“Repeat what? You haven’t told me anything. But all right, I swear.”
Over Martha’s demands to know what the hell was going on, Herron managed to end the call. When his heart missed a beat, he sucked in some air and rubbed his chest. “Sweet Jesus.” With shaking hands he quickly stacked the maps and carried them into the house, nearly stumbling over the threshold.
A brass lamp shone at one end of the L-shaped sofa, putting a glow on faded green upholstery, a closed baby grand in the corner, and a worn oriental carpet. A mantel clock ticked over the coral-rock fireplace. He crossed the dining room, with its clutter of books, papers, and boxes, then went down the hall to his study. He hit the light switch with an elbow and dropped the armload of maps onto a metal map cabinet for Jenny to sort through in the morning.
Swiveling his desk chair around, he sank into it, forehead in his palm. The cat rubbed against Herron’s leg. He leaned over and patted its head. “I know what you’re thinking, Ptolemy. I’m gutless. I should have the courage to speak out.”
Herron slammed his hands on the arms of the chair, went back to the kitchen, fixed a martini on the rocks, and returned to his study to work on the exhibit guide. He turned on his computer, sat down, stared at the screen, then spun his chair around to face the opposite wall, which, like the others, was covered with framed photographs. He got up and crossed the room.
Tilting his head to focus his glasses, he gazed at a black-and-white photo in a metal frame, taken at the International Map Fair in Toronto, 1968. The group included various dignitaries—the president of the International Map Society, the governor of Ontario, et cetera—and a thinner version of himself, along with his fishing buddy and fellow map aficionado Bill Fairchild. He and Bill had just traded their British sea charts for some choice Caribbean maps to be donated to the museum in Miami. Dead center, Frederick Barlowe, who had organized the event. Off to the side, almost out of the picture, Frederick’s wife, whose name Herron could not recall, and his two teenage sons, Stuart and Nigel.
Herron studied the photograph for a while longer. Little Miss Gray had giggled when she realized it was him under all that dark, wavy hair. Everyone in the picture had changed. Some dead. Others closing in on terra incognita. And one astounding fake.
The cat jumped onto a table at the window, settled onto a cushion, and licked his paws. Through the window Herron could see his low coral-rock wall, the porch light of his neighbor’s house, and the empty street. He tried to remember if he had closed the glass doors. Surely he had. Yes, he was positive. He hadn’t turned on the alarm. He never did, except for his trips out of town.
An illogical sensation of being watched came over him, and he drew the curtains. A yellow legal pad lay on his map cabinet with two pages flipped back. Herron picked up the map on top of his cabinet, an Italian Renaissance map of the world, 1511, on loan from Stuart Barlowe. Truly a wonderful map. Florida floated at a crazy angle in the western Atlantic.
Gradually he became conscious of a low growl. He glanced over to see the cat with his yellow eyes fixed on something across the room.
Still holding the map, Herron turned toward the open door. In an instant his mind grasped that someone had come into his house, but he couldn’t understand why. He saw the gun. Then a flash and a pop no louder than a hand clap, and at the same instant felt the jolt in his chest. Then another like a punch to his stomach.
Bewildered, confused, he ducked his head and raised his hands. A bullet tore through his palm. Scorching heat filled his eye. He formed the words Stop, stop it, please but his lips wouldn’t move.
Herron staggered against the cabinet and went down, plummeting into a dark and endless void.
Chapter 4
Banyans and jacarandas dimmed the morning sunlight on the three short blocks of Judge Herron’s street, which came to a dead end at Biscayne Bay.
The house itself, squeezed between two recently built Mediterranean-style mansions, looked at least sixty years old, with a carport on one side, a metal flamingo decorating the screen door, and crank-out windows across the living room. Air plants sprouted from the low coral-rock wall, which was nearly obscured by the line of police vehicles.
Neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk. Allison Barlowe, making her way through them, realized with a sudden jolt of recognition that she’d been here before. It had been a party, probably something to do with maps, since that had been the only interest her father and Royce Herron had shared. She’d been...fifteen? She remembered something else: At the party Judge Herron had given her a 1927 pocket-size road atlas of Canada, the country of her birth. That same night, after a nasty argument with her stepmother, Allison had stolen her father’s Mercedes and had driven a thousand miles before being stopped by a Virginia state trooper. Two years after that, she fled to college in New York, hoping never to see Miami again.
But she had come back, and the city was both familiar and strange to her. At a fund-raiser last week for the museum, Royce Herron had put an arm around her shoulders and said, “Welcome home.” A nice man. And some remorseless animal had shot him dead.
She walked quickly toward the front gate, where a uniformed officer had been posted. The wind pushed her long hair across her face, and she tossed it back. “My client is inside—Jenny Gray. She called me, and I’d like to speak to her.”
The officer said to go in and ask for Sergeant Martinez.
Allison didn’t consider it too much of a stretch to say “my client.” She hadn’t yet taken the Florida bar exam, but she had been practicing law for five years in Boston and now was working full-time as a paralegal until she was sworn in. She had already advised Jenny on a minor landlord-tenant dispute, a favor for her stepbrother, for whom Jenny worked. Half an hour ago, in a frantic phone call, Jenny said she had arrived at Royce Herron’s house at nine o’clock. When he didn’t respond to the doorbell, she went around back and through the unlocked sliding glass door on the porch. He was dead in his study. Allison told her not to make any statements; she was on her way.
Putting on her glasses and snapping her prescription sunglasses into their case, Allison stepped into the living room. From the activity in the hall to her right, she guessed that Judge Herron’s body lay in that direction. She told a plainclothes officer what she wanted, and he went through a wide opening that led, Allison remembered, to the kitchen. A minute later he came back with a gray-haired man in a plaid polo shirt who said his name was Detective Martinez.
Allison asked where she could find her client, Jenny Gray.
“Are you an attorney, Miss Barlowe?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Can I see your bar card?” He looked at her over the top of his steel-rimmed bifocals.
“Why?”
“Anybody could come in here claiming to be a lawyer.”
“I don’t usually carry my bar card with me,” she said, “and unfortunately, I don’t yet have a card from my office. I was just hired. I work for Marks and Connor, P.A. Our client, Ms. Gray, called me a little while ago. She says she wants to leave, and you can’t force her to stay— unless you’ve arrested her, which I don’t believe is the case.”
“Uh-huh.” Martinez exchanged a look with his partner, then said, “Ms. Barlowe, we’re talking to Ms. Gray in the kitchen right now. Why don’t you have a seat and relax?”
“You won’t get anywhere with Jenny. I told her not to talk to you.” Allison gave them a sigh and a regretful smile. “I’m sorry. I want to know what happened as much as you do. Judge Herron was a family friend. He and my father, Stuart Barlowe, have known each other for years. You might have heard of Stuart Barlowe? He’s on the Miami Development Council.”
“I don’t care who your daddy is.”
The younger detective nudged his arm. “Barlowe. La Gorce Island. I do off-duty security work for his parties out there.”
Allison said, “I’m not asking for special favors, Sergeant. I’m sure I can arrange for Ms. Gray to answer your questions. Right now, though
, I am requesting— very politely—that you let me see my client.”
Martinez thought about it, then said, “Let me ask you something first. We found a bunch of antique maps in Judge Herron’s study. Ms. Gray told us that she and the judge had been out on the back porch all day working on them. Are they valuable?”
“Some of them are.”
“What kind of valuable are we talking about?”
“It depends. A few hundred dollars or several thousand. Some of them may belong to my father. He lent them to Judge Herron for an exhibit at the map fair.” Allison turned her gaze toward the hall. “Are they missing?”
“We don’t know. The killer could have had that in mind, but we just don’t know. You might be able to tell us. The judge’s body is still in there. He’s been shot. Just walk over to the map cabinet. If this is going to cause you any distress, don’t do it.”
