Nine
Terry Lou Mitchell encountered Mary Ellen Dustin in the ladies’ locker room at the fitness center. “I met Rick’s new significant other at that homicide scene on the island,” she said teasingly.
“It’s a damn shame,” Dusty said, her voice cool. “He was a nice kid.”
“I must say, I was impressed by Miss Teenage America. All tan and sleek—and young.”
“Maybe that’s the attraction,” Dusty said wryly. “It’s the first time I ever got dumped for a younger woman. I’m not even thirty yet.” She swept her thick, shining blond hair back, away from the high cheekbones and strong face, and fastened it with a plastic clip.
“She looks a little like you, you notice? Like your kid sister or your younger cousin. I was surprised.”
“Not as surprised as I was.”
“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? Not me. See ya out there. I’m gonna try the treadmill for a while.”
The center was located in a renovated bayfront hotel and offered discount memberships to police officers and their families, another perk of the job. Rows of Nautilus machines resembled medieval instruments of torture, with their straps, stirrups and gleaming metal. Treadmills, weights, rowing machines, exercise bikes and the men and women using them were reflected everywhere in mirrored walls. What had been a ballroom was now lined with ballet barres, carpeted in pale green and also mirrored for classes in aerobic dance, Jazzercise and total conditioning. Aqua-aerobics took place, weather permitting, in an Olympic-size pool overlooking the bay and the city skyline.
Nearly naked, seated on a bench in front of a row of lockers, Dusty was pulling on her tights when she saw Laurel, just three feet away. Her first reaction was to wince, wondering if the conversation had been overheard. To her relief, Laurel, wearing a white leotard and adjusting her pink headband, looked as startled as she was. Both smiled after an awkward moment. “Hi, Laurel!” Dusty sang out the greeting as she got to her feet. “Thank God for spandex,” she said, patting her hip. “It hides a multitude of sins, or at least pulls them all together.”
“You have nothing to worry about.” Laurel looked uncomfortably at the rosy, full-blown and bouncing breasts. Dusty was stuffing unselfconsciously into her black leotard. Her own were mere buds by comparison. “I didn’t know you were a member.”
“No choice, since the cop shop’s group medical refuses to pay for liposuction. And what do you mean, nothing to worry about?” She finished tying a shoelace. “I always wanted dimples, but not in my thighs, which, unfortunately, is where they have appeared. Time to fight the war against cellulite! Let’s go!” She reached into her locker for a set of red hand weights, then slammed the door.
She smiled and tossed a casual arm around Laurel’s shoulder. Laurel quickly stepped away, out of reach, a reflex she seemed to instantly regret. “Here.” She snatched two towels off a stack still warm from the dryer. “Take one.”
“Sure.” Dusty took the towel, hesitated, then followed Laurel out into the big mirrored room. She had wanted to ask if there was any progress in the Thorne case but swallowed the impulse. Rick probably did not talk shop with Laurel anyway. What did they have in common? Rick might still be working if they had come up with some good leads. Where is he, she wondered. Home in his bed? Alone? His long lean body warm with sleep? If he is, and I lived there, she thought, I wouldn’t be here. Was the unmistakable glow Laurel wore, unenhanced by makeup, the aftermath of sex or simply the bloom of youth? She sighed. Her instinct was to be pleasant but not too friendly. She did not want Laurel to sense her feelings.
In another time, another life, she might have reached out to Terry Lou, or even to Laurel, as a friend. They obviously had something in common, the same taste in men, or at least one man. But friends no longer came easily, casually for her. When Dusty had chosen Miami for a fresh start, she had deliberately severed all old ties, leaving them behind, with everything that was painful. Hoping to become a brand-new woman, without a past, she kept no relationships and after five years had made little effort to cultivate new ones. She had dropped the barriers only once—unfortunately. With Rick, all things had seemed possible. She had been convinced for a time that her life would be rich and full, but, she told herself, she should have known better. Some shadows never fade.
