by Dan Alatorre
DeShear crossed the asphalt to stand near her. “Yeah, you never know with traffic around here. Nice to meet you, Ms. Kim.”
She continued stretching, not looking up. “You came early to see if you could learn what kind of car I drove, or who else might be with me.”
He smiled. “That’s just good detective work, ma’am. Don’t think anything of it.”
“I won’t. You are younger-looking in person than your online profile.” She sat upright, putting her hands behind her on the grass. “Based on the college graduation date you listed on LinkedIn, you’re in your mid-fifties. You could pass for thirty-five.”
“Thank you. Good genes, I guess.”
“Hmm.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do my questions make you uncomfortable?”
Yes. “No, ma’am.”
“Your hair has almost no gray. Do you color it?”
He stepped back a bit, putting a hand to his head. “Color it? No.” His cheeks grew warm. This was already a very strange interview.
“Okay, then.” She took a deep breath. “Shall we start?”
“Please.”
She extended her hand and he helped her to her feet. The running shoes looked new. So did the red workout shirt and jogging shorts.
“Do you mind if we walk while we talk? It may help maintain the illusion that I’m here to casually exercise.”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “I’m not exactly dressed to work out, though.”
“No, you are not. Next time, I’ll be more specific—although I thought it would have been obvious after I said what I’d be wearing. Lesson learned. This way, please.”
She crossed to the other side of Bayshore and headed north on the big sidewalk that ran several miles along the bay. Whether it was freezing out or hot, the bay always gave a breeze. Sometimes that breeze smelled of low tide, but the joggers didn’t seem to care.
“You have questions,” Lanaya said, pulling her hair into a ponytail as she walked. “What are they?”
DeShear followed her, gazing at the concrete railing that lined the sidewalk. “Well, I took the five thousand dollars out of my account and put it in a safe deposit box, so if you change your mind after our meeting, you can’t grab it back.”
She moved at a brisk pace, swinging her arms. “I have no intention of grabbing it back. It’s for services rendered. As of a few minutes from now, it’s yours. Then we’ll see about me hiring you to take my case.”
“Okay. You also mentioned some things yesterday that you said you’d explain today.” He loosened his tie again. “So I guess I’m really here to listen.”
“Fine. Let’s pick up the pace, shall we?”
He winced, wishing he’d worn different shoes, but took off his suit coat and swung it over his shoulder. Though he worked out every day, he still got sweaty easily when he did physical activity. The breeze from the bay could only do so much.
Between breaths, Lanaya spoke in short huffs. “I have information about a murder.”
“I know. The news and the cops still say it was just a car wreck, but we’re running down your drug tip.”
“I’m not talking about Dr. Braunheiser. The authorities dismissed the last two murders as well. Accidental deaths in all cases, except they weren’t. If Mark Harriman has requested the advance toxicology screen, we’ll have the report soon. Like the others, it will show Propofol.”
“That’ll be big news.”
“That’s not the big news. If somebody calls up the police and says a prominent physician didn’t die in a car wreck on his birthday, but was actually murdered, and three of his colleagues were murdered on their birthdays in the last twelve months, that’s big news.”
DeShear stopped walking. “If that were happening around here, I’m sure we’d have heard about it.”
“No, that’s exactly why you haven’t heard about it.” She ceased walking and came back to him. “It hasn’t happened around here. Dr. Braunheiser isn’t linked to the other murders because of where he lives. He’s linked by where he worked.”
“Which was where?”
She looked down. “I’m afraid I can’t divulge that at this time.”
Leaning against the thick concrete rail, DeShear frowned. His fifty-four-year-old knees preferred the padded comfort of running shoes to hard concrete and the thin leather soles of his dress shoes.
But that wasn’t the only reason for his discomfort. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something didn’t add up with Lanaya Kim. Maybe he was being played. Nobody spends five thousand dollars on a PI for a meeting. Not just for a meeting, anyway.
“You’re looking at me strangely.” She put her hands on her hips, drawing hard breaths. “I’m not crazy, but what if I am? The money is good.”
“Well,” he sighed. “I can’t argue with that.”
“See this?” She patted the thick concrete railing. Waves crashed on rocks a few feet below. “It’s designed to have cars not go through it, and it runs the entire length of this scenic drive, without a break, for over four miles. Guess where Braunheiser’s wreck occurred?”
He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “The paper said it was south of here, at Ballast Point. Near the park.”
“Twenty feet past where this big railing stops. Coincidence?”
“Maybe. Most people don’t go for a drive and stay in front of their house.”
She folded her arms. “Let me turn the tables on you for a moment. You were highly recommended. I’m not seeing it. You said you were a police officer. Why did you leave your career after so many years? Did you not like it?”
“I’m not sure you want to hear my story. It has a sad ending so far.”
“Our future work arrangements end now if I don’t hear it.”
That got his attention, but it was a delicate topic. His instinct was to stare at the sidewalk, but he forced himself to look into her eyes and be firm and candid. “I got let go,” he said. “I received three commendations in two years, and had just gotten my picture taken with the mayor, when they fired me.”
