Legally Dead (10 page)

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 coached 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.”

“Forget it,” Venturi said. “If you bury or cremate a stranger, his family's left in limbo. They'd never know what happened to him.”

“You don't want to know how many people spend eternity in somebody else's cemetery plot,” Danny said. “Or how many families don't know they've got a stranger's ashes on the mantel. People are human. They make mistakes. Shit happens between the hospital, the morgue, the funeral home, and the cemetery. You saw the story last week. Guy dies twenty years ago. His widow arranges to be buried in the same plot. She dies last week, but guess who's not there when they open the grave? Must have planted him in the wrong place back in the day. Which one? Who knows? The children go to court and a judge orders the cemetery staff to break out the shovels and find him. I told Luz to quit complaining. Here's a woman who didn't know where her husband was for twenty years. And he was dead!

“And that veteran named McCoy? Dies in the VA Hospital but when his widow tries to bury him in a military grave, they find that his death benefits were paid out eight years ago and his burial site is already occupied. The name, rank, and serial number, and dates of service were identical. The guy in the ground was obviously not the real McCoy.”

“Life is so complicated. Death should be simpler,” Lynch said. “The press…”

“Don't worry. Nothing will hit the fan,” Venturi assured him, “until the lost diver is officially identified as Lyle Gates. Then the news media will be all over it. But you'll be gone.”

Two nights later, Richard Lynch boarded an American Airlines flight to New York with a connecting flight to Dublin. He hadn't shaved since his fatal fishing trip and wore spectacles he didn't need, with plain plastic lenses. Victoria had salt-and-peppered his hair, giving him an older, more distinguished appearance.

“My passport looks so real.” He studied it again as they drove to the airport.

“It is,” Venturi said. He gave Lynch an account number at a Dublin bank where enough cash had been deposited to last him a year. The future was up to him.

“This is it.” Venturi shook his hand. “Remember everything you've learned. Don't get involved in local politics or anything newsworthy or controversial.”

“Don't pose for pictures. Try to avoid cameras,” Victoria reminded him, “as difficult as that can be in today's world.”

“I know, I know,” Lynch said impatiently.

“You better know,” Danny warned. “Slip back into any old habit and it will bite you on the ass. Richard Lynch, Irish citizen, never heard of Lyle Gates. Neither did we.”

“How can I thank you?”

“Have a nice life,” Venturi said.

It took the press almost a day to confirm that lost diver Lyle Gates was
the
Lyle Gates. Then the story exploded.

Police released his name after a detective searched Gates' apartment, found Bridgeport, Connecticut, telephone numbers for his ex-wife and children, and notified the family.

News organizations nationwide dispatched investigative reporters to Miami in a race to uncover the real story behind Gates' death.

The bloody fingerprints left by the diver as he tried to climb back into his boat matched those in Gates' NASA personnel records.

DNA tests confirmed that the blood was his.

Shark experts studied the damage and identified the deep-sea predator that left teeth marks on Gates' vest and air tank as a giant bull shark.

Fran, now identifying herself as Gates' fiancée, wept copiously in front of news cameras as she described their last, loving conversation and plans for the future.

No suicide note was found, and experts who conducted a psychological autopsy ruled out the possibility based on the following factors:

• Gates' apparently untroubled relationship with a loving fiancée with whom he had plans that evening.
  
• He had argued for a longer lease and talked optimistically about the future.
  
• Books and papers in his apartment confirmed that he had been actively studying for his Florida real estate license.
  
• The dive flag and the fish in his cooler confirmed that he'd been spearfishing. So did witnesses at the marina.
  And everybody knows that spearfishing attracts sharks.
  
• Evidence showed that he had struggled to return to the safety of his boat but had apparently suffered injuries so grave that he could not.
  
• The Coast Guard reported that their search had yielded “no sign of survivability.”
  

“The truth will never be known about Gates' real role, if any, in the astronauts' deaths,” a network anchor somberly concluded. “He took his secrets with him to a watery grave.”

A cable talk show host called it “a fitting finale to a dark chapter in the history of America's space program.”

Several editorial writers smugly noted that Gates now faced a higher justice.

Gates' death certificate was issued. Cause: accidental.

Venturi was elated. So was Danny. Mission accomplished, a high-five moment. Venturi slept well and agonized less about New Hampshire.

Victoria rarely asked questions but was puzzled by the news coverage. “So you're actually still on the job?” she asked him.

“No, this was volunteer work.”

“The government didn't sponsor it?”

