The Mystery of Jessica Benson (2 page)

K
yle parked in the underground garage and took the service
elevator up to his penthouse apartment. He was in no mood to
talk the talk with the valet tonight, or deal with his neighbors’
usual daily question, “So, Kyle, you think you and the boys are
gonna go all the way this year?”

Once inside his apartment, he headed straight for the
bathroom and a hot shower. Setting the massage nozzle on high,
he let the knives of spray slice deep into his back. The heat was
so thick, a fog enveloped his head and he took several slow, deep
breaths to try to clear his mind. After a while he began to relax
and left the tub feeling some relief. He looked into the foggy
mirror. The distorted reflection made him sigh. Through the
vapor he looked young again.
A cruel trick
, he thought.

Tired but hungry, he dried himself on a thick terrycloth
towel and pulled on a pair of sweatpants. He rolled his head back
and cracked his neck a couple of times, then padded barefoot to
the kitchen.

The refrigerator was on the empty side — unusual
because his mom came over regularly to pack it with groceries
— but Kyle found a quart of milk and chugged a fair portion of it
down. The last couple of home-baked brownies followed, topped
off with the remainder of the milk. Then he headed to the living
room. He stared out into the abyss that in daylight was the
Atlantic Ocean. The thick black coat of night hid the turquoise
Atlantic, and only the sliver of moonlight that poked through an
ominous group of clouds or the occasional light from a distant
ship broke through the darkness. The disorienting orange crime
lights that crowded the city streets were nowhere to be found on
the sea. The view always had the same settling effect on him, but
tonight he somehow appreciated it even more.

At thirty-five Kyle had beat the odds by staying at the
top of his game. It had been as much luck as talent—great
receivers, strong blocking—about that he had no doubt. Bruised,
broken and plenty the worse for wear, at least he was still in the
game. Retirement was an option, but he was not sure he had the
grace to leave the game on his own. He played reruns in his head
of athletes who stayed in the game too long, and as much as he
did not want to be remembered as a cripple on the bench, he kept
pushing his body to the next season.

Then there was Tyrell Utley, poised for the kill. The idea
of retirement had haunted him for the past couple of years, and
the way things were going now that the brash young quarterback
had entered the mix, Kyle figured the choice to stay or go would
no longer be his own.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept through
a night without a slashing pain in at least one of his joints jerking
him awake. Every minute he stayed in the hunt added to the
probability he would be forced out by a catastrophic hit. All
professional football players understood that he first time they
stepped out onto the field was the last time they would have a
chance at a normal life. They all shared the fear that every tackle
might be their last and going out on top, with one’s senses in
tact, was the best-case scenario. The alternative was leaving as a
cripple, or worse.

The money was good. His agent had negotiated more
than enough and Kyle had invested well. He could have left the
game years ago and lived out his life in fine style, but in his
mind that had never been an option. Fact was, he just loved
playing football.

And the fame wasn’t all that bad either. The thrill of
fans’ recognition — being stopped for autographs, pictures and
hugs — never lost its allure. Kyle was a popular guest on sports
talk shows and late night television. He was a natural on camera,
relaxed, quick on the uptake and ruggedly handsome. Kyle
actually enjoyed making the rounds and the splash of notoriety
that resulted, but he routinely refused offers from the major
networks and cable stations to join the likes of Dan Marino and
Phil Simms in the broadcast booth. It was his own little Catch22, and up until this season it had all worked well for him.

Kyle pulled himself from the somber view of night and
headed back toward the bathroom. His shoulder still throbbed
from last week’s drubbing by New England. The medicine
cabinet held an abundant supply of compounds the trainers had
given him—each smelling worse than the other. He grabbed a
handful of aspirin and one of the liniments, hoping they might
offer some relief.

Nothing did the job like Vicodin, but he would never
again surrender to the heavy drugs. Narcotics had taken the edge
not only off his pain but also his game and his life. It had been so
easy to get the stuff. Teammates, trainers, star fuckers, team
doctors were always sticking some needle into his butt or this
pill or that capsule into his mouth. Eventually he was sucking
down meds in the off-season as well whether he was hurting or
not.

The nebulous sense of well-being that blurred the
parameters of his chronic pain had obliterated his sense of
competition. He had almost let himself slide over the edge, but
witnessing too many of his teammates lose interest in everything
but the drugs made him take inventory of his own deteriorating
condition.

His options were clear, either get off the carousel of
painkillers or join the others in the news and out of the game. So
he checked into his parents’ home, spent a couple of weeks in
anonymous rehab there, and hadn’t touched anything stronger
than Vioxx since. It took the edge off his pain and tore his
stomach up, but his mind was clear and his skills soared once
again.

The more pressing problem now was the inevitable. The
pain was not simply physical, but mental as well. Every few
years the team drafted another young hotshot QB that spent his
time breathing up Kyle’s ass. Tyrell Utley was the biggest threat
he had ever faced. Utley was hot, coming off a brilliant college
career where he had scrambled for nearly as many yards as he
had thrown. He could show off with the best of them, and did so
whenever he got the chance.