Most of the center’s aerobics instructors were women. But today it was Barry, a high-energy young man who wore a ponytail, headband and stretch tights that left little to the imagination. Dusty was pleased. Barry liked the music loud. She deliberately chose a spot in front of a powerful stereo speaker. The booming music would blast all thoughts out of her mind. She liked not having to think about her life, the intricacies of her job or the cruelty of the streets, to simply let the beat of the music fill her mind and body.
Nearly two dozen women and three or four men stood waiting, about to begin. Poised on a raised and carpeted platform at the front of the room, Barry smiled fondly at his own multiple reflections in the mirrors. He always seemed about to laugh, like a man keeping an exuberant secret. Hands flat on the floor, his muscular legs apart, he led them into warm-up stretches that made the friendly bulge in his tights even more difficult to ignore. Jogging and jumping into a high-impact routine, he bellowed gruff commands at the spoiled housewives with flabby thighs. “Move it! Pull in that stomach! Breathe!” They snickered and ate it up, making it clear that no one but Barry ever talked to them that way. Skin glistening, he inhaled deeply. His long hair was wet and curling, his body all strength and sinew. What a motivator and what a great ass, Dusty thought, ignoring the cramp in her right calf as she followed his movements. The music overwhelmed and washed over her as she concentrated only on her breathing and her accelerated heart rate. There was a distraction: Laurel, across the room, dancing vigorously in front of a mirror, oblivious, big eyes riveted, as if fascinated by her own image. Laurel’s changing expressions were oddly disturbing. Dusty looked away, but her eyes drifted back, drawn by something puzzling that she could not quite fathom.
The pace eventually slowed to a jog, and the class cooled down and went to the floor for push-ups. Barry’s T-shirt was so saturated that huge drops of perspiration dripped from the midline of his chest, disappearing into the pale green carpet. Drop after drop, in rhythm to the throbbing beat of the music. Dusty wondered how it would feel to have those warm wet drops splash onto her bare breasts. Too bad this man would never know how much she liked to see him sweat and how much she admired his ass. She hoped fervently that he was not gay. Perish the thought.
Those who had not already dropped out and escaped to the showers rolled onto their backs, for buttocks tucks.
“Your back stays glued to the floor. Contract those abdominals,” Barry demanded. “Squeeze those buns!” He watched the sweaty, writhing bodies, his half-smile wicked. “Come on, ladies! A pelvic thrust. I know you know how to do that. Like trying to pick up a grape with your cheeks.”
The class broke, and Dusty headed to the locker room. Laurel lagged behind. The mirrored wall offered Dusty one last reflection. Laurel and Barry, heads together, laughing. Dusty was startled by Laurel’s body language, hips slung to one side, her back arched.
Dusty lathered her hair and stood in the shower longer than usual, eyes closed. By the time she wrapped a towel around her head and another around her trim waist, she was alone.
She was not due to report to homicide until eleven P.M., but energized and eager to start, she decided to go to the station that afternoon. She had no other plans, and the Sunday atmosphere at headquarters was relaxed. The brass rarely made personal appearances on weekends. The troops can usually carry out their jobs free from meddling, interfering, second-guessing or ego trips by politicians or commanders impressed by their own authority. For a self-starter who really wants to work, it is the best time. She could clean out her locker, move her belongings to homicide, read the supplemental reports on all the team’s active cases and check out new leads in the T
horne homicide, all before Rick and Jim arrived.
A traffic light stopped her at an Overtown intersection a few blocks north of headquarters. A young black man stood at the crosswalk, wearing a neatly pressed suit the color of an Easter egg. His two-toned shoes had been buffed to a high shine, and he was carrying a baby. The big-eyed tot in his arms, no more than a year old, wore sky-blue, from his cap down to little blue leather shoes neatly laced. Smiling, Dusty waved the man in the gaudy lavender suit across in front of her. He was a high stepper, conscious of his attire and that of the immaculately dressed child in his arms, definitely an individual en route to an important destination, somebody with a place to go.