The wind lifted a tuft of her long hair. She pushed it from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. “What was the picture with the mayor for?”
“I was fishing at a marina, and I’m on the dock next to some of the bigger boats. Some guy jumps in this one boat and steals it. Problem is, he didn’t realize there were little kids down below. He gets about three hundred yards offshore and stops, and he throws the kids overboard. Now, there’s nobody around. The boat owner is in the bait shop getting ice and sodas, and I’m standing on the dock watching this thing unfold. The thief takes off again, and the kids are drowning in the channel. I don’t have a boat, so I jumped in. Swam over, saved the two kids. The waves were pretty good sized that day. The kids wouldn’t have lasted five minutes. Anyway, it made the newspapers, and I got my picture taken with the mayor. ‘Off-duty cop makes city proud.’ That kind of thing.”
“Fishing again. Do you do a lot of that?”
“I used to fish a lot with my dad when I was a kid.” DeShear stuck his hands in his pockets. “He died when I was in high school.”
“I’m sorry.” She shifted her weight. Her tone had softened. “What about the commendations?”
“You need the whole bio, huh?” He shrugged. “Okay.” He took his hands out of his pockets and counted on his fingers. “I got one for stopping a school shooting. Busted in the door and knocked the kid to the ground when he was still scaring everybody and firing holes into the ceiling. One was for a big drug bust where we saved a hostage. The other was for getting people out when the library was on fire.”
She shook her head, tucking another strand of hair behind her ear. “Why on Earth did they let you go?”
DeShear turned around and leaned on the railing, facing the breeze. In the distance, across the choppy water of the bay, stood the skyscrapers of downtown Tampa and its police headquarters.
“My partner and I went to a dirty apartment building, a little rat hole, where th
is guy was selling drugs. It was a domestic dispute call, and everybody in the place looked like they were starving to death except this big guy. He’s on meth or something, but the kids haven’t been showered in weeks. The girlfriend is full of bruises. So I’m talking to this guy, and he just let loose. He smacks his daughter, right in front of me. The kid’s about four or five, and she was crying because she was hungry, and he backhands her and tells her to shut up. Sends her flying.” He peered at Lanaya. “I had a bad temper. A quick temper. So I laid the guy out. I let him know what it was like to be on the receiving end of violence, so he’d think twice about hitting somebody next time. And . . . I busted his jaw.” DeShear sighed, looking over the water. “Turns out, his dad is a big shot attorney, and they sued me for everything under the sun. I lost my job, and the big lawyer took my house, my car, my bank account, everything. Now I do this. And try to work on my quick temper.”
“You still got three commendations. Those go to heroes.” She stepped closer to him and lowered her voice. “I believe I’d be proud to have you work on my case.”
He nodded. “Thank you.”
The wind picked up again, taking a few scattered leaves from the sidewalk and carrying them across the wide boulevard. They came to rest on the manicured lawns of the mansions on the other side.
“When the Propofol is confirmed,” Lanaya clasped her hands in front of her, “the police will demand to know where the information came from. If you tell them it was me, then that will make me a suspect. If you don’t, they’ll hold you as a suspect. I am not the person who did any of this, but if my name comes to light—from being booked as a suspect or being named in a news story—then people who want me silenced will know where to find me. Meanwhile, there have been several associates of Dr. Braunheiser’s who lived around the country and who have died under ordinary-looking circumstances. Upon deeper investigation, their deaths were quite suspicious. Whoever did that is involved here. There may be other things involved as well.”
He leaned against the concrete railing. “Well, again—murder goes over into the Tampa PD basket, and if they are around the country, it goes to the FBI.”
“Yes, and while they assemble a task force and jockey for jurisdiction and rent office space and try to piece together what we already know, others will die.”
“That’s . . . not really my problem. I just can’t—”
“Of course it’s your problem.” She stared straight into his eyes. “There are ruthless murderers after me. They’ll happily kill you to get me.”
Chapter 4
DeShear gripped the steering wheel and frowned as he drove toward Tampa International Airport. Driving a client to the airport wasn’t a big deal, but potentially putting his life at risk and still not getting the whole story, that didn’t sit well. He valued his butt a lot more than five thousand dollars.
He also didn’t feel he was in a position to argue. He needed the money, but people who can drop that kind of cash on an hour-long interview can probably hire people to get it back, too.
But a cruise to the Bahamas would be nice . . .
Then there was the story itself. Plausible, but thin. But there wasn’t any harm in getting paid—and paid well—to listen to somebody’s far-fetched story. It was a part of the job he didn’t like, but it was still part of the job.
As long as he wasn’t getting played somehow.
Maybe poke the bear one more time. See if she’ll spill something.
“Listen,” he said, adjusting his sunglasses. “If you really think your life is in danger, you need to go to the police.”
She sat with her hands in her lap, clutching a small purse and staring out the window. “You still don’t believe me. Well, what if I already did go to the police? You were a cop. What can they do? How many stories have you heard where some girlfriend was being battered, or an ex-wife’s life was being threatened, and the police can’t do anything until the guy makes a move? Well in my case, the move will be my death—and that’s not really a good option.”
