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  “Need some new associate checked out?”

  “It’s personal this time.”

  Something in Lucca’s eyes changed. “I don’t do marital problems.”

  “Good.” Frank smiled. “I’m a lucky man. I don’t have any. This is something else. You knew I was sick.”

  The detective nodded.

  “You probably didn’t know how sick. Sudden death saved my life.” He paused. “Somebody else’s death, not mine.”

  The detective’s expression never changed as Frank laid it out, explaining what he wanted. “He died on Saturday, July twelfth. That’s the day I was reborn. I don’t know how long he was on life support before they gave me his heart. What do you think?”

  “No problemo.” Lucca looked pleased. “First one of these I’ve had.”

  A man accustomed to daily death and disorder must find a fresh challenge a welcome diversion, Frank thought.

  Lucca scratched his neck and took out a small spiral notebook. “From what I understand, the body-to-body window for a heart is only a matter of hours.”

  “Four to six hours, with four preferable,” Frank said. “It’s called ischemic time, that’s how long the organ can survive outside a body.”

  Lucca jotted down the date and time of the surgery. “As I recall,” he said, “a national computer network matches patients to compatible organs as they become available.”

  “Right.” Frank was impressed. “The United Network for Organ Sharing. Didn’t know you knew that much about it.”

  “Come on, boss. I used to deal with the organ procurement team all the time when I worked in homicide.” He raised a shaggy eyebrow. “I hate to say this, boss, but you may not like what I find out.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You know, they want you to think that your donor was a brilliant, clean-cut, young premed student killed in some tragic traffic accident. Actually”—he casually crossed one long leg over the other—“with helmet laws, car restraints and tougher drunk-driving laws, thanks in large part to MADD, traffic deaths are down by at least forty percent. Most organ donors these days are gunshot victims. There’d be even more, except that the lifestyle that got ‘em shot usually means that locating the immediate family is a problem and the hospital can’t keep ‘em going long enough for us to find ‘em and get permission in time. In homicide we tried to work with ‘em as much as we could, but the investigation has to take priority. Our manpower hadda be spent looking for the shooter, not the victim’s next of kin. Just so you know, your donor was probably no Eagle Scout.” He shrugged.

  “I’m not harboring any fantasies.” Frank pushed away from his desk and stepped to the window overlooking the bustling mall below.

  “For the most part,” Lucca said, “people die like they live. We’re probably gonna come up with a shanky character, or some gang member who got himself popped.”

  “I don’t think so.” Frank shook his head. “But no matter. You don’t know what it’s like.” He turned to face the detective. “I feel like I’m sixteen years old again. Starting over. Got a whole new lease from a stranger. In my book you don’t accept gifts without a thank-you, especially when that gift is the miracle of life. It may sound corny, but this is payback time. If the family doesn’t need anything, the least I can do is thank them.”

  “Can’t argue with that, boss.”

  “But I can’t shake a gut feeling that something is waiting out there that I need to do for them. I can’t sleep, thinking about it.”

  “I always say, never argue with your gut. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. How far you want me to go?”

  “Just the name of the donor and the address of the family member who gave permission. I’ll take it from there.” He moved back to his desk. “You’ll want to start in Florida. Here’s how it works. When a donor becomes available, the computer searches statewide for a match. If none is found, they check the entire region. That includes Louisiana, Georgia, Alabama and Tennessee. If no suitable recipient is found, they go nationwide. He could be from anywhere. That’s a lot of turf to cover.”

  Lucca’s dark eyes took on an amused glint. “I wouldn’t lose any more sleep over it, boss.”

  The detective got slowly to his feet. They shook hands and he headed for the door.

  “How long you think it will take?” Frank called after him.

  “How’s tomorrow sound?” Lucca said over his shoulder. He turned and faced Frank. “Tell you the truth, you could be the poster boy for heart transplants. I never would have guessed.” He paused for a moment, then nodded at the black leather bag on Frank’s desk. “Your medication, right?”

  Frank nodded.

  “You shouldn’t leave that thing lying around.”

