Legally Dead

by Edna Buchanan

  “If you’re spotted we’re dead,” Venturi warned.

  “Quit your complaining and stop worrying,” Danny said. “You’re turning into an old lady, bro.” He grinned, took the cold dead girl into his arms, and slid into the water.

  Once they were submerged, he adjusted the weights on her body, tied a clear cord into a makeshift harness under her arms, then towed her toward The Lucky Star with the underwater scooter.

  He descended deeper, then began to release some of the weights.

  She slowly rose to the surface, floating gently, facedown, long hair streaming.

  Mike used the two-way radio as he watched through high-powered binoculars from a distance.

  “Danny, they’re cruising right by. Everybody’s focused on roulette. Damn. That red suit should be easy to spot. Whoops! Here we go. They see her. Got people crowding to the port side. Good deal, good deal. I see three, no, four cameras and lots of cell phones. Try to maneuver her a little more to the east so they get good looks and clear shots of her ankle. The captain’s circling. Careful. He may try to throw a line on her. They’re already on the radio to the Coast Guard. I’m monitoring their transmission.

  “Reel her in! Reel her in and bring her back.”

  As The Lucky Star came about, the dead girl, arms outstretched, sank beneath the surface and disappeared into the deep.

  Danny towed her back to the boat, secured her and the weights in a shrimp fishing net below the waterline, then clambered aboard.

  “Let’s rock-and-roll, ’fore the Coast Guard gets here.”

  A cutter had already appeared on the horizon.

  Mike started the engine, then cut it off.

  “What are you doing?” Danny demanded.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Danny turned to look. A flash of red in the water about forty yards off the stern.

  “Holy shit! She slipped out of the net.”

  “We have to get out of here,” Venturi said tersely, as the Coast Guard cutter approached The Lucky Star.

  “No way,” Danny said.

  “Tell me about it!” Mike said. “She can’t be found.”

  “I’d have some ’splaining to do. She’s supposed to go in the ground tomorrow.”

  “Go get her, Danny.” He was talking to a splash and a trail of bubbles.

  Shortly after Danny submerged, as the Coast Guard boat approached them, lights flashing, the red suit in the water suddenly sank out of sight.

  A Coast Guardsman on deck hailed Mike to ask if anyone aboard had seen a woman’s body in the water.

  Mike replied that he hadn’t but he’d be on the lookout.

  The cutter headed back toward The Lucky Star.

  Danny surfaced as the prelude to a savage sunset painted the water blood red and gold all around them.

  “Got her?”

  He nodded grimly. “Don’t want to do that again soon. Spooky as hell. Had to grapple across half the ocean bottom with that woman to wrestle her back into the net. Some of the grommets had come loose and she slid right the hell out like she had a mind of her own.”

  “They always do,” Mike said.

  “Think about it,” Danny said, at dusk, as they dried her with towels and wrapped her in a blanket behind the empty mansion on North Bay Road. “This girl lived a pretty wild life. Sex, drugs, rock and roll. Brief, but never boring. And unlike most of us, her story didn’t end when she did. If she was watching us today, she must have laughed her ass off.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The surgery took place at Dr. Howard’s Boca Raton office late that night.

  Keri scrubbed in to assist.

  Venturi was present. Both he and Solange insisted that Danny stay away. She didn’t want him to see her exposed and vulnerable. Mike had reasons of his own.

  The patient was sedated, with an endotracheal tube and an intravenous line. The surgeon made incisions inside her mouth and cut away soft tissue, creating pockets to accommodate the surgical-grade silicone implants that would change the shape of her face—and her appearance—permanently.

  “Fillers and fat are resorbed and have to be reinjected,” the doctor said, in cheerful running commentary, as classical music played softly in the background. “But these midface implants sit on the bony skeleton and stay in place forever.”

  The incisions were sutured with self-dissolving stitches.

