Nobody Lives Forever

by Edna Buchanan

  “Different isn’t always better, Rick. I never thought that what we had was such a casual affair.” Her voice was soft. “It was damn serious to me.” Tears glistened in her wide blue eyes.

  “Kid, we’re just having a bad day.” Rick looked uncomfortable. “Some damn headline-hungry lawyer has fucked up our case, a killer is walking the streets, we’re all tired…”

  “Remember what we used to do to forget when things went sour on the job?” She looked directly into his eyes. “You never outlive your past, Rick.”

  He gazed back this time, remembering. “Listen,” he said, lowering his voice. “Playing house with Laurel doesn’t mean I’m dead. I think about you. Who could forget what you’re like?”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re living with another woman and…” She chewed her lower lip.

  He looked puzzled. He had thought that was what she wanted to hear.

  “Believe it or not, Rick, I haven’t … indulged, since you and I … I just don’t have the heart. I guess I thought we were really going somewhere. I cared.”

  “You’re sure that’s not the wine talking? Abstinence is hard to believe in a woman as warm and affectionate as you are.”

  She looked exasperated. “Why do men, especially cops, always think sex is a necessity of life? I am not a slut,” she said bitterly. “Believe it or not.”

  “I would never have wanted you if you were.” His voice was defensive.

  “I’m sure you’re very flattered,” she said miserably.

  “How was I to know? You never said anything about us.”

  “Actions speak louder. I thought you knew. And what could I have said? And when? It hardly seemed appropriate when you suddenly started talking about Laurel. The next thing I knew she was moving in with you. That was obviously not the right time to broach the subject.”

  “I’m sorry.” He was silent for a moment, then spoke as though thinking aloud. “You always seemed sort of distant, secretive. I assumed it was some guy who either really burned you or was gonna surface one of these days, out of your wicked past.”

  She looked up, her face white. “What do you mean, my wicked past?”

  “Just an expression.”

  “My past is not what we’re talking about here,” she said sharply. The tears were gone, replaced by something else. He thought he saw fear in her eyes, but the lighting was lousy and he was well into his third drink.

  She was sliding her arms into her jacket. “Cold?” he said, and reached out to help.

  She shrugged him off and got to her feet. “I have a lot to do today.”

  Jim loomed up behind her. “Coming through,” he said. He juggled three grilled cheese sandwiches on paper plates. “You don’t know how hard it was to get these before the kitchen opens at noon. I almost had to pistol-whip the manager.”

  He placed them lovingly on the table, as one of their pagers began its urgent high-frequency beep. They stared at each other, stricken. “Oh, no!” they chorused, each reaching for his or her beeper. It was Rick’s. He separated a quarter from the change on the table and trekked back to the telephone.

  Dusty sighed and sat down, reaching unenthusiastically for one of the sandwiches. Her face felt hot. Jim threw her a sharp, questioning look. She slid the plate in front of her. “Thanks,” she said. “I think I’m feeling the wine. If we have to go back in, I better eat one of these first. Yecch! Why’d you let ’em put so much butter on it?”

  “Just like a woman,” he said, his mouth full. “Always complaining.”

  Rick returned with the news. “We’ve got a call at the ME office.”

  “Christ,” said Dusty, wrinkling her nose, putting down her sandwich and wiping her mouth with a paper napkin. “Why do they need us? We’re off.”

  “Yeah, but they say it relates to one of our cases.”

  “Figures,” Jim said, wrapping the remaining half of his sandwich in a napkin and tucking it in his pocket. “Let’s pick up some coffee on the way.”

  The front door to the medical examiner’s office was locked.

  “We’ve been robbed!” Miriam announced as she swung it open.

  “What did they take?” Jim said, digging out his gold-rimmed reading glasses and opening a small notebook.

  “José López-Gómez.” Dr. Lansing sat at a desk looking glum.

