The Cursed (3 page)

“All right. Can you start at the beginning for me?” he asked.

“I was sound asleep. I heard a scream and came running downstairs—they were in back of the house by the pool. I looked out and saw two of my guests. One of them was insisting she’d seen a ghost in my yard,” Hannah explained. “She—her name’s Shelly Nicholson—had been on my ghost tour. She and her boyfriend, Stuart Bell, were absolutely convinced they’d seen a homicidal ghost. But there was nothing there.

“I tried to calm them down. I told them...I told them that ghosts weren’t real, and even if they were, it wasn’t likely they’d be able to kill anyone. I got them to quit screaming and talk it through. Nothing budged them. They insisted they’d seen a bloody ghost holding a bowie knife. By then, everyone in the place was out there and freaking out. So I got everyone checked out and sent them down to the Westin, and then, when it was light, came back out to look around.” She hesitated for a long moment, glancing at Liam. “I don’t even know of any Key West ghosts that supposedly run around bleeding and carrying a bowie knife.” She stopped, struck by the thought that the man on the ground was now eligible to be a Key West ghost legend.

“A bowie knife?” Dallas demanded.

She nodded. “That’s what Stuart said. He was one of the people who saw the...ghost.”

“How did he know it was a bowie knife?” Dallas demanded.

“How do I know? Maybe he saw
The Alamo
a zillion times!” she snapped back, her irritation showing.

“He doesn’t have a knife now,” Dallas pointed out.

“No. He wasn’t holding it when I found him,” she said. “I looked around, and I didn’t see a knife anywhere. But if you looked at his hand...”

“Yes,” Dallas said. “It does look as if he’d been holding something. You touched the body. Are you sure you
didn’t move his hand? Even by accident?”

“No, I definitely didn’t move his hand. I was kneeling on his other side, and I was still there when Officer Mann got here and told me to move away carefully so I didn’t contaminate the crime scene. I did
not
touch his hand.”

Dirk Mendini, the medical examiner down from the coroner’s office in Marathon, rose and walked over to them just then. He indicated his wish to speak with the detectives by angling his head.

“Excuse us, Hannah, will you?” Liam asked gently.

She nodded. “Okay if I go inside and clean up?” she asked.

She had the dead man’s blood on her, and Dallas found himself wondering if she was compassionate or just stupid. She’d heard the man had been wielding a bowie knife, but still she’d approached him before she was sure he was dead and not a threat.

He realized he was feeling bitter toward her, and he knew he was wrong. He wanted to blame her for the death, even though he knew he had no right to do so. He was frustrated and wanted to lash out, but he had to get himself under control.

Apparently
he
took too long to speak that time.

She stared at him and said, “I’ve already been photographed and swabbed for blood. Poked and prodded and questioned. The technician said he had everything he needed.”

Dallas nodded curtly. He looked beyond her. It was just after seven in the morning—ridiculously early for a Key West morning—but even so, a few onlookers had gathered in the narrow alley. He let his eyes sweep over them. A tall, bald man who looked as if he had been a prizefighter at one time seemed to be watching Hannah with concern. A young woman with the light coloring and facial features of one of the Eastern European immigrants who made up so much of the Key West workforce was watching the bald man. A slim older woman was staring past the crime tape. A bike messenger was gaping, wide-eyed.

Naturally, the local news had somehow heard all about it already. A Barbie doll of a blonde with a microphone was trying to get something—anything—from the stoic officers guarding the scene, a cameraman following her. When the police refused to cooperate she turned to the onlookers, but none of them seemed to want their fifteen minutes of fame. They replied to her with annoyance, as if she were a fly in the way of the television screen.

“Hang on, Dirk,” Dallas said to the M.E.

He walked over to the newswoman, who was trying to speak to the bald guy. “Miss, so far we have nothing but a dead man. Out of respect, perhaps you could hold off until there’s something to report? When the police have enough information to make a statement, they will.”

“And you are?”

“Not the police spokesman,” Dallas said. “I repeat. When they
can
give a statement, they
will
.”

“Wrap it up, Jake,” she told the cameraman. “They’re blocking the body, anyway. We’ll get footage of the house from the street, show the proximity to Duval....” She turned and glared at Dallas. “And we’ll make sure our viewers know that the police are being extremely unhelpful.”