  Several hours later, Micheline Lacroix was rolled out to the van in a wheelchair. She wore a compression bandage to reduce swelling and held the ice packs in place herself, despite feeling groggy.

  They made her as comfortable as possible in what was now considered the client guest room. Victoria looked in several times during the night to administer pain pills and cold packs.

  Venturi let Danny know that the procedure had gone well and that Micheline was doing fine.

  The next day, Micheline sipped soup through a plastic straw as Victoria read aloud to her from the morning paper:

  Miami, Fla.

  Gamblers enjoying blackjack and roulette games on The Lucky Star, a party boat off South Beach Saturday, took a moment to enjoy the ocean view and saw a woman in the water.

  Her luck had run out.

  She was dead, floating facedown. Women screamed, tourists snapped pictures, and the captain called the Coast Guard. In the confusion the corpse, tentatively identified as the victim of an earlier sailboat accident, sank beneath the waves and disappeared.

  The Coast Guard and Metro-Dade police say photos shot by the party-boat passengers fit the description of a woman who failed to return after renting a sailboat in Sunny Isles that morning.

  The damaged sailboat was found foundering offshore about two hours before the body was sighted. Witnesses said the woman, clad in a lipstick-red bathing suit, showed no signs of life. Before The Lucky Star could come about to try to retrieve the corpse, it had vanished.

  “It ruined our whole day,” grumbled blackjack dealer Linda McGrory. “First we had to wait for the Coast Guard and give statements. After that, nobody felt lucky.”

  The identity of the missing boater was not released pending notification of next of kin. But receipts from the rental company show that the woman, apparently a tourist, had rented the same boat a number of times over the past two weeks.

  “She looked hot and seemed to be a good sailor. You could see she knew what she was doing,” said Ronald Booth, an employee of the rental firm. He said she was wearing a bright red bathing suit Saturday morning when she last rented the boat.

  A Coast Guard spokesman said the body may have been carried north by the Gulf Stream.

  “How’d it go at Potter’s Field today?” Venturi asked, when Danny called again to check on the patient.

  “It didn’t,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve had a helluva day, bro. The goddamn family had a change of heart. Decided to bury her up there. They want the body shipped to goddamn Cleveland.”

  “Christ. You can’t ship her anywhere with that thing on her ankle,” Venturi said, alarmed.

  “Thank you. Tell me about it. The goddamn marker won’t come off. I tried paint remover, even Brillo. I’m thinking about painting something over it.”

  “Like what?”

  “A snake. A big black serpent coiled around her ankle, it could go up to her thigh. And the red heart could be enlarged, into an apple. You know, like in the garden of Eden.”

  “Don’t,” Venturi said. “Families always request a copy of the ME report. The line for identifying characteristics won’t mention her tattoo. You have to get that thing off her. No two ways about it.”

  “Goddammit,” Danny said. “Son of a bitch. You’re right. She has to be on a flight tomorrow.” He sighed. “I guess the ME report would mention a missing foot, too.”

  “Don’t even think about that,” Venturi warned. “Call the marker manufacturer for info on what will take it off. You were right, buddy.”

  “About what?”<
br />
  “That dead girl. She’s somewhere laughing her ass off again today.”

  A news story days later reported that the FBI was attempting to digitally enhance the photos taken by passengers and crew members aboard The Lucky Star and that U.S. Navy sonar was being used in efforts to recover the woman’s body.

  The Navy? The FBI? When does the military or a federal agency become involved in a search for a lost boater or accident victim? Alert reporters began to ask questions.

  A savvy police reporter coaxed the missing woman’s name from an employee of the boat rental firm, but could find no trace of a Marilyn Moya from Louisiana. She didn’t exist.

  It took more than a week for the FBI to announce the victim’s real identity: Solange Dupree, the Louisiana federal court judge who had lost her entire family to killers who had made repeated death threats against her.

  The FBI lab had studied the enhanced photos and determined through certain identifying marks that the woman in the water was indeed Judge Dupree.

