Pulse (9 page)

“It’ll be great to have some little ones in the house again,” he said, and gave Sue Ann the rest of the afternoon off. The workmen finished, demonstrated the system and also departed. Unobtrusive cameras now focused on both offices, monitored by twin TV screens mounted high on his office wall. Intercoms with small-screen monitors on each desk enabled him and his secretary to see and speak to anyone outside. Push a button and the visitor would be taped. The last to leave at night would set the system on slow-speed, to record any intruder.

He was about to leave when Townsend called, bombastic as usual.

“Just like you, you SOB, to agitate me, and give me indigestion, just as I’m headed out for the evening. How well do you know this woman?” he demanded. “This widow?”

“What do you mean?” Frank asked irritably. He had expected a more conciliatory attitude.

“She’s got no goddamn blessed accounts here. The CDs, the liquid assets, all cleaned out, closed six, seven months ago. The checking accounts have been closed since the end of June. She’s complaining we don’t honor her checks? Woman doesn’t have a dime in this institution. She was writing bad checks on closed accounts. That’s a criminal offense.”

“Who closed them?”

“Daniel P. Alexander. Signatures match his card.”

“Where did the money go?” He rubbed his forehead.

“Don’t ask me. Took it in cash. No honest man in hisright mind walks around with that much cash. Tellers say he insisted. Put it in a briefcase and off he went.”

Frank sat at his desk after Townsend rang off, a hollow ache of suspicion invading the pit of his stomach. He took out his list, the names and numbers of the broker, the banker, the retirement account custodian and the savings and loan officer, the gatekeepers to Rory and little Billy Alexander’s financial future.

“Sure,” the stockbroker said, “I can send Mrs. Alexander a statement if she wants one. But I can tell you now, the balance is zero, zero, zero.”

Half a dozen phone calls confirmed that Alexander had liquidated all his assets in the months prior to his death. He had emptied all his mutual funds, Vanguard, Windsor, American and Washington.

He had paid the early-withdrawal penalties and cashed in his retirement fund. Two remaining savings and loan accounts were also closed.

Frank felt sick. Rory was broke. Worst of all, her husband’s liquidation of equity meant major tax consequences. She would owe a fortune in capital gains, and prohibitively high taxes on the money prematurely stripped from the retirement accounts. Her only hope was that Alexander had reinvested or stashed the money away. But where?

Rory and Billy had nothing left but the house and the life insurance policy. A terrible thought struck him. Perhaps the life insurance company hadn’t paid off yet because Alexander had cashed it in, along with everything else.

Was the man a gambler? Hooked on drugs? Did he lose his shirt in some shady deal? There had been nothing in his files that gave a clue as to where the money had gone, or why.

He called Rory, who sounded cheerful. He heard Billy playing in the background.

“Hey!”

“Don’t write any checks yet, Rory.”

“But I told ‘em all I’d mail—”

“I’ll see you first thing in the morning. There’s a snag.” Why ruin her evening? he thought. Nothing either of them could do overnight, anyway. “Don’t worry,” he said, “we simply have to go in tomorrow to open a new account.”

“But I promised Florida Power and Light the check would be—”

“Twenty-four hours is no big deal. But whatever you do, Rory, don’t write any checks. In fact, just destroy those checkbooks.”

“All right,” she said uncertainly, “if you say so.”

The other line rang; he said good-bye and picked it up.

“Hey, boss.”

“Lucca. You got my fax?”

“Wasn’t in my office when it came in, but got a new toy that just transmitted it to my car. I checked out that matter you were interested in. Okay for me to swing by?”

While he waited for the detective, Frank called a Coconut Grove savings and loan, spoke to the manager and arranged a twenty-five-thousand-dollar transfer from his business account into a checking account in Rory’s name. They would go to the office in the morning so he could sign the authorization. All she had to do was fill out a signature card and pick up a book of temporary checks.

The security cameras worked. He watched the tall, long-legged detective step into Sue Ann’s office. He wore a dark suit; his bristly mustache looked thicker and more ferocious than ever. Lucca paused, pivoted, scrutinized the nearly invisible cameras with an appraising eye, then saluted the lens with a wicked grin.

