Pulse Page 10

  “Tell them the police recovered it,” he said, as she unlocked the front door.

  She laughed conspiratorially. “If I kin just keep Billy’s mouth shut.”

  Frank braced himself before stepping back into Daniel Alexander’s study, but still felt chilled and claustrophobic, as though some malevolent presence were sucking the air from his lungs. Forcing himself to focus, he hastily booted up Alexander’s IBM PC, and copied the contents of the hard drive onto a backup tape. Downstairs he used the tape to reenter the contents into his laptop.

  The most recent file was the suicide note left on the screen the day Daniel died.

  “Do you mind?” he asked Rory.

  “No,” she whispered. “I want you to see it. Then you tell me if it makes any sense.”

  Farewell, Rory. We had good times. This is the road I must travel now. Remember, I love you and Billy. This is not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault but mine. Don’t make any fuss. I want to be cremated, to blaze as bright and as brilliant as the sun for one final moment. That’s how I want you to remember me. Do as I ask, please. Then carry on. Raise Billy to be as good and as strong a human being as you are. Don’t hate me. I love you, sunshine. Daniel.

  A computerized suicide note definitely lacked the personal touch, Frank thought, gazing at the screen.

  “What is that?” Rory demanded, leaning over his shoulder. “Can you tell me?” She turned away and paced the dining room. “It explains nothing. He couldn’t have done it.”

  “Had he received any threats?”

  “No, not that I know of,” she conceded, slumping into a seat at the table.

  “Enemies?”

  She shook her head.

  Few murder victims, he had once read, die at the hands of strangers. “What about criminal connections? Did he know any dangerous characters?”

  “You meet a lot of people in the restaurant business …” She shook her head again. “But none that I ever knew of.”

  This is Miami, he thought, where anything is possible. Police can and do make mistakes. What if she was right? Did he feel a rush of excitement because he believed her, or was it merely the thrill of playing amateur detective with a beautiful woman?

  “Were either of you ever the victim of a crime before?”

  She chewed her lower lip, then nodded. “The house was burglarized about eighteen months before Daniel died. We were on vacation, skiin’ in Aspen, just the two of us. Billy stayed with Daniel’s mom. When we got home, we found the house had been broken into. Sounds small time, but God, it was awful. The TVs were gone, the VCR, Daniel’s computer, all the small appliances. The silverware, what jewelry I had, even Billy’s bicycle and some of our clothes. God, what a feeling. Months later, we’d look for something and realize, ‘Oh God, they got that too.’ That was our big brush with crime.

  “The police were nice and all, even dusted for prints, but they never caught the burglars or recovered a thing. Said there’d been a rash of cases in the neighborhood. We had insurance. But the worst part was that feelin’ of violation, theidea of strangers in our house, rummagin’ around through our stuff, pawin’ through our things.

  “After it happened, a course, when we had nothin’ left to steal, Daniel took the advice of the police and we burglar-proofed the entire house. That’s when he bought the gun,” she said bleakly, and paused. “We trimmed the hedges way back, too, installed new locks and had the security system put in.”

  “I’ve noticed how you use it,” he said reprovingly.

  “I guess I should,” she said softly. “He wanted to protect us.”

  “Did the burglars steal anything out of the ordinary? Like your husband’s business records …”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Who profits from his death?”

  “That’ud be me. Me and Billy, I guess. There was an itty bitty little old life insurance policy that his mother had on him. Then there’s the business, the restaurants. He and Ron, his partner, had … What do you call ‘em? You know, those life insurance policies that pay off to keep the business goin’ if anythin’ happened to either one of them.”

  “Key-man policies?”

  “Right. That’s it. They were with the same company as our life policy. They had ‘em from the start, from when they opened the first location. Ron didn’t get his insurance check yet either. I spoke to him last week.”

  “How much were they for?”

  “A million dollars.”

  Now, there’s a motive for murder, he thought. “Any trouble between the two of them? Hard feelings about Daniel leaving the business?”

  “Not that I knew about,” she said, with a dismissive gesture. “Those two knew each other forever, they had theirmoments, but never anythin’ serious. They fought like brothers.”