The image touched her, freezing her smile as she watched them. Stricken by a yearning as vague as it was painful, she longed to be … what? A part of something or somebody else? To spend the week eagerly anticipating Sundays and holidays? To dress up, as the man and little child had, to join friends and family at a place fragrant with home cooking and alive with hugs and laughter? A place where people love you and welcome you back—no matter what.
Hell, she thought, I dumped all that a long time ago, or it dumped me. How long had it been since a Sunday or even a holiday meant anything more to her than work or the mundane tasks of everyday living?
The blues closed in, and she fought back fiercely, shaking off the sudden loneliness literally, tossing her shining hair from side to side like the beauties in shampoo commercials. Come on! She told herself. What is this, the Norman Rockwell Syndrome? Feeling sorry for yourself, or what? Are you nuts? “What the hell is a normal life?” she asked aloud. She’d learned her lessons the hard way. Watch what you wish for, she thought. You might just get it.
Always wanting more can lead to disaster. Learn to be happy with what you’ve got. So she’d had Rick, for a short time, and dreamed life would be different. But it was not and never would be. She was elated to be working with him again. He had been a positive presence in her life for more than five years, since he came to lecture her police academy class on homicide investigation. Long-legged and sandy-haired, earnest, with a face that would still look boyish at fifty, he obviously cared about the job and about people. That was the big difference between him and most other cops, the big difference between him and most other men. Respect, friendship and camaraderie will be enough, she thought. Hell, the man will probably spend more waking hours with me than with this cheerleader he’s involved with. Wait until Laurel finds out about the schedule, the overtime, all the demands of the job. She buoyed herself with the thought. Rick and I will still be close—but, she told herself, it will never be the same. She’s the one he goes home to.
Salvation, she had learned in the past, is to work hard at something important, to become lost in something so difficult and all-consuming that it becomes your armor, a shield against the rest of the world and what it can do to you. Work is ultimately rewarding. Dedication is admirable. Only she would know it was actually self-defense.
She wheeled her sporty red Datsun into the parking lot, tires squealing on the blacktop. The most important thing I can do now, she told herself, is to help catch the son of a bitch who killed the Thorne kid. That would be rewarding.
She thanked God for her job, took her service revolver out of the glove compartment, slipped it into her oversized purse and walked tall into the big building.
Ten
Cooking breakfast at five P.M. is an unnatural act, Laurel thought. She plucked a wisp of gray fluff from the drain in the stainless-steel sink, studied it closely and looked puzzled. Nothing was right anymore, and she was scared. She had been coping and doing well, happy for the first time, convinced that nothing frightening would ever stalk her life again. Rick was wonderful, so strong and protective. But then he had switched back to the midnight shift, leaving her alone. Their young neighbor had been killed in the dark, practically on their own lawn, and now this gloriously good-looking policewoman and her big boobs seemed to be in the picture.
Cops who work together are like family. She knew that. Once Laurel had accepted Jim, along with his endless gripes and complaints, she had found he was not as threatening as he appeared. In fact he was really sort of a big, bluff teddy bear. Jim was important to Rick, so Laurel made Jim important to her, but Dusty was another matter. She was beautiful, and she and Rick shared an air of easy intimacy. The relationship was probably rooted in noting more than shared police experiences, Laurel told herself. But this woman will now spend the long nights with Rick. While I wait here, alone and afraid, they will share meals and jokes, laughter and anger, danger and triumph. I’m shut out, she thought, and losing time again. This always happened when she was pressured. And why did she feel under pressure? Was she simply insecure, or was she jealous with good reason? All she knew was that she must not be left alone in the dark.
She watched, slightly queasy, as Rick wolfed down the scrambled eggs, marmalade and hot bread. She wore pale lipstick that matched the satiny pink ribbon holding back her long hair. “If you could just go on days we could live like normal people for a while,” she began.
