Nobody Lives Forever

by Edna Buchanan

  Nobody Lives Forever

  Edna Buchanan

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1990 by Edna Buchanan

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition April 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-243-7

  More from Edna Buchanan

  Fiction

  Nobody Lives Forever

  Miami, It’s Murder

  Suitable For Framing

  Contents Under Pressure

  Act Of Betrayal

  Margin of Error

  Non-Fiction

  Carr: Five Years of Rape and Murder

  Never Let Them See You Cry

  For my mom, who read me my first story.

  Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble.

  —JOB 14:1

  Prologue

  It was the night of the full moon over Miami. The shooting started early.

  A short-tempered motorist brandished his gun to scare strangers who cut him off in traffic. The strangers, undercover cops chasing a robber, assumed he was an accomplice and shot him five times.

  An exasperated housewife ended a noisy quarrel with her spouse by firing her pistol out a window. The bullet killed their next-door neighbor.

  A man roused from a sound sleep by a pounding at his door believed he was about to be burglarized. Again. He opened fire with his shotgun and blasted the intruder. Then he remembered, his wife was expecting the Avon lady.

  A taxi driver struggled with a robber for his gun. He won, saved by his bulletproof vest, but his out-of-control taxicab skidded into a pickup truck that slammed into a light pole that toppled onto a house and left twelve square blocks in the dark.

  A deranged high school teacher shinnied up a power pole, flung his clothes at passersby and demanded six million dollars from the police, who tried to coax him down. When a fire department aerial truck arrived with a fifty-foot ladder, he scrambled higher and grasped a hot wire. “He did a spiral on the way down,” a fire chief solemnly told a TV news crew.

  Carloads of men, shouting in Spanish and armed with MAC 10 machine pistols, fought a running gun battle along the Sunshine Turnpike. The survivors refused to speak to police.

  Rival crack cocaine dealers settled a Liberty City turf dispute with sawed-off shotguns, and the embattled staff of an often-robbed fast-food chicken emporium exchanged shots Wild West style with bandits who got away.

  Cuban gangs stomped Puerto Ricans, American blacks fought Haitians, and Anglo rednecks warred with blacks and Latins. A jogger with a knife in his belt and rape on his mind slowed his pace to watch a young woman unload groceries from her car in a quiet residential neighborhood. And at Miami International Airport, José López-Gómez, a visitor from Colombia, cleared customs and anxiously sought a taxi. Glistening with perspiration, he felt feverish and was beginning to experience abdominal cramps.

  Somebody got careless in a blighted neighborhood miles away. The mistake proved fatal. Sparks from a free-base pipe ignited a barrel of solvent used to manufacture crack cocaine. The drug house exploded with a blast that raised the roof, rocked the area and shattered windows blocks away. The force of the explosion and the scattered rain of debris caused J. L. Sly to pause in his practice of kung fu feints and postures. He gazed skyward for a moment, then resumed his silent combat with the eerie shadows that spilled across his Overtown street corner.

  This was the full moon city police dread most, scaling a sultry summer sky on a Friday. Passions soared with the temperature and the sweltering evening rapidly escalated into one of those nights that overwork the cops, emergency room personnel, and the chamber of commerce. Dead bodies began to stack up. So did calls for help.

  Homicide detectives on the afternoon shift stayed on overtime. The midnight crew was called in early.

  Laurel Trevelyn found herself at home alone again. The quiet residential street was drenched in moonlight, reflections off the bay and hidden terrors. She paced tearfully, becoming more and more agitated, frightened and furious. She knew she was losing control. She knew that bad things happened when she was left alone in the night.

  One

  Stepping into the night left him breathless, as if slipping into a black well. Alex loved the welcoming whispers high in the palm trees and the radiant energy released by pavement still warm to the touch at midnight. Darkness gave him a sense of freedom and excitement. The strictures of the day were gone, the eager and prying eyes closed.

