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“Why?” he asked, running his fingers through what hair he had left. He sounded baffled and lost. “Why won’t she just speak to me?” He looked at Luke. “But you say she’s there—she’s alive and she’s well. Somehow we have to reach her. She can’t go on that shoot. She will die. I know this.”
Luke took the chair across from Octavio, gripping the beer bottle, feeling the sweat. “She’s definitely there, and I was able to speak with a friend of hers,” he said.
“Ay, Dios mio.” Octavio crossed himself in thanks-giving.
“I’ll try to get closer and get her to call you,” Luke said. “But we’re in a tough position. If she was in immediate and imminent danger, I could drag her out of there.”
“Yes, yes! Drag her out!”
Luke shook his head. “Octavio, I’m not averse to pulling a few tricks, but not the kind that won’t get you anywhere—and will get me thrown in jail. What you have to understand is that you can’t keep your daughter prisoner. If I forced her to go home, she would just leave again. She could even accuse you and your wife of abduction and imprisonment if she wanted to.”
“My daughter could do that?” Octavio said, and he looked like a man about to cry, a man who couldn’t begin to understand the stupidity of those around him. “Why doesn’t she see the danger?” he demanded passionately. “She loved Colleen. They played together when they were little girls, they knew right from wrong. Rene cried and cried when Colleen disappeared, but then … she believed the story this agency is telling. She believed those lying bastards who said that Colleen had run away. All because she wants to be a model, to be rich and have men lusting after her.
“Yes, we were strict, stern fathers. We cared who our daughters went out with, when they came home. We didn’t let our niñas get hooked on drugs. We tried to teach them right from wrong. But they watch TV—they see how American woman sleep with so many men with so little thought, how they drink and carry on, all on the giant television screen. I tried to tell my daughter that she mustn’t become like a puta, a whore, because decent men will not want her, decent men who go to work, love their wives and care for their children and their families. Do you know what she told me? She told me she didn’t want a decent man and a decent family. She wanted the American dream. So what is this dream? I ask her. To sleep around like the women on the television set?” He groaned. “So now—now that I don’t care who she wants to sleep with as long as she is alive—she will not even talk to me. Her mother cries every night. It is agony that she will not speak to us, and it is worse to think about Colleen, to think that Rene will be like Colleen and never come home, never get to live a long and happy life. I know you think I am just a worried father, that my daughter is safe and what happened to Colleen will not happen to her, but I know. I know. If she stays there, she will die.”
“Octavio, you have to stay calm,” Luke told him. “There’s no proof so far that anything bad even happened to Colleen.”
Octavio stared back at him with wise and tired eyes. “Colleen is dead. Her father knows it, as does her mother. As I do. Her parents went to Islamorada—because those swine at the agency would not allow her mother to go out to the island they own, the island where she … disappeared. They act like her parents are mosquitoes, an annoyance. My wife went, too. They set up crosses, a memorial for Colleen.” He winced, then downed his cognac in a swallow.
Luke was silent for a minute, then leaned toward Octavio. “I will do everything in my power, but you have to trust me. As of tonight, we know that your daughter is all right. Her friends told me that Rene wants this modeling career very badly—badly enough that she may be avoiding your calls because she doesn’t want you to keep trying to talk her out of it. I can try to get her to talk to you, but no one—not me and not you—can stop her from going on that photo shoot if she makes the decision to go.”
“If she goes, then you must go to the island, too. You must find out what is going on,” Octavio implored.
“I can do that,” Luke agreed.
Octavio stood and pumped Luke’s free hand. “Lieutenant Stuckey told me that I could count on you.”
“I’ll keep you informed,” Luke promised. “But, Octavio, if she calls you, no matter how hard it is, no matter how much you feel it goes against tradition, don’t try to stop her from pursuing her career or interfere with her life. Be open to her dreams.”
Octavio’s eyes betrayed his agony. “Even though I fear for her life?” he whispered.
