Picture Me Dead (20 page)

“It took some time to get here,” Jake said evenly.

After a minute, Bordon shrugged. “I've got your card,” he said. “If I can think of anything that will help you, I'll call.”

This particular interview was at an end, and Jake knew it. He stood and tapped at the glass for the guard to come to the door.

As he left the prison, he went over the interview in his mind. Step by step, word by word.
Smoke and mirrors. Magicians. Distracting the attention of the audience…

What the hell had Bordon been talking about?

Other statements came back to mind.

…I just want to live, Jake.

He passed the barbed-wire fence, nearing his car, when he stopped short.
I just want to live, Jake.

Was Bordon himself afraid of someone?

In his pocket, his cell phone went off. He pulled it out and answered, “Dilessio.”

“Detective, it's Carnegie. Paddy Carnegie. Sorry it took so long to get back to you. You wanted to ask me some questions about the Fresia case?”

The Fresia case. Why the hell had he gotten involved?

No real question there. Because of Ashley Montague.

Because…

She seemed to know she was right about her friend. The same way he knew that he was right about Nancy…

Because there was that something about her that reminded him of Nancy. And because…

Hell, admit it. Because he dreamed of her at night.

“Carnegie, thanks for getting back to me. I'm in the middle of the state right now, but I'm heading back south. Can we meet?”

 

Throughout the morning, Ashley found herself sketching during her lectures. Stuart in his hospital bed. His folks, holding close to one another. Jake Dilessio, standing on the deck of his houseboat. She sketched Arne, sitting next to her now. She remembered the words he had spoken to her as they'd both slipped into their chairs earlier.

“Hey, we ate at your uncle's place last night,” he'd told her.

“I heard. You and Len, right?”

“Yeah, I met up with him at the target range. We thought we'd come by, grab a bite to eat and try to cheer you up. You seemed so down about your friend. Didn't occur to us that you'd be at the hospital, the guy being in a coma and all. But it didn't matter that we missed you—we needed dinner and the food at Nick's is good.”

“Thanks,” she said, feeling suddenly hungry but by then Sergeant Brennan was talking, so she figured she would hold off until lunch time and went back to drawing.

When the class ended, she set her pencil down and looked up. Shit. Brennan was staring at her.

He'd seen her sketching. He thought she hadn't been paying attention. She felt a chill creep along her spine. Just last week, two of her classmates had been dismissed. They had failed one question too many on a test.

Her test scores had been fine, she reminded herself.

At lunch, she told her friends about Stuart's condition, and that someone had told her to ask Dilessio if he could do anything. “I talked to him, and he basically said he couldn't do anything. But then he showed up at the hospital. And he's going to the cop who's handling the case.”

“Did he give you any hope?” Gwyn asked.

“Not really, still…there's more here than it looks like. I just pray that…I pray that Stuart comes to soon. And can help.”

“Brennan might have some information for you,” Gwyn said.

“Why do you think that?” Ashley asked.

“Because he was staring at you all morning.”

“You think?” Damn, he really
had
noticed her sketching.

“I know.”

She returned to class feeling unnerved.

To make matters worse, Captain Murray came in after the lunch break. He wasn't speaking to the class; he was just observing.

It seemed to Ashley that he, too, was staring at her.

At one point she leaned across to Arne and whispered, “Am I crazy? Now it seems like Murray is watching me like a hawk, too.”

Arne wiggled a brow. “Maybe he's got a thing for you.”

“Get serious.”

“You are cute, Montague.”

“Arne, I'm going to deck you after class.”

He just grinned. Gwyn leaned forward from the seat behind him. “I don't know, Ash. Do you have a truckload of hidden parking tickets or something? You're right. Brennan was staring earlier, and now they're both watching you.”

She tried hard to pay attention during the rest of the class. To keep her fingers off her pencil and sketch no more that day.

At last the afternoon drew to an end. Part of her wanted to stay after and ask if they'd gotten any information about the accident, but mostly she just wanted to get out.

She didn't have to decide, however. As soon as she stood, Murray spoke to her.

“Montague?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I need to speak with you. Now, please.”

 

Carnegie was a decent sort, more than willing to meet Jake at a coffeehouse on the Miami-Dade county line at four and talk about his investigation.

Driving straight through, Jake just made it.

Carnegie was in his fifties, probably close to retirement. Despite the time they'd both spent on the force, they'd never met. From the start, though, the meeting went well. There was something of a brotherhood between them, since they were both somewhat jaded and yet were survivors.

“You know, though,” he told Jake right off, “the parents have been hounding me all along, insisting I have to find out
something
because their boy just didn't do drugs.”

“I've met them,” Jake said.

“No parents want to find out their kid went bad. I've investigated fatalities where there's evidence, an eyewitness proving a kid was driving recklessly, and the parents still don't want to believe it ‘Not my son—he aced driver's ed. Not my daughter, she would never exceed the limit.'”

“I understand that,” Jake said. “But I know one of this kid's old friends, and she says he wasn't the type, either.”

Carnegie had bright blue eyes, snow-white hair and a face crinkled by years in the sun. He was a big man, not given to fat, but with an appearance as solid as a wall. Yet he didn't look like a hard-ass. There was compassion in his features when he winced.