“But I mean—”
“This is much bigger than that, and the best solution is for me to stay on the move, which I am. And you are potentially linked to me now. I’ve wired money to your account and we’ve spoken on your cell phone. We’ve met in person. I took precautions by using a numbered bank account and disposable phones, but any number of things could have been noticed on your end.”
He nodded. “Well, thanks for that.”
She turned and stared at him, keeping her hands in her lap. “Pull over.”
“Don’t get in a huff. You asked for a ride to the airport and I said I’d take you. Delta, was it?”
“Pull the car over right now.”
He sighed, slowing the vehicle to make a turn. “I’ll stop over here. This road’s too busy for theatrics.” He pointed to the vast, mostly empty parking lot of International Mall. “How’s that?”
“That will do fine. Thank you.”
Pulling past the rows of regal palm trees and coiffed topiaries, he eased into a parking spot away from any other cars. After turning off the engine, he turned and rested his back against the driver’s side door, studying his soon-to-be-former client.
She stared at the small purse in her lap. “I’ve been trying to do you a favor, Mr. DeShear. Five thousand dollars is a lot of money, but I’m desperate. You can walk away right now and keep the cash. You did your part. You met with me.” The quiver in her voice returned. It hooked him over the phone, and it reset the hook again now. “I . . . can get a cab from here. That’s what I did to get to Bayshore. And I can—”
“I’ll take you to the airport.” He spoke in a low, soothing tone, almost a whisper. It was like a husband who was making up with his wife after a tiff where the words had been flung too hard. “I’m not a jerk. Not that kind of a jerk, anyway.”
She raised her head and swallowed hard. “I’m not crazy. I have proof that I’m in danger, and I have information about much more than that. But . . .” Turning to him, a tear ran down her cheek. “I don’t want to die.”
He pursed his lips, drawing a deep breath. Her fear was real. That mattered.
A tiny pop opened the little purse, revealing a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills and a driver’s license. She pressed them to one side and took out a few folded pieces of paper, handing them to him. “This is what you’ve been wondering about.”
He removed his sunglasses. The papers were photocopies of newspaper articles. One reported the accidental drowning of Emmet Kincaid, a winemaking consultant in northern California; the other was the accidental overdose of Nilla Cunde in Missouri, from painkillers. Both had died within the last thirty days.
She glanced at the papers. “At one time in their careers, they were geneticists. Like me.”
“Okay.” He handed the photocopies back to her. “But I can’t shake the feeling there’s something a lot bigger that you’re not telling me.”
“What if I told you both of these people had Propofol in their systems at the time of death, and that they both used to work together—at the same facility where Dr. Braunheiser once worked?
He sat back. “Is that true?”
“What if I told you that someone knew they worked together with the others, and now all the geneticists who worked there are being systematically killed, one at a time? I can show you a list. But not here.” She stuffed the papers back into her purse. “I’ll show you in Atlanta.”
The hook was already set, and he was the fish. He had to learn the rest of her strange story.
“Why Atlanta?”
“Will another five thousand dollars get you to come with me?”
Another five thousand dollars!
He tried to remain calm. Money caused people to do stupid things, and his spider sense was pinging away at this woman.
But ten grand is ten grand.
“A smart guy would say no. I get the feeling you’re a rich lady who needs a body buried, and I’m gonna end up doing the digg
ing. I’d like to still be a PI when this is all over, and not be in jail or the morgue.”
“I’m not rich.”
He put on his sunglasses and reached for the ignition. “You have ten thousand dollars to hand over to me in cash. That doesn’t make you poor.”
“I have a limited budget I procured for this instance, and I hoped it would never arrive.” She lowered her voice and sighed. “I have the other five thousand in cash, in a locker at the airport. Can I hire you to go with me to Atlanta or not?”
“Cash in a locker at the airport. Sounds ominous.”
“Yes. People with bad intentions stash boodles of money in lockers at the airport. You’ve been watching too much TV. Innocent people who need to move in a hurry might do it, too. I am not a person with bad intentions.” She sat upright and wiped her eyes. “Start the car. I’ll explain more in Atlanta. You can see the cash when we get to the Delta terminal. I’ll give you half the money when you buy your ticket. The rest, you get when I’m safely checked into my hotel.”
He glared at her, his jaw hanging open. “You’re not gonna take no for an answer, are you?”
“Not when ‘no’ might get me killed.”
He started the car, smiling. “Well, I guess I’d better pack a bag for my trip to Atlanta.”
“There’s no time. And I don’t want to risk going back to your apartment. We may have already been compromised.”
“Compromised, huh? You working for the CIA now?” He put the car in gear. “My place is on the way.”
* * * * *
They never got past the fire trucks.
Smoke was still billowing out of DeShear’s apartment building when they drove up. The captain motioned residents of the Polo Club Apartments to the front parking lot, and DeShear walked the rest of the way with Lanaya following. Three engines had been called out, but they hadn’t extinguished the fire before his apartment was incinerated—along with half of the building.
Residents and pedestrians gawked at the carnage, gasping and pointing at the black mess.
