Picture Me Dead

by Heather Graham

  “I told you, I’ll be nice.”

  “Ashley, you’re crazy. Have you ever really looked at your friend’s buns?”

  “No, Karen, I haven’t actually stared at his butt, but if you say so, I’m sure his buns are great.”

  Karen shook her head again. “She’s crazy,” she told Jan.

  “No, I understand her perfectly,” Jan said. “It’s either there or not. I can’t really explain what ‘it’ is, chemistry or whatever, but if it isn’t there, it isn’t there. So quit feeling guilty and checking with Ashley to make sure she’s really not romantically interested. She isn’t. And we’re wasting time here, discussing this all in a bathroom.”

  “Right, let’s get back there,” Karen said. “And you, Ashley, start talking to Mario. Talk shop if you have to.”

  “I’m in the police academy, not fire rescue.”

  “It’s almost the same,” Karen insisted.

  Ashley discovered that she was actually able to have a nice conversation with Mario, who was somewhat shy and reserved. He was married and was just out with his single friends for the weekend because his wife was in Connecticut for two weeks visiting her folks. He was relieved to tell her about being a newlywed, since his friends had been afraid he was going to ruin a fun night for them.

  Ashley told him about the accident they had witnessed, and he told her stories about calls they’d taken on I-95, some tragic, some simply bizarre. When the others rejoined them at the table after dancing, she found herself repeating the story, knowing Len might be interested, since it had occurred in their neck of the woods.

  “Ashley, you’re going to see things like that more and more often,” Len said. “Bad things happen on the highways.”

  “Hey,” Karen said. “We all decided we were not going to focus on that awful scene.” She stared at Ashley, who hadn’t even realized she had a pen out, or that she was sketching the highway scene on a cocktail napkin.

  “Ashley is an artist,” Karen announced. She kept her eyes glued sternly on Ashley and flipped the napkin over.

  “An excellent artist,” Jan said. “Draw a face, Ashley. Draw Kyle.”

  Ashley obediently began a sketch of the firefighter. The others rose and stood behind her, staring over her shoulder as she drew.

  “Wow!” Kyle said, looking at her with new respect. “That’s great. Sign it. I want to keep it.”

  “Will you do one for me, too, please?” Mario asked.

  “How about Karen and Jan?” Len asked when she was finished, handing her a stack of napkins.

  “I’ve drawn them dozens of times.”

  “But maybe Kyle and I would like to keep them,” Len said.

  Karen covertly jabbed her. “Of course,” Ashley said.

  She finished the pictures and passed them out. Kyle shook his head. “So…Len says you’re going to be a cop, right? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being a cop but…these are great.”

  “And she has a photographic memory. Draw someone from today—show them,” Jan insisted.

  Karen placed a hand over Ashley’s. “Not the highway,” she said.

  Ashley shrugged. “All right.”

  “You go ahead, I’ll get the check,” Len said.

  “Hey, Len, that’s not necessary.”

  “You’ve fed me plenty of times, Ash, at Nick’s place.”

  “That means my uncle fed you,” she protested.

  “Don’t argue with an officer of the law,” he teased and walked to the bar. Ashley watched him go, shook her head and set her pen to the paper. She hesitated, then started another face. She was startled herself when she saw what she was doing. Strong, craggy features, dark hair, dark eyes, square jawline, high, broad cheekbones, and the mouth…drawn into something of a tight line, but a good mouth…

  “Wow. Cool. Who is it?” Karen asked, picking up the napkin.

  “The guy I spilled the coffee on this morning.”

  “Good-looking son of a gun,” Karen murmured.

  “See, photographic memory,” Jan said, pleased.

  “Not really. But I like to draw faces. I always have,” Ashley said to the two firefighters. Kyle whistled softly. She stared down at her own drawing, oddly stirred by it. Good-looking son of a gun. Yeah, he had been. Walking aggression and testosterone, but…hmm. There was something about him. A beckoning power or strength or sensuality. Maybe all of them. She hated the saying, but animal attraction might just be the right phrase to describe him.

  He did have something that…

  Something that, for her, Len just didn’t.

  Don’t you ever just want to have sex?

  She looked back at her drawing. His type probably had lots of sex. He wasn’t the kind of man with whom she would ever want to become involved. Not that she wanted to be involved.

  With luck, she wouldn’t even run into him again. Literally or otherwise. Even though he did seem to know Nick, and she had actually seen him around the place before. Lots of customers came and went, some of them frequently, some of them not so frequently.

  “You’re good. You shouldn’t waste this kind of talent,” Kyle said, interrupting her introspection.

  She exhaled, glad to return to the present. “Thanks,” she said, then crumpled up the napkin.

  “You destroyed it!” Mario protested.

  “She didn’t like him very much,” Jan said, grinning.

  Len returned from paying the check. They talked as they exited the dance hall, Len expressing his regret that they were heading back the next afternoon, since Mario and Kyle went back on duty the next day.

  They parted outside to head for their respective hotels, but not before Kyle and Jan exchanged numbers. As they walked back, Karen suddenly linked arms with Ashley and let out a soft whistle. “Wasn’t it a great evening?”