A sudden wave of exhaustion poured over Kyle so he
headed toward his bedroom. The room reflected the ruggedness
of the man who slept in it, as well as his good taste. The walls
were midnight blue as was the heavy down comforter on his
custom made, over-sized bed. A dark oak headboard flanked by
matching wall units housed bookshelves and drawers. The wood
floor was covered by a large Persian rug of charcoal, gray and
muted blues. Opposite the bed was a fifty-inch flat screen
television with all the trimmings — stereo speakers, satellite
box, DVD and every other big-boy toy available in stores or
catalogues. An antique roll-top desk which held Kyle’s
computer, printer and a FAX machine filled the far corner of the
room.

Kyle turned the thermostat down to 68 degrees. The cold
soothed him, probably because he spent his days on a field that
often hit over 100 degrees throughout the season. He slipped
under the comforter and settled into the cool sheets.

Kyle’s thoughts wandered back to his youth and the
fantasyland that had been Miami. He was raised in the era prior
to the massive influx of northern transplants and waves of Cuban
and Haitian refugees in boats or rafts. A different city. A much
different time. His own Miami Beach neighborhood had featured
unlocked homes and kids who played outdoors without
continuous parental warnings about predatory, faceless monsters.

Kyle was the oldest of four children, two sisters and a
brother, with little more than a year separating each. His parents
had been wary but supportive of his overpowering need to play
ball, perhaps as a diversion from terrorizing his younger siblings.

His senior year in high school slammed with excitement.
Kyle, an honors student, was one of the most sought after
football prospects in the country. Six-foot-three, lean and
muscular, he was every inch the quarterback. His arm was
accurate and his passes long. He had the ability to call plays and
read defenses, together a dying art. After heavy recruiting and
promises by coaches from all the top schools, he chose to remain
at home to play for the University of Miami. The Hurricanes
were not only a breeding ground for league quarterbacks, but
also the team he grew up cheering. After shattering records set
by many of his own college heroes, Kyle was the first-round
draft choice of the Miami Demons.

He pulled himself back to his ugly break-up with Jessica
just hours before.
Okay
, he thought,
I’ll call her some time
tomorrow morning and try to close the chapter with a little more
finess
e. It wasn’t that he wanted her back. God no! But neither
did he want the bitterness. They simply had different agendas.
Kyle was hung up on fidelity and a relationship that might lead
to marriage and a family, and Jessica was into whatever worked
best for her at the moment.
No need to hold a grudge
.

He finally fell asleep somewhere around three o’clock in
the morning, which gave him two hours before he had to get up
for practice.

H
omicide Detective Karen Brandt had barely fallen asleep when
the scream of her Blackberry pulled her awake. She swatted at
the night table in a futile attempt to kill the enemy. An urgent
message from her partner,
STAT
, glowed in her cell phone. With
a long groan, she pulled herself up and into a slow, yawning
stretch. Will would not be calling this early unless it was an
emergency.

Karen and Will had been called back to the station a
little after one that morning to deal with the results of two
sidewalk citizens’ battle over real estate. One slashed the other’s
throat, but being left alive did not necessarily make him the
winner. It did give him room and board for the night, though.
The homeless community was not always averse to spending a
night in jail. It offered air conditioning and indoor plumbing. For
this man, there was now a good chance he would have a lifetime
of jailhouse amenities.

Karen hadn’t gotten home until nearly 4:30 a.m., and
after finally unwinding enough to doze off at five, had no
burning desire to start the day before seven. She wrestled briefly
with the thought of going back to sleep and dealing with the
consequences later, but knew that would not be the end of it. The
phone would continue its chant, and if she ignored it, her partner
would be banging on her door. With a deep sigh she sat up,
turned on the light and lifted the telephone. Reluctantly she
punched in his number.

“What couldn’t wait another hour or two? Somebody
better be dead or you can start watching your back.”
“Good morning to you, too, Sunshine. A little grumpy
today are we? Why’d you have your cell off, anyway?”
“I thought I could catch some extra sleep. You’ve heard
of sleep haven’t you?”
“Oh yeah, I just don’t get much chance to do it. So I
guess you haven’t had your coffee yet, huh?
“Not interested in coffee, just sleep.”
“No time, missy. But if it’s any consolation, someone is
dead.”
She was out of bed and half-way to the bathroom before
he finished his sentence. “Where? Who?”
“South Beach. Pennsylvania and Tenth. Some fancy
model from what I’ve been told. Uniforms are already there,
hopefully protecting the scene—but I wanna get there before
some yoyo manages to fuck it up. I’m heading out now. Want
me to pick you up?”
“Yeah, okay. Come by and get me. I’ll be downstairs.”
The last sentence gurgled through toothpaste.

Will Kaufman’s car barely came to a stop as Karen slid
in and slammed the door. She drew in a deep breath. “Mmmm.
Coffee.”

