Nobody Lives Forever (28 page)

Alex wished he could have seen Rick's face when he took the call. That dumb shit would have trouble finding an elephant in a telephone booth. He regretted the mess he had left at the house, but he had waited a long time for Dusty and got carried away. He would make it up to Harriet by getting rid of Rick.

The Japanese Garden was quiet and almost deserted on its windswept causeway island. The only person he had seen since using the pay phone was some spacy black dude practicing kung fu moves down by the reflecting pool. His battle cries sounded to Alex like those of a bleating goat.

He backed Dusty's red car into a space against the fence out front so no cop on patrol would spot the tag. Most are too lazy to step outside their cars, especially in the summer heat. Rick had promised to come alone. No mention of Dusty on the telephone, but presumably Rick had figured it out by now. Sex and death—Rick and Dusty.

Alex paced back and forth over the wooden footbridge, the small stone bridge, through the pagoda, skirting the lanterns and the statues, seeking the best position. He stopped to gaze at the serene and placid smile of the big-bellied Hotei, a deity of good fortune. Perfect, he thought. A metal plaque beneath the statue called it the ‘Incarnation of Happiness.' How appropriate. This would be the birthplace of his own incarnation as the one in control.

The bulk and weight of the gun at his waist gave him strength. The same breeze that rustled through the branches of the silver buttonwoods clanked the halyards of the sailboats moored at the Miami Yacht Club nearby. Alex listened to the bell-like chimes and reveled in the thrill of anticipation. No warrior, he thought, was ever more ready or eager for battle. Everything else that had happened was simply preparation for this night. He would show that damn cop. He heard a car, saw the headlights. It was coming. The Hotei smiled. Alex smiled back.

A car door slammed Just one, that was good. He came alone, as promised. For Laurel, that pasty-faced little puke? We'll soon see the last of her, too, he thought. He knew he was powerful enough now.

Alex heard the thud of cushioned footfalls, somebody running across the wooden bridge. So eager.

He drew the gun and held it in both hands behind him
.

Rick ran into the garden. He was unarmed, carrying only the walkie which had been in the car. Seeing no one at first, he moved toward the Hotei, the meeting place at the end of a twisting path.

The shadows were warm and fragrant with oriental blossoms, jasmine, feather ginger and pomegranate. A galaxy of stars glittered overhead. The rotor blades of a sightseeing helicopter beat the air on the far, south side of the causeway. Miami's downtown sparkled gold and silver, the Centrust tower bathed in turquoise blue on this azure night. A night for lovers, he thought.

He still saw no one. Then there she was. Standing oddly, legs apart, chin up, hands behind her back, looking somehow fearless and boyish in the night, directly in front of the towering Buddhalike Hotei. She was smiling. My Cod, after all that has happened, he thought.

He reached out his hand as he approached. “Oh, babe.”

She brought the gun from behind her back and dropped into a shooter's stance, the weapon extended in both hands in front of her.

He hesitated for only an instant, shook his head and kept approaching. “You can't shoot me. Everything is gonna be all right. You're sick, but I'm going to take care of you and everything will be all right. I promise you.”

The gun moved slightly to aim dead center at his chest.

“I'm not armed. I could never hurt you. Look.”

He slowly bent to place the walkie on the ground, then straightened, his open hands empty and outstretched. “You can't shoot me,” he said again. He shook his head and flashed his winning, boyish smile, “Hell, I'm the guy who taught you how to shoot. You love me, baby.” He walked toward her without fear.

He was five feet away when Alex squeezed the trigger.

Rick saw an enormous flash of light and a puff of smoke that hung on the air. He never heard the shot that hit him. It went through the tip of his right thumb, shattering bone and halving the nail, slammed into the right side of his chest and continued out his back. The impact knocked him down. At first he thought he'd been hit only in the hand, which seemed to explode in pain, but as he rolled, seeking cover, a burning sensation snatched his breath away. He felt as though someone had rammed a red-hot poker through his chest.

