You Only Die Twice (4 page)

The first sign of trouble occurred en route, when he reached for me, I thought. What he actually reached for was his beeper, which he removed from the glove compartment.

Our destination, a barbecue at the home of a police colleague, was in Pembroke Pines, a suburban neighborhood densely populated by cops, who are always happiest with other cops as neighbors.

I mingled with friendly police wives, some of whom I'd met before.

“I thought Ken and Kathy—” a small dark-haired woman blurted, before being silenced by a sharp look from our hostess.

“I guess Kathy couldn't come,” another commented, almost but not quite out of earshot.

My longtime suspicions were confirmed. McDonald and Rape Squad Lieutenant K. C. Riley had been, and apparently still continued to be, more than friends.

The men gathered around the grill on an outside patio, while us gals nibbled nuts, crackers, and pita chips and chatted. Childbirth was the topic: morning sickness, labor pains, pre-and postnatal depressions, and the horrifying details of actual blessed events.

Pictures were passed, baby pictures. Though cute, the infants all looked amazingly alike. How, I worried, would the mothers get the right pictures back? Did it matter? My
life lacked interest. With no babies, meat-loaf recipes, or suburban small talk to share, what could I say?

I am haunted by a dead woman with seaweed in her hair.

McDonald's beeper sounded as we dined outdoors with the night soft around us, laughter and music in the air, and the pungent aroma of citronella candles to repel mosquitoes.

He returned from the phone, his expression odd, stopping to whisper in the ear of a homicide lieutenant, who reacted as though shot. They exchanged expressions of disbelief.

“What happened?” I asked expectantly, as McDonald reclaimed his seat beside me.

“Nothing,” he said, eyes troubled.

That was his final answer. I hate secrets. On the way home, I coaxed. He lectured on ethics. I pried. He protested. One thing led to another.

I slammed out of his car at my place and marched to the front door without looking back. As my key turned in the lock, his Jeep Cherokee pulled away.

He doesn't trust me, I lamented, after all we've weathered together. He shares everything in common with the other woman in his life, the one he sees every day on the job. How do I compete with that? I asked myself. Do I even want to try?

Ignoring the blinking red eye on my message machine, I took Bitsy for a walk. Each time a car slowed beside us, I hoped it was his, but it never was. How did this happen to us? I wondered.

Dressed for bed, I was warming a glass of milk in the microwave when someone knocked softly.

I swiftly smoothed my hair and threw open the door, grinning in relief.

My visitor's balding dome shone in the moonlight. “You ain't gonna believe this, kid.”

“Emery, what are you doing here?” I clutched my cotton robe around me and glanced at the wall clock.

“It's one
A.M
.”

“You tol' me to call you if I got a break. You didn't answer. I was passing by and saw your lights.”

I swung the door open wider and Rychek stepped inside.

“I got me the name of the mermaid,” he announced.

“Been working the case all night. Thought you'd wanna know. It's a hell of a thing.”

“How'd you find out who she was?” Eagerly, I led him into my small kitchen. He looked rumpled and needed a shave. “You want coffee?”

“No, but I could use a stiff drink. I'm headed home after this. You expecting somebody?”

“No.” I took out the Jack Daniel's. “How's this?”

“Perfect. Nothing on the side.” He looked puzzled. “What's with you, kid? Didn't you ever learn to check who it is before you open your door in the middle-a the night? You of all people.”

“You're right. I wasn't thinking.”

We sat across from each other at my kitchen table, him with his booze, me with my milk, our notebooks in front of us, the air electric. I love these moments.

“I knew you'd do it.” I smiled as we raised our glasses in mutual salute. “Who is she?”

He took a swallow, then sighed. “A Miami native, born and raised.”

“Wow. How come nobody identified her sooner?”

“Because the corpse we fished outa the drink that day was a dead woman.” Fondly, he contemplated the amber liquid in his glass, prolonging the moment.

“So? We knew that.” I frowned and put my pen down.

“She was a murder victim…”

“Emery,” I implored impatiently.