  His steps, though cautious, were brisk as the rage and pain ebbed and fell away like a discarded garment. He breathed the soft and tender night air deeply, his senses more acute, skin tingling. Across the water, a dog barked, then whimpered. The smell of freshly mowed St. Augustine and the scent of night-blooming jasmine mingled in a languid breeze off Biscayne Bay.

  The black sky was thick with charcoal-colored clouds scudding fast across the bright full face of the moon. He crossed an unfenced yard, carefully skirted a newly planted vegetable garden and bent slightly to pass beneath a nearly invisible plastic clothesline stretching east to west. Prowlers or Peeping Toms chased on dark nights sometimes run full tilt into Adam’s apple—high clotheslines. What a bummer, he thought, to wind up gasping on the ground as somebody’s pit bull tears into your shin.

  He hugged the shadows, cutting quietly through hushed yards perfumed and shaded by heavily laden grapefruit and orange trees. Flutters from a color television screen bounced rainbows off the second-story windows of a stately old Spanish-style home as he passed by. A heavy metal mailbox mounted on a pole stood lonely sentinel at the gate, while inside, David Letterman or a late-night movie flickered with imitations of life.

  Television—it made him laugh. The only turn-on left in so many bedrooms. How many millions of people sleep clinging to their remote-control channel selectors and dreaming full-color beer and new car commercials?

  He wanted to shout, “Wake up! It’s me, Alex! This is real life out here!” Instead, he picked his pace up to a trot, across the damp lawn and narrow street to a sprawling ranch house. No traffic streamed along the two-lane causeway at this hour, no headlights. He alone, confident and surefooted, sailing solo through a sea of night. A gull joined him, wheeling and chuckling above, then swooped out across the velvet bay. A big jet winked its landing lights through the treetops and rumbled west toward Miami International Airport. At ground level, bright eyes glowed knowingly, watching. A stealthy striped cat broke its gaze and vanished into a stand of Australian pines.

  The house stood quiet, without lights. The muscles in his stomach and throat constricted simultaneously as he stepped soundlessly up the stairs. A split second of uncertainty, then his gloved fingers pushed deftly at the screen, just above the latch. Already loose, the wire mesh tore easily from the weathered wooden frame. Reach in, push up the lock button, lift the hook from the hasp. The screen door swung open with a squeak that brought beads of moisture to his upper lip and accelerated his pulse. The inner door was protected by only a simple push-button lock. He slipped a charge card from the pocket of his jeans, slid it between door and frame and worked it
down behind the lock. At an angle, in the groove, pull it back. His hands were steady. The push button popped with a dull click. He carefully replaced the card in his pocket and inched the door open slowly, wincing at the creaks and groans of the hinges.

  Silence. He stepped inside, closing the door very gently behind him. Straining to see in the dark, he inhaled kitchen smells of coffee and greasy cooking. A sudden scrabbling sound and a slow, guttural growl from beneath the table froze him in his tracks, and he nearly cried out. He’d forgotten the damn dog. Sad faced and shorthaired, the buff-colored mongrel stood stiff legged, a snarl rumbling in his throat.

  “Bosco,” he whispered hoarsely. “Hello, Bosco. Here, boy.” Reassured, the dog cocked his head to one side and blinked in puzzlement. “Come here, Bosco!” Bosco took a few hesitant steps, claws slicking on the polished floor, then slumped heavily to one side. The old dog rolled onto his back, four feet pawing the air, tail thunking the tile. He offered his stomach for scratching. Alex looked speculative, then stopped and roughly rubbed the furry belly. The dog was his. When he straightened up, the animal scrambled to his feet and shambled alongside, tail awag, an eager accomplice. Snuffing in the stillness, he led the way into the dining room, the metal tags on his collar faintly clinking. He would point the way to the family silver if he could, Alex thought, if that were what I was after.

