Legally Dead

by Edna Buchanan

  “You speak anything other than English?” Danny asked.

  Lyle shook his head. “Just enough Spanglish to live in Florida, and a little high school French.”

  “So we’re looking at an English-speaking country.”

  They plugged in a coffee pot in the big L-shaped Florida room facing the canal at the back of the house. That became their war room, with maps, reference books, chairs, a table, a desk, and a computer.

  “Whataya do for fun, Lyle? You have a pilot’s license, ski, sail, sky, or scuba dive?” Danny asked.

  “Mostly, I worked,” he said ruefully, “but I did get my scuba certification ten years ago before a family vacation. I love to spearfish, but haven’t done much boating or diving lately.”

  “Bingo.” Danny snapped his fingers. “Time to get back in the water.”

  Venturi agreed. “Any friends or relatives here in Miami?” he asked.

  “No. My wife and the kids moved back to her hometown in Connecticut. I’ve kept pretty much to myself since my marriage broke up.”

  “Loner. Okay, that’s part of your profile. It’s vital that the circumstances of your death fit your prior behavior patterns.”

  “Right.” Danny paced the long room. “But we need somebody who can substantiate a call or contact with you to satisfy the cops who will want to know exactly what you were doing prior to the fatal event.”

  “I met a girl,” Gates said, “a woman actually. Divorced. Didn’t seem to care about my notoriety. We ate lunch once, had a little picnic at Lummus Park.”

  “Think she’d be receptive if you called?”

  He nodded. “She seemed lonely, too. We had no big spark, but it was nice having somebody to talk to. We went to a movie once and talked about diving. She asked me to teach her. But I couldn’t afford to take her out so I didn’t call her again.”

  “So we have her.” Danny bit his lip, still pacing. Suddenly he stopped. “I think I’ve got it!”

  He grinned at Lyle. “Here’s how you can die.”

  Lyle Gates blinked as Danny spun the scenario he envisioned. Venturi interrupted, improvised, and filled in details.

  “God, we’re good!” Danny finally said.

  “I love it!” Venturi said. “It’s great!”

  They shared a high five.

  Venturi turned to Gates. “What do you think?”

  “When?” the doomed man demanded. “When can we do it?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Hi, darlin’,” Venturi said. “Told you I’d call.”

  “It’s about time, sweetheart. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I am,” he said enthusiastically. “Anybody ask about me?”

  “A few. None too serious. Nobody’s given me the third degree under hot lights. So far.”

  “You’d never crack if they did.”

  She laughed. “All they’d get is my name, rank, and serial number. No black helicopters hovering yet.”

  “FYI, they’re dark green, not black. Any chance you might have some vacation time?”

  “I’m the boss, remember? I create the schedule.”

  “I’d love to see you, and I’d also like your help and expertise on a new project.”

  “Work with you? Sounds like fun. Where are you? When should I be there?”

  “Miami. Yesterday.”

  “How’s tomorrow?”

  “I’ll pick you up at the airport. By the way, this is a non-call. Didn’t happen. You just decided to cruise to Mexico.”

  “Can’t wait to see your face.”

  “Ditto.”

  His next call was to the Manhattan office of his financial adviser, Jim Dance.

  “Glad to hear your voice, Michael. So you finally decided to light somewhere and get in touch.”

  “I also decided to take your advice, Jim, and use some of the money.”

  “Good for you! It’s about time. Madison would be pleased.”

  “I think so, too.” He instructed Dance to wire $100,000 to his bank in Miami.

  Dance took down the account number. “I can have it there tomorrow. Sure that’s all you need?”

  “I think so. If not I’ll be in touch.”

  “What? You investing in real estate? Buying a boat?”

  “More of a local charitable project.”

  “Don’t forget to retain all your receipts for tax purposes.”

  “Sure.” Venturi hung up smiling, wondering how anyone could sell this to the IRS.

