Nobody Lives Forever

by Edna Buchanan

  Heart pounding, she left a copy in Rick’s mailbox. Another went to their lieutenant. She felt like a thief in the night. The front desk officer who waved when she walked in might have had instructions to notify IA when she arrived. Somebody could be on the way right now to serve her with suspension papers. She nearly ran, took the elevator to the lower level, avoided the central lobby and front desk and walked shakily to her car, all senses tingling, stomach knotted in panic. Security cameras were mounted everywhere, monitored at a console in communications. Somebody might be watching. She had to control herself and think clearly. Go home, pick up a few things and check into a motel. From there she would figure out what to do.

  Images of arrested officers flashed through her mind. Each arrest a major news event. Crowds of reporters eager for footage of a cop in handcuffs being led away by former colleagues, photographed, fingerprinted, jailed.

  She drove out of the parking garage, checking her rearview mirror uneasily. She had to think rationally. There had never been any clue that she knew of, any hint that the killer was a woman. Hell, how could she pass for a man? Rick and Jim had found a witness after the shopping center caper. Now she knew why Rick had become cold and evasive. That was when it started. All because she did not go to the shopping center, driving around instead, feeling sorry for herself and listening to blues songs on her Walkman instead of the damn police radio, mooning over Rick because he was almost killed and then talked about marrying Laurel and making babies.

  Would she ever learn? What was wrong with her? Other women fall in love and live happily ever after. Here she was, almost thirty, in love only twice and both were disasters.

  Rick is not a bad man, she thought. He may be spoiled when it comes to women, but he is fair. She was sure she could convince him she was no criminal, explain away his doubts. Murder Rob Thorne? Christ, that adorable young kid. That Rick and Jim could consider it even for a moment was inconceivable.

  She loved those guys. Rick and Jim were family, as much family as she had any more. But now she felt her family turning on her, accusing her. It was déjà vu. It had happened before, in Jericho. God, what was lacking in her that she could not inspire love, trust or loyalty in those she cared about most?

  She turned off the expressway exit toward Pigeon Plum Circle. She would drive by first to see if anybody was waiting. Maybe IA was delaying action until Monday, but she doubted it. Not with allegations this serious. Damn, her red car was a dead giveaway. She bit her lip in anger. They can’t do this to me, she thought bitterly. I won’t let them.

  Thirty-Seven

  “How could I be so wrong?” Rick shook his head in disbelief. “No doubt in your mind?”

  “Of course not,” Jim said.

  “And the guy in Iowa, he was a cop she worked with?”

  “Yep. No wonder she never talked about it.”

  “Shit, the wife and kid … The poor bastard. He must have been a jerk.”

  “Looks like her taste in men never did improve.”

  “Where the hell is she anyway?” Rick shuffled through his mail. “She’s late. Uh-oh. Look at this.” He leaned back in his chair, reading a document he held in his hands. “From Dusty, requesting emergency time off, as of now.”

  “Oh, no!” Jim said. “You know how she always shows up early on weekends. Where’s that memo you were gonna send to IA?”

  “The original is locked in my desk, but I think I left a copy in the basket here with some other stuff.” He began to fumble through a stack of reports and memos.

  Jim looked pained. “What do you wanna bet that if you find it, it’s got her pawprints all over it.”

  “It’s not here.”

  “Christ, call her right now. Ya never shoulda left that lying around.”

  “Dusty, if you’re there, pick it up,” Rick told her answering machine. “Call me. ASAP. At the office.”

  “Damn,” he said to Jim. “That woman will never trust me again.”

  “Forget trust, try begging for mercy.”

  “This also puts us back at square one in the case, though I’m sure not sorry. At least we know that our man may be a woman. If our only witness is so suggestible that she picks somebody out of a lineup because she saw them downstairs twenty minutes ago, we have to seriously doubt her credibility.”

  “Not necessarily. I’m betting she saw what she saw. A woman or maybe a transvestite. I think it was a blonde. Some other blonde.”

  “We gotta make this up to Dusty, Jim.”