  “Yes, I had a good time, and I really hope you and Len do keep seeing each other.”

  “Yes, a guy like Len shouldn’t go to waste,” Jan said. “And, Ashley, your guy was mature…a little scary. But…appealing.”

  Ashley stared at her, frowning as she arched a brow. “Definitely a nice guy. And married,” she informed her.

  Karen laughed, throwing an arm around her shoulder. “I don’t think Jan means the firefighter. She means the guy in the sketch.”

  “He isn’t my guy!” Ashley insisted, startled.

  “Oh, yeah? You should have taken a good look at that picture you drew. You saw something in that guy,” Karen told her.

  “I don’t even know him. And with any luck, I won’t.”

  “There’s nothing like a mystery man,” Jan teased.

  “Oh, yeah, right, nothing like one.”

  As soon as they reached the suite, they headed for bed. But Ashley couldn’t sleep. When both Karen and Jan were deeply out, she was still wide awake. So she closed the door over to the bedroom, went out to the living area to make a cup of tea, and picked up her sketch pad from the coffee table.

  When the three men reached the room they’d rented for the night, Len suddenly drew back as Kyle fumbled with the plastic card that had replaced the use of keys at most hotels.

  “Hey, you know what? I’m suddenly dying for a burger.”

  “You want us to come with you?” Mario asked. “I guess I could eat a burger.”

  “Hell, no, you don’t really want a burger, and I don’t need help to take a ride to Denny’s,” Len said cheerfully.

  “You sure?” Mario asked. He yawned. “Hell, I’m beat.”

  “Get to sleep. I won’t be long, and I’ll try not to make a racket when I get back.”

  “Last man in gets the cot,” Kyle reminded him.

  “Yeah, well, one of us had to get it, right?”

  He grinned, turned and headed back for the car.

  He didn’t drive to Denny’s. He turned his car toward the girls’ hotel and parked.

  Karen had given him their room number, and mentioned that they’d wound up on the first floor, so the sliding glass doors at
the back opened up to a little courtyard and garden area.

  He headed for the courtyard and figured out which room it would be.

  The lights were on. One person was moving inside. He knew it was Ashley.

  The drapes were thin, the light behind them bright. He could see her every movement. She walked around, paused by the window, drew the curtain back and looked out.

  He flattened himself against a gardenia tree.

  She was holding a cup of something, just gazing out. She was wearing a long T-shirt that clung to her. In the artificial light, her hair blazed. The wavy ends seemed to curl protectively around her breasts. The knit shirt hugged the length of her. She never could have imagined just how provocative she looked.

  His fingers wound into his palms, and tension streaked through the length of him. You don’t know just how well I know you, Ashley, he thought. I knew you’d be the one who was awake, I knew I could come here and see you. And one day, Ashley, you’ll find out just what you’ve made me feel all this time.

  One day.

  The sliders were open, only the screen in place, letting in the breeze.

  That one day…

  Could be tonight.

  No. Not tonight. Tonight, he would just watch.

  But soon. Soon she would know. He’d make her know.

  The night was beautiful. Just beautiful. But not even the stars in the sky or the soft glow of moonlight on the exquisite little garden could draw her attention.

  She stepped back into the room and went over to the desk. She’d already taken her sketch pad out.

  She started to draw. First, the body…the body on the highway.

  A man, young, muscle structure taut beneath…the spatters of blood. His hair covering his face, a soft ash blond.

  Around him…the officer who had arrived on the scene. The police car. The two drivers. Their cars. The traffic slowing, veering…nearly hitting the median.

  The median. The opposing traffic…

  The figure across the expanse of lanes.

  She sketched, shading in until, even in black and white and shades of gray, the scene was eerily real. And everything detailed except…the figure. The vague figure across the many lanes. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember any details…

  It was all as she had remembered it, how the camera in her mind’s eye had frozen the image.

  Everything so specific—except for the dark figure who seemed to be watching…looking…

  For what?

  Assurance that the man—the poor, pathetic man, near-naked and bloodied—was, indeed, dead?

  A chill suddenly swept over her.

  A breeze…

  More than a breeze. Something that made her slightly…uneasy.

  She turned quickly, then felt foolish. Even so, she walked over to the doors, then closed and locked them. She looked at the thin drapes, frowning, thinking that the sun would come rushing in the next morning.

  The next morning. It was morning, and that sun would be coming soon.

  Pulling the light draperies back, she saw the set of lightproof draperies, pulled them, then checked the lock once again and went to lie down on the couch.

  She closed her eyes, but the image of the body on the highway still haunted her.

  Swearing, she pounded her pillow. Counting sheep had always seemed like such a ridiculous thing to do….

  And yet she was desperate.

  She counted horses instead.

  Strange dream. There was fog and sunlight. She was walking toward him in the dream. Sometimes they were on a beach, and sometimes she was moving toward him in the cabin of the Gwendolyn. Hair spilling down her back, flesh…yeah, naked flesh, all of it being touched by the sun and by the shadow.

  Nancy…

  He’d dreamed often that she’d been there, with him, trying to tell him something. Except that it hadn’t been like this. Before, they’d just been talking. Discussing the case. The frustrations, the dead ends. But she’d known something. Reckless, restless, unhappy in her married life, she was determined to throw her heart into her work.