Liam joined Dallas. “Sunny Smith, right?” he asked the blonde politely. When she nodded, he went on, “Look, Sunny, we don’t know anything yet. We found a body in an alley. That’s it.”

“Who found the body?” Sunny Smith demanded.

“We found a body,” Liam repeated firmly. “When there’s news, we’ll get it to you.”

“Who is the dead man?” Sunny asked.

“We don’t know yet,” Liam said.

“How was he killed?” Sunny demanded.

“I didn’t say that he was killed, Sunny,” Liam told her.

“Which one of these people found the body? The woman you were talking to?” Sunny demanded.

“Hey, Sunny, please, as soon as I have something, you’ll get it,” Liam promised.

“And right now you’re taking up our time and hindering an investigation,” Dallas said.

“We’ll question the pretty woman with the blood on her,” Sunny said, turning and speaking to her cameraman and then looking around for Hannah.

But Dallas was suddenly grateful to Hannah O’Brien, who had taken advantage of the reporter’s intrusion and disappeared.

Frustrated, Sunny went on to the bike messenger.

“You don’t want to let any info out, see if it pulls anyone out of the woodwork?” Liam asked him. “Because we’re going to have to make a statement soon. Too many people know this has happened and have seen the body.”

Dallas shook his head. “We can give a statement—just carefully. I’ll explain later.”

He turned and rejoined Dirk near the body, and Liam went with him.

“Dallas, what are you doing on a Key West murder?” Dirk asked immediately, then turned to Liam. “Is he taking the lead?”

“We’re not sure what’s up yet, Dirk,” Liam said, then shifted his attention to Dallas. “But I’m assuming this has something to do with a Federal case.”

Dallas shrugged. “Yes, well, a Federal lead on a combined case.”

He hadn’t been assigned to the Key West FBI unit long. It was a small office, just as the U.S. Marshals’ office was small here. His headquarters were on the mainland, in Miami.

Oddly, though, despite the small size of the office—or perhaps because of it—his was in an interesting position. Agents here worked closely with the Coast Guard, the city police, the county sheriff’s office and the U.S. Marshals Service—all because of Key West’s location, accessibility and...unique nature, its strange atmosphere. It was a crazy place to call home, but it was
his
crazy place. The island had a long and checkered history. It had provided a stop for pirates, a haven for wreckers, a hard passage for Confederate blockade runners and now it offered access for smugglers bringing everything from illegal drugs to refugees into the country.

He’d grown up here—grown up most of the way, anyway. In his heart, it had always been home.

And now he was back.

“I’m taking on just about anything, Dirk,” Dallas said. He glanced over at Liam. He was here now, and so quickly, thanks to Liam. When they’d been kids here on the island, they’d been best friends. Then Dallas’s father had been offered a civilian position with the FBI, and Dallas had only been back for a few nostalgic vacations now and then since those long-ago years.

But, he decided, for a pair of kids who had spent a few evil days torturing tourists on ghost tours and stealing beers from the unwary in a multitude of local bars, they’d turned out okay. And they were still friends who respected and trusted each other, something that was all-important right now.

“We may have the best liaison system going just about anywhere,” Liam said to Dirk. “We have to. The island’s so small that every agency is understaffed, so we’ve got to work with each other. No other choice,” he said.

“If you ask me, the Key West cops do a damned good job,” Dirk said.

“They do,” Dallas agreed. “But sometimes cases overlap.”

“Sure. I get it,” Dirk said, nodding. “The murder happened in Key West, but the victim could be from another state. He might have been smuggling drugs, or...hell, the U.S. Marshals Service might have had a warrant out on him.”

Or,
Dallas thought—because he knew—
he might have been an officer of the law. Either way, I intend to get his murderer.

He didn’t say so, though. Not yet. “So, are we looking at the obvious cause of death?” he asked.

“Throat slit. But the killer only nicked the major bleeder,” Dirk told them. “That’s why he didn’t bleed out immediately. I’m thinking that since he made an appearance in a yard at about 3:00 a.m. he must have been attacked a few minutes earlier. Body temp and rigor mortis agree with that timing. The blood loss would have disoriented him. I have tissue and blood samples out now for toxicology tests, so I’ll be able to tell you more.”

