A Dark and Lonely Place (5 page)

The doorbell didn’t work, so they knocked, repeatedly.

The man who answered wore a week’s worth of stubble, a dirty dish towel over one shoulder, a stained T-shirt, rumpled shorts, and flip-flops. Keith Baker’s eyes were bloodshot. His hair needed a trim.

A barefoot girl of five sat on the living room floor behind him. She wore a striped T-shirt and bleach-stained shorts and squinted through eyeglasses at
SpongeBob SquarePants,
a box of juice and a bowl of Froot Loops beside her. The TV, at full volume, nearly drowned out the screaming baby in the kitchen.

Her father’s tired eyes lit up.

“Police?” He stepped back and opened the door wide. “You found out who killed my wife?”

“No.” John saw the disappointment in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry about the mess.” Baker looked around, hopelessly aware of how the place must look to strangers as they followed him into the kitchen.

Keith Jr., age three, in training pants and one small tennis shoe, gripped a small yellow dog as the animal yelped and struggled to escape.

“No! Let that dog go!” His father tried to control the struggling tot, as nearby the howling baby flung fists full of creamed peas from her high chair. The sticky, puke-green food was smeared all over her face and arms, in her hair, nose, and ears as she screamed at the top of her lungs.

Baker rushed to snatch a pan off the burner as rice boiled over onto the stove top. He picked up his son, let the dog out, then led the detectives to the Florida room, apologizing again as they passed the bathroom. “Sorry about the smell. I’m trying to potty train my son. He’s my kid, my namesake, but I can’t get him to pee in the toilet. He’d been doing fine, but when his mother . . . he keeps screaming that he wants Mommy in there with him, not me.

“Here,” he told the boy. “Stay where I can see you.”

The baby still howled in the kitchen. SpongeBob whined down the hall.

Baker studied the strangers for a long moment. “You probably know that my wife was killed early this year.”

John nodded. “Has to be tough on you and the kids.”

Baker blinked. “But that’s not why you’re here. I still want to know what happened, who’s responsible. Sometimes I’m sure I am. I’m the one who let her and her sisters drive away. I could have objected, but she’d
had a bout with postpartum depression after the baby.” His eyes roved toward the cries from the kitchen. “And she was happy, really looked forward to a night out with her sisters. They hadn’t spent much time together lately. Morgan was away at college. Celia lived two hundred miles away and was engaged. That night was a big deal. I thought it would be good.” He teared up. “Karen’s an excellent driver, never had a ticket, doesn’t drink, the car was in perfect shape. I felt good about babysitting the kids. For the night.” His eyes teared up again. “But it’s never ended.”

Baker had taken time off from work and was now worried about his job. The little girl, still barefoot, slipped into the room and climbed up onto the couch beside her father. He kissed the top of her head. “She’s a huge help to me.” As she snuggled closer, he looked around the room. “How could I live here for five years and not be able to find a thing? I’m still trying to figure out which pan to use on the stove and how much bleach to put in the wash. And we haven’t had a decent meal since my mom went home to take care of my dad.”

“Can your in-laws give you some help?” John asked.

“Maybe. Someday,” Baker said. “Right now, they have trouble getting out of bed in the morning. Imagine, losing all three kids, gone, just like that. I want to fall apart too, when I see ’em. But I don’t have time. If you didn’t come to help us find justice,” he said bleakly, “why are you here?”

“Ron Jon Eagle,” John said.

“That SOB!” The anger in his voice startled his little girl, who gazed up at him in alarm.

“You wrote some letters, made some calls,” John said.

“Yeah! I sure did. He helped cover up what happened to my wife and the girls. The police and the tribe stonewalled, said to call their lawyer. Him! He didn’t even reply to a lawyer I paid to contact him. Eagle has a responsibility; he’s an officer of the court. Now that arrogant son of a bitch has complained to police about me trying to reach him? That coward, that poor excuse for a man. I wish I could put a bullet in his head!”

The detectives exchanged startled glances as Baker’s eyes leaked tears of frustration.

“All I want is the truth.” His voice cracked. “For our family, our kids. Why won’t he, or somebody, help me?”

“Eagle’s dead,” John said. “Somebody did put a bullet in his head. It’s why we’re here.”

Baker stared in disbelief.