  They were good partners.

  Not good enough. There had been something more, something she had suspected, something she had thought of doing to break the wall they were up against.

  Then he dreamed of her face as it had looked, on the autopsy table, after they had found her. And that would always strike such a chord of horror in his heart and mind that he awakened.

  Not tonight, though. Tonight that image didn’t appear.

  He couldn’t see her clearly. Her hair wasn’t dark; it was red in the light.

  It wasn’t Nancy. Just someone like her. Who moved something like her…

  It was Nick’s girl. Walking with a slow, confident, easy rhythm. She reached him. The dream progressed. Memory faded, the now took hold. She was different, very much alive, real, vibrant. She was…reaching him. Touching him. She was…

  He awoke abruptly, in a cold sweat. The alarm was ringing.

  Fuck.

  No. Not the alarm, the phone. Hell, what time was it? The middle of the night. And still, bleary, wretched, he was glad of the sound. It had drawn him from the depths of the most bizarre wet dream…about Nick’s kid. He needed to stay the hell away from her. Far away.

  Shouldn’t be hard, not after the way they had just reacquainted themselves.

  The phone…

  Still ringing, like a hammer pounding inside his head.

  He picked up the phone. Listened. And his knuckles went white against the receiver.

  CHAPTER 3

  “There’s not a lot left of the face,” Martin Moore said, nodding to the uniformed officer who allowed him and Jake through the crime tape to the off-road location where the body had been discovered.

  “I think the recent rains washed her down here. She was probably buried in a shallow grave farther in from the road.”

  It was the crack of dawn, Saturday morning.

  He wished he hadn’t switched to Scotch the night before.

  And he wished he had one then. Marty’s call had been way beyond bizarre.

  So much for the long weekend off. But since the case had never been officially closed, he had been called in. Marty had been in vice, the narcotics squad, five years ago, when the first murders had occurred, but he had worked with Jake for a long time now and knew the past history of what were still referred to as the Bordon murders—as well as anyone. He also lived in the area, so he’d reached the scene first.

  Police floodlights helped illuminate the area, which was still dark. Inky dark. Much of this part of the county had been developed out of land that was really part of the Everglades. The dirt was rich here and the foliage thick. Lights were few and far between. Before dawn, the darkness could be a strange ebony, as if the Glades had reclaimed what was really part of a no man’s land.

  Jake paused a few feet from the corpse, taking his first look at the body that had been discovered that morning by a jogger. A foolish jogger, he thought, running at a time when the night still held sway in an area where the obsidian shadows and undergrowth could hide many a sin.

  The jogger, he noted, was still on the scene. She was a middle-aged woman with a pretty, too-skinny face, a sweatband around her forehead, and the typical shorts, T-shirt and sneakers found among those who chose the quiet paths out in the farm district for their morning rituals. She was badly shaken by her discovery. He could hear her sobbing softly, speaking to the officers, who had supplied her with a blanket and hot coffee.

  “My God, I was just running and then…there she was. I saw her…and it was so dark, I didn’t even realize at first. And so I doubled back. And I was so frightened I could barely punch the numbers into my cell phone. Thank God for cell phones! I know now that I’ll never go out jogging when it isn’t full light again. I don’t care if I have to learn to run around my own living room, I’ll never, never come out like that again. It’s so terrifying. But then, of course…she was just left on the road,
right? She might not have been killed there, right?”

  Jake could hear one of the uniformed officers telling her that they had no facts right then, but that she didn’t need to worry, one of the officers would get her back home.

  Lady, you shouldn’t go out jogging along this path alone before the sun is up in any way, shape or form, Jake thought. They were in what most people in the county considered to be the country. Far south in Miami-Dade, an area where the old encroached on the new, where waterways connected to the deep river of grass that was Everglades. There was good land out here. Some people kept large tracts with beautiful homes, and some had acreage where they grew strawberries, tomatoes and other produce.

  Good earth for growing intermingled with sawgrass, deep dark muck and tangled trees.

  Much of the land, such as this immediate area, was county owned. It was often heavily wooded, and where there weren’t actually trees, the foliage was thick and dense.

  A good place to dispose of human remains, a place where nature could inflict tremendous damage on a corpse and render many of the clues it might have given up hard to discern, even destroy them. Over the years, a number of criminals had tried to dispose of bodies and evidence on land much like this. And, God knew, many of them had succeeded.

  The jogger was just the poor civilian who had happened upon the physical remnants of a brutal crime. There would be little, if anything, she could tell him. Still, he would speak with her himself for a moment. Later.

  For now…

  The victim.

  “Where’s the M.E.?” he asked.

  “Right over there, talking with Pentillo, who was first officer on the scene. The M.E. is Tristan Gannet. Mandy’s taking the last of the pictures he requested right now.”

  “Good. I’m glad we’ve got Gannet and Nightingale.”

  Mandy Nightingale, one of their best photographers, was snapping photos as they carefully approached the position of the body.

  “Hi, Jake,” she said, acknowledging his arrival with a quick nod before she snapped another photo.