“No, it’s all right. I mean...if I can help.”
They entered the hall, passing someone dressed in white disposable overalls and booties going the other way with a small vacuum cleaner. Martinez led Allison to the second door on the right. Every inch of the now too-small room was being examined by the crime scene technicians. A woman with a camera took pictures.
Allison’s eyes swept the perimeter of the room—an old oak desk, reclining lounge chair, framed photographs and maps, metal cabinets with shallow drawers—before she saw the man lying on the floor. The curve of his stomach, clad in a white shirt, rose from a brown cardigan sweater. Then she saw the red holes in the shirt, and the blood that obliterated one eye. It had flowed out to make an irregular stain in the pale carpet under his head. Unframed maps lay around him, under him, crumpled and spattered with blood.
Allison leaned against the door frame.
“Miss Barlowe?”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Someone should die for this. Have his family been notified? I think he has a son who lives out of state.”
“We’re working on it.”
“Didn’t anyone hear gunshots?”
“We’re asking the neighbors, but so far, nothing. The windows are heavy hurricane glass, which muffles the sound.” Martinez nodded toward the map cabinet. “Do you recognize any of those? Don’t touch them. We’re going to dust for prints. Most of them are wrapped in plastic, so if anything’s there, we might get some good results.”
Allison noticed that some of the map drawers were open. “Did you open the drawers?”
“We haven’t touched them,” the detective replied.
Allison went over to see. “I can’t tell what’s missing without a list, but some of the folders appear to be empty. There were some maps stacked on top of this cabinet, you see? And they slid off. He...he was probably holding that one when... Oh. It’s the Corelli. It belongs to my father.” Allison noticed the fringe of soft gray hair above Royce Herron’s ear. His pale cheek, a broken vein. She turned away. “The Corelli map is worth a lot. I don’t know how much. It’s ruined now. That one on the cabinet belongs to my father, too. It’s a John Speed, worth... I’m not sure. Five thousand? I don’t know what else is here.”
Martinez said, “How would we get a list of the maps?”
“My father has one—the maps he loaned for the exhibit. I’m sure Judge Herron would have had an inventory.”
“How hard would it be to track them down? Pawnshops? Art dealers?”
“Not pawnshops. The map fair is in town this weekend, but you won’t find any of these maps for sale. Reputable dealers won’t touch stolen goods. I’ll put you in touch with the organizers if you want. They’ll be able to tell you how to publicize a theft. May I go now?” In the hall, when she was able to breathe, she said, “He was a good man. Find out who did this.”
Allison took Jenny out the back door, and they went along the seawall, then through the next yard to avoid reporters. When they reached the street, they cut behind a satellite news truck and crossed to the sidewalk on the opposite side.
No one paid any attention to them, one woman in a suit and dark glasses, the other with a wild mane of goldstreaked brown hair. If anyone had noticed, Allison thought, it would have been Jenny they looked at, a gorgeous mixed-race girl with a tiny waist and perfect boobs that most other girls would have had to pay for. Allison’s stepbrother had seen Jenny Gray lying on a towel on South Beach and offered her a job as a hostess in his restaurant at the top of a Brickell Avenue bank building.
When Jenny reached her car, a flashy little Nissan with a dented fender, she dug into her purse, finally slamming its contents onto the hood to find her car keys.
“Can you follow me to my office?” Allison asked. “I can’t. I have to go.”
“Wait a minute. I just got you out of there, the least
you can do—”
“Thank you for coming to the rescue,” Jenny said,
throwing things back into her purse. “Send me the bill,
all right?”
“Jenny, we need to talk about this. Would you stop for
a minute?”
She leaned against her car and wiped away sudden
tears with her fingers. “He’s dead. They shot him dead!” Allison gave her a tissue. “Jenny? Do you have any
idea who did it?”