  “Who would want it?” He felt puzzled. “Nobody could use it to get high.”

  Lucca’s weary look said he should know better.

  “That stuff’s expensive, right?”

  “More valuable to me than money, but you’re right, there’s one pill alone that’s a hundred and fifty dollars every time it’s filled.”

  “Exactly. That’s why it’s easy for a thief to sell it back to the pharmacist.”

  Frank winced. The thought had not even occurred to him.

  Once the detective left, Frank found himself unable to focus on the prospectus he was reading. His mind raced. Lucca would most likely tap into death records, cross-check with the Division of Motor Vehicles. Their licenses designate whether Florida drivers agree to be organ donors. He would list the names of those who died during that time period, then rule out the diseased, drugged or otherwise ineligible, come up with a short list, then narrow it down to the right one by process of elimination. The magic of computer technology. Dead or alive, he thought, nobody has privacy now.

  Frank locked the office and strolled Lincoln Road Mall. Renovations, rebuilding and remodeling were under way everywhere. While he was growing up, the once swanky shopping mile was fading into shabby disrepair. Saks Fifth Avenue and Lillie Rubin moved out, replaced by the sleazy shops of gypsies and grifters who preyed on unsuspecting tourists and lonely senior citizens. Once the South Beach renaissance began to flower, artists and performers discovered the neighborhood and its low rents, transforming the pedestrian mall into a Bohemian venue much like the Greenwich Village of the 1950's. Now in full bloom, the area had become the American Riviera, wildly popular with the rich and famous. Property values and rents soared, the artists were being forced out and a glamorous new rebirth had begun.

  Frank ordered an iced cappuccino at an outdoor café. Oddly enough, though he had never smoked, he wanted a cigarette. Really wanted one. It would be insane to start now, he decided. A notion intrigued him. What if he had inherited the tastes, the desires, maybe even the characteristics, of the stranger whose heart beat in his chest? During support sessions at the hospital, other recipients had discussed the possibility of spiritual links and emotional connections to the original owners of the organs that now kept them alive. Nonsense, of course. Like the counselor, he had scoffed at the idea. But what if his donor was a chain smoker? If so, Frank was grateful the habit hadn’t damaged the man’s heart. What if his transplanted heart had arrived with likes and dislikes, a personality and memory of its own? Perhaps his odd sleeping habits, his early rising, his troubled dreams, were not his at all, but someone else’s.

  The sight of a stunningly statuesque woman, probably a model, interrupted his thoughts. On Rollerblades, she wore skintight short shorts and a tank top and pushed a bright yellow baby stroller. She smiled at him as she skated gracefully by and he sneaked a peek in the stroller. The passenger, a pampered white poodle, wore a flashy rhinestone studded collar and yellow hair bows. Frank laughed aloud. Life was good. Lucca was on the job. Soon he would know all about the donor whose death saved his life. Like a schoolboy at Christmas, he eagerly anticipated what lay ahead.

  A low-flying jet, inbound for Miami International Airport, blocked the sun for a moment and a shadow fell acro
ss the sunny mall. A fleeting millisecond of doubt followed the chill he felt, remembering the oft-heard warning. Be careful. You might get what you wish for.

  He announced at dinner that night that in a week or so, after he had cleared up a few minor matters, they would all go to Disney World for a few days. He expected squeals of delight.

  “Daddyyy,” they chorused in protest. Casey rolled her eyes. Shandi wrinkled her nose.

  “You loved it. You both begged to go back last time.” His voice was plaintive.

  “Daddddy, I was six and Shandi was thirteen,” Casey whined. “I can’t go now, our first coed dance is coming up.” She lisped slightly through a mouth full of metal. Her braces would not come off for months.

  “I’ve got school,” Shandi declared flatly. “I have to study.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully, her tricolor hair, dark blue nail polish and studded earlobes. “I’m so glad you’ve finally seen the light and made school your number one priority.”

  He glanced back at Casey, busy attacking her dessert. “I just thought it would be nice for us to spend some time together as a family.”