  Her damaged sailboat, confiscated by the FBI, showed signs of an accident. Her DNA was found on board. No foul play suspected.

  Members of the press found that conclusion—that she died in a freak accident shortly after escaping a second murder attempt—hard to swallow. Reporters clearly suspected that federal investigators had failed the courageous judge and that their ineptitude resulted in her murder.

  FBI spokesmen protested that although Judge Dupree was an avid sailor, she was unfamiliar with South Florida waters.

  Federal officials in Louisiana noted that Judge Dupree “was a very strong-minded and independent member of the judiciary, who had refused security during her Florida stay. However, bodyguards would have made little difference since she persisted in sailing a small boat alone. Therefore, the accident and her death most likely could not have been prevented.”

  Louisiana’s legal community lamented its loss at a well-attended memorial service for Judge Dupree, then indulged in rampant speculation about her possible successor.

  After four laser treatments, Micheline Lacroix’s ankle, now temporarily red and swollen, showed no trace of a tattoo.

  Days later, she was ready to return home to her native France. Her hair was now platinum blond in a sleek, swingy, shoulder-length cut. Her cheekbones were classic, her eyes sultry.

  Her papers were ready, a morning flight booked.

  One obstacle remained. She wanted to see Danny again. Venturi said no. Tensions ran high.

  Victoria met him at the door when he returned home from arranging a cash deposit to a bank in Tours, France.

  “Danny’s here,” she said softly, her eyes grave. “He’s with her, in her room. I couldn’t stop them.”

  Venturi knocked. No answer. He used the key.

  They were naked. The room reeked of sex. Lips swollen, their eyes and skin glistened, their expressions were sated.

  “Get the hell out!” he told Danny, then turned to Micheline. “Do you know the risks we’ve taken for you?”

  Danny objected, hopping on one foot as he pulled on his pants. “You don’t get it, bro.”

  “Don’t ‘bro’ me, you son of a bitch.”

  His fist connected with Danny’s chin in a powerful punch that knocked him down. He sprang to his feet, his lower lip bleeding.

  “Stop it!” Micheline screamed. “You don’t understand! Danny’s going with me!”

  “I’m not gonna fight you, bro.” Danny held up his palm. “I won’t hurt you, Mike. You’re my brother.”

  “You couldn’t hurt me if you tried. You dumb son of a bitch. You want to try?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Yeah. That’s what your girlfriend just said.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “What you mean, it’s not like that?” Micheline demanded.

  Danny ignored her and focused on his friend.

  “She was needy, nervous, and scared, Mike. I said and did whatever it took to save her.”

  “What are you saying?” She clutched a sheet around her with one hand, gesturing wildly with the other. “Are you saying we’re not going to be together?”

  He sighed and turned to her. “Maybe we will,” he said. “Sometime. We never know what the future will bring. But I have to raise my kids first. Things may be different by the time they’re all twenty-one.”

  She blinked in disbelief. “And how many years will that be?”

  He paused. “The youngest is due next year. When he’s twenty-one, maybe…”

  She slapped him, hard.

  “I deserve that.” He caught her hand, raised for a second blow. “But don’t do it again.”

  She burst into tears.

  He reached to comfort her but she resisted, then turned her back on him.

  He touched her shoulder. “I want to walk you through all the minefields but I can’t. You’re smart enough and strong enough to navigate them on your own. Look at you.” He spun her around so that they both faced the full-length mirror. “This woman will live a long and wonderful life.” He stroked her hair.

  She was weeping.

  Both were getting dressed as Venturi left the room.

  “Don’t share with Danny exactly where she’s going,” he told Victoria, rubbing his bruised knuckles. “Although I’m sure she’s already told him.”

  “I agree.”

  Danny emerged, still fastening his belt. “Sorry, man.” He pressed a handkerchief to his still-bleeding lip. “See you in the morning.”

  “Want some ice for that?” Victoria said.

