“Oh?” She smiled, sinking back into her pillow. The tables were turning.
“You heard what I said when I dropped you back at the mansion last night, right?” he asked.
“Yes, I heard what you said. Don’t tell anyone Luke Cane’s real name or his real identity. Whatever I do, don’t jeopardize his position. I heard you. You said it three times,” she told him.
“Yes, and I meant don’t tell anyone. Not even Victoria.”
“But I’m going to be asking Victoria to help me—to watch and listen—it’s only fair to tell her the truth. I mean, let’s get serious, how long is anyone going to believe that ‘Jack Smith’ is a designer?” Chloe demanded.
Stuckey chuckled. “He’s got some help. He’ll pull it off. You’ll be surprised. Chloe, I’m asking you this because it’s important. Promise me you won’t say anything?”
“I promise.”
“Good. See ya soon,” Stuckey said, and hung up.
Chloe replaced the phone and crawled out of bed, then walked over to the drapes and threw them open so she could look out at the pool. Her bedroom was on the second floor of what had once been a carriage house, and she could see the sparkling water and casual rattan furniture that surrounded it. She could see the main house where Uncle Leo lived as well, with its red-clay tile roof, balconies and two turrets. The house had been built in the 1910s and was one of the oldest in the area. Her great-great-grandfather had purchased the land and drawn up the plans for the house. Once the family had owned twenty acres. Then ten. Now they had one acre remaining, with Bayshore Drive and civilization right around the corner. But the area was still over grown and wild in old-Florida fashion; oaks dripped moss, and bougainvillea grew everywhere in a riot of color.
Chloe knew she was welcome in the main house anytime; Leo had always told her that it was hers more so than it would ever be his. She had grown up in the main house, and when she had finished college, she had contemplated the idea of getting an apartment with Victoria, but they’d both remained traumatized by the past, no matter how far they had come. Uncle Leo had come up with the solution: refurbishing the old carriage house so Chloe would have her privacy but still feel safe, and Uncle Leo wouldn’t spend his life worried about her.
The arrangement had worked out well. She carried emotional scars, a few wounds that might never fully heal, but her uncle had helped her find a purpose and enjoyment in life.
He had always been her rock.
The two of them were the only family they had left. Chloe didn’t remember her parents at all; she had been two when they died in a bizarre train explosion that had taken out almost twenty cars and their occupants. She had grown up with Leo, and he had been a good parental figure. He was with the district attorney’s office, a position he could afford to hold because he had family money and the insurance from the accident. On top of that, he was brilliant with stocks, no matter what the economy was doing, so they had never needed to worry about paying the bills.
She felt a moment’s unease, hoping that Stuckey wasn’t already calling him, warning him that Chloe was getting herself too involved with the Colleen Rodriguez disappearance. No, Stuckey wasn’t a tattletale. And even while he was telling her to keep her nose out of things, she knew he also realized that she was in a perfect position to obtain information the police might never discover themselves. Like so many Miami-Dade officers, he had been touched by the desperation of Colleen’s family, and he had been on a task force assigned to search the area from Florida City to the Broward County line, but all the cops had been reassigned after six weeks. The case wasn’t closed, but it wasn’t anyone’s priority, either.
Her phone rang again, and as she turned to answer it, she let out a little cry of surprise.
And fear.
Someone was there, watching her. A woman, transparent and ethereal.
Oh, God, no! Not again.
She’d fought so hard for her sanity. She’d thought she was finally done seeing people crying out to her for help—dead people—done with longing to help them when she couldn’t. After the massacre, she had seen images, dreams, ghosts, ectoplasm—whatever. She had seen them in hospitals; she had seen them on the streets. Strangers who had stared at her beseechingly and, even more terrifyingly, her own dead friends. She’d had therapy, lots and lots of therapy. But now she was regressing, seeing things again, no doubt because her world was changing. No, she told herself. She was stronger than that. She did not see things! Or if she did, then if she was strong, then they would fade away.
