“It’s not about either fucking game, football or you and me! I feel old, Jessica. This is probably my last year with the Demons and I’m getting to a place in my life where I want to settle down. The parties bore me. There’s not a part of me that doesn’t ache from the pain of fifteen years of taking hits from assholes who want to destroy me. My brawling days are behind me. You’re just getting started. We’re nearly eleven years apart. I thought I could deal with that, but I know now I can’t.
“I’m not trying to be a bastard about this. When I was in my twenties I was exactly like you. No time for serious relationships, just party to party and partner to partner. I’m not there anymore. So why don’t we make this easier on both of us and agree to move on…”
She broke into his sentence as though she had missed the entire dialogue.
“Give me a break, huh? Tell it like it is. Tell me about her, Kyle. Is she someone I know? I’ll bet the bank she’s no older than me, maybe even younger.”
He continued his defense in slow, carefully enunciated words. “Have not found anyone else. I have not been looking for anyone else.”
His jaw was taut, his teeth clenched. An angry muscle ticked at his temple. His voice got very low. “Listen to me, Jessica. We’re finished. I’m moving in one direction and, well, you’re not.”
The two sat in silence for a moment, glowering at one another. And then Jessica switched gears on him.
“I do understand, Kyle. I’ve really pissed you off, and truly, truly, I’m sorry. I’ll do better, honey, I promise. No ring required.”
She moved toward him, flashing her most alluring smile. Her brooding eyes sending the unmistakable signal that she was ready for some of the sex they agreed was so good between them.
He actually felt himself growing hard. Damn, she’s good, he thought. He even considered one quick lay for the road before mentally punching himself serious. What the fuck am I thinking? Furious at his body’s response and his own weakness, his tone grew harsh and his voice loud.
“You are not listening. Turn out the lights, Jessica. The party’s over. I don’t want anything from you including sex. We is past tense when it comes to us!” He stood and started for the door.
She seemed to be getting it now. The tinge of seduction was gone and she spat another round of vitriol at him. “You, you, you sanctimonious prick! Who do you think you are talking to me like that? You’re right. It’s over. Just get outta here. There’re plenty of guys who’ll be glad to know you’re out of the picture.” Her voice had gone shrill and by the time she stopped for a breath, she was shrieking. Taking his cue and the opportunity, he opened the door. She was right behind him, shouting about how he was old news anyway. “And don’t come around when you’re desperate for a good blow job…”
She was still yelling when he hit the stairs. He took them four steps at a time, as though it was devil herself chasing him. Her voice followed him out the front door. His head was exploding.
Kyle reached the car just as a meter-maid was slapping a ticket on his windshield. After a feeble attempt to charm her out of it, he thanked her and tossed it into the glove compartment with the others.
Damn, what a night!
CHAPTER TWO
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 finesse. 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.
CHAPTER THREE
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.
“Kaufman here.” “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.”
“Just for you, cranky. Roasters ‘n Toasters finest. 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 f
orce.
“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
The Mystery of Jessica Benson Page 2
