Krewe of Hunters Series, Volume 5

by Heather Graham

  Brett loved his state; he’d always wanted to work just where he was working. He considered himself well qualified, since he’d been born in Gainesville—as had his parents. His dad’s parents had been born in St. Augustine and his mother’s in Jacksonville. All his life, he’d heard their fascinating tales about the past; to him, the state was unique and incredibly special—though of course it faced plenty of challenges, too. He’d attended the University of Miami and worked in the Keys on weekends, and during summers he’d been hired on the charter boats that were so prevalent around the state. He knew the mentality of the Deep South stretch of the panhandle, the theme-park wonderland of the center of the state and the varied mix—Caribbean, South and Central-American, now with a growing Eastern European component—of the southern half of the state and the Keys. He’d made a point of learning Spanish and Portuguese and the Haitian patois that was spoken in some areas of Miami. Few people, he thought, knew the state and its inhabitants better, with all the quirks and oddities to be found in such a diverse population.

  And he’d learned to care about people the rest of the world judged simplistically, people like the Gomezes. While Miguel hadn’t shared the bone-deep goodness and tenderness of his wife, at his core he’d been a decent man caught between a rock and a hard place. He’d tried to make things right; he’d come to Brett and offered his help.

  Brett surfaced and saw that the Miami-Dade teams were already up, and so was Diego, who had slipped out of his buoyancy control vest and was sitting on the dock speaking with Adrianna Laramie. She made a good match for Rick; they were both attractive in a real-world way and bronzed from their years in the sun. She’d been fully cooperative, talking to the dolphins and getting them to retrieve all kinds of anomalous objects. They had brought up bits of coral, a deflated beach ball, a pair of sunglasses and a watch. But no more body parts.

  “Think we’re done here?” Diego called to him.

  Brett was just about to agree when he saw the CEO of the place, Grady Miller, hurrying along the dock with a cell phone.

  “It’s your supervisor. He wants to speak with you,” Grady told them.

  Diego took the phone and listened gravely, then turned to Brett. “You’re going to want a new tank,” he said.

  “Why?” Brett asked.

  “They’ve got an ID on our body part. And you’re not going to believe it.”

  “Miguel Gomez?” Brett asked incredulously.

  “Yup. Miguel didn’t burn up in that fire. Whether he did or didn’t kill his wife, he really could have been in his own neighborhood, and now he, or at least part of him, was here.”

  * * *

  Lara spent the afternoon working on a series of press releases in tandem with a public information officer from the Miami-Dade police. She’d been going back and forth with the young officer on email for what seemed like forever when Rick suddenly appeared at her door.

  “They want you,” he told her.

  She carefully hit the send button before looking at Rick curiously.

  “They want me? Sorry, who are they, and what do they want me for?”

  “They want you in the water.”

  “I’m not a trainer,” she said. “And ‘they’ as in the cops?”

  “‘They’ as in the FBI guys,” Rick said. “More particularly, dark and brooding FBI guy.”

  Lara thought about asking him which dark and brooding guy, except that she knew. It had to be Agent Cody.

  “Why do they want me? I don’t know what I’m doing unless I’m with you or one of the other trainers.”

  Rick made a face. “Well, you can thank Grady for this one. He says that Cocoa feels you’re her special friend. They think that if you’re in the water, she’ll get into the mood and help.”

  Lara stood up awkwardly. She’d changed out of her suit and into dry clothing for work, but if they wanted her in the water, she would be happy to change again and get back in.

  “Okay, give me five minutes. I’ve got to put my suit back on.”

  Rick nodded. “I’ll wait and go down with you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lara started to put on her suit and water shirt, but they were still damp, so it was a struggle to get back into them. She realized she must have taken longer than she realized when she heard footsteps and Rick called to her from outside the bathroom door and told her to hurry up. One final tug and she joined him.