Her throat constricted, her muscles tensed, and then she blinked and the image was gone. She laughed nervously at herself; she must have seen the drapes reflected in the mirror.
She had stopped seeing ghosts long ago.
They were nothing but remnants of the fear and trauma.
A decade had passed, and she was fine. She was just imagining things because of Colleen.
She still felt shaken.
She left the window and went to stand over the phone, waiting for the answering machine to pick up. When she heard Victoria’s voice, she grabbed the receiver.
“Hey,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Are you ready?”
“Am I ready for what?”
“Third Sunday of the month. Meeting of the Fighting Pelicans.”
“Oh. Yeah, of course. I’d forgotten all about it. You didn’t mention a word last night,” Chloe told her.
“Last night. Well, last night was just weird,” Victoria said.
“I’ll say.”
“I’ll be by for you in twenty,” Victoria said.
“All right.” Chloe hung up and headed straight for the shower.
They had been meeting Brad and Jared at an old break fast place out on the Rickenbacker Causeway since forever, when they had all attended a magnet high school for the arts out on Key Biscayne. They called themselves the Fighting Pelicans because even though their school had no sports teams, it had been overrun by pelicans, since it sat right on the water.
Chloe showered and threw on a long casual halter dress, then headed down the stairs. She keyed in the code to open the gate in the fence that surrounded the property, and waited on the sidewalk for Victoria. She thought back to the ghost she’d thought she’d seen and gave herself a shake to banish the memory.
She saw Victoria’s little Subaru sweep into the cul-de-sac and hurried out to meet her. As she slid into the front seat, she asked, “Are you sure Brad and Jared are showing up today? I’m not sure I’m ready to be awake, and they were still at the party, last night, when I left.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Victoria asked her. “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”
It was just an expression, Chloe told herself. And here, in the bright light of the sun, sitting next to Victoria, the memory seemed absolutely ridiculous.
“I’m fine. So what do you think? Are they going to make it?”
Victoria shrugged. “They were talking to Myra when I left, but it looked like they were getting ready to leave, so I imagine they’ll drag themselves out of bed.”
“I like Myra,” Chloe said. “When you think about her position, it’s pretty amazing. She’s not cold or snobby or any of that.”
“Yeah, but she can be hard as nails, too. You should see her when she’s negotiating,” Victoria said. “Watch out, that’s all I can say.”
“Well, I know she was questioned intensely when Colleen Rodriguez disappeared, and the cops were impressed with her.”
Victoria glanced over at her. “And you know this because…?”
“Because my uncle’s office was involved.”
“But Colleen disappeared in the Keys and he’s Dade County.”
“Doesn’t matter. Both counties were involved in the investigation, not to mention that cops talk. My uncle doesn’t believe for an instant that she just took off.”
Victoria flashed Chloe a glance as she drove. “You’re forgetting that I was on that shoot, too.”
>
“I know you were.”
Victoria shook her head. “There was nothing, just nothing, to suggest that anyone did anything to her. I do know she’d sort of been seeing one of the bar managers down there, a really nice guy. He’s half American, half Bahamian, and he’s so gorgeous he should be modeling himself, but he wants to go into hotel management. He wasn’t with her that night, though. And even though they seemed to really like each other, they hadn’t been together all that long. Who knows? Maybe she did meet someone else. Or maybe—just maybe—she disappeared on purpose. You know, some kind of a publicity stunt.”
“I doubt it. From what I know about Colleen, neither scenario sounds like her.”
They had reached the restaurant by then, so they stopped talking and turned the car over to the valet. Brad came walking down the steps just as they started up them. “I was afraid you two had forgotten about break fast. I just sent you a text message, Vick.”
“I was driving, and I don’t text and drive,” Victoria said.
“Sorry,” Brad said. “Anyway, come in. Jared is holding down the table.”
They walked through the crowded restaurant and found Jared at a table next to the plate-glass window that over looked the bay—one of the best in the place. It wasn’t that they were such big spenders, just that they showed up regularly, in season and out, and had been doing so for years.
