The Forgotten

  Lara blinked. “Someone might have spent hours—maybe days—dumping body parts in all different places,” she said quietly.

  “That’s true. We’re going to assume that the plan was to have them end up spread out, but we also believe the killer was in a hurry to get rid of the evidence and wouldn’t have taken any more time than necessary.”

  “I’m really sorry, but I don’t know how much help I can be. I’ve tried explaining. I’m not—”

  “You’re not a trainer. I know. But Grady believes that like dogs and cats, dolphins pick who they like. Cocoa likes you. And Rick Laramie will be helping us, too. Do you dive?”

  “Dive? I— No.”

  “You do swim. I know because I’ve seen you in the water.”

  “How observant. Yes, I can swim. But I’m from Virginia, Agent Cody. We didn’t do a lot of diving in Richmond, not in my family, at least. If you need a diver—”

  “According to Grady Miller, I need you,” he told her. “Thank you so much, Miss Ainsworth. Enjoy your party. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Lara watched him go, still feeling stunned. She’d only been working here three weeks. Tonight’s party was taking place on the Monday of her fourth week. It was an annual event, and most of the planning had already been underway, but she’d worked hard on it after taking over, wanting it to be as special as possible.

  Her days here were usually all about happiness, watching both children and adults who were thrilled to enjoy the dolphins, laughing at their antics, anxious to break the communication barrier between animal and man.

  It was putting words together to fight for positive press coverage, for funding, sharing facts and figures with anyone who thought what they did here was cruel. It was writing press releases about dolphins like Cocoa, who wouldn’t have survived without people’s help.

  But tomorrow would be...

  A search for more body parts.

  Enjoy your party.

  Grady wouldn’t insist that she go. He knew about her past and how traumatic today had been for her. But he had given Agent Cody’s plan his blessing.

  Maybe she’d insisted a little too strongly that she was all right.

  But if she was needed...

  Well, hell. It would only be one day.

  Right now she needed to rejoin the party and mingle. She’d discovered that she liked their sponsors, especially Sonia Larson. And it was Sonia she bumped into first.

  “In Miami less than a month and it appears you’ve met some very intriguing people,” Sonia said, nodding toward the path Agent Cody had taken when he left. “Where did you meet him? Somewhere dark and dangerous, I bet. What does he do for a living? Let me guess. Soccer player! And he’s—Argentine. Oh, dear, I’m sorry—too many questions.” Sonia sighed softly. “Forgive me?”

  Though the woman’s name was Sonia Larson, Lara had caught the faintest hint of an accent and was pretty sure that she came from a Slavic country.

  Lara managed a smile. “He’s not actually a friend at all. I met him here earlier today. He’s with the FBI. And you’re not asking too many questions at all.”

  “No, I do ask too many questions. I’m...awkward.”

  Lara looked at Sonia. Despite her beauty and vivacity, it was true. She did seem a bit awkward, as if she was uncomfortable in a crowd. As if all that vivacity was an act because she wasn’t sure how else to behave. She was a self-made millionaire. Her clothing line consisted entirely of her own designs. She’d begun selling in some of the high-priced shops on the beach, and around Aventura and the Bal Harbor area before expanding to other cities, other states and then around the world. But Lara suspected she was happiest and most comfortable when she was on her own, designing the clothes that had brought her such success.

  “It’s okay. You’re fine,” Lara said reassuringly. Then she smiled. “My turn. Russia? Maybe the Ukraine?”

  “Close. Romania,” Sonia told her. “Larson was once Lungo. My father changed it when we came to this country. I’ve been here since I was eight. Not everyone hears the accent.”

  “I worked in DC for a long time,” Lara told her. “I got good at recognizing accents.”

  “Yours is very nice. Soft and so clear, and yet...”

  Lara laughed. “I’m from Virginia. Richmond. Very cosmopolitan now. But I guess we still have a bit of a Southern touch.”