“Where were you yesterday around noon?”

“Is this a bad joke?”

“No,” John said. “We have to talk to a lot of people.”

Baker sprang to his feet, as his little daughter watched from the sofa. “Are you saying
I’m
a suspect? You’re suggesting that with all of this—” He gazed at the chaos around him: SpongeBob in the hall, the baby crying in the kitchen, the dog barking at the door, and the two tots staring wide-eyed at him. “Even if I had the time to track down that son of a bitch, you think I’d blow him away and leave my kids orphans? Are you crazy? Has the whole world gone crazy?”

“No,” John said. “I don’t think you did any such thing. But for your protection, we have to check it out. Where were you?”

“Right here! Where I’ve been since that night!”

John sighed.

“My next-door neighbors, God bless ’em, invited us for a barbecue and a swim in their pool. Half the neighborhood was there. Ask them!”

“We will,” John said.

Baker followed them to the door. “I’m not sorry he’s dead. I applaud whoever did it! When you find him, give him my thanks. The man was rude, crude, and insulting, never offered one word of condolence, explanation, or apology. I’m glad he’s not sucking up any more oxygen on my planet.”

“You ain’t the only one,” J. J. said.

“Was it a quick death?” Baker asked.

“I think so,” John said.

“Then he was lucky. Luckier than me.”

They left Baker in the doorway, his tiny son clinging to his leg, his little daughter holding his hand.

His alibi was solid, from eleven a.m. to three p.m. The neighbors even had photos, group shots that included Baker, his eyes haunted, and his children.

“Poor bastard. How’s he gonna raise those kids alone?” John said.

“Not our problem,” J. J. said. “We have plenty of our own.”

CHAPTER THREE

G
ood luck, Sarge.” J. J. opened the door to the interview room with a flourish. The witness had a bad attitude before; how ugly would it be now, after waiting for hours?

John stepped inside and reacted as though he’d been sucker punched.

She wore blue, the same deep color of her eyes.

“Hey,” he said, barely able to speak.

She looked startled, then smiled warmly.

“You two know each other?” J. J.’s expectant expression screwed into a frown.

John closed the door without taking his eyes off hers. “I thought you were dead,” he finally said, and took a seat across from her.

Her eyelashes dropped like a curtain, then rose again. “Whatever gave you that idea? Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

“Mark Twain,” he said.

“Samuel Clemens,” she said.

Both laughed, more in relief than humor.

“I’m Sergeant Ashley. Call me John.”

“Hello, John.”

He recognized the way she drawled his name. “I know you,” he said.

She gave a slight nod. “I recognized you on the beach yesterday. I knew I’d see you again.”

Her voice resonated, like an echo. He remembered it, and the quick, unconscious way she pushed her silky black hair behind her ear.

“Did you go to Miami High?”

She shook her head. She’d grown up in northwest Florida.

“I never forget a face,” he said, half-serious. “Did I ever arrest you?”

She laughed as though he were hilarious.

He loved the sound; it warmed the room. He’d waited so long to hear it again. “So I wasn’t your prom date,” he said. “Did we ever have sex?”

She laughed again. “You wouldn’t have to ask, John. You’d remember.” Her laughter was contagious. He joined in, full of joy and relief. He watched her fold her hands and raise her eyes to his, the way she always had.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Detective “Dick” Tracy Luisita Dominguez, hair tightly pulled back, her uniform crisp, found J. J. at his desk. “John doesn’t answer his cell,” she complained.

“He’s busy, interviewing a witness.”

She gasped. “Can I watch?” she asked eagerly. “I’d love to observe his interview technique. I learn so much from him.”

“I’m sure.” J. J. got heavily to his feet and steered her to the interview room’s one-way window.

Laughter came from within.

“Must be losing my charm.” J. J. stared. “Bitch wouldn’t tell me shit.”

Their body language was unmistakable. John and the witness leaned toward each other across the small table, eyes locked, faces close. Their words tumbled out so quickly, their voices so low and intimate, that those outside could not hear them. Their faces glowed, as though bathed in a flashbulb moment.

“Who is
she
?” Lucy asked quietly. “Is that his usual interview technique with females?”

J. J. snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Who is she?” she asked again. “Do they
know
each other?”

J. J. squinted thoughtfully. “Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

John pushed back his chair, still grinning. “Cream and sugar?”