  “Why start now?” Shandi asked flippantly.

  He didn’t like her attitude or the way she simply seemed to push the food around on her plate without eating.

  “That’s no way to talk to your father,” Kathleen said calmly.

  “What is it with that nail polish?” He could not resist the question.

  She studied her manicure. “Everybody wears it. It’s vamp.”

  “It makes you look like you should be thawed out.”

  Casey giggled.

  Shandi shot her a contemptuous look, then smiled unexpectedly at her father. “It’s really popular. All the models wear it. Dad, do you think I could borrow the new car this weekend?”

  “What’s wrong with yours?”

  “That piece of junk?” She made a face. “It’s embarrassing to be seen in.”

  “It’s a pretty decent set of wheels for a college kid without a job. When I was in college—”

  Shandi groaned. “I know, I know. You worked, you paid your own way. You didn’t have a car. But,” she added boldly, “you didn’t have a father. I do.”

  He put his fork down. “Your car is only four years old. If it is a piece of junk, that means you’re not taking responsible care of it. Maintenance is important, and given what happened last time you used my car—”

  “Not my fault,” she said quickly.

  “That’s right,” Kathleen said quietly, “the officer said she was clearly not at fault.”

  He didn’t like being double-teamed. “Well,” he said, “if you hadn’t let her drive it—”

  “She didn’t!” Casey burst out, her freckled face flushed. “Mom said she couldn’t, but Shandi took it anyway.”

  The painful silence that followed told him it was true.

  Lourdes, on her way in to pour coffee, heard the exchange, turned around and disappeared back into the kitchen. He pushed his plate away. “Is that true?”

  Shandi stared sullenly at her nails.

  Casey watched, eyes expectant.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Kathleen explained haltingly. “At least no one was hurt.”

  He ignored her. This was the time to wrest back control. “You’re grounded for a month, except for school.”

  “A month!” Shandi looked astonished. “You can’t do that!”

  “Oh, yes, I can.”

  “Mom said it wasn’t my fault. You heard her.”

  “But it was my car you wrecked after taking it without permission. I’m not your mom, I’m your father and I’m still in charge.”

  Shandi looked to her mother for support and saw none. Kathleen avoided both their eyes.

  “I’m a grown woman, in case you hadn’t noticed. You can’t just, just put me under house arrest!”

  “My house, my rules.”

  She started to respond but didn’t. “When does this start?” she finally muttered.

  “As of now.”

  “No way!” she yelped indignantly. “I have a date tonight.”

  “Call and tell him it’s postponed.”

  “I can’t do that!” She checked her watch. “He’s already on the way. Mom, do something!” she demanded.

  “Perhaps there could be a compromise,” Kathleen suggested, slowly folding her napkin. “Since this date was preplanned, perhaps Shandi could start … house arrest after this evening.”

  What the hell was going on? He felt bewildered and a bit betrayed. They had always backed each other up on discipline. On the other hand, perhaps canceling this date would be unfair to the boy.

  “That’s doable, I guess. Who is this boy?” he asked.

  Casey giggled.

  “Someone new,” Kathleen said casually, and began to clear dishes from the table as Shandi dashed upstairs to get ready.

  After a short time, the bell rang at the front gate and Shandi scampered downstairs. “That’s him,” she sang out. “See you later.” She headed for the door.

  “Hold on,” Frank said. He pushed the buzzer that opened the gate. “I’d like to meet him.”

  “Daddy!” Her tone was exasperated.

  “Sit.”

  She sat nervously on the arm of a chair.

  “Remember,” he said. “I always meet your dates.”

  “Not for more than a year.”

  “From now on, we’re back in the habit.”

  She sighed audibly.

  He answered the door. The visitor was not who he expected. Frank stared. They had met before. Shandi’s high school drama teacher, Jay Bowden.

  Bowden stepped confidently inside. Kathleen rushed forward, took his arm and turned to Frank with a bright smile. “You remember Jay, don’t you?”

  “Bowden, isn’t it? Jay, what brings you by?”