  “Well,” Frank said briskly. “I’ll run through these computer files looking for your bank statements. Think you could rustle up some coffee?”

  While she was in the kitchen, he made hasty notes of their conversation to fax to Lucca when he got back to the office, along with a copy of the suicide note.

  Daniel Alexander’s computer files yielded little. Frank spent several hours scrolling through routine correspondence. Nothing relevant in his E-mail. The man had been an inveterate letter writer. There were complaints to food distributors about late deliveries, to the Miami city manager about the homeless people who panhandled and intimidated diners outside the Coral Gables restaurant and a strongly worded objection to a city of Miami Beach proposal to double the outdoor table tax paid by restaurants.

  Frank started a tax file, failed again to reach Townsend, who had been unreachable, in meetings all day, and left, promising to call Rory after speaking to the banker.

  On his way back to the office, he stopped to pick up the gun. His background had apparently passed muster. The gun shop operated a pistol range in an adjacent building as cold as a refrigerator. The number of Miamians blasting away at paper targets surprised him. Suburban couples, middle-aged businessmen, even little old ladies brandishing firearms. He enlisted the help of an instructor, donned safety glasses and ear protectors and took the only free cubicle. The next slot was occupied by a young Latino with a huge handgun, a .44-caliber Magnum. Each time he fired it, Frank feared the concussion would make his nose bleed.

  He thought of his father, hands shaking as the paunchyinstructor with small, pale blue eyes coached him. “Don’t jerk the trigger, squeeze it gently like it was a woman.”

  The sound startled him as the gun recoiled in his hand like something alive. The paper target, the dark outline of a man, jumped. His bullet had punched a hole in the lower left-hand corner. The instructor said Frank had a good eye. He began to feel more comfortable with the weapon, more confident. After thirty minutes, the target was riddled and torn. Surprisingly, he liked seeing it buck when his bullets slammed through it. Then the range master announced, “Lights out,” and the room went dark.

  “To simulate combat conditions,” his instructor explained. Frank wondered why Miamians felt the need to be combat-ready, but enjoyed seeing flames spit from the muzzle, the smell of the gunsmoke, the power and heat from the metal. Someday, when he had more time, he thought, he would practice regularly, become proficient, maybe even join a target-shooting club and compete. He learned how to clean the weapon and departed after a few final words of advice.

  “Never aim your weapon at another person unless you’re prepared to shoot ‘im,” his instructor warned. “And if you ever have to shoot somebody, make sure you kill ‘im. You wind up with fewer problems that way.”

  Frank stepped back out into the afternoon sun, the added weight of the weapon in his briefcase, and thought of Daniel Alexander. He, too, had bought a gun for protection.

  Sue Ann was cheerful, despite her sneezes and the handkerchief held over her nose. Workmen were drilling, installing the security cameras, and she was allergic to dust. Townsend had called twice, she reported. She tried him, but the banker was
again unavailable. Frank printed out his notes, along with Daniel Alexander’s suicide letter, then faxed them to Luccahimself, declining Sue Ann’s offers of help. She was bubbling over the upcoming visit of her Marine son and his family. Her grandbabies’ arrival was enough to make his secretary giddy. Frank arranged tickets to the current production at the Coconut Grove Playhouse for the adults, insisting that he and Kathleen would take the youngsters for the night.

  “It’ll be great to have some little ones in the house again,” he said, and gave Sue Ann the rest of the afternoon off. The workmen finished, demonstrated the system and also departed. Unobtrusive cameras now focused on both offices, monitored by twin TV screens mounted high on his office wall. Intercoms with small-screen monitors on each desk enabled him and his secretary to see and speak to anyone outside. Push a button and the visitor would be taped. The last to leave at night would set the system on slow-speed, to record any intruder.

  He was about to leave when Townsend called, bombastic as usual.

  “Just like you, you SOB, to agitate me, and give me indigestion, just as I’m headed out for the evening. How well do you know this woman?” he demanded. “This widow?”

  “What do you mean?” Frank asked irritably. He had expected a more conciliatory attitude.