The muzzle of the gun came closer. He saw nothing else until J. L. Sly appeared, out of nowhere, running toward the gun, eyes wide, terrified, shouting, “No! No!”

Cursing in surprise, Alex swung the gun toward him and fired twice, as J.L. dived behind the wooden bridge over the dry riverbed.

Rick's punctured right lung had collapsed. He realized what was happening. He could not breathe and in his struggle for air saw he was bleeding from the mouth.

Alex glanced briefly at him, then ran. J. L. Sly scrambled out of the dry riverbed and rushed to Rick, breathing heavily. “Son of a bitch! You got shot. You got shot.”

“I'm gonna die,” Rick gasped. “I'm dying.”

“No!” Sly yelled again. “What should I do?”

Rick writhed in pain, gasping and unable to answer. Sly spied the walkie on the ground and dived on it.

“Mayday! Mayday!” he shouted, fumbling with the buttons. “We got an officer shot here. Mayday! Mayday!”

The dispatcher's voice was cool. “All other units stand by. Will the unit broadcasting identify himself.”

“Mayday! Send an ambulance!”

“Are you a civilian?”

“Yeah, J. L. Sly.”

“You say you have an injured officer?”

“Rick. Sergeant Rick Barrish. Somebody shot 'im. Hurry.”

“What is your location?” The dispatcher's cool voice gave no hint of the grim-faced personnel in a growing cluster around her console.

“The Japanese Garden, on the causeway. By the big Buddha. Please hurry. He's choking! He can't breathe.”

Jim made a screeching U-turn on the nearby Venetian Causeway at the first radio transmission, slapped the blue light onto the dashboard and opened up the siren.

“We have units en route,” the dispatcher said. “Is the person with the gun still at the scene?”

J.L. scrambled around in the dirt, his eyes big and scared.

“No, I don't think so.”

“Where is the officer hit?”

“What is this shit? Get an ambulance. Mayday!” he screamed.

“The squad is en route.”

Another voice broke in. “J.L., this is Jim Ransom. I'm on the way. I'm not far, you can hear my siren coming. Where is he hit?”

“There's a hole in his chest, man, he's bleeding all over the place! He's spitting blood.”

“Put the radio down, J.L. Take off your shirt. Fold it over four times and press it over the hole to stop the bleeding.”

“I don't know first aid, man,” he wailed. “I'm no medic.”

“Do it. You can do it, J.L. Everybody has to be a hero sometime.”

J.L. ripped off his shirt with both hands, buttons flying. He heard the sirens approaching as though from all directions. He was still holding the compress and whimpering, “Please, please,” to Rick as they surrounded him and took over.

Jim rode in the rescue van with Rick, who stayed conscious, in excruciating pain as they hurtled across the expressway toward the hospital, sirens wailing, a police escort in the lead. Rick fought the oxygen, determined to talk. “I'm scared, Jim. She shot me—Laurel did it. You should've seen her. Like a stranger. Somebody I don't know.” He gasped. “It's my fault. She's sick, and I'm gonna die. Don't let anybody hurt her.” A wave of shock swept over him.

“Hang on,” Jim said. “You're gonna be okay. I shudda been there. I shudda realized she knew about meeting in front of the fat man. She knows everything.”

IVs in his arm, an oxygen mask over his face, deep inside his pain and shock, Rick experienced a strange sense of déjà vu as they rushed him into the hospital. He had seen all this before, from a patient's point of view. Doors crashing open, ceiling lights rushing by one after the other, rolling down the hallway at top speed. He had seen this a hundred times on television. This time he was the camera. He hated to die thinking about TV.

His welcoming committee impressed him. The entire trauma team was waiting, three or four nurses, four of five doctors, Aileen, looking totally professional and teary-eyed all at once. He tried to manage a smile.

Even the smooth move onto an examining table was excruciating. A doctor stood behind his head, reaching over in his surgical gloves, counting his ribs from the top down to find the spot. The hands disappeared. The next time Rick saw them, one held a scalpel. “Hold on,” the doctor said. “I can't give you anything for pain because you're in shock.”