“Damn idiot. Why was he stumbling around in that yard?” Dallas asked, speaking to himself as much as to Liam and the M.E. “If he’d gotten help...”

He immediately regretted the passion he’d allowed to enter his voice. The M.E. looked at him strangely, as if aware there was more here than met the eye.

“I don’t think he could have been saved unless the damage had been done right smack in the middle of an emergency room,” Dirk told him, setting a hand on his shoulder. For an M.E., he seemed to have a decent sense about the living. He asked quietly, “You know him? The local boys were really good about protecting the crime scene, and they checked for identification first thing but came up empty. We’ll take fingerprints, of course, and run them through the system. If he’s got a sheet of any kind, anywhere, we’ll find him.”

“You’ll match them,” Dallas said, looking over at the body. The dead man was Jose Miguel Rodriguez. Dallas had met him briefly once or twice; he’d been an extraordinary agent. Working undercover, he’d done a great deal to stop drug traffic into the South Florida area. Dallas had been due to meet up with Rodriguez the next day on the beach by Fort Zachary Taylor. “But not because of a rap sheet. And when you do ID him, make sure to keep his name and affiliation confidential among law enforcement agencies—the truth can’t leak to the news. This man was an agent working undercover—Jose Rodriguez. You can’t release anything I’m telling you now—and nothing can get out at all except that an unidentified body was found in an alley, with all other information pending the medical examiner’s report. Some things the public can’t get for a while, all right, Dirk?”

“Gotcha,” Dirk said.

“So he’s one of ours?” Liam asked, frowning.

“FBI,” Dallas said. “He was working the Los Lobos case.”

“The wolves,” Dirk said.

Dallas nodded. “We’re all working it, Dirk. I’m not divulging any secrets—you’ve obviously heard about the Los Lobos gang, and everyone from the cops to the military has been alerted to keep an eye out for the members and their activities.”

Dirk nodded. “Who hasn’t? When they started up, I had a few corpses up for autopsy at the morgue in Marathon. Seems they’re run by some big shot out of Colombia—supposedly an American expat. The members come in all colors and nationalities—the one thing is they have to swear absolute loyalty. The smallest betrayal means death—execution style.”

“That’s why they’re doing so well,” Dallas said grimly. “No one knows who they are, and they’re all too scared to turn on the others. They know the islands. They slip in and out at night, moving from the Caribbean to the Keys.”

“But from what I understand, they’re not drug dealers, they’re smugglers, right?” Dirk asked.

Dallas nodded. “Museum pieces, looted artifacts. They’ve gotten into and out of a number of places here in the Keys, as well as in South America, Cuba, Jamaica—they’ve pilfered Mayan artifacts from Mexico. They also smuggle people in and out of the country. Anyway,” he added quietly, “Jose had infiltrated them, he was the first man on the inside ever. He was just getting in deep with the ‘field workers,’ who are at the beck and call of the headman. The thing about this gang is that many of them aren’t what you’d expect. They aren’t tattooed, and they don’t wear motorcycle jackets or lounge around like barflies. A lot of them look like upright and ordinary citizens—businessmen, churchgoers, even cops and politicians.”

“They work like veins and arteries from a heart,” Liam said. “A very peculiar pyramid scheme.” He glanced at Dallas. “How many people do they think are involved all across the country?”

“Our best intelligence officers—CIA, FBI, Homeland Security—estimate about a hundred and fifty scattered across the United States.”

Dirk nodded, taking in their words. He was silent for a moment and then said, “Odd.”

“What’s odd?” Dallas asked.

“Los Lobos...the bodies I’ve had that the county officers think were members were done in true execution style—bullet to the back of the head. This is different,” Dirk said. “I’m not an investigator, of course. I can only tell you what...what the dead can tell. But it’s something to think about, right?”

Yes, it was.

Dallas hesitated before speaking. “Different crimes call for different punishments.” He hunkered down by the dead man. “Look at his hand, Dirk. He was holding something, right? Something somebody pried out of his hand.”

“So it appears,” Dirk agreed.

“Like a knife,” Dallas murmured.

“Hard to tell. I’ll have more for you after the autopsy. Traffic is going to be bad, so it’ll be an hour or so before we even have him on a table.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry, Dallas.”