“Especially because you fear for her life. Stay open so she’ll know she can turn to you if she needs to, no matter what. Rene is seeing what she wants to see, but even if someone at the agency is dangerous, that doesn’t mean the entire operation is corrupt.”
“Myra Allen,” Octavio said knowingly, his brows furrowing. “That woman is corrupt.”
“Everyone involved has been and is still being investigated,” Luke said. “They haven’t closed the case.”
“Officially, no? But in their minds, it is. Another silly girl gone off—that’s what they have chosen to believe. Even when they know it is wrong.”
The long day was starting to make itself felt. Luke repeated, “I’ll do everything in my power to keep your daughter safe, Octavio. And,” he promised, thinking of the job Stuckey had asked him to do while he was undercover helping the Gonzalezes, “I’ll find out what happened to Colleen Rodriguez.”
With that, Octavio nodded and started up the steps, looking older than his years. Luke followed him, jumping to the dock first and offering him a hand. Octavio thanked him, then said good-night and walked down the road toward the bait-and-beer shop, where his car waited beneath a wilting oak.
Luke returned to the Stirling, locking the cabin door once he was inside. His windows had security locks, as well, and he had rigged his own alarm system. Despite that, he didn’t worry a lot about security. If anyone ever really wanted him dead, they wouldn’t worry about gaining entry to the boat. They would just torch it.
In the master cabin he stripped off his suit and stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He didn’t know why, but Octavio got to him. The man was filled with passion, convinced he knew a truth everyone else was ignoring. Once, long ago, he, too, had known that kind of passion, known what it was like to know the truth, while others refused to see it. That was what had brought him here.
Stuckey had brought Octavio to him, just as Stuckey—and some of his friends—brought him most of his work.
He didn’t spy on philandering spouses, schoolgirls who might be smoking pot in the park after school or college kids gambling or stealing exams, and he didn’t like corporate intrigue unless it was connected with something more intriguing.
He worked for people who had gone through all the proper channels to find justice but run up against the brick walls that were inevitable in any system.
He didn’t have many friends, but those he had were close, and he liked it that way.
He lived alone now, and he liked that, too. He wasn’t a decent companion for anyone else.
He felt the slight rocking of the boat while he pondered his next move. The first step would be to get closer to Chloe Marin. She was his ticket to getting to know everyone else, and since her pretense for being there was as false as his own, she could hardly object or else he would blow her cover.
Light from distant street lamps played dimly on his ceiling, and as he watched the shadows stretch and fade, he wondered what would have happened if he’d caught up to Rene. At least he had learned what he needed to know: the girl was alive, and she was living at the mansion. But what he didn’t know was what had sent her down from the balcony and running for the beach in the first place.
And then there was Chloe Marin… .
He punched his pillow with annoyance. The strawberry blonde certainly knew her moves. Subduing her had been more difficult than if she’d been a man his own size and weight.
It was almost as if he’d been thrown off balance by a supercharged Barbie. Maybe that was what was most annoying.
But she wasn’t a living Barbie. She was a woman with entrancing eyes and a suspicious nature. In fact, where he was concerned, she seemed downright hostile. And yet, when he touched her …
Something happened to him when they touched. He was filled with a sudden raw heat unlike anything he’d felt in years.
He’d seen a dozen spectacularly beautiful girls that night.
But somehow, she was different.
He punched his pillow again. He had to get to know the woman, whether he liked it or not. She was key to cracking this case, no matter how annoying he found her—and his own attraction to her.
He had a job to do.
He forced himself to watch the shadows, to close down his mind, and finally he slept.
He didn’t dream, hadn’t in years. Not anything that he remembered, at least.
But that night he dreamed, only it wasn’t a fantasy, it was a rerun of the past.
A scene … just that one scene. He was running. Down the streets of Kensington. Up the steps to the beautiful flat they’d kept for three short months. He heard himself calling her name.
And then he saw the blood. The trail on the stairs, drop by drop, as if the killer had collected it and used a paintbrush to arrange it for maximum effect.
And then he heard himself screaming … screaming her name.