Cream, no sugar.”
“Great. Anything but that shit they serve up in the squad
room. Two murders in less than twelve hours. And it isn’t even
Hip-Hop weekend. Damn.”
When they arrived at the Coconut Arms, the only space
available was a fire hydrant. Will took the spot, glad he’d taken a
cruiser instead of an unmarked. In unison the two jumped out of
the car and headed toward the building.
It was a renovated three story rectangle that reflected the
true magnificence of Art Deco. Pink, aqua and yellow pastels
melted like ice cream over the structure, inviting onlookers to
another era. Inlaid glass blocks bordered the doorway.
Inside it was warm, no AC in the hallways, landlords’
choice. It saved on electricity for the owners, while the tenants
paid for the extra kilowatts demanded by the wall unit air
conditioners in their apartments.
Will, suffering from lack of exercise and a spreading
waistline, was panting like a racehorse after taking the three
flights of stairs. Karen, who ran five miles at least three times a
week, was unaffected.
As soon as they turned the corner, the sea of yellow tape
cordoning off the crime scene was visible. A uniformed officer
stood at the slightly open door of 3D. In sync they flipped their
badges and Will disappeared into the apartment.
Karen squinted at the small brass nametag on the
officer’s chest. He was one of the new, young Latino recruits.
With the raised level of social consciousness in the new century,
a variety of nationalities were joining the force.
“How’s it going, Rojas?”
“Well, you know, uh, there’s a dead woman in there.”
“Yeah, I heard. Who’s there from the Department?”
“Garcia from Crime Scene’s been here awhile, ma’am.”
A rookie, he stood at attention, his dark eyes wide.
“At ease soldier,” she quipped.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He relaxed his stance and smiled,
but his eyes never moved from hers.
“So where’s your partner, inside also?”
“No, he ran across the street for some
café con leche
.”
Karen tended to fluster the new guys. Her badge was
gold, but she looked more like an Abercrombie teenager than a
thirty-three year old detective. She wore no make-up this
morning — her skin was flawless — and her silky dark brown
hair hung in a loose ponytail to the middle of her back. She
flashed dimples with her smile and her teeth were straight and
white. Today she was dressed in a white button down blouse
tucked into snug jeans with generic sneakers on her sockless
feet. Her good looks were not wasted on Rojas. He appreciated
beautiful women. Karen told Rojas to be sure no one without
credentials entered the apartment. He nodded in response and she
stepped past him and entered the home of Jessica Benson.
It was as hot inside as it was in the hallway, and the
choking stench of metal — blood — made her feel as though the
air had been sucked from her lungs. Her senses were jammed
with the acute awareness of violent death. The body was on the
floor, the head in a pool of splattered blood that covered a good
portion of the room. Because heat speeds up the deterioration
process, a corpse could get nasty quick in south Florida. She
moved toward Will who cautioned her to watch where she
stepped. She peered down at the victim and shook her head.
“What’ve we got?”
“Looks like she was cracked over the head with that
bronze statue thing over there by her foot. Must’ve beaten up on
her first and then hit her with the death blow. That’s why all the
blood.”
The victim was nude, her legs spread open. The word
“whore” was crudely carved into her forehead. Her face was
nearly pulp and the sightless eyes revealed nothing. Electrical
tape covered her mouth and was wrapped around her head. Her
ruthlessly bruised torso testified to the fact that she had lived to
feel the pain.
“Whoa, baby!” Will whistled. “She must’ve pissed
someone off real good.”
Karen shook her head and told him to get on with it.
“She’s, uh, rather a model. From the looks of the
apartment, a successful one, or over-extended on the credit
cards.” He smiled at his assessment. “Twenty-five years old.
Wallet’s here, has plenty of money and cards. Doesn’t appear to
be a robbery. Strictly murder here.”
Detective Frank Garcia came over to them. He looked
otherworldly in his sterile gear, padding around in his paper
booties. He half-grimaced when he looked down at the body.
“She threw up?” Karen asked.
“Nope. Not her vomit. One of the neighbors passed by
and peeked in early this morning. Decided to investigate on his
own and left his breakfast. Lucky us. He’s the one who called it
in.”
“Goddamn. I knew some idiot was gonna fuck the scene
up.” Will grumbled.
“Yeah. The uniforms told him to stick to his apartment
until someone from the team talks to him. I got my pictures
taken, but it’ll be another couple of hours before I get out of
here.”
Garcia moved on to the tedious process of collecting and
bagging any and every thing that might be of relevance, never
knowing what might be useful. He would leave not one inch of
the apartment unrecorded. Every corner of the room would be
swept on the chance it might expose some speck of evidence.
The crumpled body now belonged to the medical examiner who,
according to Garcia, was on his way.
Karen closed her eyes and tried to recreate the chaos of
the dead woman’s last night, but Will broke her concentration.
“There had to be some serious noise from this apartment,
unless he taped her before he beat her. I’ve got a team on the
way to scout the building and see what the residents have to say
about last night. You’d think she coulda got off a couple of
screams or something.”
Karen nodded. As usual, her jaw was locked and
breathing was difficult. She couldn’t remember a murder scene
that had not affected her in this way. She turned her face away
from the body in an attempt to still her nerves.
“I suppose someone ought to have heard something.
Why don’t we talk to the good Samaritan with the bad stomach
who found her,” she said, already half way to the door.
“Okay,” Will nodded and followed.