Miami Fire

by Rick Murcer

“We’ve got this together, remember?”

  She nodded and then smiled at the two men sitting across from them.

  The assistant commissioner of police for the SNK, Angus Dirks, a lean, forty-something man with dark hair and even darker skin, owning a demeanor that reminded her more of a politician than a cop, sat on the other side of the desk. He was accompanied by an older, pudgy gentleman who could only be retired Inspector Gaylord Jamison.

  “We want to thank you for meeting with us so late, but I assure you, it’s of utmost importance,” said Josh.

  The man could be as charming as a movie star.

  “It is no problem,” said Dirks.

  “Kind of you to say. As I said on the phone, Special Agent Simmons and I are here to pick your brains regarding a cold case murder on your island that happened over twenty years ago.

  Dirks and the inspector looked at each other. Finally, Dirks gave Jamison a brief nod.

  Jamison leaned over the great wooden desk toward Belle. His dark eyes still sparkled after twenty years, but the light in them couldn’t completely mask his sadness.

  “How are you doin’, Belle? I didn’t tink I would see you agin.”

  “As well as can be expected, thank you. I didn’t think I’d be back.”

  “I am glad to hear dat. Da last time we spoke was not under such good circumstances, but I taut you would be fine. You were tough even den.”

  “Thank you again.”

  She opened her mouth to say that she hadn’t wanted to be tough, just a girl on vacation enjoying her new friends. Seeing one of them murdered hadn’t been on her vacation itinerary. She stopped herself from commenting on this and instead stayed her course.

  “I do my best.”

  “‘Tis all any of us can do.”

  Josh leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I don’t mean to interrupt the reunion, but will you help us? We have a runaway killer in Miami, and we want to stop him, now.”

  Again, Jamison and Dirks exchanged telltale glances.

  Dirks leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head.

  “Agent Corner. We have sent all we have to the FBI so that poor Cammy’s murderer might someday be caught. While that horrible day has in some ways scarred our island, we have done our best, including her family, to move forward. Inspector Jamison and his staff did all they could to find this attacker. Why do you think we can help you further?”

  There was some snap in Dirks’s voice.

  Interesting.

  “Because, Assistant Commissioner, as you well know, not everything that transpires in a case like this is included in a report or a form, or even in crime scene photos. People have interacted with people, and that is what we're here to discuss, hopefully to unearth something that will help us,” said Josh, staying cool and collected.

  Belle never took her eyes from the men. She prayed she would see something in either of them to indicate that Josh was on to something.

  She didn’t have to wait long.

  Dirks’s countenance shifted and his body took on an air of defense.

  “Do you think we purposely omitted information that would have helped in this investigation, Special Agent?”

  Standing, Josh moved to the desk, sitting on the corner of it.

  “I think that a crime like this, with a prime witness describing a suspect that surely had to fit a limited number of people on the island at that time, shouldn’t have gone unsolved. In fact, it should have been wrapped up in a few hours, by my estimation,” said Josh.

  “So you believe we know who her killer was, do you not?” asked Dirks, his voice rising.

  “I’ll answer that,” said Belle.

  She hadn’t intended to release twenty years of fear, anger, and frustration in this meeting. It wasn’t even on her radar, the conscious one at least, but all of those memories, sleepless nights, and crying spells molded into one point of energy. Belle Simmons exploded.

  “Yes, you bastards, yes. You had to know,” she yelled. “How many teenage white boys were on this damn island then? Five? Ten?”

  “Who do you think—” Dirks began.

  Diving over the desk, Belle grabbed Dirks by his island shirt and pulled his face to hers, his eyes the size of hubcaps.

  “I’m the girl who will never forget what she saw in that cave, you prick. Now tell me who killed her.”

  A moment later, she felt Josh’s strong hands grip her sides and lift her in the air, but she refused to let go of Dirks’s shirt.

  “Answer me. Who killed her?”

  “Belle, let go of him,” said Josh.

  “No! He knows. Damn him, he knows.”

  She wiggled free from her boss and tightened her grip. She thought she might bite his face if he didn’t answer her.

  Another hand then touched her face, and she turned quickly to see Jamison looking at her with the love of a father and the shame of a sinner.

  Time stood frozen in place until Jamison finally spoke.

  “His name is Eric Tovant, Belle. Eric Tovant killed our Cammy.”

  CHAPTER-30

  The darkened SUV sat ominously beside the two-lane, almost taunting them.

  The GPS on Sophie’s phone read that both Dean and his phone were in the same place, and the FBI’s vehicle seemed to be it.

  “Here?” asked Sophie, but she already knew the answer.

  “Yes.”

  She pulled the cruiser off the road, flipped on the flashing lights, then pulled up to within twenty feet of the SUV.

  “Watch my ass,” she said, and then was out the door before Manny could stop her.

  They’d talked about being careful if this situation came up, and he hoped she would keep that conversation in the forefront of her mind.