  Lester, still wearing only a T-shirt and jockey shorts, sneezed—several times. Miriam was furious. “I told the doctors we needed better security. I warned them. Listen to that,” she said, as Lester sneezed again. “We could have caught our death in there.”

  “They took a stiff?” Jim said, slapping shut his notebook and staring in disbelief.

  “And locked us in the trailer.”

  “With thirty-seven dead folks,” growled Lester, sniffing loudly.

  “Thirty-six now,” Miriam corrected.

  “Who was it? What did they look like?” Dusty said.

  “It was his brother,” Miriam said, her tone accusing. “He’d been calling for hours. He said the family didn’t want an autopsy.”

  “Who is this missing stiff?” Jim said.

  “Case number 89-1582,” Dr. Lansing said, and handed over the red folder. “José López-Gómez, white Latin male, age twenty-seven. Died after a single blow from a martial arts expert outside a bar in Overtown. Arrived with a temperature of 107. He hadn’t been posted yet, but I’d say he’s a possible OD.”

  “Brother my ass,” Rick said. He and Jim exchanged glances.

  “Maybe J.L. Sly is not so deadly after all,” Dusty said. “Had López-Gómez just come through customs?”

  The doctor shrugged. “Don’t know where he was before the fatal episode.”

  “Think he’s a body packer?” Jim asked.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” Lansing replied.

  “If so, Doc, somebody else is probably doing your autopsy for you, right now,” Jim said. He opened his notebook again, trying not to smile as Miriam gazed at him balefully. “How do we classify this, Rick? An abduction? Possession of a stolen stiff?”

  The detectives drove back to Overtown. A uniform who patrolled the area had learned that the man was registered at a nearby motel. He had signed in a few hours before his fatal encounter. José López-Gómez had looked fine then, the manager said, though in retrospect he did seem a bit preoccupied. Rick asked him to show them the dead man’s room. It was a shambles, drapes and shower curtain pulled down, a lamp and a chair overturned. They found some laxatives and an enema bag in the bathroom. No sign that they had produced the desired results.

  A boarding pass lay among the other papers on the night table. He had arrived in Miami aboard an Avianca flight from Bogotá, Colombia, two hours before check-in at the motel.

  It seemed clear to the detectives that López-Gómez had succeeded in smuggling cocaine into the country in balloons or condoms, or whatever drug-stuffed little packets he had swallowed. But they must have leaked—at least one did. The drug had paralyzed his intestines and the contraband had stalled, stopped dead in his gut, a fortune in cocaine he could not retrieve. It had killed him. The people he worked for must have realized something had gone wrong, that he was dead. “I guess they decided to get the stash back before the ME found it during the autopsy,” Rick said.

  “Oh, lawdy,” Jim said. “I’m glad it ain’t me looking for that surprise package.”

  Rick nodded. “Messy job. I reckon we’ll find him.”

  “With our luck, we probably will. I hate it when people who aren’t doctors start cutting on bodies.” Jim sighed out loud and shook his head. “What a town. Even the dead aren’t safe in Miami.”

  Fourteen

  Rick knew the house next door would haunt him until he arrested Rob Thorne’s killer. Before going home, he checked to see what tips had come in. Not a call, nothing from the street at all, even with the promise of a reward. Strange. He had to make more time to work on the case. But even with a
ll the time in the world, what would he do? Where would he start? The killer has to be the prowler who stalked the Corley home, he thought. What we need is a break, just one lead.

  He had hoped to shower and change before Laurel saw him. Rick was always meticulous about his appearance and grooming, conscious of certain niceties most people never need consider. He was not certain that he smelled like the morgue but suspected he did. There was no way to avoid her.

  She sat in the breakfast nook, writing a letter, blush-color stationery on the table top in front of her.

  “Are you hungry?” The look in her amber eyes was one he had not seen before.

  “Nah, not right now. I thought I’d shower and just get some sleep.”

  “You’re not here or you’re asleep.” She sighed and twisted the cap on her pen. “Nice day?” Her voice had a peculiar lilt. It sounded artificial.