He cut an inch-and-a-half incision and inserted a chest tube. Once the tube was in, the collapsed lung began to inflate and Rick was able to breathe. His chest still hurt, his split thumb throbbed, but for the first time since the huge flash of light, he began to think that perhaps he was not going to die.

He hurt bad every time they moved him and now they were taking him to X-ray. “Find her, Jim,” he whispered. “Don't let them hurt her. But watch yourself. She'll try to kill you. She's an escape artist, can slip outta the cuffs.”

“Will you stay with him, Aileen?”

“Don't I always?”

Jim only knew one place to look, the house on San Remo. The red car sat out front, the hood still warm. The yellow crime-scene seal on the front door was broken. Somebody was inside.

Gun drawn, he tried the front door. It was open. She was on her hands and knees with a sponge and paper towels, trying to clean a bloodstain off the living room rug. She looked up, small and vulnerable. “Jim. Do you know what happened here?” The amber eyes looked dull, like those of a corpse. Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “Where's Rick? Has something happened to Rick?”

Jim nodded. “He's hurt. He sent me to get you.”

“Oh my God, is it serious?” Her stricken face was pale, smooth skin taut over luminous cheekbones. “I could see,” she said, gesturing vacantly at the room around her, “that something terrible happened. I was working in the garden,” she said slowly, as if struggling to remember. “Then Dusty came by…”

“I'll take you to the hospital. What have you got there?”

She was on her feet now, standing next to an open drawer in the sideboard. “I was looking for something and I found all these… things. I don't know who put them here.”

Stacks of starched linen napkins and tablecloths had been pushed aside, exposing a visored cap, a ski mask, a man's dark glasses, a sheathed hunting knife, a handful of lottery tickets, some cash, a cameo brooch and a pair of gold earrings.

“They're not yours?”

“No, I never saw them before.” She moved her fingers across half-closed eyes and cocked her head, as if listening for something only she could hear. “I don't think I have.”

“What about that?” The gun lay in plain sight on the dining room table.

She stared. “Oh, that. Rick's off-duty gun. I don't know why he left it there. We should put it away. It's not safe. Benjie, the little boy next door, visits sometimes.”

“I'll take care of it.” Jim had holstered his own gun. Let's go.

“To the hospital?”

“Yeah.”

Laurel waited quietly in a small interview room, staring timidly at the floor.

Dominguez joined them.

“When will I get to see Rick?” she asked.

“Later,” the detective said.

She sipped coffee, showed little reaction when read her rights and willingly waived the presence of an attorney.

“Tell us what happened today,” Jim said.

She looked confused. “You and Rick went to Key Largo.”

“That's right. What did you do?”

“I worked in the yard. Then I was frightened because Benjie saw a man. I've been threatened,” she said, leaning forward. “Somebody who hates me keeps doing things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Threats, scaring me, stealing time from me.”

The detectives exchanged glances.

“What time was it when you went out to work in the yard?”

“I—I'm not good on time. Rick can tell you that. I've always had that problem. It's been worse lately.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jim said. He and Dominguez conferred in the hallway during a break. “She's already pulling that incompetent crap.”

“Maybe she really don't know what the hell day it is half the time.”

“She's not nuts,” Jim said. “It was jealousy, pure and simple. Now she's thinking about a legal defense.”

“But what about the other stuff, the neighbor kid, the convenience-store…”

“Let's find out.” They went back inside.

“Why did you kill Dusty?” Jim asked, point-blank.

“Dusty is dead?” The voice was a shocked whisper. She shook her head almost imperceptibly, eyes narrowing. “I don't believe it.”

“You were jealous, weren't you?”

“Of Dusty? I don't like her, but I wouldn't hurt her.”

“You killed her, then you tried to kill Rick. Why?”

“Try to kill Rick? That's insane. I love him. He's the only person in the world I feel safe with.”

“Well, he sure ain't safe with
you
, lady.”