  His penlight stabbed the darkness. A shiny palmetto bug, routed from cookie crumbs and empty, milk-stained glasses, skittered from the table in flight. Alex moved down a hallway, ever so softly, heart pounding. The door to a child’s room stood open. A teenage daughter sighed heavily in her sleep and tossed fitfully, one knee drawn up, the sheet kicked away as he watched. His shadow fell across the lovely throat that would bruise so easily and the tangled hair that glowed softly in the moonlight. He fingered the cold steel blade of the hunting knife in his belt as he watched. Inhaling deep breaths, suspended in time and motion, as if in a dream, he waited until she was settled and lying quiet once more. Then he moved on, shivering with excitement.

  He heard the snores before stepping across the doorsill into the master bedroom. The woman’s bloated body hogged the center of the bed, lying on her back, huge breasts spilling out of the shapeless nightgown. Her open mouth emitted piggy sounds and saliva that pooled in one corner. The man slept naked. He had lost the bedclothes to the woman, who in her noisy slumber grasped them greedily to her body. He lay on his stomach at the edge of the bed, palms flat, fingers slightly curled, as though hanging on in desperation. His skin looked hard and smooth in the semilight slanting through draped windows. Dark curly hair covered his back. Alex stared curiously, imagining them awake and active, in sex. He found his intrusion into their home, the intimacy of their bedroom, exhilarating. He savored a delicious sense of power and omniscience. He had heard that many rapists experience the same elation, enjoying the violation of a victim’s most personal and private space.

  He plucked a ring from the cluttered dresser top as the wind swept a cloud away from the surface of the moon and silvered the room. Eyes startled him, shining from the beveled mirror, staring straight into his own. He failed to recognize at first their alert, expectant expression. He had last glimpsed that vibrant face in a photograph, bathed in a sudden splash of light and frozen in time. His throat caught with sudden emotion, as though unexpectedly seeing a loved one long absent.

  He stared unblinking into his own reflection.

  A snorting, rooting sound from the woman on the bed set him back to business. A delicate cameo gleamed in the frail light, and he snatched it off a nightstand. Conscious of every footfall on the carpeted floor, he lifted the woman’s scuffed tote bag from a chair, slid out the French purse, overstuffed like its owner, and removed the bills. He scooped up a pair of pale gold earrings and then rifled the man’s trousers, hung on the back of another chair. Only two singles in his billfold. Poor schmuck, Alex thought, and took them.

  One more long, fantasy-fueled look at the lovely teenager, sleeping so prettily, then he padded swiftly through the house, back the way he’d come. Nearly home free, a piece of cake. Moving too quickly, he stumbled into a dining-room chair. Clutching at the back to catch his balance, he staggered heavily against it. It bumped the table, and something—a glass—toppled onto its side and rolled. He tried to catch it, but it fell to the floor, shattering the stillness. Fear filled his throat. Creaking and thrashing sounds came from the bedroom. His muscles twitched as he fought the impulse for headlong flight.

  “Bad dog!” The woman’s voice was raspy with sleep and anger. “Bad dog! Lie down!” The animal whined and crawled back beneath the kitchen table where he lay watching, moist eyes baleful. The bedsprings creaked heavily again, then sank slowly into silence. Alex clung to the back of the chair, sucking in deep breaths. The house fell quiet. He waited motionless for five minutes, ten. Time, he thought. He was always cheated and had to fight for time. He never had enough. Now it moved so slowly in the dark. The heart-shaped face of the tender teenager smiled shyly from a silver frame on the mantel above the fake fireplace—sheltered, indulged, untouched. His anger surging, he listened to a dining-room clock tick away the seconds until it was safe to leave. The dog’s tail thumped the floor hopefully as he passed.

