Slow Burn

by Heather Graham

  “He’s not exactly a cult leader.”

  “He was the one accused of raiding graves for body parts!” Spencer exclaimed. “For his rituals.”

  “He was accused of grave robbing, but the police weren’t so certain he was after body parts. They think he might have been trying to hide evidence. A number of his church members were dying inexplicably. He managed to get most of them cremated. Danny thought he was behind the vandalism in several cemeteries. He was digging up some of his own people and making sure nothing could be found if the police did decide to exhume a few bodies. Now, that’s it, Spencer. I’ve given you every name I’ve got left on my list of possibilities. I haven’t been sitting back idle, I’m doing everything I can. Now I want you to get up, go home and forget it.”

  She was up, hands on his desk, staring at him as he stared at her. “I can’t forget—”

  “You have to.” He gritted his teeth, wishing again that he didn’t feel the awful urge to either shake her or wrap his arms around her. The last would be one dreadful mistake. She would welcome him with all the warmth and comfort of a porcupine. Nothing would ever be right between them again; Danny’s death had made that an even greater certainty. He needed to keep her away from him. He’d always needed to keep her away from him. Temptation was too great when she was near. And temptation with Spencer was pure torment. He’d learned the hard way that there was nothing in the world quite like wanting Spencer. And nothing in the world quite like the way a man could find his soul wrenched right from his being by the void she could leave in his life. She looked as if she belonged on a pedestal. A blond goddess with her perfect alabaster skin. An Anglo goddess with a perfect pedigree. Yeah, Danny had matched her just perfectly.

  “Get out, Spencer.”

  “Damn you, David!”

  “When I know something, I’ll tell you. If you can do something, I’ll tell you. Until then, leave me the hell alone so that I can keep working.”

  “David…”

  She fell silent as he approached her with pure menace. He forced himself to close his hands around her arms with some control—but not a lot of it. He turned her bodily around and ushered her out of his office as quickly as he could, wishing even for those few seconds that he didn’t have to touch her at all. He could smell her. He didn’t know what the scent was, only that she had worn it as long as she had worn a bra, that it wasn’t just cologne or perfume, it was soap and body lotion, as well. It was subtle, mixed with something that was just plain Spencer, and it was also intoxicating and sensual. Feelings of guilt instantly began to creep over him, like a crimson tide. He felt the attraction just as he had felt it when Danny was still alive, just as he had felt it when he and Spencer had both been young and a little bit wild and alive with the sheer power of their youth and growing sexuality. He wanted Spencer, he’d always wanted her, had never stopped wanting her, even when she had been married to his best friend. But he would never have touched her when she was Danny’s wife, and as Danny’s widow, somehow she seemed twice as taboo.

  “David, damn you,” she began again, as he escorted her past Reva’s desk and through the reception area.

  “Say goodbye to Spencer, Reva. She’s got to go out and get on with her life now.”

  Reva looked up miserably from her desk. Furious, Spencer snatched her wrists away from David. “Thank you, Reva,” Spencer told his sister; then her eyes, ice blue now, met his. “And thank you, of course. For your unconditional support and assistance!”

  “Spencer, how many times can I say this? I swear, I’m doing everything I can!”

  “It’s not enough, David. It’s just not enough.”

  But that was Spencer’s final volley. She was out the front door of his office. He watched her heels click smartly on the pavement as she marched to the small parking area just off Main Street.

  Maybe he should have put his office out on the beach, he thought. Up in Miami Springs, or over on Key Biscayne. Somewhere other than where Spencer had always lived. No, he had always lived here, too. And Spencer and he would be entangled now even if he’d moved his office to Never Never Land.

  He turned around. Reva was staring at him. Something seemed to close around his heart. “What?” he snapped to his sister. “You think she’s right? You think there’s something else I can do that I haven’t?”

  Reva shook her head, watching him almost sadly. “I know that you’ve spent more than a year trying to trace Danny’s killer,” she told him flatly. “I just feel so sorry for her.”

  “Wonderful. She bursts in here like hell on wheels, and you feel bad for poor, poor Spencer.”