“…more than ten
years
ago. She was
already
dead.” His deliberate gaze met mine. “Ran her prints again, this time through local employment records. Came back a hit. Her prints positively identify her as Kaithlin Ann Jordan, murdered in 1991.”

“But that's impossible!” I gasped. “She'd only been dead a few hours. Did you notify her next of kin?”

“Not yet.” His eyes glittered. “That would be the lady's husband, and he's sitting on death row as we speak. Been there ever since he was convicted of her murder.”

My jaw must have dropped.

“In fact,” he said, “he lost his final appeal, and the governor signed his death warrant last month. He's set for execution next week. Obviously that ain't gonna happen now. All of a sudden, the man's got himself a future.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Incredible! What a close call. Did you say Jordan?”

He nodded. “High-profile case. Big headlines. Big
bucks. He's the Miami department-store heir—you know, Jordan's.”

“Of course!” I nearly spit up my milk. “My mother worked at Jordan's! I was just out of J-school, not at the
News
yet, but I remember the stories and everybody talking about it. She was killed upstate somewhere, right? They never found the body.”

“Now we know why,” Rychek said. “At the time, they figured he dumped her in the Gulf Stream or buried her up in the woods where he used to hunt. From what I hear, they had more than enough to convict.”

“But he didn't do it,” I whispered. “My God, what an injustice. He'll be a free man.”

“Correctamundo. He didn't kill her, but he's damn lucky somebody did. Her murder saved his ass.”

“You're sure it's the same woman?”

“You kidding? Think I was happy? I had 'em recheck the prints three times. They finally gave me the fingerprint cards and I checked 'em myself.”

“What a story!”

“Helluva story,” he agreed, and rolled his eyes. Mine flew to the clock. Too late. The final had gone to press.

“Who else knows?” I demanded, mind racing. “When is this gonna break? It's too late to get the story in the paper until Sunday. I'd hate to see TV beat us.”

He shrugged. “It'll probably hit the fan sometime tomorrow. Couldn't catch hold of Jordan's lawyer right away. He's in trial over in Tampa. Gotta touch base with him first thing in the morning. Already broke the news to the prosecutor who convicted him. Poor bastard built his reputation on winning that case. Ain't easy to get the death penalty without a corpse, especially in a high-
profile case with a big-bucks defense. He's state attorney up in Volusia County now, planning to run for the senate on a tough law-and-order campaign. Probably rethinking his game plan tonight.”

“Damn,” I said. “The lawyer is sure to call a press conference as soon as he talks to his client. Somebody should tell Jordan right away. Tonight. Imagine what the man has endured.” I stared accusingly at the detective. “Think how he must have felt when nobody believed him.”

“I had nuttin' to do wit' it. I'll leave it to the lawyers to break the good news. I never set eyes on the man. And I'm damn sure sorry I ever set eyes on his ol' lady.” He leaned back heavily, an eyebrow arched. “Surprised you didn't have the scoop already, with your connections. The city knows. Somebody from Miami homicide was over there when I got the news. They had an interest. They were trying to make the guy for some kinda embezzlement when the homicide went down. The alleged homicide. Even if he didn't do her, Jordan was no choirboy. Had a history of domestic violence down here and the prosecution up in Daytona used it to prove a pattern.”

That was it, I realized, the telephone call Kendall McDonald had stonewalled me about. Hell, my own mother might even have had a clue. Forget your enemies, it's your loved ones who double-cross you every time.

“My connections,” I said flatly, “aren't worth crap. I wish I'd known sooner.”

“Tried to call you at nine.” Emery shook his head. “Even had your office beep you.”

While I uneasily perused baby pictures, the biggest news story of the year had been slip-sliding through my fingers. I should have known better than to abandon my beeper in the pursuit of happiness. Mine and McDonald's probably would have chirped in concert. Why do my good intentions always turn around to bite me?

“Where the hell was this woman for the past ten years?” I asked Rychek. “Did she fake her own death? Was it amnesia? Was she kidnapped? Or traipsing around Miami all along, under everybody's nose?”

“Beats me,” he said wearily. “All I know is, when she washed up on my turf, she didn't look like she'd been starved, abused, or chained up in an attic since 1991.”