He fought the dream. He didn’t want to reach the bedroom. But he couldn’t stop the replay, couldn’t stop himself from running up those stairs and seeing …
Miranda. Her face was still beautiful, her black hair spread out all around her. Her arms, though, had been battered and bloody from the fight she had waged. She looked like a doll, a Sleeping Beauty, except for the band of crimson around her throat.
Luke awoke with a start, screaming her name.
He was sweating as if the cabin were a hundred degrees, even though the air conditioner was humming away.
He stood, shaking his head to clear away the memories. It was all so long ago.
He walked into the head, turned on the shower and let ice-cold water pour over him.
He stood there until he felt himself start to shiver, then turned off the water, whipped his towel off the rack and went back to the cabin to dress for the day.
He liked it better when he didn’t dream, didn’t feel.
Chloe was jolted awake by the phone ringing and decided to let the answering machine pick up.
But whoever was calling just hung up on the machine, then called again.
She rolled over and picked up the receiver, feeling tired and sluggish, as if it were still the middle of the night. Glancing at the alarm on her bedside table, she saw that it wasn’t the middle of the night, but it was ridiculously early, given how late she’d been out: 7:00 a.m.
“Chloe, are you there?” someone asked before she could even grunt out a hello.
Stuckey. What the hell was he doing, calling her so early?
“I’m here. What’s going on?”
“You shouldn’t have been playing detective last night,” he said, ignoring her question.
“I was invited. I might even go on that swimsuit shoot,” she said.
“Yeah?” he asked. “Why?”
“What do you mean, why? Thanks a lot.”
“Well, for one thing, I thought you liked to keep a low profile. You’ve never even wanted your name in the paper before, much less your picture out there for the world to see.”
Because in my way, I’m still a coward,she thought.
“Look, my point is, you’ve been snooping around, and now you’re planning to keep snooping out in the middle of nowhere, in the same circumstances where a girl went missing. And that could be dangerous.”
“It can be dangerous to fall asleep at night, too,” Chloe told him, her grip on the phone growing tight.
“I’m not stupid,” she told him. “I won’t go anywhere alone, and I’ll be rooming with Victoria. In fact, I’d be worried sick if I let Victoria go out there on her own. And if she’s there, you know Brad and Jared will be there, too. I could be a big help to you. Just think about it. The case isn’t closed, but no one is doing much about it.”
“Hey, don’t get on my case for that. It wasn’t my jurisdiction.”
“I’m not getting on you, Stuckey. You know, Uncle Leo pulled a lot of strings to get me something on the case. He doesn’t believe she just took off. And I went to court one day last week to pick him up, and her parents were out on the steps of the courthouse, holding a press conference, and they made my heart bleed. They believe she’s dead, and they’re desperate for someone to figure out what happened, for justice.” She was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t know her well, but I met her a few times at the mansion. She was nice. She deserves justice. Remember how you told me once that guys like this—like whoever killed her—aren’t rocket scientists. They eventually make mistakes.”
“But they’re still dangerous. Let Luke handle this. He’s a licensed professional.”
“Yeah, right. He showed me his fishing license.”
“You two got off to a bad start, and I’m sorry about that, but I asked him to help out with this because I do want something done about it, and I don’t want you in danger.”
“But I can help. I can get Rene to talk to him, for one thing.” Could she? Maybe. The words had come to her lips without her realizing what she was going to say. All she knew was that something inside her felt it was important for her to be part of this investigation, so she had to get him to calm down before he went to her uncle. She was an adult; she made her own choices. But she loved her uncle, and she didn’t know if she could stand up to him if he insisted she get out of there.
“Actually, that’s what I called you about, and why I had to call so early, before you got a chance to talk to anyone.”
“Oh?” She smiled, sinking back into her pillow. The tables were turning.
“You heard what I said when I dropped you back at the mansion last night, right?” he asked.
“Yes, I heard what you said. Don’t tell anyone Luke Cane’s real name or his real identity. Whatever I do, don’t jeopardize his position. I heard you. You said it three times,” she told him.