“Nice work,” he said, opening the door to Frank’s office. “If I do say so myself.” He studied the monitors, nodded sagely and took a chair in front of the desk. “Now all you have to do is learn to lock those doors and we’ll keep you from joining the crime statistics.”

“You saw the suicide note?”

He nodded, looking smug. “Before you sent it.” He leaned back in his chair. “Farewell, Rory. Good-bye sunshine. Boom!”

“What do you think?”

“Suicide,” he said, with finality. “No conspiracy, no bushy-hair intruder, no question. The detectives who handled the case are no Einsteins, but they did a thorough job on this one.”

“You’re sure?”

“You tell me. A gunshot-residue test confirmed that the man fired a weapon. The gun was his. The weapon was found near his right hand. He’s right-handed. No sign of an intruder, nothing missing, no strangers seen. The suicide note is just the icing on the cake. They don’t come much neater. I know you felt he had no motive. But nobody knows what’s going on in another man’s head, his frustration quotient, his level of despair. He could have been an undiagnosed manic-depressive, he mighta had a bad childhood, maybe he couldn’t stand his wife’s perfume. Could be she belittled him in bed. Nobody has a clue, except maybe her. But she won’t tell because she feels guilty. Happens all the time.”

“I doubt it was anything like that.” Something was wrong here, Frank knew it instinctively.

Lucca shrugged and rolled his eyes cynically. “She ain’t telling you everything. Women never do.”

“There may be a motive,” Frank said reluctantly. “I’mhelping to straighten out his estate. There should be considerable assets, instead it looks like she’s broke.”

“Wad I tell ya?” The detective opened his arms in a cynical gesture. “He blows the bucks. He’s scared to tell her. Farewell, Rory. Ba-boom!”

“Maybe you’re right,” Frank said.

“You pick up your peashooter yet? The gun?”

“This afternoon, why?”

Lucca shrugged. “I am sure you are aware, your old lady ain’t crazy about the idea.”

“Kathleen?”

“Ain’t she the only old lady you got?” He raised an eyebrow.

“When did she talk to you about it?”

“At your place the other day, when you didn’t show. She’s not happy about having it in the house with the kids around.”

What had gotten into Kathleen? To discuss him with a stranger, behind his back? She acted like he was still helpless, a dying man, to be discussed with doctors outside his presence. “Nonsense,” he told Lucca, “the girls are old enough, intelligent enough, not to mistake a gun for a toy.”

Frank hit the record button after the detective left, locked the office and walked the mall. Throngs of people passed by, young, beautiful and exuberant. South Beach was alive and exciting. He loved this time of year. If only the weather would stay so breezy, so cool and invigorating, year-round. Of course, that would result in tourists, foreign visitors, their traffic glut and parking woes year-round. He passed a tea room featuring a gypsy who read palms and tarot cards. He thought of Rory. What would the gypsy see in her future? He would go to Twin Palms and talk turkey with her in themorning. Her future and that of her son depended on it. She had to have some clue about where the money went.

Hungry, he realized it was nearly dinnertime. Something nagged him to call home. He stepped into the doorway of a funky boutique and took out his tiny cell phone.

“Where are you?” Kathleen sounded annoyed.

“On the mall, near the office.”

“You forgot.”

“What?”

“Lourdes was off today. We were going out to dinner.”

He vaguely recollected a mention of Lourdes being off, but recalled no dinner plans. “Were we meeting someone?”

“No, just the two of us.”

“Sweetheart, I’m bushed.” He was in no mood to compete for a table in some noisy, crowded restaurant. “How about I stop by Joe’s and bring home some stone crabs?”

She sighed and paused. “All right.”

“I’ll get us a double order of jumbos. What about the girls?”

“They’ve already eaten, it’ll be just us. Bring some coleslaw and don’t forget the mustard sauce and drawn butter.”

“You’ve got it, sweetheart. I’m on the way.”

South Beach traffic was already bumper to bumper. Joe’s, a legendary landmark, is located at the city’s southern tip. No reservations and two-hour waits for a table. A take-out department was added a few years ago, a blessing for aficionados. Sturdy brown bags emblazoned with
Joe’s
now vied for snob appeal with shopping bags from Sak’s.