  “I like the Southern touch. Like Florida. This is my home now. I love it—everyone is here! I meet with Russians in the morning, Venezuelans in the afternoon and Cubans or Germans, or maybe someone Jamaican or French, at night. I love the salsa—that’s Brazilian, yes? Everyone comes together here. And thanks to the night life, my shoes and short skirts are popular, eh?”

  “I love your clothing. I have some of your Biz-Wear line,” Lara told her.

  “Yes?” Sonia might be a fashion mogul, but she seemed like any normal person, pleased by the compliment. “I must bring you some things.”

  “Oh, that’s sweet, but really—”

  Sonia waved a hand in the air. “You will hurt me if you refuse them.”

  “Please don’t feel that way, it’s just that it’s not really appropriate for me to accept such an expensive gift,” Lara said.

  Sonia waved a hand dismissively. “Just think of it as a welcome-to-Miami gift. I’m in Rio next week for a fashion show, but I’ll send some things over.” She smiled, then said, “And now you can’t argue with me, because we have company.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Watch out for him. His hands like to wander.”

  Lara turned to see Grant Blackwood headed their way.

  He was a good-looking man in a rough-cut kind of way—one that he probably took great pains to achieve. He played the Texan, the cowboy, to the hilt, right down to addressing Lara as “little lady” several times. He had two homes in Florida, one on Star Island and one in Key West, a mansion in Houston and several small “cottages” around the country.

  His wife was currently at their “little place” in the Hamptons.

  “Ladies! How cruel of you to deprive the rest of us of your company,” he said, his drawl booming, rich and deep.

  “I’m so sorry, but this lady has just received a call from her chauffeur. I told him he must get me out of here and home to bed at a reasonable hour,” Sonia said, followed by a yawn. “I promise you, it’s not the company. It’s too many flights in too few days, and I’m off again soon.”

  Blackwood sighed elaborately. “We’ll miss you, Sonia. Until the next soiree, then.”

  “Always such a pleasure, Grant,” Sonia said.

  He turned to Lara. “What about you, little lady? How about a walk down to the docks to fill me in on anything new with our wonderful dolphins?”

  Lara wasn’t new to his kind of game; she’d worked in the media after all. She was good at handling herself. But before she had a chance to put him off, Sonia leaped to her rescue.

  “I think that Lara needs to be very careful about walking on the docks with any man,” Sonia said.

  “Why’s that?” Grant asked.

  “Didn’t you see her boyfriend?” Sonia smiled. “He’s a very handsome man—and a government man, at that.”

  “You’re dating a fed?” Grant said, turning to Lara.

  She had seldom felt put on such a spot, but since Sonia had only been trying to help her—and since she was clearly right about Gerry—she phrased her answer carefully. “Well, we haven’t known each other long,” she said. “But he is...quite a man.”

  “I wonder if he’s part Latin?” Sonia said. “He looks as if he could be quite passionate.”

  “Oh, yes, he’s very passionate,” Lara agreed drily.

  “I imagine,” Grant Blackwood muttered, looking over her shoulder.

  As he did so, Lara knew—just knew—t
hat she had stepped in it now. Why in God’s name he was back again, she didn’t know.

  But he was back. The stick-up-the-ass agent was back. And this time he’d undoubtedly heard her.

  “Miss Larson, Mr. Blackwood,” he said. He looked at them and nodded, and though he said nothing else, his nod clearly indicated that they should leave.

  They took the hint. Sonia waved goodbye and headed for the exit, and fell into conversation with Ely and Dr. Amory. They were lucky to have Nelson Amory, Lara knew. He’d received degrees in both veterinary science and marine biology. He was considered one of the top scientists working in the fields of marine mammal behavior and physiology.

  Lara didn’t even want to look at Agent Cody. She had to, of course. He was standing right in front of her, waiting for her attention.

  “What now?” she asked with a wince.

  “I wanted to let you know that we’ll be heading out early. I need you to be at the end of the dock by seven.”