“No. I don’t know anything about it. I told the police.
I just came in and found him like that!”
“All right. Now listen. They’ll want to talk to you
again, and I’m going to refer this case to the senior partner
at my law firm, who knows her way around criminal law.” “Why do I need a lawyer? They don’t suspect me!” “Not at the moment, but they think somebody might
have come in to steal the maps. They know that you were
working on them for Judge Herron, and they could wonder whom you might have told.”
“Nobody! I had nothing to do with this!” Indignation
colored her cheeks. “Everybody knows he was a collector.”
“But he didn’t keep the most valuable maps at his
house until he started working on the exhibit for the map
fair. Who knew about it? I mean, besides the people connected to the map fair?”
“I wouldn’t trust that lot. They’re all mad.” “That may be true, but a collector wouldn’t kill for
one. A collector wouldn’t shoot a man through a Corelli
worth tens of thousands of dollars.”
Jenny’s mouth fell open. “How much?”
Allison shook her head. “Never mind. Just think. Did
you talk to anyone about the maps? Maybe Larry? Or any
of his friends?”
“No! Larry knew I was working part-time for
Royce—I mean Judge Herron—but your brother doesn’t
like maps, does he?”
“Larry is only my stepbrother,” Allison said. “Do you
know if the judge had any appointments later in the evening? The police might find something in his desk diary,
but they’re not likely to tell me.”
Jenny wiped her nose. “He didn’t mention anyone
coming over. He said he had to finish the catalogue.” “Did anyone come during the day?”
“While I was there? Only this one guy who dropped
off a map.”
“Who?”
“The delivery man for the map shop.”
“What map shop?”
“The Compass Rose.”
“I see.” Allison’s mind supplied the answer before
she asked: “Who was the deliveryman?”
“His name is Tom Fairchild. He was only there like
five minutes, and he didn’t see anything. He didn’t go
into the study.”
“Did he go out to the back porch? The police said you
were working there.”
“He knew about the maps, but he wouldn’t . . . he isn’t
the sort who would kill someone. He’s a gr
eat guy, really
he is.”
“Where did you meet him, at the shop?”
“Yes, and then we went out a couple of times.” Jenny
laughed. “He took me to an AA meeting, if you must
know. But he doesn’t drink, I mean, not like that. He used
to go because it was part of his probation. I didn’t like it.
All those depressing stories.”
Allison raised her brows. “What’s he on probation
for?”
“It wasn’t anything serious. Burglary, but Tom was
breaking into a house to take back his own stuff, which
his roommate had stolen when he moved out—” “All right.” Allison held up her hands. “We’ll talk
later. When can you come by my office?”
Jenny aimed her key ring at the car to unlock it.
“Maybe tomorrow. I’ll call you.”
“I want a better answer than that,” Allison said, holding the door.
Jenny jerked on it. “I’ll call you. Let go of the door.” Allison watched the car do the turnaround at the end
of the street, then take a fast right, leaves swirling as it
vanished past the houses.
A face appeared in her memory, one she hadn’t seen
in twelve years.
“Tom Fairchild. Oh, great.”
Chapter 5
Leaving the office that afternoon, Allison put the convertible top down and let the wind swirl through her hair. On the causeway from Miami to
the beach, she checked for police cars, then gunned her roadster to ninety-five miles an hour. She had bought it just last weekend, a black BMW Z4 that could run like a cat with its tail on fire. She braked at the exit and headed north.
At the entrance to La Gorce Island, she gave her name to the guard. He checked a list on his computer and wrote down her tag number while Allison fumed. The electronic gate opener that her father had promised to send hadn’t arrived yet. Allison was certain he’d left it up to Rhonda, who conveniently forgot anything she didn’t want to do.
The gate arm rose. Allison flexed her hands on the steering wheel and took a deep breath. She had promised herself to take a new approach with her father’s wife: no confrontations, no anger, no sarcasm.
The Perfect Fake Page 4