She nodded. “You know how I like it.”

I do? he thought. He hesitated, then closed the door behind him. Mood changed, headache gone, he felt like a new man, energized and enthusiastic.

He nearly collided with J. J. and Lucy.

“Who is she?” Lucy asked.

“Her?”

They turned in unison to stare at the witness. She now sat alone, hands to her lips, her face aglow.

John couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“Sure isn’t bummed by the loss of her dead boyfriend and best gal pal. Was laughing her ass off,” J. J. said.

“She barely knew Eagle.” John lowered his voice. “She doesn’t know about the murders.”

“Doesn’t know? You’re not buying that?” J. J. stared in disbelief. “She’s tooling around Miami with victim number two, in a sports car that belonged to victim number one. If she’s gonna lie, she should get better at it. Don’t let ’er snow you, John.”

“Never happen, J. J.”

“Who the hell is she?” Lucy asked again.

“Her name is Laura,” John said.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
he car wasn’t stolen.” Laura sipped her coffee. “So what’s the problem?”

“We need to talk,” John said.

She sighed. “I told Summer not to park it on the street. But we were late, and Eagle asked her not to valet it.”

“Summer,” he said thoughtfully. “She was the other dark-haired model with you at the photo shoot. You two went to Sky last night?”

She nodded. “She and Eagle are old friends. She’d driven the car before. He trusts her. I’d never met him.”

“Exactly when did you last see Summer?”

“I saw him toss her the keys. She had his permission. I can vouch for that. She’s in no trouble, is she?”

“No,” he said truthfully. Summer was beyond all trouble now.

They’d met at an Atlanta fashion shoot, she said. Summer mentioned the Miami job and that they needed another model. Laura contacted her agent and was hired.

“How’d you happen to stay at Eagle’s place?”

“Summer has an open invitation when she’s in Miami and she invited us. His place is great, close to the job, and free. And he’s a good host . . . up to a point.”

“What point is that?”

She blinked and looked away. “They’re a faster crowd than I’m used to. I didn’t realize it until I got here.”

“Eagle wanted you to spend the night in his room?”

She nodded. “I declined, but the other girls joined him.”

“Summer and Cheryl. The redhead?”

“You don’t miss much, do you, John?”

The way she spoke his name touched him, and he felt an unexpected surge of jealous rage at a dead man. “Did Eagle pressure you?”

“Not really.” She folded her hands in her lap. “When I said the job was early and I needed my beauty sleep, he looked surprised but okay with it. I braced a chair under the doorknob before I went to bed, just in case.”

“Good girl.”

She grinned. “The photographer wanted to start at dawn. Cheryl was tired and moody, complained that Eagle had a friend join the party, which turned into an all-nighter with cocaine and kinky sex. Bondage, I think. Cheryl didn’t like it, said she didn’t know the invitation had strings attached. Neither did I.

“I expected him to be a playboy,” she said, “but thought it would be more like a pajama party with Summer and the housekeeper as chaperones. I assumed there was safety in numbers. How naive.”

“Welcome to Miami.”

She nodded solemnly, then brightened. “But the energy level here is amazing. I’m crazy about the city, always wanted to see it.”

“I was lucky,” John said. “We moved here when I was in third grade. What did you say that other guy looked like?”

“Didn’t see him.” She shook her head. “He showed up late.”

“So, exactly when did you see Summer last?”

“John, what
is
all this about?” She waited for an answer.

He leaned back, watching her. “That was Ron Jon Eagle’s boat that crashed ashore. That was him hanging off the hotel balcony. He’s dead.”

She gasped, eyes wide. “That’s not true! It can’t be! He’s alive! He telephoned last night! The girls were to meet him at Sky and go to dinner. But Cheryl decided to leave town early and Summer asked me to come along instead. I was starved, hadn’t eaten solid food since I arrived. You know how the cameras add pounds.”

He wondered what she was talking about. She looked as sleek as a racehorse.

“But Eagle didn’t show up at Sky, he sent someone else. Summer knew him.” She paused. “She didn’t say as much, but I thought he must be the other man from the night before. He kept insisting she call Cheryl. Then his phone rang. He said it was Eagle who was running late and would meet us at the restaurant.”