  “Watchdog, come here!” The dog heeded the whispered command and stood up, grinning in that silly way mutts do. Alex smiled back, stooped and reached out his left hand. With the right, he drew the knife. Head down, as though bashful, the animal padded dutifully. The blade was razor-sharp. It was easy. He kept the fingers of his left hand tightly wrapped around the dog’s muzzle until the twitching and the quivering stopped. Alex stood up slowly, being careful where he stepped, and wiped the bloody blade across the dimpled face of the teenager in the framed photo. The smeared mustache effect almost made him laugh. At the door, Alex turned to watch the widening stain still creeping across the yellow tiled floor. Satisfied, he stepped out into the dark well of night. The street was quiet and unlit, except for the sound of an electric bug killer zapping mosquitoes on somebody’s patio and the cream-color glow of the big moon. He was hot and excited and very pleased.

  It was better, far better than he had thought it would be.

  Two

  The digital alarm read 4:18 A.M. when Rob Thorne awoke. He had been dreaming he was Officer Thorne, snappy in dark blue, rolling from his patrol car, diving for cover, under fire, emerging heroic, lives saved, just like the cops on television, just like Rick, the cop who lived next door. Admirers were crowding, reaching to shake his hand. The chief stood by, smiling, with a medal … Rob lay there for a moment, sorry to be awake. Then the rising and falling sound of a burglar alarm pierced his consciousness. Dogs were barking.

  Was it a prowler? He slid from between the cool sheets and padded to his bedroom window. He cranked open the jalousies to hear the night sounds above the hum of the air conditioner. The commotion seemed to be coming from a distance, perhaps the next island. Wind or heat lightning often triggers home and car alarms. The keening sounds carry across the water. He rubbed the back of his neck sleepily and wondered if anybody had called the police.

  Then he saw it. At first he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. But no. A slim, dark figure silhouetted, standing motionless next to some trees. He blinked, then strained to see, but it was gone. Changing position, he moved closer to the screen. There it was, near the rock garden next door. Something stealthy, moving closer to Rick’s house.

  Laurel Trevelyn, Rick’s new girlfriend, was home alone. The windows were dark, Rick’s car absent from the driveway. A tip-off to a prowler—an invitation. Rob turned quickly toward the phone, bashing a bare toe painfully on the night table in his haste. Hobbling, he reached for the receiver to call Laurel, but he could not see to look up the number and did not want to switch on a light. Somebody was lurking down there in the dark. Laurel was alone, and Rick had asked him to look out for her.

  Rob pulled on a pair of cutoffs, s
natched a baseball bat from the corner of his room and flew barefoot to the rescue. What a good thing it was that he had not gone with Rick, he thought as he ran down the stairs. Just a few hours ago he had been disappointed. He had become a police buff, clamoring constantly to ride along as an observer with Rick and his partner, Jim Ransom, on the midnight shift in homicide. Both detectives had tried to discourage him.

  “Shake your family tree, kid. If no Julios fall out, forget it,” Jim had said. “A name like Thorne gives you chances of zilch and zero, thanks to some federal judge and affirmative action. They’re promoting nothing but Latinos, blacks and women. You’re young, you’re smart, stay in school. Find something with a future.”

  But he had persisted, asking to join them that very night, a Friday, with no classes in the morning. Rick had stopped him midstride. “Listen, kid, I need a favor. There’s been a prowler in the neighborhood. Keep an eye on things, will you? Watch out for Laurel until I get a chance to beef up security around here. Okay?”

  “Sure, sure, Rick.” Though disappointed, Rob was secretly pleased to be trusted with the assignment. Now he was elated. Had he gone, he would have missed this. He had been trying to impress Laurel since the day she had moved in, lithe and graceful in cutoff blue jeans, long legs tanned, her hair tawny and sun streaked. He had even fantasized about what might happen if she and Rick ever split. The way Rick goes through women, who knows, he thought. She is closer to my age than his.

  He burst out the back door, taking a deep breath as the warm air enveloped him. Blinking in the dark, he sprinted toward the rock garden, holding the bat in front of him, clutched in both fists, ready to swing. The fleeting shadow moved quickly now. “Halt!” he shouted. “Stop right there!”