  He winced when he spotted her. Why didn’t she ask for a wheelchair? She had navigated the long concourse on her prosthesis, toting a heavy bag slung over her shoulder and dragging a wheeled carry-on bag. So like her, he thought.

  He hugged her hard, took the bags, had her wait while he brought up the car. Back at his place Scout greeted her as though she were an old friend.

  “Who is this? Who is this handsome boy?” she asked, scratching his head as his tail wagged furiously.

  Venturi showed her to the bedroom closest to the war room.

  “A little rustic,” he apologized.

  “I noticed.” She still cuddled the dog.

  “I’ll put you up in a beachfront hotel,” he offered. “I thought this might be more convenient. We may work long hours.”

  “I don’t mind roughing it,” she said warmly. “Where do I plug in my laptop?”

  He showed her, as she surveyed the surroundings. “Mind if I do a little decorating in my spare time?”

  “Have at it,” he said. “Just make sure I get all the bills.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  While Venturi took his mother-in-law to lunch and explained the project, Lyle Gates rented an efficiency in a comfortable but aging building near Dinner Key Marina in Coconut Grove. The landlady offered it month to month, but he insisted on a one-year lease. She resisted. High-rise developers had long been interested in the property. Hoping for bigger offers as values rocketed out of control, she had held out, for too long. The bubble had burst. Due to overbuilding and a glut of empty condos, she now had no potential buyers but hoped for a rebound and wanted to keep her options open.

  Wheeling and dealing over coffee, they finally negotiated a six-month lease. He paid first and last month, along with a security deposit.

  Single, with no pets, he promised to be a model tenant. He said he planned to go into business and added that he liked the apartment because he could walk to the marina, where he had rented a berth for his boat. He liked to dive, he said.

  Later that afternoon, the signed lease in his pocket, he strolled shady streets to the sun-drenched marina, his healing wounds concealed beneath a blue turtleneck, a baseball cap, and athletic wristbands like those worn by tennis players.

  He brought diving gear and a speargun for his boat, a twenty-five-foot open fisherman, and chatted with several dock hands and a middle-aged couple returning to the berth next to his after a day of fishing.

  “You don’t plan to dive alone, do you?”

  He was asked the question three different times. The sport’s number one safety rule is to always dive with a buddy. It’s basic common sense.

  He laughed and waved off their concerns.

  “I know, I know. Never dive alone. But I know what I’m doing. I maintain my own equipment and I like the tranquillity, the peace and quiet, when I’m alone down there. I don’t like the responsibility of having to watch out for somebody else.”

  He showed up the next day at the same time, wearing an orange and black buoyancy compensator, similar to a life vest. He had also added a DPV, a diver’s propulsion vehicle—an underwater scooter—to his gear. Like a miniature outboard motor, it can propel a diver along faster than he can swim.

  Gates became a creature of habit. His daily late-afternoon routine was to pilot his boat out to the reefs off Haulover Beach, and occasionally as far north as Fort Lauderdale, to dive and spearfish.

  His mornings were spent at Venturi’s place, where he crammed intensely with him, Danny, or Vi
ctoria. They studied maps, books, and articles about England, Ireland, Scotland, and Australia.

  Gates had never visited Ireland but became fascinated upon learning that it is now one of the world’s top computer technology and pharmaceutical centers.

  Once one of Europe’s poorest countries, the Irish are fast becoming Europe’s wealthiest people. The economy boomed in the early 1990s, when the country became home to more than eleven hundred multinational companies focused on science, technology, and engineering. Income from technology exports was further boosted by a huge rise in property prices and high savings rates.

  Ireland became Lyle’s destination, and Victoria immersed him in its long, rich history—its myths, poetry and literature, politics, and people.

  His enthusiasm grew for the ancient castles dating back to the fifth century; the prehistoric, volcanic landscape in the north; dramatic coastal scenery, tranquil beaches, and the colorful rolling countryside in the south of Ireland. They all spoke to him.

  He played tapes of the speech, the accents, and the local vernacular.