  “Nah.” He winked. “It was a sucker punch. That’s the only way he landed it. I’ve been hit a helluva lot harder,” he glanced at Venturi, “by my wife.”

  “You probably deserved it then, too,” Venturi said mildly. “Will Micheline be trouble tomorrow?”

  “No. She’s ready to go,” Danny said, and stepped out into the sultry night.

  Micheline stayed in her room and refused to come out for dinner. She ate yogurt and fruit for breakfast but spoke only in monosyllables.

  Danny showed up, his lip swollen. Unlike the prior departures, they rode to the airport in silence. Keri, busy at the hospital, was unable to join them.

  In a corner of the parking garage, a subdued Micheline took Venturi’s hand. “Thank you for everything,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult.”

  He nodded.

  She kissed Victoria’s cheek.

  She’d been ignoring Danny, who walked her to the gate as the others watched from a distance.

  “If he boards that plane, I swear to God I will hunt him down like a rabid dog,” Venturi said.

  “I’ll ride shotgun,” Victoria told him.

  Danny’s kiss glanced off her cheek as Micheline neatly avoided his lips. Then she walked away. He turned to leave, then stopped to look back. She did not. She walked faster, chin up, moving forward into her future.

  He stood watching for a long moment, then rejoined the others. No one spoke until they were in the car.

  Danny broke the dense silence. “I love my wife,” he said, “and my kids. All of us over the age of fifteen have old loves in our pasts. I did the best I could for them both. She’s safe, on her way now, and my life can get back to normal.”

  “How’s your lip?” Venturi asked.

  Danny shrugged nonchalantly. “No problemo, bro. I’ve been hit harder by my little girl, and she’s three.”

  “I trusted him,” Venturi said later. Keri had joined him and Victoria at the house for a quiet dinner. The earlier transitions, farewells, and departures had been celebratory. Nobody celebrated this one.

  “I should have followed my gut,” he said. “I knew it was too risky and could turn ugly. Without grossing you both out, I can tell you that my hair stood on end more than once. I regret involving you. I should’ve quit when we were ahead.

  “I can’t figure Danny out anymore. He’s changed. What happened to trust and honor?”
<
br />   “Love and lust.” Keri took his hand. “When sex or money is involved, trust no one.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. Although what Danny did does seem noble in a romantic sort of way,” Victoria said dreamily.

  “Luz wouldn’t think so, especially in her condition,” Keri said earnestly, as she and Victoria loaded the dishwasher. She turned to Venturi. “Luz can’t ever know about this. It would break her heart, and there’d be nobody left to raise the children because she’d kill him.”

  “No jury would convict her. I’m exhausted.” Victoria yawned. “I’m going to turn in early. Good night, you two.”

  Keri had been quiet all evening. “I know this is not the time to bring it up,” she said softly, curled up beside him on the couch, “but it can’t wait. I know someone who needs your help, our services.”

  “Please tell me you’re joking,” he said.

  “Dead serious, Mikey. But I promise you that this time there will be absolutely no romance, no lust, no sex involved.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “No more.” Venturi shook his head. “I’m done.”

  “Just listen. Please,” Keri said. “I’m heartsick about it. She’s done so much for so many.”

  “She? Swell, what’s this one escaping? Hired killers? Old lovers? Paparazzi?”

  “No,” Keri said. “Her children.”

  She chewed her lower lip. “Obviously you have no faith in my judgment.”

  “Not true.” He reached for her. “You’re the only sane woman I know, except for Vicki.”

  She giggled in spite of herself. “How weird is that? Every day I meet fathers-to-be who fear, loathe, and despise their mothers-in-law.”

  “But you know Vicki. Doesn’t that make it less weird?”

  “Absolutely. You’re right,” she conceded.

  “So who is this woman who birthed the children from hell? I hope they’re not ten and twelve years old. I refuse to aid and abet in the abandonment of minors, no matter how obnoxious or homicidal they are.”

  Keri pulled away to look him directly in the eye.