His mournful eyes drifted to the bottle on the table.

“This was 'sposed to be a routine drowning,” he said regretfully, as I refilled his glass.

Energized, I paced my small kitchen, then, from force of habit, began to brew a pot of Cuban coffee. I set the grinder on extra fine and fed it the dark fresh-roasted beans, as their aroma permeated the room. “I wonder if her parents still live here? You think Jordan was the real victim?” I filled the lower chamber with water up to the steam valve, added the basket of coffee, screwed the top chamber on tight, and set the little pot on the stove.

“The case wasn't ours,” he said. “But I gotta find out in a hurry. Gotta build me a file. Think you could slip me copies of all the stories that ran in the
News
?”

“Sure,” I said. “No problem.” Providing old news clips to cops is not newsroom policy, but it isn't police policy to personally deliver tips on murder cases to reporters in the dead of night. Life is a two-way street.

“I'll have them for you first thing in the morning,” I promised, as he rose to leave. “Get some sleep and eat something.” I smoothed the lapels of his wrinkled jacket as he stood in the doorway. “Wear a shirt that looks good on TV, just in case. But try not to talk to any other reporters until you have to. Jeez, I hope we don't get beat on this.”

He looked perplexed. “What kinda shirt looks good on TV?”

“Blue. Light blue.”

“Hell, I don't even know if I got me a clean shirt, much less a clean blue shirt.”

“Sorry, I don't do laundry.”

“See ya, kid,” he said, his face close enough for me to smell the whiskey on his breath.

He was several steps away when I called after him.

“Emery?”

He turned.

“This is no practical joke, right? You didn't make this one up, did you?”

“Kid, I'm flattered you should think I'm that creative.”

“Sorry. Shoulda known better.”

Warm milk usually makes me drowsy but I was already wired as I dressed, even before I swallowed that first sip of lethally powerful black Cuban coffee. I took a mug full with me, knowing the
News
cafeteria was closed and the stuff spewed by the coffee machine undrinkable.

Moonlight glinted off dark water as I speeded west across the causeway. The glittering city skyline beckoned as my spirits soared on the high that comes when
you know that you alone have the story everybody will want. She had a name now, but the woman in the water still hid her secrets. The mystery that had swirled and eddied around her from the start had become darker and more intriguing. I wondered what was it like for a man to lose ten years and nearly his life for a murder that never took place—until now.

I parked the T-Bird in the shadows beneath the
News
building and let myself in the heavy back door. Caught by the wind, it slammed like a gunshot behind me. The dark, deserted lobby was as cold and forbidding as my thoughts. The only elevator operating overnight seemed slower and more sluggish than ever. My footsteps echoed down the hall. The newsroom was empty, the library locked. I could pull up the old stories on my computer terminal, but I wanted to see the hard copies, the headlines, the pictures and the faces in them.

I fumbled in the receptionist's desk, searching for the key. Suddenly I froze, aware I was being watched.

“Hold it right there!”

A figure stepped from the shadows behind me. A boyish security guard, fingering his mace canister, his lanky body tense. He was a stranger.

“Hi.” I breathed again in relief. “I need a key to the library. You have a set, right?”

“Who might you be, ma'am?”

“Oh, for Pete's sake, I work here. That's my desk over there. The messy one, with all the papers on top. Who are you?”

“Rooney D. Thomas, ma'am.
News
security. May I see your photo ID?”

Impatiently, I dug it from my purse. He scrutinized the card, eyes moving to my face and back to the photo; then he focused on the small print.

“Britt Montero!” He looked elated. “Why didn't you say so? My fiancée is a friend of yours!”

“Who?” I asked, uncertainly.

“Angel. Angel Oliver.”

Lord, no, I thought. I had met Angel, a welfare mother of seven, when she was charged with her baby daughter's death. Doctors later discovered that a rare congenital defect had killed her and Angel was cleared, but not before her ex-husband brokered a hit on her with a homicidal teenage gang. Life was a death-defying experience every time our paths crossed. Twice we narrowly escaped being shot. The woman nearly got me killed. No matter how well-meaning, she was a headache looking for a host. Last time we spoke, she had completed a work training program and had been thrilled to tell me she'd landed a job as a
News
advertising department secretary, once her new baby arrived. This must be the father.