  Much later in the day, alone on the boat beneath a wide blue sky, drifting clouds, and a setting sun, he would practice aloud as though rehearsing the lead role in an important play or film. He wanted his performance to be Oscar caliber, the most important role of his life.

  He soon knew more about Dublin, Ireland, than he remembered about his own hometown.

  Everyone at the marina soon knew he was an avid spear fisherman who dived alone. Some realized who he was but, to his immense relief, there were no ugly confrontations or accusations. He hoped he’d be gone before his presence was leaked to the press, before pushy reporters invaded.

  Heads turned the first time he showed up with Fran. Not because she was strikingly beautiful, curvaceous, or vivacious. She was none of those. It was because he was normally alone.

  He took her out on the boat several times. She’d asked him to teach her to dive, but she was a poor swimmer, prone to sea sickness, sunburn, and migraine headaches when out on the water in the summer sun’s white-hot glare.

  So they established their own routine. On Tuesday evenings she’d cook his catch of the day, and after dining at her place, they’d go to a movie or out for drinks.

  Weekends, he studied for his real estate license. Once he passed the test, he indicated they might spend more time together.

  Too bad Lyle Gates would not live long enough to take the test.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  On the day Lyle Gates died the dawn was clear and superhot beneath a brittle cobalt sky. Early in the afternoon a line of fast-moving thunderstorms slammed through Miami, released a fatal lightning bolt that killed a golfer, and briefly cooled the air. The humidity remained dense.

  Lyle Gates appeared on the dock at Dinner Key Marina at 4 p.m. He waved to the regulars, boarded his boat, and took it out to the reefs for his usual late-afternoon dive.

  He anchored about a mile off the beach in thirty to forty feet of water. He hoisted his red and white dive flag, a safety precaution that alerts other boaters to a diver in the water, then slipped into the shimmering turquoise sea with his speargun. He caught several grouper and yellowtail and put them in the cooler.

  The underwater scenery seemed extraordinarily vivid on this day, its colors brighter and more intense. He absorbed the beauty of it all with a keen sense of nostalgia, almost mournfully, aware that he would never see it again.

  He worried about his memorial service, if there was one. He hoped his ex-wife, or his older only sister in Wisconsin, would arrange something, if only for the sake of appearances, and for the children, who had refused his calls for more than a year. He wondered who, if anyone, would attend, what they might say, and whether tears would be shed. He abruptly thrust such thoughts from his mind. None of it mattered where he was going. He was too busy to dwell on it now, or ever. He had too much to do. The adventure of a lifetime lay before him. The future beckoned. The excitement was almost sexual.

  A brilliant vermilion snapper flashed by in the water, good to eat but too beautiful to kill on this day. He didn’t even try to spear it.

  He took a few more pompano and amberjack and changed his air tanks several times, leaving the empties on deck.

  Finally it was time, as the sun dropped toward the horizon.

  He strapped on a new tank, checked his watch, and picked up his cell phone. Fran answered on the first ring, cheerful and expectant.

  “The reef is teeming with fish today,” he said. “I’m gonna make one more dive, then call it a day.”

  She was slightly put out. There was a movie she wanted to see, some chick flick about a princess. “I guess that means we’ll have to go to the midnight show, instead of the ten o’clock,” she said, her words frosty. “I already tossed the salad. Call me when you leave the marina, so I know when to put the rice on.”

  “I’ll pay a kid on the dock to help clean my catch,” he said. “That’ll speed things up. I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

  She sounded pacified by the time they said good-bye. “I made a surprise for dessert,” she said coyly.

  He tried to persuade her to reveal what it was, but she refused.

  “Then it wouldn’t be a surprise. Don’t forget to call when you leave the dock.”

  “I won’t. See you shortly.” He felt guilty, but their relationship was casual. He had neither taken advantage of her nor led her on. His death would leave no permanent scars.

  She’d barely remember him.

  And he really didn’t want to see that movie.