  “Whaddaya mean we? I told ya you were full of it.”

  The shift was typical Miami Saturday night; two critical bar shootings, a natural and a suicide by hanging. Both men tried Dusty’s number whenever they had a break, the last time was just before dawn. Only the machine answered.

  “You don’t think she’d take this so seriously that … she’d do anything, do you?”

  “No, she’s cool,” Rick said, but he swung by Pigeon Plum Circle before going home. Nobody there. No sign of her car. He scrawled “Call me” on the back of his card and left it on her front door. He also checked the Southwind and the parking lot at the fitness center. Maybe there really was a family emergency and she’d gone home to Iowa for a couple of days. But he doubted it.

  Rick found Laurel crushing mint leaves between her palms, so that the warmth of her skin would enhance the scent.

  She wore a gingham apron and oven mitts and her face was flushed from peering into the oven. Something smelled heavenly. “Leg of lamb,” she announced. “I’ll serve it cold later. It’s a classic recipe.” She smiled proudly. “It’s all crusty and the juices stay sealed in until you slice it.”

  “Sounds great.” He pecked her cheek and wandered toward the bedroom. “Dusty hasn’t called, has she?”

  Laurel straightened, staring after him. “No, Rick,” she answered. “Haven’t heard from her. Didn’t she work last night?”

  “No, she took some time off. There was a misunderstanding, and she may think she’s in trouble at work.” He yawned. “I’m gonna get some sleep, but if she calls, wake me. I need to talk to her.”

  Laurel appeared in the bedroom doorway. She looked concerned. “It’s nothing serious, this trouble, is it?”

  Rick looked sheepish. “No, but she might think it is. It’s all my fault. That’s why I need to talk to her. She may be upset. So wake me up.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  He removed his shirt and peeled off his undershirt. She watched the muscles ripple in his back. “I could stay awake for a while,” he said, smiling, his eyes tentative. “If you want to stay and entertain me.”

  She seemed taken aback by the suggestion. “I have something on the stove, it needs watching,” she replied briskly, and bustled a retreat to the kitchen.

  Moments later Marilyn took over from Harriet. She stripped, leaving her clothes scattered on the kitchen floor, all except for the gingham apron. She tied it around her waist, slipped on her stiletto heels, took the can of Reddi Wip from the refrigerator and sashayed into the bedroom. Almost dozing, Rick was thinking about Dusty when he heard the hiss of the spray can and felt the cool sensation on the most private parts of his body. He forgot Dusty as he helped the sensuous woman with the apple-green eyes remove her apron.

  He dreamed later that he was in paradise and it was full of fluffy white clouds and yellow-haired angels with flocculent sweet-tasting wings.

  Harriet was in the kitchen when Dusty called at about four P.M. “I hate to bother you, Laurel, but is Rick there? I need to talk to him.”

  Her voice was serious, with a sense of urgency.

  “Gee, Dusty, he’s asleep and he left strict orders. I’m not to wake him up for the pope.” Her voice was apologetic.

  Dusty sighed. “It’s kind of important.”

  “I know, he said you had a problem. Sounds serious.”

  There was an embarrassed silence. “It’s police business, Laurel.” She so
unded a bit testy.

  “Well, you know Rick,” she said cheerfully. “He tells me everything. He did say he needs to see you—in person.”

  “When will he be awake?” Dusty sounded hopeful.

  “Oh, he didn’t mean tonight. He said not to call him at the station. He wants you to come here. Tomorrow. Tomorrow evening about seven.”

  “Will he … be the only one there from the department?”

  “I think so. That’s why he wants to meet here.”

  “Okay.” Dusty sounded uncertain. “I’ll see you at seven tomorrow. I’d appreciate it, Laurel, if all this stays just between us.”

  “Of course,” she said warmly. “Do you like Key lime pie?”

  “What?” Dusty sounded distracted.

  “Homemade Key lime pie? I think I’ll make one for the occasion, or maybe pecan. I haven’t done pecan pie for ages.”