He shook his head.

“Nice work. A mitzvah.”

“You could call it that,” he said. “But we won't. Because we never met him. None of us will ever speak his name again. To anyone.”

“Got it,” she said affably. “He was a nice fellow, too bad we never met.” She kissed his cheek. “Maddy always said you were full of surprises.”

Danny threw a barbecue to celebrate. But a redheaded stranger answered the door. Petite, bubbly, and blue-eyed, she wore green surgical scrubs and seemed to be on a high of her own.

Venturi rolled his eyes.

The redhead vanished into Luz's kitchen while Danny crushed spearmint leaves for mojitos. His T-shirt read: time flies when you're having rum. He mixed ice, fine sugar, club soda, and rum, then garnished the drinks with lime wedges. He left the rum out of Luz's glass and fired up the grill.

The kids romped with Scout. Gil the gerbil drove his car. Salsa music came from the kitchen, and the TV news aired, as usual, in Danny's study.

“Do not look at her,” Luz warned Venturi, drawing him into the kitchen. “She is not for you.”

The redhead was chatting with Victoria in the next room. “She is no fix-up.” Luz wagged her finger. “Not for you.”

Reverse psychology, Venturi thought. A crafty change of tactics. “Why not?” he asked.

“That woman is married—to her profession. On call twenty-four seven. She has no time for you.”

“So, what's the four-one-one on her? Is she another nurse?”

“No.” Luz sliced a ripe avocado that had come from a tree in the backyard and deftly scooped out the pit. “A physician, too busy for you.”

He sipped his drink and tried to look disappointed. “I guess I'll have to live with that. Breaks my heart.”

“I am not joking with you.” Luz's dark eyes flashed. The knife glinted in her hand. “Call Tanya, Mirta, or Ana. They like you.”

“I like them, too. But I'm not looking. I'm busy too.”

“Fishing, boating, playing?” She rapidly diced two tomatoes.

“Somebody has to do it.”

He trailed after her as she carried the salad bowl out to the patio. The redhead held out her hand. “I'm Keri Spangler. Nice to meet you, Michael. Your mother-in-law is a delight. She obviously loves you like a son.”

“Thanks. Vicki is a trip.”

Keri had a fresh-faced look, no makeup except for a pale pink gloss on her lips.
Or was that natural, too?
he wondered. Her only jewelry was a pair of tiny gold earrings.

“Didn't mean to crash your party,” she said. “But I was on my way home from the hospital and stopped to see Luz.”

Sure,
he thought.

“She invited me to stay and I couldn't resist. In part because I don't spend enough time with them and the kids, but,” her voice dropped to a whisper, “mostly because I'm starved. I haven't eaten all day and Danny's secret barbecue sauce is spectacular.”

“He never does anything halfway,” Venturi said. “Luz said you're a doctor. What's your specialty?”

“The best one,” she said proudly. She cocked her head and smiled. “I deliver new lives.”

The irony was not lost on him, having just accomplished something similar.

“I'm still on a high,” she confessed, her words breathless. “It happens every time. Nothing else is like it.” She drew herself up, her posture as straight as a soldier's. “This afternoon, I delivered a beautiful seven-pound, five-ounce boy. And unlike most, he was thoughtful enough to arrive at two p.m. instead of two a.m. I'm Luz's obstetrician.”

He blinked. “You delivered their children?”

“All three.” Her eyes fondly followed them as they tore around the backyard screaming. “They're playing Kissy Monster,” she said, laughing. “It's like playing tag but with kisses.

“That's how we became friends,” she said. “I'm Julee's godmother. And you're the Michael for whom they named their youngest?”

He nodded.

“So you and Danny were special ops?”

“U.S. Marine Corps Force Reconnaissance, better known as Force Recon. We go in before the special ops.”

“Right.” Danny joined them. “Small-scale, high-risk operations our specialty. Our motto:
Celer, Silens, Mortalis
.” He grinned at Venturi.

“‘Swift, silent, deadly,'” Keri said. “I'm impressed. Which one of you is silent?” She watched Danny return to the grill. “I know it's not him.”

They both laughed.

“Is your wife here?” Her blue eyes roved the patio as though Maddy might materialize at any moment.

Luz hadn't told her. Maybe this was no fix-up. The woman was friendly but not flirty.

“No, she isn't,” he said evenly.

The barbecue was great.

The table was cleared, dishes stacked in the washer. Danny brooded over the TV news in the kitchen, and the children were up too late.