  “Cocoa did really take to you,” he said as they started walking. “Maybe you’re just both good-looking girls of the same age. I mean, in dolphin years, she’s in her mid-twenties, too,” Rick said.

  “Maybe she’s blonde at heart, huh?” Lara asked.

  Rick grinned and led the way back down to the water.

  Agent Cody was still in the water, but his scuba equipment was on the dock, which meant—she assumed, since all she really saw was his bare chest—that he was wearing a pair of swim trunks and nothing else. He was muscled like steel, but she’d expected no less. His partner was standing on the dock in swim shorts, as were the police divers. Grady was there, too.

  Cocoa wasn’t alone in the lagoon. Several of the “girls”—as the young females were called—were there with her.

  As soon as Lara arrived on the dock, she heard Cocoa let out one of her little chattering sounds in greeting. Lara flushed; she did seem to have a bond with the animal.

  “I’m not sure how I can help,” she told Grady. “If the pros have come up empty and the girls haven’t found anything for you or Rick…” She paused, aware that Diego was looking at her understandingly, while Cody was just staring at her with unreadable dark eyes.

  “I had a German shepherd once, great dog,” Grady told her. “He was nice to other people, but he’d only play fetch with me. Only me, no one else—not even if the best dog trainer in the world was around. Dolphins are very bright animals, and Cocoa’s attached herself to you.” He pointed toward her where she was floating beside the dock, eyes intently focused on Lara. “Hop on into the water, greet her, give her back a stroke, then ask her to fetch for you.”

  Lara sat on the dock and slid into the water. She felt the dark eyes of Agent Cody on her all the while. Once in the water, she talked to Cocoa. The dolphin swam by Lara, allowing her to stroke her long, sleek back. Then she raced out to the center of the lagoon and did a fantastic leap before coming straight back to Lara.

  “Do I need some fish?” Lara asked, looking up at Grady.

  He shrugged. Rick, standing on the dock, reached into one of the coolers and pulled out a fish.

  Lara swam over to him, reached for the fish and turned. Cocoa was already there, her mouth open in anticipation. Lara tossed the fish to her.

  “Try now,” Agent Cody told Lara.

  She nodded, stroking the dolphin.

  “Cocoa, fetch, please,” Lara said, treading water and giving the dolphin the hand signal.

  Cocoa disappeared under the water. Everyone fell silent. Not even the police divers, who had broken off to chat, spoke.

  Nor did any of the other staff—trainers, educators, even the café crew—who had crowded around to watch the proceedings. Lara noted that coworkers seemed to be clustering together. Dr. Nelson Amory, head of research, stood with Cathy Barkley, his assistant, and Myles Dawson, their U of Miami intern. Frank Pilaf and the café staff stood together, while the other trainers, Sue Crane and Justin Villiers, were watching from beneath the bountiful leaves of a sea grape tree.

  Cocoa returned, bringing Lara a long stalk of sea grass.

  Lara thanked her and stroked her back.

  “Tell her that’s not it,” Agent Cody said.

  Lara ignored him; she wasn’t about to tell the dolphin that she’d failed or disappointed in any way.

  “Cocoa, thank you. And now, please, fetch again, will you?”
she asked.

  Cocoa went down again. This time, she returned with a pair of sunglasses that had obviously been entangled in sea grass for a very long time.

  “These are great,” she told Cocoa. “Thank you.”

  Cocoa chattered and went back down. She was obviously enjoying the game.

  Agent Cody was just staring at Lara, waiting. Uncomfortable under that probing gaze, she turned around to face Grady and Rick.

  “I’m not sure what you thought I could do,” she said by way of apology.

  “You never know,” Grady said.

  But then Lara felt a bump as Cocoa pushed her from behind. She heard a massive, collective gasp—almost as if all those gathered around the lagoon were actors creating a scene on cue—as she turned around.

  Cocoa had something for Lara. It was balanced precariously on her nose.