Huddled pitifully in her chair, she was weeping now, her slim fingers covering her eyes. Jim almost felt sorry for her.

“We know you did it.” He leaned forward in his chair, his big face close to hers. “Ballistics just came back. Dusty, Rick, Rob Thorne and some poor slob of a convenience-store clerk, an immigrant with three kids, just trying to make a living, they all got shot with the same gun. Rick's off-duty gun, the one he left home with you while he was working, then gun that magically turned up on your dining room table tonight, with your prints on it. The tooth fairy didn't put it there.”

“No! No!” Her eyes went wild with terror, but only for a moment. Suddenly she relaxed and slumped back in the chair, head to one side, looking cocky and in command. The elbows, which had been rigid at her sides, found the armrests. She placed her left ankle on her right knee.

The sharp cheekbones seemed to melt into the flesh around them until the small face looked fuller. The eyes darkened into narrow slits. “I ain't gonna take any of this bullshit.” The voice was husky and low. The lips curled as an angry index finger jabbed the air. “I don't have to talk to no goddamn cops. I'm up to here with cops,” the finger slashed across the throat. “I want my lawyer.”

“I thought you waived your right to have an attorney present,” Dominguez said.

“Not me, asshole.” The dark eyes stared arrogantly at Dominguez, then sneered at Jim. “Get yourself a new partner, I see. You keep losing them, huh?”

“Thanks to you.”

“Well, we ain't admitting to nothing, but those fuckers deserved what they got. If Rick is still alive, I hope the hell he dies, squealing like a pig, just like she did.”

Jim half rose from his seat, restrained by Dominguez.

“Let's talk outside, Jim.”

“Did you see the change in her?” Dominguez muttered out in the hallway. “The eyes? I could've sworn we was talking to a different person.”

A patrolman interrupted. “Her parents are here. They want Feigleman to sit in on any questioning.”

“Oh, shit,” Dominguez said.

“Maybe that's not such a bad idea,” Jim said. “I don't like that sumbitch any more than you do, but he'll probably see through this bullshit. If nothing else, he'll see we're protecting her rights.”

Feigleman joined them, looking intent. “She must be very frightened,” he said.

So frightened that she's cussing like a con and saying she hopes Rick dies,” Jim said, raising his eyebrows.

“This is one tough cookie,” Dominguez warned.

When they ushered the doctor inside, Laurel's chair was empty. Crouched on the floor in the farthest corner, she was whimpering softly, her right thumb in her mouth. The eyes under the tumbled bangs were terrified. “I wanna go home,” she wailed in a baby voice, heels stomping in a full-blown tantrum. “Want my blankie!”

“Christ almighty,” Jim said in disgust. “Whad I tell ya? Look at this act, Doc.”

Feigleman placed a small tape recorder on the table and pushed the “record” button. “I'm here to help you,” he said pleasantly. “Your parents sent me.”

He smiled. “Don't cry. Why don't you come sit here and have a talk with us? Everything is going to be all right.”

Jim watched the self-assured, unruffled doctor. How can anything ever be all right again? he thought. He turned his back for a moment to compose himself, then rejoined the charade.

Feigleman gently offered her his hand and coaxed. She had stopped wailing but was still snuffling and hiccupping. Shyly she took his hand, got to her feet and he led her to a seat.

“Comfy?” Feigleman said.

Jim wanted to throw up.

She nodded. “I wanna Coke.” Her eyes were round and looked soft green.

Feigleman turned expectantly to the detectives. Dominguez went to fetch the soda.

When he placed the Coke before her, she stared at it in disdain and said she never drank soft drinks. Sitting up straight and looking for all the world like a suburban housewife, she said she would like a cup of coffee. When it was placed before her, she tasted it, closed gray eyes, wrinkled her nose and pronounced it terrible.

“Doesn't anyone around here know the proper way to brew coffee? This place is disgusting,” she announced, emptying the ashtray into a wastepaper basket. She wiped it out compulsively with a tissue as the stony-faced detectives and the absorbed doctor watched. “And that light fixture hasn't been dusted in years,” she said indignantly.