  “No. Not at all. It’s been a bummer so far.” He felt wary, sensing that his day was not about to improve. “Writing your folks?”

  “I miss them. I wish they hadn’t moved to Orlando.”

  “Seems like everybody who retires around here bails out of Miami. Beats me why.”

  “Did you and Dusty have a nice lunch?”

  Something in her voice made it all fall into place. Rick blinked. Then he began to explain—too much.

  “We were trying to figure out what to do about our case in court today. Norman Sloat pulled one out of a hat and our child killer walked. Then, a few minutes after I called you, we got sent out on an investigation. I just came from there.”

  Laurel nodded slowly, her expression said she was not buying it. “I know you and Dusty slept together, Rick.”

  “Not today!” He said it quickly, without thinking.

  “I knew it!” Her face was pink. “With a thousand cops in the whole damn department, why is she suddenly assigned to work with you? On the midnight shift, which somehow now extends…” she studied the kitchen clock, a queer expression on her face, looked away, then turned to stare at it again, as if astonished “… to three o’clock in the afternoon?”

  She fled into the living room without waiting for an answer. He was torn between going after her and taking a hot shower, which he wanted very much. He followed as far as the doorway and tried to sound reasonable. “It’s all part of the job, hon, going to court in the A.M. and getting called out when there’s a development in one of your cases.”

  “You and Dusty had an affair.” She stated it solemnly as though announcing the six o’clock news.

  “A long time ago, nothing serious, before I met you.”

  “You really cared for each other?”

  “Nah,” he said, then hesitated. “It might have been more serious on her part, but I didn’t know it at the time.”

  “When did you find that out?”

  “She mentioned it today. I never realized.”

  Laurel sank down on the pale, flowered sofa, small hands clasped in front of her, her chin quivering. “Is that why you insist on working nights, to be with her?”

  “Of course not.” Rick massaged his forehead with the palm of his hand. “She’s a good detective, a good person. The job is all we have in common.” His voice was tired.

  “How long have you known her? Was she ever married?”

  “She came from someplace in Iowa. I met her a couple of years ago when she was first transferred to the detective bureau. I don’t think she’s been married. She doesn’t talk a lot about herself. We worked together. One thing led to another. It ended when you and I got serious.”

  “You were still sleeping with her when we met?”

  Rick disliked the interrogation, but he did not want to appear evasive.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “I don’t remember. Meeting you blew my mind.” He flashed his most winning boyish grin and stepped toward her, placing his hands on her soft shoulders.

  “What’s that smell?” she said, grimacing.

  He sighed. “It’s not another woman’s perfume.”

  She looked intense. “Why didn’t you tell me about you and Dusty before?”

  “It was no big deal. We’ll probably run into a lot of women I’ve known. Believe it or not, I had a life before we met. Most of them are very nice women, and they all know that you are special. I never moved any of them in here. Just you.

  “A lot of cops’ girlfriends have to cope with ex-wives, ex-in-laws, ex-out-laws and his and her kids by ex-marriages. All we’re dealing with here is something as nonthreatening as a partner on the job. It’s nothing, sweetheart.”

  “You’ve had her in our home. You see her every day. Someday your life could depend on your partner, you say that yourself. How can you trust somebody you jilted? Somebody you threw over? Don’t you think she’s hurt and angry?”

  “Nope. She’s a professional, a grown-up, a good woman.”

  “And I’m not?” Tears coursed down her cheeks and she looked like she was beginning to hyperventilate.

  “This is getting us exactly nowhere,” he said, exasperated. “I’m taking a shower.”

  He stood under needles of water as hot as he could stand, then twisted the faucet until it was ice-cold. Hell, everybody else was punishing him, he might as well do it to himself. The house was quiet when he stepped out of the shower. He walked naked to the bedroom, peeled back the sheet and settled into bed with a sigh. His thoughts were a jumble of Dusty’s and Laurel’s tears, Latino body snatchers, a homicidal child molester on the loose and the mystery of who killed Rob Thorne.