Frank sat stalled in traffic surrounded by the beautiful people in their limos, Jags, Rolls, vintage sports cars and neon-trimmed custom hot rods. A vast midnight blue sky hung low overhead, bouncing the music, the traffic sounds,the laughter, back down around him. As they all inched along, he watched curiously for the restaurant operated by Daniel Alexander and his partner, Ron Harrington. There it was. Brightly lit, patrons crowded at outdoor tables, waiters with red cummerbunds. He wondered whether the table tax increase so ardently protested by the late Daniel Alexander had ever passed.

He had called in his order from the car. A uniformed cop directed traffic in the parking lot. Frank sighed. He had never intended to spend a single precious moment of his new life waiting in line for stone crabs. He felt that he should be somewhere else, doing something important, but had no idea what it was.

Finally awarded his brown shopping bag, he escaped, delighted to go home. Traffic thinned once he cleared the South Beach congestion and driving again became a pleasure. He listened to Verdi on the CD player, part of Kathleen’s endless campaign to upgrade his cultural sensibilities. The music a soothing backdrop, he rehearsed ways to break the bad news to Rory in the morning.

He turned onto the causeway with its old-world street-lamps, crossed the Belle Isle bridge, then made a right onto Rivo Alto. So did a car behind him. He rounded the curve, beneath the sheltering branches of a giant royal poinciana, and slowed, the garden lanterns above his gateposts a welcome glow. He reached up to the visor for the remote.

A man suddenly sprang from the shadows, flinging himself in front of the wrought-iron gate. Frank cried out in surprise and hit the brake, his entrance blocked. The man had come out of nowhere, tall, eyes wide, mouth agape in a distorted grimace of fear, gesturing frantically. He waved Frank away with both arms, his entire body caught up in the frenzied motions like some deranged traffic cop.

Bewildered, blinded by the bright headlights close behind him, Frank strained to see. With a shock, he recognized the man rushing toward him, the same pale, lean intruder who had invaded his bedroom while he slept!

Frank wrenched the wheel and hit the gas. The car responded, screeching away from the house. The driver behind him followed. Frank speeded past the stop sign at the causeway, cutting off a westbound motorist who blasted his horn as the Mercedes hurtled across his right of way.

On the south side of the island, Frank stood on the brakes, trembling fingers grasping his cell phone. The car following him had paused at the stop sign. He saw it in his rearview mirror, dark blue, a Gran Prix. Who were they? He stared out the back window, straining to see the two men in the front seat as they veered off, headed west. He did not know them, and noticed what appeared to be red primer paint on their left rear fender, and a tag outlined in neon.

Was Kathleen all right? He punched the speed dial. “Oh my God, oh my God.” He gasped, trying to catch his breath, as the number rang, rang, then rang again.

“Hello?”

“Kath! Are you okay?”

“Frank, where are you?” she complained. “I’m hungry.”

“At the far end of the island, the south side. Make sure the doors are locked. Don’t open them. There’s a man outside! I’m calling the police.”

“What?” There was a long pause. “Frank, I’m watching the monitor now, there’s no one out there.”

“Do as I say! I’ll be right there.”

Poised to dial 911, he slowly circled the southern tip of the island, then crossed to the north side, eyes probing the shadows. His heart had begun to pound, a delayed reaction to his initial shock. He took a deep breath and removed thegun from the glove compartment. Felt its comforting weight in his right hand, as he steered with his left.

He stopped on the Bishops’ swale, headlights trained on his own gate, then slipped the cell phone into his jacket pocket. He opened the car door, gun in hand, and cautiously stepped out. Everything seemed quiet. Only a neighborhood cat, skulking across the roadway, the green glint of its luminous eyes flashing in the moonlight. A seagull chortled overhead.

He scrutinized the pavement carefully, searching the grass and the bed of multicolor impatiens where he’d seen the intruder. No trampled flowers, no broken stems, no trace. He returned to the car, fumbled for the remote, then opened the gate, still trembling. He rolled slowly up the drive, watchful and alert.

Kathleen swung the front door open and gasped, hand to her throat, at the sight of him, the gun in his hand.

“I told you not to open it!” He swept by her into the house. “Lock it,” he demanded.

“What on earth?”

He caught sight of himself, sweaty and disheveled, in the gilt-edged mirror in the foyer. He wiped his eyes with his gun hand. “Where are the girls?”

“Please, Frank. What’s wrong?” She looked near tears.

He told her, but she remained unconvinced.