  “Please, please don’t go to any trouble for me, I’m not much on sweets. Just don’t forget to tell Rick I’ll be there.”

  “We won’t forget. How could we forget you?”

  Rick awoke at eight and asked if Dusty had called.

  Laurel said she had not, her eyes startled. “Why, was she supposed to?”

  Rick glanced at her sharply. “Remember, I told you I need to talk to her.”

  Laurel looked vacant until she caught Rick’s puzzled look. “Oh, that’s right,” she nodded. “But she hasn’t called.”

  “Still sure you don’t want to ride along with me and Jim tomorrow?” he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “We won’t be back until late.”

  “Tomorrow?” She looked uneasy.

  “When we go to Key Largo to bring his neighbor’s boat back.”

  “When?”

  He became impatient. “Jesus, do you ever listen to a thing I say? Tomorrow afternoon. Remember? I asked you yesterday if you wanted to come with us, but you said you had work to do in the garden. Come on, girl, get with it.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help it,” she cried, and burst into tears. “Oh God, Rick. Something is wrong with me!”

  “Hey babe, no sweat. There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said kindly, and hugged her. “You’re too sensitive. I just get a little tired sometimes of living with the absentminded professor.”

  He swung by Pigeon Plum Circle later, on the way to the station. His card was still in the door.

  Thirty-Eight

  The yard was a multishaded green tapestry against a stained-glass sky. A royal poinciana erupted in molten metal-red blossoms next to a golden shower that cascaded petals in the afternoon breeze. Harriet wore pigskin garden gloves and a wide-brimmed Panama sun hat to shade her eyes from the glare of the water. She was the one who had declined Rick’s invitation, and was relieved now that he was gone. She had vowed not to tolerate any tree or plant that did not produce fruit or flowers. But when she had explained her intentions to Rick, he had objected to removal of his mother’s ferns. Apparently the woman had doted on the stupid things. Well, the mother was in St. Petersburg, the son was on his way to Key Largo, and she was in charge. She hummed as she poured weed killer on all the feathery ferns around the rock garden, then sighed contentedly. A weed, she told herself, is simply a plant out of place. If an orchid blooms were you intend to grow cabbages, it is a weed.

  Poor Laurel. She would be shocked when the ferns died. She had even called Rick’s mother for advice on their care. She would blame herself, as usual. Probably think she overdid the fertilizer. Well, who cares what she thinks. The metal garden shears sang as she trimmed the Ixora. There was so much to do. The mango leaves seemed to bear traces of fungus. The tree needed to be sprayed with copper. She should probably spray the avocado too.

  She had discovered why the otherwise healthy avocado had not borne fruit. The trees have both male and female flowers. On some, like this one, the male flowers open only in the morning while the female flowers open to the afternoon sun. In order to fruit, there must be another tree nearby with flowers of the correct gender open at the right time. The fruit tree’s mixed-up sex life made her smile. It’s as confusing as ours, she told herself and the others. She stopped working for a moment and gazed fondly at the house. When Rick was dead, she decided, she would have a carpenter build window boxes.

  She snipped cuttings from a Surinam cherry bush, to root for planting in the sunny north-side yard. On the Singer side she planned something with thorns, perhaps something poisonous, to keep out Benjie, that little marauder.

  Her stainless-steel trowel caught the light as she worked amid the beds of pink and white impatiens and shiny-leafed begonias. The shadows were lengthening. She should finish up, she thought. The most arduous task was still to be done. Several bromeliads in big red clay pots needed to be moved from the front to the back of the house. Currently in bloom, their radiant bracts and masses of flowers were breathtaking. The Spanish considered them symbols of hospitality, which might explain why they had been placed out front. But in back, down by the water, their blooms could be viewed from both the patio and the breakfast nook. The clay pots were far too heavy and cumbersome for Harriet to lift. So Alex emerged to do the job.

  He hoisted a pot to his shoulder and strode around the side of the house as if it weighed nothing. “Hey, there.”

  Benjie peeked through the hedge, then stepped into the yard. He wore a blue sunsuit and carried a pail.