  He should get up, he thought, to find Laurel and talk to her. But what if it wound up in a bigger argument? Better to cut his losses now, get some rest and give her a chance to cool off. He thought he heard a sound in the hall. Uh oh, he thought, bracing for an angry onslaught. He opened his eyes. Laurel was peeping around the door frame, her blond bangs tousled into bad-girl curls. She tiptoed into the room with exaggerated small steps and a mischievous expression. She wore pink baby dolls he had never seen before and clutched a battered teddy bear and a small bedraggled blanket.

  “Hi, Daddy,” she cooed in a little-girl voice. She ran and jumped onto the bed, giggling. He opened his arms.

  “Laurel…”

  “My name isn’t Laurel,” she lisped. “It’s Jennifer.” Her right thumb was in her mouth, and she sucked it loudly, peering coyly at him from under her tangled bangs. She pouted prettily for a moment, then began to playfully explore his naked body under the sheet as her pink tongue flicked across her lips.

  “Okay, little girl, wild child. It’s Jennifer,” he said, relieved and pleased at this turn of events. This girl knew games he had never played before.

  “Teddy wants to kiss it,” she said in her baby voice, and pressed the staring face of the stuffed bear against his private parts. “Now Jennifer wants to kiss it.”

  Rick leaned back on his pillow and closed his eyes, but not for long.

  Her kinky role playing was wonderful and so exciting. Her body seemed almost like a child’s. In a slightly disturbing, wonderfully guilty way, it almost made him know what it was like to be a child molester.

  Later they shared more forbidden goodies, chocolate chip cookies and milk in bed. She curled up and went to sleep next to him, with Teddy in the middle. Unsolved crimes and jumbled thoughts drained from his mind, Rick drifted off to sleep. He awoke at nine that night feeling refreshed, recharged and strong enough to go back out and fight the world. He awoke Laurel and Teddy with kisses and breakfast in bed. Slow to awaken, she seemed dazed and confused, still unable to adjust to his backward schedule, he realized.

  When the phone rang, he was glad it was not Dusty.

  “I just got a call and I’m going in early,” Jim said. “I thought you might want to do the same. It looks like we’ve got a suspect in the Thorne case.”

  “Hallelujah! See you there shortly, pal.” Oh, yeah, R
ick thought, it looked like Laurel-Jennifer and Teddy had changed his luck.

  Fifteen

  Alex cruised along tree-shaded Brickell Avenue, where the bold shapes and colors of Arquitectónica architecture sweep the dark sky. The buildings resemble giant whimsical Tinker Toys, bursting with life, big bucks and commerce by day. By night it is a different and peaceful world. No high-crime lights here either. He turned due east, across the Rickenbacker Causeway, the car windows open, the salt breeze bracing. A damn shame to be forced so far afield, he thought. But he had promised Harriet he would do nothing illegal in their own neighborhood again. The cops were all over the islands anyway, with their watch orders and beefed-up patrols. He stayed on top of their every move, amused by their efforts. He would not have minded playing a little more cat and mouse, but he would not really miss it or mind the inconvenience tonight. He was fond of Key Biscayne anyway.

  During the day, especially on weekends, traffic was bumper to bumper, wall-to-wall used cars, huge tie-ups. Everybody headed for places to play, the Seaquarium, the marine stadium, the beach, the marina, and Cape Florida, where the old lighthouse still stands. And Miami drivers always find a way, he thought, to make the jam-ups worse. They slow down to a crawl just to watch some poor slob change a tire. If there is a wreck, forget it. They will abandon their cars in traffic to run and watch.

  On weekends, at the beachfront barbecue pits, black, Latin and redneck teenage gangs engage in hand-to-hand combat. They wield clubs and knives, and sometimes guns. But late on a soft summer weeknight like this one, there is little movement across the broad bridge, only motorists headed home late from the Key’s few nice bars and restaurants and, of course, the occasional lovers parked among the trees down near the water.