scared out of her senses. It’s easy to believe some stalker might be after her. But we searched the place up and down. It’s surrounded by a wall—you know those row houses just down the street? Stone walls around them and gates that lock. We got the call because we were literally down the street.”

  Brett wasn’t surprised they’d been nearby. The Grove was a popular tourist destination. It had multi-million-dollar mansions a stone’s throw from basic working class homes, and a few drug dens, too. The Grove hosted college kids by the dozen and scores of restaurants, bars, music venues and shops. Historically, it had always had a bohemian flavor, and it was beautiful, with rich trees and foliage. Tourists and locals both came to see the Barnacle, one of the oldest homes in the county, now a museum. And there were plenty of docks and yacht clubs, since it bordered Biscayne Bay. But because it was such a busy and diverse neighborhood, it could be a tough zone to work as a cop. He admired the guys who handled it well.

  “So the woman seemed crazy?” Diego asked.

  “No, that’s just it,” Martino said. “She didn’t seem crazy at all. She was stunned when we didn’t find anyone. She wasn’t hysterical, she was scared—and absolutely certain of what she’d seen.”

  “And you’re sure no one was there?” Brett asked. He didn’t know what it meant yet, but he’d learned to pay attention to the prickly sensation shivering down his spine.

  A blonde. Gorgeous.

  Miami definitely had its share of beautiful women, including beautiful blondes.

  And yet… “You’re sure she was all right when you left?”

  “We didn’t just desert her. She was going back to work, planning on spending the night there,” Martino said.

  “Which house?” Diego asked. “Which house does she live in?”

  “She’s not there anymore,” Martino said, but he gave them the address. “We waited for her to get her things together and leave.”

  “Where does she work?” Brett asked. He would never be able to explain the tension he felt—or how he knew what Dewey would say before he said it.

  “Sea Life Center,” Dewey told him.

  Brett nearly broke his coffee cup, he set it down so hard. “Her name is Lara Ainsworth, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yeah, that was it,” Dewey said. “You know her?” He seemed perplexed at first, but then his eyes widened. “Oh, hell, how could I have forgotten? They had to close the place down when they found part of a body in the lagoon. Jeez, I feel like an idiot.” He turned to Martino. “Don’t know the connection, but she really could have been in danger. We should call in, find out if the captain wants some kind of protective detail on her.”

  Brett was already standing. Diego regretfully dropped the remains of his sandwich.

  “We’re heading out, guys. We’ll
be her protective detail,” Brett assured him. He dug in his pocket and set money on the table.

  “I’m sure she’s all right. She said there are always people around,” Dewey said.

  “Yeah, I’m sure she’s all right, too,” Brett said, though he wasn’t sure at all. He didn’t know how any of this was connected. He’d had calls from Anthony Barillo and one of his sons—threatening calls. No information had been released identifying the body parts found at Sea Life as those of a man who’d been presumed dead over a week ago, but the Barillos had called after he had been at Sea Life to deny responsibility for murdering both Miguel and Maria.

  And Lara thought she was being stalked.

  He suddenly felt desperate to get to her and make sure she was safe—and the hell with Dr. Treme. They could see him in the morning, just as Diego had been recommending all along.

  “You know,” Diego said from behind the wheel as they headed down US1, “you can make a call and have the local cops out there in an instant. Though you might want to call and alert her first. You’ve got her number, right?”

  Brett nodded and punched in her number. He was relieved when she answered.

  “Agent Cody?” she said curiously.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her.

  “Yes, thank you.” She sounded puzzled. “You know what happened?”

  “Yeah. We ran into the cops who were at your place when we were in the Grove getting some dinner. You’re at Sea Life?”

  “Yes. And I’m fine. I went to dinner with Rick, Grady and Adrianna. I’m in my office. I couldn’t sleep, so I was working on some press releases for future events.”

  “We’ll be there in ten minutes,” Brett said. He waited, sure she would protest. She wasn’t alone, after all; she was with friends.

  She didn’t object, though she was silent for long enough that he almost thought he’d lost her.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  “Of course.” And then he said, “Don’t worry, we’ll see that you get some sleep. Diego and I will hang around for the night. We’ll call when we get there so someone can let us in, all right?”