Rick gazed fondly, through bloodshot eyes, at this soft-eyed and tender young woman, so unlike his voracious bedmate hours earlier. “Years ago I never thought I’d get used to midnights, either. But if you work homicide and want results, it’s the only shift to work. It’s simply a matter of adjusting your body clock, sweetheart. It takes a little time.”
“It’s just that I’ve always been a day person. And after Rob…” Her voice faded to a whisper. “It’s so awful.”
He put down his half-empty glass of orange juice. “What happened is another strong reason for me to stay on nights,” he said, his voice still husky from sleep. “We have to solve this one. And don’t worry”—he reached for her hand—“all that stuff about the killer returning to the scene … it’s bullshit in this kind of case. The guy who did it ran like a thief. He’s not coming back. Even so, I did ask one of the guys who moonlights as a locksmith to come by tomorrow and beef up security. And my next day off, we’ll go out to the range again. I want you to practice with my off-duty gun.”
“You know I’m afraid of guns,” she murmured.
“You won’t be once you’re more confident. You’ve got to know how to use it. You did great last time.” His words were firm and almost fatherly. “There’s nothing to be scared of. And you’ll get used to these hours. Look,” he said, arching a wicked eyebrow, “at what a swell morning we had.”
She looked up, puzzled, then carefully finished buttering a piece of toast. She placed it before him like an offering.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean? You already forgot our little fun and games? Lady, you really know how to shoot a guy down.”
He looked wounded.
“I just wasn’t sure,” she whispered, and quickly turned to fill his coffee cup. She was actually blushing.
He caught her hand as she moved toward the stove. “Let me get your coffee,” she protested.
He buried his face in her apron and planted a kiss where her crotch would be. “Ahhh,” he said. “I thought I smelled something good.”
“It must be the spaghetti sauce,” she said. “I think I’ll freeze some.” She hurried into the kitchen, leaving him shaking his head and grinning.
The doorbell rang. “I hope to hell it’s not the Thornes.” He winced with dread at the thought. “I have to go by there later.”
Laurel opened the door to Dusty, all business, clutching a file folder. “The lieutenant asked me to drop this off since I was doing some more canvassing over here anyway.”
“Come on in,” Rick called.
She stepped inside, looking slightly uncertain. “I can only stay a minute. Thought you’d be up by now.”
“Anything?”
“Nope, just a press release for you to sign and something for you to tell the parents. Rob’s baseball team and some of the other student group
s at the university are collecting donations to boost the reward fund if the family’s initial offer brings no results. If the money isn’t needed, they plan to establish a memorial scholarship.”
Laurel had left the door ajar. Now it was inching open. “Hello?” It was Beth Singer, from next door. She wore battered tennis shoes, tan walking shorts and a peach-colored blouse.
She apologized for barging in. Her eyes, dark with concern, widened with interest when she saw Dusty, then smiled to acknowledge her. “I know you’ve all got a lot on your minds, with the investigation and all, but Benjie is beside himself.”
“Sit. And don’t mind me,” Rick said, rubbing the stubble on his cheek. “I just got up, haven’t shaved yet. Have a cup of coffee. You too, Dusty.”
“I would love some,” Beth said, sighing and shaking her auburn hair. “I spent half the day next door with the Thornes. What a nightmare. The other half I have spent beating the bushes.”
“What is young Benjamin’s dilemma?” Rick asked.
“We have a state of emergency,” Beth said flatly. “Boo Boo Kitty is missing, and Benjie is bawling his eyes out. We’ve looked everywhere for the little bugger, and I don’t know how I’ll get that kid to go to bed tonight unless we find her.”
“I haven’t seen her. What about you, Laurel?”
“Not since yesterday.” She poured Beth’s coffee, slopping some into the saucer. “I’m so clumsy,” she apologized, blotting it awkwardly with a napkin.
Rick sipped his, then stared into the cup. “Is this instant?”
Laurel nodded, her face flushed.
“What happened to the fancy contraption that grinds up the beans and spits out the coffee?”
Nobody Lives Forever Page 6