  “Not planning to dig over here, are you, Ben?”

  “Looking for my shovel.”

  “I don’t think it’s here.” Alex put the pot down. “You being a good boy these days?”

  He nodded gravely. “No playing policemans. Where’s Jennifer?”

  “She can’t come out right now. Too much work to do. We’ve got a big evening ahead. Play nice, kid.” Lifting the pot back onto his shoulder, he carried it down to the water as Benjie ducked back through the hedge.

  Laurel thought she heard laughter but did not know where the sounds came from. She looked around but saw no one. She felt hot and thirsty. No wonder, she thought, seeing all the work she had done. The heat from the sun made her feel a little woozy. She could not even remember coming out here. She would have to clean up the clippings before going back inside to shower and rest.

  She twisted the outside faucet, ran the garden hose over her wrists and patted her face with cool water. A movement in the bushes startled her. Her heart pounded. “Benjie!”

  His eyes were big, blue and uncertain. She smiled weakly. “How are you, my big boy?” The tot looked up, studied Laurel’s face intently, then turned toward the bay with a puzzled squint. After a moment, he looked back at Laurel and frowned. “What is it, Benjie?” She hoped she and Rick might have a little boy like him someday. Maybe they could borrow Benjie for a trip to the zoo on Rick’s next day off. She tried to remember when that would be, and scowled. What day is today? she wondered. Her memory seemed scrambled.

  “Want to come in for a cold drink? How about a glass of milk or some orange juice?”

  He ignored the question and turned again toward the water, where shadows were deepening as the red sun began to sink toward the horizon.

  “What’s the matter, son?”

  “The man,” he said gravely, his smooth little brow creased.

  “What man?” Her eyes followed his stare down toward the thick sea grapes and the Phoenix palms along the water.

  He turned back toward her abruptly, staring. “The man,” he said, lifting his chubby hand and pointing. She saw nothing but the shadows among the trees and the dazzle of sunlight sparkling on the water. The bromeliads. How did they get down there? She experienced a curious sensation as a chill prickled her skin, though the temperature still hovered at 85 degrees.

  “What man, Benjie? What man? Rick?”

  He lifted his eyes, looking precious. “No.” He pursed his lips. “The bad man. Alex.”

  Alex. A., as in the scrawled signature. Had she locked the bac
k door? She could not remember. Rick had warned her, especially after that frightening note, that even when gardening or visiting a neighbor, she must always lock the door and carry a key. She explored her pockets—no key. The words from the obscene note echoed, as though spoken, in her mind. I am going to kill you. She shuddered in the sunlight.

  “Benjie.” She stooped down to his level, resting her hands lightly on his shoulders. “Did you really see a man?”

  He giggled nervously, shook free and danced back a pace, eyes darting down to the water and back again to her. His round, obstinate face wore a look both sly and smug, as though they shared some secret.

  “Where’s Jennifer?” he demanded.

  “Who’s Jennifer? Benjie, are you just making up stories?” She pushed back a straggly lock of wet hair from her face. “Where did you see the man, Benjie?” Perspiration dripped from her forehead, though the backs of her knees felt like ice. Something roared in her ears. “Where did you see the man, Benjie?” Her voice was too loud, too high-pitched, she realized. She no longer cared.

  The little mouth opened, each baby tooth gleaming like a perfect kernel of white corn. He watched her, and waited.

  “Answer me, Benjie!” Laurel tried to grasp his wrist but her palms were moist and he struggled free, scampering backward, just out of reach, his face frightened for the first time. A shadow fell across them both, blocking the late afternoon light.

  “Benjie? Stop annoying Laurel while she’s working.”

  Beth was speaking to the child, but her eyes were on Laurel, her expression odd.

  Laurel scrambled to her feet, ashamed and embarrassed at how disheveled and sweaty she must look. Beth scooped Benjie up in her arms. “It’s time for your dinner, young man. Laurel,” she said softly, “you’re working too hard, don’t push yourself so much. Take a break and leave that stuff for the yard man. It’s his job.”