“I'd like to give them something, honest-to-God, I would. I'd be more than willing to see it their way. It's just that, hell, I haven't got a damned thing to go on. The kid was in the middle of the highway, dressed in his damn underwear. God knows what he was seeing as he walked into traffic, because he was lucky he was alive to begin with, there was so much shit in his bloodstream. The fellow who hit him is a basket case, swears he didn't see him until he was right in front of him. Two more cars cracked up because they couldn't stop fast enough, but neither of them saw a thing. The driver of the first car checks out completely. He owns a furniture gallery in North Dade, has three kids, coaches soccer and goes to church every Sunday. Ex-Navy man, saw action in the Middle East. Never even got a parking ticket. He didn't see anything until the kid crossed the median and was right in his lane. Too late for him to stop, though he tried. He didn't know if the kid walked across from the other side, or fell out of the sky or jumped out of a car. We've had every cop in the area asking questions at nearby houses and businesses. We took out an ad, asking for anyone who knows anything to call us with any information whatsoever. We've asked the parents, but they don't know what their son was up to. He'd more or less dropped off the face of the earth a few months ago, decided to take up writing. He wanted to go around incognito or something. So far, he'd sold a few things to a rag called
In Depth.
I've been to the office. The managing editor liked Fresia and was sick to hear what had happened. He thought the kid was excited about something he was writing but had said he wasn't going to tell anyone what he was doing until he had more information. Sure could have gotten into something doing research, I suppose. Believe me, it's not that we haven't worked this case, worked it hard. We're just at one of those dead ends. We've got nowhere to go.”

“I understand. The thing that's true, though, is this—the kid had to come from somewhere.”

“Right. He had to come from somewhere. We just don't know where. We've tried the records from the local hotels and motels. Nothing. If he were in a private residence in the area, no one is admitting it. If he came out of a car, no one saw him. We're praying for some kind of a lead. We haven't given up.”

“There's still the hope the kid will come out of the coma, too,” Jake said.

“Oh, yeah, now that's a hope. A desperate hope,” Carnegie said. Then he was ready to change the subject. “How are you doing? I read about the body that was just discovered. Heard you never really closed the old task force down or accepted that deranged boy's confession as final proof that the murders were solved, what was it…four, five years ago?”

“Five. Almost five.”

Carnegie was staring at him hard.

“Think they're related?”

“I think there's a good possibility. Of course, there's also the possibility that someone wanted to get rid of the girl, knew the particulars of the cult murders and decided that a copycat killing would be a good way to dispose of the remains. We don't know much of anything yet. We don't even have an identification on the victim.”

Carnegie nodded, looked at him, appeared as if he wasn't going to speak for a moment, then said, “How about the death of your partner? Was there ever anything new on that?”

Jake shook his head, feeling a certain weariness. The old guy had apparently heard all the rumors, too. Well, who the hell hadn't? There had been an inquest.

“No,” he said simply.

“Sorry, I was so sorry…we're always sorry to hear about an officer down, but…well, she sounded like a fine woman. But then, no matter how hard you try, there will always be cases where you just don't get an answer.”

“There will always be some,” Jake agreed flatly. “But not this one. I'm going to stick to this one until the day I keel over.” He rose, stretching out a hand, thanking Carnegie. “If anything breaks, will you let me know right away?”

“Sure. And if you think you can find any answers for me, go right ahead. I'm not a new guy, I don't protect my turf, and I'm happy to get any help I can.”

 

This was it. For some unknown reason, Ashley thought, she was out. She had done something wrong somewhere. Sergeant Brennan and Captain Murray were both staring at her very strangely.

“Sit, relax, please, Miss Montague,” Murray said.

She sat. She didn't relax.

“I've studied your file,” Murray told her. Apparently, he was the one who was going to do the talking. But then, he was head of personnel.

“Yes?” she said, waiting.

“You spent several years studying toward an art major.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you complete that degree?”

She frowned. “I decided to apply for the academy.”

“Why?”

Her frown deepened. “Because I have an interest in law enforcement. My father was a police officer.”

“But you've maintained your interest in art.”

It was a statement. She felt a cool wave of unease coming over her. They
had
seen her sketching in class—probably once too often.

She shrugged, trying very hard to remain casual, yet attentive and respectful. “I love art. Of course I'll always maintain an interest. But I don't think that's a deterrent for a police officer. Most police officers have other interests in life, just like anyone involved in any other career. I have friends on the force who…who love boating, and a few who are really outstanding at karaoke. They might have had singing careers, but their real love is law enforcement.”

She was puzzled to see them both smiling.

She stiffened. “If I'm out for some reason, please, just tell me.”

“You're not out,” Brennan assured her. “You're an exceptional student, as a matter of fact.”

“You would be leaving your class,” Murray said. “But you could pick up where you left off at any time in the future.”

“I'm sorry. I'm completely lost.”

“I have a proposition for you. We need someone in forensic art. You'd be taking a civilian position, and you'd be directly beneath Commander Allen, who is also a civilian in the employ of the department.”