  And Lara had to choke back a scream, had to steel herself to remain still…

  This time it was a human foot.

  CHAPTER 3

  “It’s kind of like Mike, the headless chicken,” Diego said gravely.

  They’d showered at the Sea Life Center and were now on their way to the medical examiner’s office to see Dr. Phil Kinny, the ME, who had possession of the foot.

  Brett glanced questioningly at Diego, then went back to driving as he waited for his partner and friend to elaborate.

  Diego nodded at him somberly. “I swear this is no lie, Brett. You can look it up. There was a chicken by the name of Mike. Had his head chopped off, but they missed something at the brain stem. He lived for eighteen months.”

  “That’s some kind of hoax,” Brett said.

  “No, it happened in 1945. I know because I thought it was a hoax, too, so I checked it out. The guy who owned Mike made money touring him around. They also brought him to the University of Utah so that researchers there could document what had happened.”

  “His head was chopped off and he lived?” Brett asked skeptically.

  “The ax missed the carotid artery or something like that, and a blood clot kept him from bleeding out. The head was gone except for one ear. Mike even tried to peck and eat grain. It’s a bizarre story. Supposedly he made the farmer like forty-five hundred dollars a month, which would be close to fifty thousand now. They fed him with an eyedropper, gave him milk and stuff. I don’t remember exactly. I think he finally choked to death, but the point is, he lived for eighteen months without a head.”

  “So you’re telling me that Miguel Gomez might have had his head chopped off and then been programmed to kill his wife?” Brett asked.

  “No. I’m just saying there’s something weird going on.”

  “I agree. But Miguel couldn’t have killed Maria. I don’t think that I ever saw a man and woman married so long who were still so deeply in love,” Brett said. He paused for thought. Actually, he saw the same love and respect in his own parents. They’d married practically as children and were still married—and bugging him for grandchildren. Luckily his sister had provided them with a boy and a girl, and they lived in Jacksonville, near his folks in St. Augustine.

  “Miguel loved Maria. So what? Doesn’t mean he couldn’t have become a zombie, until someone did him in for real, then chopped him up and threw him in Biscayne Bay. All we need is another zombie story around here,” Diego said.

  Brett agreed. In 2012, a young man had gone crazy, stripped naked and attacked a stranger on MacArthur Causeway, claiming the older man had stolen his Bible. He’d chewed off half the face of the victim, who had miraculously survived, before being shot by police. Brett knew a few of the officers who had been among the first responders. They’d told him that the attacker had been so revved that he hadn’t fallen immediately, actually growling at the officer who had demanded he cease and desist. The first bullet had done nothing; four more had been needed to bring down the attacker. The media, naturally, had seized on the event, which quickly became known as the Miami Zombie Attack or the Causeway Cannibal Attack.

  They didn’t need the media seizing hold of this situation—especially when years of work by a half dozen law enforcement agencies might well be at stake.

  And especially when Miguel and Maria had left behind a loving family who didn’t need that kind of story marring the memory of their loved ones.

  “With any luck, we’ll avoid the zombie stories,” Brett told him.

  Diego snorted.

  He was right, actually. A zombie story was inevitable, unless they managed to gag the press and anyone who might have seen Miguel before Maria’s death.

  And now, of course, they had body parts that proved Miguel hadn’t died in that fire. They were going to take some major-league credibility blows from the local, county and state police, not to mention every federal agency out there.

  They arrived at the medical examiner’s office on Northwest 10th Avenue. Brett sighed. He’d been there far too many times—but none quite like this. The gurneys were sized to hold bodies, but the one today held nothing but the severed foot.

  The ME was waiting for them and started right in after a quick hello.

  “Here’s what I can tell you. Yes, the foot goes with the finger goes with the DNA of Miguel Gomez. We’re dealing with body parts that have been compromised by seawater, but that doesn’t mean there’s not a certain amount I can tell you. First, this foot wasn’t in the water more than twenty-four hours—I’d say more likely around twelve to sixteen. Gomez was already dead when his foot was removed. It was anything but a precision operation. You’re not looking for a surgeon. You are looking for someone capable of swinging a blade. That foot was removed by something like a large hatchet or an ax.”