  “Seven. After today and tonight. No problem,” she said drily.

  “Thank you. And good night.”

  “Good night,” she said.

  He took a step away, but then he paused and turned back. She could almost have sworn that he nearly cracked a smile. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

  “What?”

  “Feel free to use me. To protect yourself from Blackwood’s advances, I mean. His Lothario tendencies are well-known. Thinking of me as your boyfriend will probably keep him from bothering you. Even if I do have a stick up my ass.”

  He turned and was soon swallowed up by the shadowy path to the parking lot.

  4

  As he drove home, Brett was surprised to find himself actually smiling.

  So he had a stick up his ass.

  Well, the woman he suspected was his key, however unwilling, to finding what he sought was abrasive, annoying and a pain in the backside herself. Self-assurance was an asset, however, and she possessed plenty of it. She was beautiful in a fairy-princess way, long blond hair, beautiful sky-blue eyes with a hint of green and a body that didn’t quit.

  Speaking of bodies... He couldn’t really blame her for being upset at being asked to continue the search for more body parts. Most people never found even one in their lives, and she’d already been the unwilling recipient of two.

  His smile faded as he thought about Miguel and Maria. He knew that it was contrary to everything in his training to feel so guilty over what had happened. It wasn’t that any agent was ever supposed to forget his or her humanity, but getting too close to an informant was definitely a job hazard. Empathy was great; becoming obsessed was not.

  And he had to admit it: he was obsessed.

  What plagued him was the discovery that Miguel had been alive when they thought he’d been dead, and that he’d been seen by his home right before Maria was killed.

  Brett just couldn’t believe that Miguel had killed his wife. Even if ordered to kill her on penalty of torture or death, Miguel would have borne any pain, any degradation, even death itself, rather than do anything to hurt Maria.

  Brett pulled into his garage, closed the door with the remote and sat for a minute. It was after nine; morning was going to come quickly. Hopping out, he saw that he’d locked Ichabod—the neighbors’ cat—in with him. Ichabod was a great cat, mostly Maine Coon with whatever else thrown in. His eyes were orange, and his huge furry body was pitch-black.

  Brett had always figured it would be cruel to keep an animal himself, since he was often away from home. But he lived in a strange cul-de-sac in an old area of West Miami that bordered the Gables and South Miami. For being in the city, it was oddly remote. Ichabod had always been free to roam the neighborhood, and somehow he always seemed to know when Brett was home.

  “You know I’m just a sucker who keeps cat treats, right?” he asked the animal.

  Ichabod meowed loudly and followed him as he entered the house through the garage door.

  Shake it off! Diego had told him earlier that evening. Do something else, think about something else. Start with a clean slate in the morning.

  His partner was right. After obliging Ichabod with a handful of treats, he tossed his jacket and tie over the back of a chair, then threw himself down on his sofa. Ichabod hopped up beside him, and he rested one hand on the cat and used the other to feel around on the side table for the remote. It wasn’t there; he really had no idea where in hell he’d left it. He wasn’t a bad housekeeper. He was just rarely there.

  He liked his old house. It had been built just off a small lake in the late 1940s, and the builders had given it a bit of retro deco styling. Rounded archways led gracefully between rooms, and the stairway to the second floor curved in a handsome C shape. He’d been able to buy when the market had been low. He liked the house’s style, and despite the busy city, he felt as if he lived in a little enclave of privacy. Greater Miami was made up of over thirty municipalities, some of them old, some of them recently incorporated. He was within minutes of downtown South Miami, downtown Coral Gables, the Coconut Grove area and downtown Miami itself.

  He didn’t, however, spend enough time at the house. He realized that it really needed something resembling decoration and style. It had almost had style once. That was when Bev had lived with him. She’d suggested drapes and art. But then she’d decided that living with a man who was only home to sleep—and not every night, even then—wasn’t what she’d been looking for. Maybe she’d wanted to prod him into promising more, but if so, she’d failed, because he hadn’t been able to.