  Reva ignored that with a shrug. “None of us could believe what happened to Danny. It seemed that everyone in the world loved him. I mean, can you remember a time in our lives when Danny didn’t come through for anyone? And Spencer was married to him. The rest of us may be able to accept that, as awful as it is, the killer will never be found. But Spencer…Spencer will never be able to rest until the case is closed.”

  David swore softly, turned away from his sister and headed toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Reva asked him.

  “Somewhere quiet. To visit Danny.”

  To visit Danny…

  Well, at the very least, it really was quiet. After he’d stopped the car, at least. He drove an accelerated Mustang, not ostentatious, not a junk pile, and fast enough to follow just about anything on the road. And besides, Michael MacCloud had always believed in buying American.

  The cemetery wasn’t far. Just through Coconut Grove and north past downtown Coral Gables, then to the right where it became the City of Miami again. Danny’s grave was almost at the center of the graveyard; he’d been laid to rest beneath a marble angel. David stood over the grave. The grass was all grown in, and a bouquet of fresh flowers sat in the brass vase just above the headstone that stated Danny’s full name, his rank and “best friend, beloved husband, always cherished within our hearts.”

  Sometimes, he still couldn’t believe that Danny was gone.

  “Why couldn’t you have talked to me, buddy?” he said softly. “You didn’t tell me anything about the killer—you had to whisper her name! Well, I suppose I just might have done that, too. But it would have helped me a hell of a lot now if you’d just given me a clue.”

  There was a slight motion behind him. He wore a gun beneath his jacket, but instinct told him that he wasn’t in any real danger in this realm of the dead. He turned around slowly, expectantly.

  Sly was there. Sly Montgomery. David wasn’t sure just how old Sly was—but it was definitely very. He’d come south with some of the earliest pioneers, not too long after Julia Tuttle had sent Henry Flagler an orange blossom to convince Flagler to bring his railroad south. Sly was somewhere in his nineties—unless he’d hit a hundred—but age didn’t seem to affect the man much. He was slim as a reed and straight as an arrow. He’d never lost his hair. It was snow-white, but there was a lot of it. And he had the most intense blue eyes David had ever seen anywhere—unless he compared them to Spencer’s. Sly had made enough money to retire anywhere on earth, but this was his home, working with his hands was his craft. When David had been young, Sly had told him that he intended to die working. He’d meant those words.

  A smile curved old Sly’s lips. “David. How nice to see you.”

  David arched a brow. “We just happen to be out here at the same time?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then…?”

  “Reva told me where you were.”

  “Why were you looking for me?” he asked, then sighed, staring at the grave again and speaking once more before Sly could answer the question he’d been asked. “Spencer was by, and I’ve got to tell you the same thing I told her. You can’t hire me to look for Danny’s killer. I’m already doing everything I can. You’ve both got to believe that. He was my best friend. I don’t need to be paid to put everything I’ve got into it.”

  “Oh, I believe that,�
� Sly said. “And I didn’t come to ask if I could hire you.”

  David turned to Sly, arching a brow. “Surely this isn’t a social call, not in a cemetery, Sly.” Sly grinned. They couldn’t be his own teeth, David thought, but whether they were or not, they were perfect.

  “I didn’t come about Danny.”

  “Then…”

  “I came about Spencer.”

  “What?”

  “I want to hire you to look after Spencer.”

  “Why?”

  “I think that someone is following her. No, that’s not right. I’m sure that someone is following her, stalking her. In fact, David, I think that someone is trying to kill her.”

  Jerry Fried, Danny Huntington’s last partner in homicide, drummed his fingers on the table, staring unhappily at the headlines on the front page of the Miami Herald.

  More Than A Year After His Death, Humanitarian Cop’s Killer Remains At Large

  The reporter had done one hell of a slam job, throwing suspicion on everyone, including the untouchable Mrs. Huntington, David Delgado, half the crooks in the city—and half the police force.

  Jerry groaned and reached across his desk for the large bottle of cherry-flavored antacids he kept there. He took a huge handful as if they were candies.