  “How did Miguel die?” Brett asked.

  Phil Kinny stared at him. “Brett, I’m looking at a foot and a finger. I’ve sent out tissue samples for analysis, in case that can tell us anything, but all I know so far is that a seemingly healthy man was dismembered after death. If he had drugs or alcohol in his system, the tox screen will tell us that. When I have anything more, I’ll call you.”

  “How long?” Brett asked.

  “I marked this as top priority,” Kinny told him. “But this is Miami,” he added drily. “So no guarantees.”

  “Thank you, Phil,” Diego said.

  Brett quickly echoed his words.

  “If I only had a head,” Kinny said.

  Brett felt as if he’d stepped into a bizarre version of The Wizard of Oz. He understood what Kinny meant, though. Unraveling the mystery of death was Kinny’s passion; his determination to know the truth had helped them many times.

  “Unfortunately, it’s probably in Biscayne Bay—somewhere,” Diego said.

  “But maybe near Sea Life,” Brett speculated.

  “We searched Sea Life. More than a half dozen divers and as many dolphins searched Sea Life,” Diego reminded him.

  “But if you had the head, you could tell us more?” Brett asked Kinny.

  “The brain is complex,” Kinny said. He looked at the two of them. “True story—and bizarre. Police were called to a home where the husband and wife had been attacked, shot several times. The husband was found at the foot of the stairs. He’d brought in the paper, set up his cereal bowl and then died at the foot of the stairs. The wife was in bed—alive, but just barely. She came to enough to say the name of one of their sons. When she came out of the coma, she denied she’d ever said her son’s name, but consequent investigations proved that he had come down the tollway, his car had been seen—and he had ditched the gun.”

  “I’m lost. What are you getting at?” Diego said.

  “The son finally confessed. He was mad at his father and wanted his parents’ money. But here’s the thing—he got to the house and shot them both in bed around 2:00 a.m. Apparently, he wasn’t much of a shot, though. His mother survived,
and his father… The kid shot him in the head. The father was doomed, but despite that, a portion of his brain was untouched—the portion that dealt with mechanical memory. He rose, got the paper and set up his cereal before dying, and without any idea at all that he’d been shot and was dying and needed medical attention.”

  “Mike the headless chicken,” Diego breathed.

  “Is that possible? Are you making this up?” Brett demanded.

  Kinny looked almost hurt. “Have you ever seen me joke in this office?” he demanded.

  “I’ve got to find Miguel’s head,” Brett said.

  * * *

  The night was beautiful. It might be summer in Miami, but as if ordered by a celestial being, the breeze coming off the bay was exquisite, Lara thought. Like many attractions in the South—and even the North in summer—Sea Life was equipped with a number of spray stations where fans were set with water pumps to send a cooling mist into the air. Now she walked out from beneath the massive roofed-but-open dining area at Sea Life to cool off in the fine spray.

  As decked out as many of the guests were that evening—mostly the women, because most of the men had opted for lightweight tailored shirts and trousers—they weren’t about to get their clothing or their hair wet. Lara didn’t care. Her hair was down, and her white halter dress, sandals and a shawl could handle a little moisture.

  Lara had discovered that Miami was most beautiful by night. Darkness hid the seedy faults of certain areas, while the lights highlighted the shimmer of the water and the many fantastic skyscrapers downtown. Lights on the many causeways and bridges created a stunning combination of dazzling colors.

  So much here was so beautiful—until a body part showed up.

  She gave herself a shake, trying not to think about what had happened earlier. They’d kept Sea Life closed throughout the day while the authorities had done a thorough search of the facility, but the police had assured them that they could go on with tonight’s gala and open the following day.