“Yes, and I meant don’t tell anyone. Not even Victoria.”
“But I’m going to be asking Victoria to help me—to watch and listen—it’s only fair to tell her the truth. I mean, let’s get serious, how long is anyone going to believe that ‘Jack Smith’ is a designer?” Chloe demanded.
Stuckey chuckled. “He’s got some help. He’ll pull it off. You’ll be surprised. Chloe, I’m asking you this because it’s important. Promise me you won’t say anything?”
“I promise.”
“Good. See ya soon,” Stuckey said, and hung up.
Chloe replaced the phone and crawled out of bed, then walked over to the drapes and threw them open so she could look out at the pool. Her bedroom was on the second floor of what had once been a carriage house, and she could see the sparkling water and casual rattan furniture that surrounded it. She could see the main house where Uncle Leo lived as well, with its red-clay tile roof, balconies and two turrets. The house had been built in the 1910s and was one of the oldest in the area. Her great-great-grandfather had purchased the land and drawn up the plans for the house. Once the family had owned twenty acres. Then ten. Now they had one acre remaining, with Bayshore Drive and civilization right around the corner. But the area was still overgrown and wild in old-Florida fashion; oaks dripped moss, and bougainvillea grew everywhere in a riot of color.
Chloe knew she was welcome in the main house anytime; Leo had always told her that it was hers more so than it would ever be his. She had grown up in the main house, and when she had finished college, she had contemplated the idea of getting an apartment with Victoria, but they’d both remained traumatized by the past, no matter how far they had come. Uncle Leo had come up with the solution: refurbishing the old carriage house so Chloe would have her privacy but still feel safe, and Uncle Leo wouldn’t spend his life worried about her.
The arrangement had worked out well. She carried emotional scars, a few wounds that might never fully heal, but her uncle had helped her find a purpose and enjoyment in life.
He had always been her rock.
The two of them were the only family they had left. Chloe didn’t remember her parents at all; she had been two when they died in a bizarre train explosion that had taken out almost twenty cars and their occupants. She had grown up with Leo, and he had been a good parental figure. He was with the district attorney’s office, a position he could afford to hold because he had family money and the insurance from the accident. On top of that, he was brilliant with stocks, no matter what the economy was doing, so they had never needed to worry about paying the bills.
She felt a moment’s unease, hoping that Stuckey wasn’t already calling him, warning him that Chloe was getting herself too involved with the Colleen Rodriguez disappearance. No, Stuckey wasn’t a tattletale. And even while he was telling her to keep her nose out of things, she knew he also realized that she was in a perfect position to obtain information the police might never discover themselves. Like so many Miami-Dade officers, he had been touched by the desperation of Colleen’s family, and he had been on a task force assigned to search the area from Florida City to the Broward County line, but all the cops had been reassigned after six weeks. The case wasn’t closed, but it wasn’t anyone’s priority, either.
Her phone rang again, and as she turned to answer it, she let out a little cry of surprise.
And fear.
Someone was there, watching her. A woman, transparent and ethereal.
Oh, God, no! Not again.
She’d fought so hard for her sanity. She’d thought she was finally done seeing people crying out to her for help—dead people—done with longing to help them when she couldn’t. After the massacre, she had seen images, dreams, ghosts, ectoplasm—whatever. She had seen them in hospitals; she had seen them on the streets. Strangers who had stared at her beseechingly and, even more terrifyingly, her own dead friends. She’d had therapy, lots and lots of therapy. But now she was regressing, seeing things again, no doubt because her world was changing. No, she told herself. She was stronger than that. She did not see things! Or if she did, then if she was strong, then they would fade away.
Her throat constricted, her muscles tensed, and then she blinked and the image was gone. She laughed nervously at herself; she must have seen the drapes reflected in the mirror.
She had stopped seeing ghosts long ago.
They were nothing but remnants of the fear and trauma.
A decade had passed, and she was fine. She was just imagining things because of Colleen.
She still felt shaken.