  “I’m just here to pick up Shandi,” Bowden said. “Good to see you again, Frank.”

  Shandi whisked him away as Kathleen told them to have a good time. “Drive carefully,” she called after them, then closed the door.

  “That’s her date?”

  Kathleen nodded, expression resigned, expecting his reaction.

  “Jesus Christ! The man is nearly as old as I am! He’s thirty-nine if he’s a day. His goddamn hairline is receding and he’s got a ponytail. Was that an earring he was wearing?”

  “I knew it wasn’t a boy,” Casey trilled, from a front-row seat on the wide staircase. “He’s an old guy.”

  “Baby, I want you upstairs. Now.” He watched as sheobeyed, a pout on her face. He wanted to hug her. Was she the only one in this household who wasn’t hiding something from him?

  “We need to talk,” Kathleen said softly.

  “Damn straight. You knew she was seeing this guy? You went along with it? She’s been out almost every night lately. Is it with him? How long has this been going on?”

  They sat in the Florida room, knee to knee in wicker chairs.

  “Sweetheart, I’m sure you know it wasn’t easy trying to keep everything under control all that time you were sick.” She sounded hurt, eyelashes lowered. “They’re both spirited girls, Frank. I had to make you my top priority.”

  “But you had to know that dead or alive, I would not approve of that guy,” he said, less vehemently. “Something is obviously wrong with a man that age who is interested in nineteen-year-old girls.”

  “But that’s exactly the point, Frank, she is of age. She’s nineteen. If we try to ground her or forbid her to date a particular individual, she is perfectly capable of moving out, or even marrying inappropriately, because she is so headstrong. Many of her friends already have their own apartments. She could find a roommate and be gone tomorrow.”

  “Who would pay the rent on this apartment? It might do that girl some good to get a job and learn how to live like a responsible adult.”

  “If she moved out, we’d have no control whatever.”

  “Looks like we have none now.�
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  “She’s safer living at home. What do you think I would have done at that age had I been told I couldn’t date you?”

  “I see your point, Kath, but that was different. I was a fellow student, not some predatory professor. Does the schoolknow about this? If it’s not illegal, it’s certainly unethical for him to date teenage students.”

  “He quit teaching. He’s the artistic director at the new Golden Glades Playhouse. Frank, I trust her to have enough good sense not to—”

  “Like you trusted her not to take the car when you said no?”

  “You’re impossible! I don’t know what’s wrong with you lately!” She sprang to her feet, flushed and angry. Left alone, he tried to figure out where he had gone wrong. As he saw it, his only crime was suggesting a wholesome family vacation they could spend together. Now everybody was pissed off at him. He thought of the promises he had made in the hospital, how he would make it up to them if he lived, be a better father, a better husband. He remembered Kathleen holding his hand all the way to the operating room, praying aloud. “… though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death …” She had urged him to pray with her.

  “You pray. I’ve got other things to think about,” he had said, focusing every fiber on survival, on his will to live, determined to do his part. He had made it, and now he had to focus on keeping his promises. Though he knew the thought was ludicrous, he wondered if they wished he had never come home from the hospital.

  He poured a drink. Scotch and soda. The first sip was good. He carried it up to his study. The red light on his message machine was flashing. He punched the play button.

  “Hey, boss,” Lucca said. “Got what you wanted. You were right. This guy wasn’t some street punk. See you tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Frank was the quarterback. Fans stomped and roared, rocking the stands. He had the ball. A voice he should recognize, but didn’t, urged him on, entreating, demanding. But what was the play? Where were the goalposts?

  Frank had worked since age eleven, he had never played football, yet that predawn dream left him as frustrated, breathless and bathed in perspiration as a man accustomed to a helmet and shoulder pads. Some suppressed desire, a latent childhood fantasy? He went to the office early, and studied the morning paper. The usual madness in the streets had spread to the halls of justice where a robber had filed suit against the city for his injuries, suffered in a crash while trying to flee police. He alleged that their roadblock endangered his life, violating his rights.