  He swung his door open, Glock in hand, and hurried to the driver’s side of the vehicle. Sophie was almost to the passenger’s side, so he stepped it up.

  They should be more cautious than this. Who knew what Valentino might have done? But Manny dismissed it. Bombs and traps weren’t this man’s style. Besides, Manny would have to shoot Sophie to slow her down at this point.

  When they both reached the backseats, Sophie called out, “Anything?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Okay . . . oh no, no.”

  His partner’s voice went from strong to barely audible.

  “What?” he yelled, not able to mask the fear in his voice as he sprinted around the front of the truck.

  The door was open, and Manny panicked even more because he didn’t see Sophie at first. Then he saw movement and realized she had crawled inside.

  Two more steps, and he was around the door.

  He stopped moving, dropping the gun to his side, unable to comprehend what he was seeing at first. Reality was a sobering entity without any prejudice.

  The tears began falling in hot rivulets as Manny followed the streaks of fresh blood on the armrest of the door to more blood on the floor mat and then up to the seat where Dean Mikus lay in Sophie’s arms, more crimson liquid flowered against his paisley shirt.

  His eyes were closed as if he were in the midst of a contented sleep.

  Sophie was speaking softly to him, her mouth so very close to his ear, her tone filled with love and comfort while she cradled him jealously in her small lap, stroking his hair.

  “He shot my Dean, Manny,” she said softly without looking up.

  More tears flowed as he steadied himself against the open door.

  How does anyone describe heartache like that? He understood it, what Sophie was feeling. Louise had died in his arms, but to describe it would require far more understanding than he’d achieved in this life, maybe not in any life.

  Manny knew what to do in most any circumstance, to think rationally and execute the plan. It was part of his gift. But here, now, he was at a loss. He stared helplessly at his best friend and her husband.

  They weren’t cops or special agents now, but two people who had fallen in love. Manny had been there
when they exchanged vows, when they swore to take care of each other until the very end.

  Never did he believe the end would come so soon for either of them.

  Reaching out to try to comfort Sophie, he pulled his hand back in utter surprise.

  Dean had opened his eyes.

  CHAPTER-31

  Removing his shirt, he dropped it in the bathroom sink. He leaned toward the mirror to get a better look at where the bullet had grazed his shoulder.

  The wound had bled some and was a little deeper than he’d hoped, but nothing he couldn’t patch up. He’d live, and that was all that mattered.

  Valentino reached for the first-aid case and went to work. Fifteen minutes later, he stepped back and grinned. Not bad, not bad at all. It barely hurt. Once again, he’d found a hidden talent.

  He brushed the hair from his eyes and stared at his reflection. Talent was something he had, and he wanted the world to know. He hadn’t felt this way initially, but he’d changed over the last twelve hours. His ideals had suffered a blow when the black bitch called him crazy, and that triggered something in him.

  His love to serve and immortalize others was still strong. No matter what the cops or FBI did, that wouldn’t change. But now, his awakening had taken another step, and he wanted people to know the artist as well as the art.

  Mission accomplished.

  His picture would be all over the state, the country, and maybe even the world in a matter of hours. They would know his name. Hell, even his Miami address.

  But not everything is as it seems.

  Savvy Internet users would search for him, learn about what he’d done. He would enlighten them even further with links to his art. And not just the visions from his first two true creations, but the third one the BAU had not discovered as of yet.

  “I’ll need to fix that if they don’t find it soon,” he said out loud.

  But first, he had something else to finish before he could embrace the next step in his evolution.

  After one last look in the mirror, he reached for the blue carrying case he had left in the hotel room a few hours before going to the warehouse.

  As he unzipped the side pocket, it hit him.

  The intense pain in his head drove him to his knees and onto the cool tile of the bathroom floor while his world grew hazy causing his world to spin out of control. The instantaneous and overwhelming nausea threatened to encourage his stomach to spew its contents.

  He tried to control the pain, hoping the queasiness would follow suit, like all of those times before. He could do it if—

  The unwanted movie began showing inside his head, another hideous rerun from his childhood spawned from that hellish place. It squelched his hopes of any control he might exercise and finished off what was left of his resolve.

  Crouching near the fringe of the small clearing, he was hidden from view of the three grown-ups by the wild, thick undergrowth. He wanted to approach them and tell them he had been chasing butterflies and got separated from his father, but he was afraid of them. After all, they were black and his father had told him black people were trouble. He stayed put.

  He could see and hear them but, at age eight, he wasn’t entirely sure what they were discussing.

  The pretty woman, hair rustling in the island’s breeze, held the hand of the younger man. The older, larger man in the white hat gestured to one then the other. The older man’s actions reminded him of when his mother and father were speaking to him about something he’d done wrong.

  With an abruptness that caused him to jump, the older man began yelling at the girl, and then he hit her, sending her flying to the ground.

  “No,” yelled the younger man and hit the older man with his fist.

  The boy flinched and began to cry. He’d never seen such violence before. It wasn’t like getting into a fight at recess. Not at all like that.

  The movie played on.