  It was Spencer being back in town that was causing all this brouhaha again. Why couldn’t they just let Danny stay buried? Everyone knew that cops did everything they could when another cop went down. Just like everybody knew there were some crimes that were destined to go unsolved. Maybe everybody didn’t know quite how many there were, but people had to know they existed, especially in a city as big as Miami.

  A queasy pain swished in his stomach again; he chewed another handful of antacids. Damn Spencer. Why hadn’t she just stayed in Rhode Island? It would have been better for all of them.

  Gene Vichy read the headline at the breakfast table while enjoying the elegant view of water and yachts at his club. He smiled slightly, shaking his head. It was one self-righteous reporter who had done the job on this one! The police were, it seemed, a handful of incompetents. His smile deepened. The general public didn’t always understand the law. Take the case of his poor murdered wife. The cops sure as hell thought he had done it, but they didn’t have a shred of proof. The D.A.’s office could never prosecute him; they had nothing but their certainty that the motive had been money. Now, as to Danny…

  The poor cops. They didn’t even have an obvious motive. In the murder of a husband or wife, as he well knew, the cops instantly looked to the surviving spouse.

  Spencer had inherited a fortune on her husband’s death, but what did that matter to a woman who had several fortunes of her own already. Then there was jealousy. A lover, perhaps?

  But, alas again for the poor cops! Spencer Huntington seemed purer than the driven snow. Where to go from there. To a best friend?

  To all those crooks Danny Huntington had been after?

  A friend, a foe—a snitch?

  He laughed out loud softly. He could almost feel it in the air. Fur was going to fly again.

  Ricky Garcia swore violently in his native Spanish and threw the paper on the floor.

  ¡Merde! The cops were going to be crawling all over him again. Coming down on his gambling, on his prostitutes.

  All because the wife was back in town, stirring up trouble!

  Jared Monteith hadn’t read the paper at home that morning. He didn’t see the headline until he sat down behind his desk. Even as he sat, his line rang. He winced before picking up the receiver, knowing full well that it was going to be his wife.

  “Did you read the damned paper?” Cecily could screech extremely well when she wanted to.

  “Yes, I’m looking at it right now.”

  “I told you Spencer was trouble.”

  “Cecily—the reporter is down on Spencer!”

  Cecily sniffed. “As if Spencer is going to worry!”

  “Sly’s calling me,” Jared said and sighed. “Cecily, no big deal, okay? Gotta go.”

  Trey Delia read the paper in his incense-filled room. He was sitting cross-legged and naked on his floor. The two young women who had recently come to fulfill his needs giggled softly from somewhere behind him as he sipped herbal tea laced with ox blood. Raw chicken hearts sat on a plate before him.

  Something human would have been better.

  The ancients understood. Consuming an enemy gave a man his enemy’s strength. A heart offered courage and wisdom. Some organs gave strength. Bone-meal gave a man physical and mental powers.

  Ah, and now this….

  Everyone would be up in arms again.

  The cops would be going crazy. It must be Danny’s widow stirring up the dust. Spencer, the beautiful wife. Trey had seen her picture. Very blond, elegant. Tempting.

  He popped a chicken heart into his mouth and drew a deep breath from the hashish pipe at his side. The girls were still giggling.

  Spencer…

  She was trouble. So pretty. So much trouble. So pale, slim, elegant.

  He wondered how she would taste.

  In his office, Sly read the headline and groaned.

  Audrey was sipping her coffee and reading, as well. Poor Spencer. The wound Danny’s death had left was being ripped open all over again. Of course, Spencer was doing it herself, but still, it was sad.

  So many people would be upset! Dangerous people. But there would be no stopping Spencer. Audrey knew her well, and she didn’t really blame her.

  Audrey bit her lip and continued to scan the paper.

  Jon Monteith, Jared’s father, Spencer’s uncle, lay his head wearily on his pillow.

  If only they could let matters rest!

  After all, it hadn’t been a drive-by shooting, and any fool knew Spencer wasn’t guilty. It hadn’t been robbery.