  He opened the cooler again and took out the blood drawn from his forearm and refrigerated by Venturi. Carefully, as they had rehearsed, he left a trailing, bloody handprint, drag marks, and more blood at the boat’s transom, as though someone had tried desperately to climb out of the water as something dragged him back.

  Everybody knows that spearing fish attracts sharks.

  He checked everything, left the dive flag flying, submerged on the diver propulsion vehicle and rode it north, parallel to the shoreline.

  His pulse quickened at the sight of Danny’s boat approaching right on schedule.

  He surfaced. When he heard Venturi shout—“There he is!”—he popped out the batteries, sank the scooter, and swam toward them.

  “Look who’s here. It’s Richard Lynch! Welcome aboard, Richard,” Venturi said, as they pulled him into the boat.

  The diver removed his air tank, still attached to his buoyancy vest. Danny wanted to drag them through a shark tank at the Miami Seaquarium, where he knew somebody on the night shift. But Venturi prevailed, insisting it would be safer and simpler to use a set of shark jaws sold everywhere as souvenirs.

  They used the razor-sharp teeth from the jaws of a huge, long-deceased bull shark to shred the vest.

  “Too bad about Lyle.” Danny slid the damaged vest over the side.

  “Everybody warned him not to dive alone,” Venturi said, watching it float away.

  “I’m glad the dumb son of a bitch is gone,” said the newly named Richard Lynch.

  “Richard, I’m shocked!” Danny said. “Never speak ill of the dead.”

  “Sorry,” Lynch said. “But I was so sick and tired of that man and all his problems.”

  “Let’s go home and have a beer,” Venturi said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The nightly TV news at eleven o’clock reported a missing diver. The man’s worried girlfriend had called the Coast Guard after he did not return on schedule. His unoccupied boat was found anchored a mile offshore.

  Bloodstains indicated the diver had been injured and a damaged flotation vest found nearby bore evidence of a shark attack, according to the next morning’s Miami Herald.

  The missing man’s name was withheld until next of kin could be notified. The story ended with a cautionary quote from a Coast Guard spokesman who warned that no one should dive alone.

  “Europeans think Americans are rude,” Victoria said, as she c
oached Richard Lynch on Irish customs and international awareness, “because we’re too quick to use their first names and invade their personal space by standing too close. They won’t use a coworker’s first name, even after working side by side for years. It’s still Mister Jones, and Missus Smith. So keep your distance, learn to be more formal and respectful.”

  They glanced up as Venturi appeared in the doorway.

  “I’m looking at him,” he told his cell phone. “He’s right in front of me.”

  “That was Danny,” he said, ending the call. “Channel Seven just reported a body, apparently the missing diver, floating near Government Cut.”

  Danny roared into the driveway on his big black and orange Harley for lunch. They watched the news at noon.

  The dead man had been pulled from the water wearing a dark blue suit, a silk tie, and brand-new shoes. Doctors at the medical examiner’s office also noted that he was embalmed.

  The well-dressed corpse was apparently the victim of a botched burial at sea.

  “Not one of mine,” Danny said, chortling. “Happens all the time. The people in charge screw up, the damn coffin breaks open, and the dead return to haunt the funeral director.”

  “To say nothing of his family,” Victoria said. “How sad.”

  Another body bobbed to the surface a short time later, this one off Key Biscayne. Competitive TV reporters again speculated that it must be the missing diver. After all, how many corpses could be out there?

  The second dead man was later identified as a hard-drinking college student who jumped or fell off a rented boat during an all-night cruise with friends who did not miss him for hours.

  Richard, who now referred to Lyle in the third person, became agitated.

  “What if they don’t straighten it all out?” he said. “What if they send a stranger’s body to Lyle’s ex-wife and kids?”

  Danny’s face brightened. “Not a bad idea.” He put his sandwich down, swallowed, and began to think aloud. “No open casket in these cases. With a buried body or, better yet, a cremation, there’d be even less chance of future questions.”