“Let's round them up,” Luz said, as Javi, Julee, and Scout stampeded out the patio door into the yard, trailed by little Michael.

A bloodcurdling scream brought the women to their feet. The children had screamed all evening, but this one was different. Danny burst out of the kitchen.

“Is the pool alarm on?” Luz said, fear on her face.

He was already out the back door. But Keri made it to the pool first.

The others followed and saw it on the bottom. A little red car. The children were screaming, Scout barking, the baby howling.

Keri slipped out of her shoes and dove into the water.

“Oh, shit,” Danny said. He turned off the alarm and kicked off his shoes.

But Keri had already surfaced. She handed the little car up to him. Water gushed from its windows. The driver was still inside.

“Get back, get back. Give him air,” Luz said, restraining the children.

Javi streamed tears. Julee wailed. The little one wasn't sure what had happened but howled anyway, red faced and exhausted.

“Is he all right?” Javi demanded. “Will Gil be all right?”

Danny opened the car door and extricated the limp, sodden body, the size of his thumb.

“I don't think so,” he said.

The children shrieked louder.

“Let's try!” Keri said. Venturi gave her a hand up out of the pool, her scrubs dripping, hair soaked. He couldn't help noticing how her wet clothes clung to her body, accentuating the small waist and rounded breasts.

“Aw,” Danny objected. “Mouth to mouth on a gerbil?”

Keri counted, using her pinky to compress the tiny chest.

Danny blew gently into the gerbil's mouth, a finger over its nostrils.

Victoria held Julee's hand as she wept.

“The sliding-glass door to the pool was open,” Luz said softly. “He could drive, but he never learned to steer.”

Gil had raced his car straight out the open door and into the deep end of the pool.

The children seemed inconsolable when efforts to revive Gil failed.

Their father tried to comfort them. “If you promise to take better care of it, maybe we can find you a new gerbil who doesn't drive.”

“Can we have a dog instead?” Javi choked between sobs.

“No,” Danny said. “Your mom has too much to take care of now. Maybe when you're older.”

The children continued to weep.

“He wouldn't want you to cry,” Danny said, morphing into funeral-director mode. “Gil had a wonderful life and a family who loved him.”

“Why did this happen, Daddy?” Julee whimpered, clinging to his leg.

He picked her up and pointed to the stars. “See, Julee, there's a big blackboard in the sky. Gil's name was on it today.”

Luz rolled her eyes. “Somebody left the sliding-glass door open. That's why it happened,” she told the children. “We were all supposed to keep that door closed. Remember?” She kissed Julee. “Calm down now. We need to plan Gil's funeral.”

“Funeral?” The two older ones blinked away their tears and looked curious. Baby Michael, eyes swollen, followed their lead.

“Yes,” she said. “We can bury him under the avocado tree in the backyard.” She glanced at Danny. “Your father is going right now to find us a nice box. We will bury him in it, with his favorite toys and his car.”

Danny went to his study and returned with a Cuban cigar box.

“Perfect.” Luz turned back to the children. “We'll say our prayers and you can sing the songs you learned in Sunday school.”

“Can we put flowers in, too?” Tears still sparkled on Julee's long eyelashes.

“Yes, lots of flowers. We'll pick some that Gil would really like.”

Keri changed into dry clothes borrowed from Luz, and the children were put to bed, exhausted, but no longer crying.

“Hell,” Danny told Venturi in the study. “The kids are so in love with the funeral plans that if the poor little bugger came back to life right now, they'd probably kill him.”

“How nice to see them following in your footsteps,” Venturi said. “I nearly lost it when you were explaining your Blackboard Theory to the kids.”

They laughed, until bad news broke on CNN.

A congressman killed by a bomb blast outside the Philippine House of Representatives. The victim had supported U.S.-backed military operations against al Qaeda–linked rebels.

“Goddammit!” Danny punched a fist into his palm. “We're getting hammered! The whole damn planet's a dangerous neighborhood and here I am, bringing all these kids into the world. What the hell am I doing?” He paced the room, generating a coiled, frustrated intensity, then dropped into a chair across from Venturi. “I feel so helpless. Remember when we felt we were accomplishing something? Making America safer, the world better? Hell, what's happened to us, man? We once were warrior kings.”

“I remember,” Venturi said. “We accomplished something the other day.”

“What? Oh yeah. I loved that. But he's only one man in a world full of trouble.”

“You can't save every starfish in the sea, Danny. But we saved one.”