  So why kill a cop?

  It was simple. The way he saw it, the cop had known too much.

  A cop learned things on the streets. He was an investigator. He found things out, and sometimes he was careful about telling even his associates what he knew.

  And pursuing what was going on could be dangerous. Danny had been bright. Danny had been on to so many things. And with Spencer raising a fuss and the newspapers going crazy, things were bound to happen.

  Yes…

  A veritable Pandora’s box could fly right open.

  He swore and groaned.

  Spencer had come home, and she wouldn’t let things rest. She just didn’t know what was good for her.

  Spencer was one royal pain in the ass.

  He picked up the phone and waited for an answer. “Have you seen the headline?”

  “Yes,” came the reply. “I’m on it. I’ve been on it, damn it!”

  “Make sure you stay on it. Make damned sure, because if you don’t…”

  He let the force of the husky threat fade, then replaced the receiver with a sharp click.

  Accidents did happen. Oh, yes. Accidents did happen.

  3

  There were at least a hundred good reasons she shouldn’t be in a cemetery in the dead of night, Spencer thought.

  And the longer she stood in the darkness, the longer the list became and the more foolish her errand seemed to be.

  It was just that…she had to do something. Someone had to do something. She had tried very hard to let the police do their work. She had even understood when they had grilled her, relentlessly, apologetically, relentlessly again. She applauded their efforts—at least it had seemed as if they were traveling along every possible avenue.

  And she even believed—no, she knew—that David Delgado would have stopped at nothing to catch Danny’s killer.

  It was just that they weren’t doing enough.

  She’d gone away for a long time. She’d stopped working for a while, but idleness had been sheer misery. She knew that she couldn’t bring Danny back. But she also knew that she would never be able to live the new life David was ordering her to until she had laid Dan
ny’s ghost to rest by seeing his killer caught.

  But this…this was probably sheer stupidity. She might not find out anything, and she might well be mugged by some petty thief. Or worse. The casual crime in South Florida was as scary as the acts committed with premeditated malice.

  Sly was worried about her, she knew. It was because of the beam that had collapsed in the old house she’d been working on last week. But the place had practically been condemned, and she’d only agreed to work on it because her cousin Jared had set up a meeting with an ace architect and one of the best builders in the city. And it had been a gracious old place, designed by DeGarmo, with fantastic huge beams in the ceiling, the original tiles and stenciling—all crying out to be saved. The beam could have fallen on anyone, and it hadn’t actually fallen on her. It had missed her by several inches. She wouldn’t have thought anything of it, herself, but Sly had been with her….

  A cloud rolled over the moon. It was very dark. A breeze suddenly stirred against the humidity and heat of the night, and she was startled to feel a creeping sensation of cold sweep over her.

  The paper today had carried a wealth of information. The grave robbers were at it again, and the police again suspected Trey Delia’s offshoot of Santeria. Santeria was indeed a strange religion, from what Spencer knew of it. It was a form of Catholicism mixed with some very odd theologies from the islands. Its rituals often called for live sacrifices—chickens and goats, usually, although human body parts were also considered useful, especially by some offshoot groups. Grave robbers had absconded with fingers and toes and the like before.

  Today in the office, Audrey had idly pointed out how the grave robbery had seemed to follow a pattern the first time, a pattern that circled the city, then came dead center back into it. And now it seemed that things were happening just the same way again.

  Was that what had brought her here?

  She had one contact left who no one knew about. Not the police, not anyone. His name was Willie Harper; he lived on the streets in downtown Miami, and though he didn’t have a drug problem, he did like a good bottle of Scotch. Spencer had once been very unhappy about Willie, telling Danny that he was paying the man just to help him kill himself with his alcoholism. But it wasn’t really that bad. Willie was a good sort. Danny paid him well, and before he drank any of it away, he bought food for all his friends, blankets, sometimes even a cheap hotel room for the night. But Willie liked living on the streets. He liked to make money, too. When he’d contacted Spencer, she’d promised to keep paying him for any information he could give her that might help find Danny’s killer.