  “She’s got no goddamn blessed accounts here. The CDs, the liquid assets, all cleaned out, closed six, seven months ago. The checking accounts have been closed since the end of June. She’s complaining we don’t honor her checks? Woman doesn’t have a dime in this institution. She was writing bad checks on closed accounts. That’s a criminal offense.”

  “Who closed them?”

  “Daniel P. Alexander. Signatures match his card.”

  “Where did the money go?” He rubbed his forehead.

  “Don’t ask me. Took it in cash. No honest man in hisright mind walks around with that much cash. Tellers say he insisted. Put it in a briefcase and off he went.”

  Frank sat at his desk after Townsend rang off, a hollow ache of suspicion invading the pit of his stomach. He took out his list, the names and numbers of the broker, the banker, the retirement account custodian and the savings and loan officer, the gatekeepers to Rory and little Billy Alexander’s financial future.

  “Sure,” the stockbroker said, “I can send Mrs. Alexander a statement if she wants one. But I can tell you now, the balance is zero, zero, zero.”

  Half a dozen phone calls confirmed that Alexander had liquidated all his assets in the months prior to his death. He had emptied all his mutual funds, Vanguard, Windsor, American and Washington.

  He had paid the early-withdrawal penalties and cashed in his retirement fund. Two remaining savings and loan accounts were also closed.

  Frank felt sick. Rory was broke. Worst of all, her husband’s liquidation of equity meant major tax consequences. She would owe a fortune in capital gains, and prohibitively high taxes on the money prematurely stripped from the retirement accounts. Her only hope was that Alexander had reinvested or stashed the money away. But where?

  Rory and Billy had nothing left but the house and the life insurance policy. A terrible thought struck him. Perhaps the life insurance company hadn’t paid off yet because Alexander had cashed it in, along with everything else.

  Was the man a gambler? Hooked on drugs? Did he lose his shirt in some shady deal? There had been nothing in his files that gave a clue as to where the money had gone, or why.

  He called Rory, who sounded cheerful. He heard Billy playing in the background.

  “Hey!”

  “Don’t write any checks yet, Rory.”

  “But I told ‘em all I’d mail—”

  “I’ll see you first thing in the morning. There’s a snag.” Why ruin her evening? he thought. Nothing either of them could do overnight, anyway. “Don’t worry,” he said, “we simply have to go in tomorrow to open a new account.”

  “But I promised Florida Power and Light the check would be—”

  “Twenty-four hours is no big deal. But whatever you do, Rory, don’t write any checks. In fact, just destroy those checkbooks.”

  “All right,” she said uncertainly, “if you say so.”

  The other line rang; he said good-bye and picked it up.

  “Hey, boss.”

  “Lucca. You got my fax?”

  “Wasn’t in my office when it came in, but got a new toy that just transmitted it to my car. I checked out that matter you were interested in. Okay for me to swing by?”

  While he waited for the detective, Frank called a Coconut Grove savings and loan, spoke to the manager and arranged a twenty-five-thousand-dollar transfer from his business account into a checking account in Rory’s name. They would go to the office in the morning so he could sign the authorization. All she had to do was fill out a signature card and pick up a book of temporary checks.

  The security cameras worked. He watched the tall, long-legged detective step into Sue Ann’s office. He wore a dark suit; his bristly mustache looked thicker and more ferocious than ever. Lucca paused, pivoted, scrutinized the nearly invisible cameras with an appraising eye, then saluted the lens with a wicked grin.

  “Nice work,” he said, opening the door to Frank’s office. “If I do say so myself.” He studied the monitors, nodded sagely and took a chair in front of the desk. “Now all you have to do is learn to lock those doors and we’ll keep you from joining the crime statistics.”

  “You saw the suicide note?”

  He nodded, looking smug. “Before you sent it.” He leaned back in his chair. “Farewell, Rory. Good-bye sunshine. Boom!”

  “What do you think?”