  “Stop. He is my father,” said the young woman, rising to her feet.

  The young man stepped back, his hands in the air in an apologetic pose while the older man struggled to his feet.

  After he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth, he told his daughter to come to him. She hesitated and then she did.

  The accompanying hug seemed genuine.

  “I love you my daughter. I only want what is best for you.”

  “I know, Papa. I know. But I love him.”

  He nodded at his girl, then looked at the younger man with something that the boy would learn later to be true hatred.

  The older man took the older revolver from his pocket and began shooting.

  After each horrific roar from the gun, he stepped closer and shot again, even after the young man was on the ground, unmoving.

  In those bushes, something came alive in him, and he stopped crying.

  He knew he should run away and find his father. To let him know that he was safe and to tell him what he’d seen. He could have gotten away, no one would have seen him, but the strange, unexplainable curiosity welling in him had been awakened. He wanted to see what was coming next.

  The daughter stood in shocked silence, her look as unforgettable as the setting of the day.

  Without hesitating, her father turned back to his daughter.

  “I did what I had to do because I love you and don’t want to see you suffer. This man was poison,” he said.

  Her lip began to quiver, tears already staining her pink blouse.

  “You love me? That’s how you show your love for me? I spit on you. You killed him, the man I love and the father of your grandchild.”

  “What? You are pregnant?”

  He didn’t wait for her to answer. The rage on his face wouldn’t allow it.

  Reaching her, he pulled her to his chest and then shot her in the head. He pulled the trigger again, and then again, before he placed her gently on the sandy ground.

  Still hidden, the boy watched intently, his heart beating like a race horse, his excitement unmeasurable, and his anticipation off the charts.

  The older man then dropped to his knees, his face serene, as he took his daughter’s bloodied hand.

  “I love you. I love you. I had to make you see this man was only heartache and hell for you. Now you will rest in peace.”

  After kissing her, the man looked up and somehow saw him through the brush.

  Their eyes locked, and then he offered the boy a tiny grin before raising the gun to his head and pulling the trigger.

  Unable to resist the compulsion that drove him, even if he wanted to, he left his hiding place and approached the bodies of the man and his daughter.

  Her face was mostly intact, as was her father’s, as they lay in pooling blood, touching each other’s hand.

  So this was love?

  His mother and father always told him that they loved them, but he never really understood until now, this very moment, what love was truly about. He wanted to have love like that. The thrill of it all was not totally within his grasp, but it would be. He was sure of that.

  He saw himself stepping away from the clearing, a new outlook on life and love buried deep within his psyche.

  He quickly found another butterfly to follow, and the chase brought him to his frantic father.

  Good old dad hugged him fiercely, and even though he was angry with his son, he told him he loved him.

  For the first time in the boy’s life, he had a true sense of what love was. Love meant doing whatever you had to do to make it better for the ones you loved. Even at that tender age, he had begun the journey of expressing that truth in his own special way.

  There was no message telling him that the movie had ended, no scrolling cast list.

  Immediately, his head began to clear and his stomach settled enough that he was able to rise from the floor. His recovery time from these events had improved over the years, but he wondered about the effects of the intense migraines. Then again, did it matter? He thought not for what he had in mind.

  Anot
her look in the mirror revealed a paler reflection of the man who’d been there previously, but the memory, if not the pain and nausea, had helped him to refocus on his self-expectations.

  He reached for the case again, removing the scissors, the razor, and the bottle of dye.

  CHAPTER-32

  For the third time on this trip, Belle began to speak to Josh, but he held up his hand and then engaged in two brief calls.

  Zealous to discuss the meeting hardly described what was going on with her.

  She and Josh hadn’t spoken more than ten words after they left the Saint Kitts’s police building, mostly because Josh was concerned with what their driver might overhear as they were taken back to the airport. Belle understood that. But they’d been in the air for ten minutes, and he hadn’t given her the time of day.

  There was another reason they weren’t speaking—in Belle’s eyes, at least. Her boss was distracted by something else.

  His hushed tones, the quick, insincere smiles after he hung up and apologized for not hearing her, and last but not least, the look of concern on his face that he was not able to hide.

  She listened, drinking her coffee, and waited for him to finish his call.

  “You just stick with the plan . . .”

  She heard that much before he disconnected the call and then swiveled in his chair to face her. This time there was no attempt to mask anything.

  Josh Corner had always been enjoyable and professional with a touch of charm that added to his already-obvious physical appeal, but at that moment, he was dealing with some frustration.

  She wanted to ask him questions about the meeting, about why he didn’t press the island police more after the story, and why he didn’t mention the idea of pressing charges against the officials on the island for allowing Tovant to protect his only son.

  He hadn’t even threatened to fire her for grabbing Dirks by the shirt.

  After forcing her to face her worst fear, almost forcing her anyway, he owed her some of his time.

  She felt the heat crawl up her neck to her cheeks. She wanted some damned answers, now.

  Josh tilted his head, no smile to be found, his voice almost far away.