It was a long night.

At dawn they booked her into the women's detention center on charges of murder and attempted murder.

Francis Albert Feigleman considered himself extremely fortunate. He had talked at some length to the adoptive parents, but the growing suspicion that now excited him had never even crossed his mind until witnessing the woman's sudden, split-second shifts of personality and demeanor. Even her eye color and physical appearance seemed to change.

Though he had gone without sleep, he felt too energized to go home. He returned to his office, brewed a pot of coffee and sat down to review his notes and the tapes he had recorded during the night.

What the Trevelyns knew about Laurel's early life was that it had been hideous. When she was three years old, her mother committed suicide. When Laurel was five, her father was arrested on sex charges. She was the victim. He went to prison, and Laurel went to the paternal grandparents who blamed her for their son's trouble. When he died in prison, killed by another inmate, they gave her up to the state.

The adoptive father owned and operated a successful furniture store. He and his wife were childless and lavished love on the forlorn little girl. Parenthood was not easy for them, however, and became increasingly more difficult because Laurel was a strange and erratic child.

“She seemed to have a mean streak that would come on for no reason at all,” the mother told Feigleman. Though Laurel was highly intelligent, even scoring 146 on one IQ test, she had problems at school and often wandered off in a daze. At the start of one fall semester she reported to the fifth-grade classroom, insisting she belonged there, even though she had successfully completed fifth grade the prior spring. She frequently forgot people she knew and suffered bouts of apparent amnesia, depression and childish behavior far below her age level and abilities. At other times she was bright, efficient and cheerful, an athletic tomboy.

Hospitalized for three months when she was twelve, she was tested for epilepsy and treated with drugs and psychotherapy to deal with her mood swings. She returned home “cured,” but the old patterns quickly reestablished themselves. The occasional mean streak commingled with promiscuous escapades as she blossomed into stunning adolescence.

Police had arrested her twice as a teenager. She was caught shoplifting in a Bal Harbour store, stealing items she had no need for, men's underwear, in fact. The second arrest was more serious, behind the wheel of a stolen car after a police chase. The car belonged to a neighbor. Luckily, Laurel was a juvenile at the time and did not incur a permanent police record. “She always lied,” the mother said. “Even when she was caught red-handed she always claimed that it wasn't her, that somebody else did it.” When she was younger her parents assumed she had “imaginary playmates.” As she grew older, they concluded that she was a chronic liar.

After years of trying failed, after spending thousands of dollars on counselors, therapists and tests, the Trevelyns, in desperation, tried to solve their problem by throwing money at it, the theory being, give her what she wants so she won't get into trouble. They bought her a car so she would not steal one. They gave her money and credit cards. They continued to pour their resources into the maw of the monster, who still waxed erratic and unhappy. In their late sixties now, they were tired of trouble and a their wits' end, when she seemed to settle down a bit. They were aware of no unusual episodes for several months, then Rick entered the picture and their prayers were answered.

They held their breath until the couple moved in together. It had worked out. They decided their daughter's problems were all just phases she went through after all. Safely living with a man certainly capable of handling her, she even seemed happy, so they sighed with relief and moved to Orlando. There they could lounge around the pool with new friends, enjoying their retirement, talking about their daughter in Miami and waiting for a wedding and perhaps grandchildren to spoil, from a safe distance. “We did everything we could. Didn't we, Doctor?” the father asked plaintively.

Feigleman listened to the tapes over and over, stopping and replaying sections. She sounded like different people talking. He was barely able to contain his excitement. He would videotape the next session, to capture those physical transformations on tape. The parents, shaken and weary, had checked into a hotel. He looked at the time and wondered if it was still too early to call them. He would invite them to brunch or lunch. He had to make certain that they trusted him and hired no one else. This case had to be his exclusively. He was increasingly convinced that he had encountered a case so rare that it was the stuff of dreams, a patient to build a career on.