  “Suicide,” he said, with finality. “No conspiracy, no bushy-hair intruder, no question. The detectives who handled the case are no Einsteins, but they did a thorough job on this one.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “You tell me. A gunshot-residue test confirmed that the man fired a weapon. The gun was his. The weapon was found near his right hand. He’s right-handed. No sign of an intruder, nothing missing, no strangers seen. The suicide note is just the icing on the cake. They don’t come much neater. I know you felt he had no motive. But nobody knows what’s going on in another man’s head, his frustration quotient, his level of despair. He could have been an undiagnosed manic-depressive, he mighta had a bad childhood, maybe he couldn’t stand his wife’s perfume. Could be she belittled him in bed. Nobody has a clue, except maybe her. But she won’t tell because she feels guilty. Happens all the time.”

  “I doubt it was anything like that.” Something was wrong here, Frank knew it instinctively.

  Lucca shrugged and rolled his eyes cynically. “She ain’t telling you everything. Women never do.”

  “There may be a motive,” Frank said reluctantly. “I’mhelping to straighten out his estate. There should be considerable assets, instead it looks like she’s broke.”

  “Wad I tell ya?” The detective opened his arms in a cynical gesture. “He blows the bucks. He’s scared to tell her. Farewell, Rory. Ba-boom!”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Frank said.

  “You pick up your peashooter yet? The gun?”

  “This afternoon, why?”

  Lucca shrugged. “I am sure you are aware, your old lady ain’t crazy about the idea.”

  “Kathleen?”

  “Ain’t she the only old lady you got?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “When did she talk to you about it?”

  “At your place the other day, when you didn’t show. She’s not happy about having it in the house with the kids around.”

  What had gotten into Kathleen? To discuss him with a stranger, behind his back? She acted like he was still helpless, a dying man, to be discussed with doctors outside his presence. “Nonsense,” he told Lucca, “the girls are old enough, intelligent enough, not to mistake a gun for a toy.”

  Frank hit the record button after the detective left, locked the office and walked the mall. Throngs of people passed by, you
ng, beautiful and exuberant. South Beach was alive and exciting. He loved this time of year. If only the weather would stay so breezy, so cool and invigorating, year-round. Of course, that would result in tourists, foreign visitors, their traffic glut and parking woes year-round. He passed a tea room featuring a gypsy who read palms and tarot cards. He thought of Rory. What would the gypsy see in her future? He would go to Twin Palms and talk turkey with her in themorning. Her future and that of her son depended on it. She had to have some clue about where the money went.

  Hungry, he realized it was nearly dinnertime. Something nagged him to call home. He stepped into the doorway of a funky boutique and took out his tiny cell phone.

  “Where are you?” Kathleen sounded annoyed.

  “On the mall, near the office.”

  “You forgot.”

  “What?”

  “Lourdes was off today. We were going out to dinner.”

  He vaguely recollected a mention of Lourdes being off, but recalled no dinner plans. “Were we meeting someone?”

  “No, just the two of us.”

  “Sweetheart, I’m bushed.” He was in no mood to compete for a table in some noisy, crowded restaurant. “How about I stop by Joe’s and bring home some stone crabs?”

  She sighed and paused. “All right.”

  “I’ll get us a double order of jumbos. What about the girls?”

  “They’ve already eaten, it’ll be just us. Bring some coleslaw and don’t forget the mustard sauce and drawn butter.”

  “You’ve got it, sweetheart. I’m on the way.”

  South Beach traffic was already bumper to bumper. Joe’s, a legendary landmark, is located at the city’s southern tip. No reservations and two-hour waits for a table. A take-out department was added a few years ago, a blessing for aficionados. Sturdy brown bags emblazoned with Joe’s now vied for snob appeal with shopping bags from Sak’s.

  Frank sat stalled in traffic surrounded by the beautiful people in their limos, Jags, Rolls, vintage sports cars and neon-trimmed custom hot rods. A vast midnight blue sky hung low overhead, bouncing the music, the traffic sounds,the laughter, back down around him. As they all inched along, he watched curiously for the restaurant operated by Daniel Alexander and his partner, Ron Harrington. There it was. Brightly lit, patrons crowded at outdoor tables, waiters with red cummerbunds. He wondered whether the table tax increase so ardently protested by the late Daniel Alexander had ever passed.