  She’d moved to the Orlando area, he’d heard. He honestly hoped she was doing well.

  He realized that was the last time he’d had a woman in his house for more than a few hours.

  Brett stroked the cat. “I wonder if that’s why I’m obsessive, Ichabod. Yeah, I’m obsessed with this case—just don’t tell that to Diego. Somehow they found one another, Maria and Miguel. They were good together. You don’t get to see love like that too often, you know?”

  Ichabod meowed. Brett was pretty sure it was in appreciation for the petting, not his words.

  He rose and looked around for the remote, found it and turned on the television. It was already tuned to one of the national news stations.

  He winced. There was no way to gag the public. The death of Maria Gomez and the news that Miguel Gomez had been seen walking around alive after he was supposedly dead and buried had made it to the big time, along with joking speculation that zombies were roaming Miami once again.

  Next up—national news again—was the discovery of body parts at a dolphin facility in South Florida. As yet, no information on the victim was known. The anchor in Atlanta switched to their local correspondent, and an image of Lara Ainsworth flashed on the screen. She was cool, smooth and likable as she spoke to a sea of reporters, telling them that the facility had closed for the day but would reopen, that law enforcement had scoured the lagoons with the help of Sea Life’s dolphins and that they were always willing to help in any way.

  One idiot asked if it was possible that the dolphins had committed murder.

  She kept her cool as she told him no, that dolphins might be aggressive at times, but they weren’t capable of dismembering bodies. The picture cut to scenes of the dolphins with handicapped children and wounded servicemen and women; it was some of the best PR spins Brett had ever seen. Ms. Ainsworth wasn’t only an extremely attractive woman with an easy way when she was on camera, she was damn good at her job. She’d been filmed soon after they’d gotten out of the water, he realized. Her hair was still damp, and she was in casual shorts and a polo shirt.

  She cleaned up nicely, too, he thought, thinking back to the party earlier. Her halter dress had been stunning on her. He chastised himself for not noticing more, but he’d been too focused on the case. He realized, though, t
hat part of her beauty came from her animation. Her smile was sincere and her movements fluid.

  He smiled briefly, thinking of her stick-up-the-butt comment; he knew she’d been referring to him. Maybe he’d deserved it. He’d been a lucky man most of his life. He was generally well liked. Relationships—though most were merely casual—came easy for him. But this woman really didn’t like him. And she was, at the moment, according to Grady Miller, the one woman he needed on his side. He’d been sure he would be best off enlisting the help of the head trainer, Rick Laramie, and Laramie would certainly be on hand. But according to the facility founder, Cocoa wanted to work with Lara. It was as if she had found a best friend. If Cocoa were human, Miller had explained, she would want to hang out with Lara to hear a new band, or enjoy a movie or an art show—or go shoe shopping.

  As long as Lara came and helped, as long as everyone tried, he would be happy. He knew he was looking for a damned needle in a haystack.

  But Phil Kinny had seemed sure that if he had Miguel’s head, he might be able to figure out what had happened.

  Brett knew the waters around Miami; he loved boating, fishing and diving, and had since he was a kid. But he didn’t really understand the science of what the office techs were doing. By charting the tides and the currents, they believed they could follow the flow of body-part dispersal, using the dolphin facility as a starting point and working backward. He hoped they were right.

  Restlessly, he flicked off the news. “Ichabod, you’re the best company ever,” he told the cat. “But I don’t want Jimmy or his folks waking up and thinking you’re missing. So, sad to say, out, my friend.”

  The cat seemed to understand him. He wound between Brett’s legs and headed for the door. Brett let him out, climbed up the stairs, stripped down and headed toward the bed.

  He paused, though, and went to his desk to click his computer on. Someone might have gotten back to him with some kind of a map or a plan for the morning. They would be working with the Coast Guard, and he had faith that those guys could read what they were given, but he wouldn’t mind looking for himself. And while he wanted to sleep, he still felt restless.