“Oh,” I said. “I thought you were in the navy,” then bit my tongue. Was he the same man? Or some new fiancé?

“Discharged last month,” Rooney said, beaming. “Security work is just to tide me over till I land something better, but once Angel starts, it'll be perfect. She'll work days, I'll work nights, and one of us will always be home with the kids.”

She is really coming to the
News
, I thought dismally.

“Has she had the baby yet?” I asked.

“Any day now. I'm wearing a beeper.” He grinned and patted the device clipped to his belt. “We're getting married right after the baby comes.”

Traditionally, I thought, such events took place in reverse order, but who was I to be picky?

“And how's Harry?” I smiled in spite of myself. Angel's son Harry, age five, was my favorite.

“A great kid. Talks about you all the time,” he said. “Claims you carry candy in your purse.”

“Listen,” I said urgently. “I'm working on a story and need to get into the library.”

“Sure thing.” He dug in his pocket. “I've got the master key.” He dangled it enticingly in front of me, with a sort of crooked, goofy grin.

“Let's go,” I said briskly, “and bring the key to the copy machine, too.”

While he warmed up the copier, I pulled the clip files on Robert Jeffrey Jordan, better known as R. J., and his beautiful wife, Kaithlin.

Filed by date, the stories read like a novel. I would write the next chapter and hoped I'd get to write the ending, too. I sat at a librarian's desk and started at the beginning.

R. J. Jordan was the scion of a pioneer family that established South Florida's first trading post on the Miami River before the turn of the last century. The Jordans bought pelts from the Indians who paddled downstream in canoes and sold supplies to early settlers. One hundred years later, the trading post had grown into a hugely successful department store chain that sprawled across seven southern states.

R. J. was tall and handsome, a football hero and a
party animal, according to the early clips: expelled from one prep school, suspended from another. A tragic teenage car crash had killed a passenger in his new Corvette and gravely injured four teens in a Camaro. Only R. J. walked away unscathed. He led a charmed life. Despite allegations of drinking and drag racing, he was never charged. He and several fraternity brothers also escaped accusations of a sexual nature against them after a wild party on the University of Miami campus.

Everything the bad-boy darling of Miami society did, from piloting his own plane to mountain climbing to escorting Miss USA to the annual Miss Universe ball, made the newspapers.

The most eligible of bachelors, he romanced beautiful and well-known women. His marriage broke countless hearts, although his young bride's story warmed the cockles of the women's-page writers. Kaithlin Warren first caught his eye when she worked part-time at Jordan's cosmetics counter during the Christmas season. She was only sixteen, the child of a hard-working widow who had raised her alone in a modest apartment. R. J. was twice her age.

Four years later their nuptials, the “wedding of the year,” took place at the picturesque Plymouth Congregational Church. A reception for three hundred followed at the swank Surf Club. Jordan's prominent parents said they were thrilled and elated that he had settled down at last.

The bride was radiant at the center of a group photo on the society page. R. J. smiled, rugged in a tux. The bride's mother wore the only face without a smile. Se
verely dressed and clutching a crumpled handkerchief, Reva Warren looked older than R. J.'s parents, and her pained expression was that of somebody just kicked in the ankle. Tears, I thought. Only natural. My mother would weep in sheer relief if I ever married.

Rooney startled me again, his awkward silhouette filling the doorway.

“Machine's all warmed up,” he said jauntily, and sat down across from me. “You should hear how excited the kids are 'bout the wedding. Harry wants to carry the rings. The twins are scattering rose petals, and Misty's gonna be a bridesmaid. Won't be a real big affair, but we want you to be there.”

How can they keep it small? I wondered. Angel's kids are a crowd.

“Can you copy these clips for me, while I go through the rest? Two of each. Okay?”

He hesitated, gray eyes uncertain. “One of my responsibilities is to prevent unauthorized persons from coming in after hours to use the copy machines. Am I authorized?”