“Hey there,” Jared said, standing and giving them each a kiss on the cheek as they were seated.
“You’re looking good,” Victoria told him.
He blushed, and Chloe wondered if Victoria had any notion that Jared was in love with her, that he had been forever. She didn’t understand why he tried so hard to hide his feelings. In the beginning, she was certain, he hadn’t let on because he was convinced, as they all were in those days, that they were damaged goods, too scarred psychologically to form relationships based on anything other than shared trauma. They had lived through a nightmare, and the after math had just been a nightmare of a different sort. They had been hounded by the media, and whenever they met people, whether at school or work, or even casually at parties, they were items of curiosity. Everyone wanted to know the gory details, details the four of them were trying hard to forget.
At least the killers had been found.
Dead.
The sketch Chloe had done of one of them—an image burned into her memory when she and the killer had stared each other in the eye—had allowed the police to identify him when his body was found.
Brad took a seat next to Victoria and picked up the menu. Chloe found herself watching him and feeling a sense of pride. Brad had a trust fund, but he worked hard and had grown his business into a real success, even though one day soon he and Victoria would inherit the entire family for tune. And he never acted like a rich jerk.
He worked out, and he spent time with his friends. He loved women, loved going to the parties Victoria got him into. He’d been deeply religious before the massacre, but he had lost his faith in the after math, so now, since he’d never found the woman, he played the field and they remained a platonic foursome.
Jared, of course, had no desire to be platonic where Victoria was concerned, but since he wouldn’t speak up…
Like Brad, he, too, was extremely good-looking and hardworking. There was no inheritance ahead for him, but he was brilliant with the money markets, and he womanized along side Brad, while he pined for Victoria.
She wondered if any of them would—or could—get it right in the future.
Brad caught her staring and lifted a brow. “Why the serious look?”
“Just thinking, you two are getting kind of old for a life of nonstop partying and debauchery,” Chloe teased.
“Excuse me,” Brad said, “but what’s so wrong with appreciating beautiful women?” He smiled. “Luckily for us, there will be at least twelve of them on the calendar shoot.”
“Speaking of, you are doing the shoot with me, right?” Victoria asked Chloe. “Myra told me that she’s reserved June for you, so if you’re not interested, you need to tell her right away.” Victoria smiled. “Myra really loves your look. When you think of all the women who try to get hired by the agency, it’s really cool that she’s offered you a spot.”
Chloe laughed. “Was that a compliment, or are you wondering why she’d choose me?”
Victoria laughed. “It was a compliment. Cross my heart and hope to die. It’s just that you don’t care, and so many people do. I heard her talking to Harry Lee last night, and she was wishing you’d take a greater interest in a modeling career, and he agreed.”
“But you are going to be Miss June, right?” Brad asked.
“Yes,” Chloe said. “Yes, I’ll do it.” She’d been hoping she would be asked. She needed to be a part of things so she could get onto the island and see what was going on. And Stuckey didn’t need to be afraid for her; she would be in the company of dozens of other people the whole time.
Of course, Colleen Rodriguez had been in the company of those same people, a little voice nagged. Then again, no one had been suspicious then; there had been no need to be. This time everyone would have their guard up.
“And if anyone comes after you, you can just hit them with that jujitsu stuff you do,” Brad said, then grew suddenly pensive. “Not that even that would have helped…then.”
For a moment she had no idea what to say. Finally she managed to mumble, “Mixed martial arts. I do mixed martial arts.”
He reached across the table, touching her hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up the past, not really,” he said huskily.
Chloe shrugged and squeezed his hand in return. “You just took me by surprise, that’s all. It doesn’t bother me to talk about it. In fact, I do talk about it now and then. I still don’t believe the finale, though.”
“Why not?” Victoria asked, frowning. “They found the guys. They were dead.”
“Two guys, dead, and a suicide note taking full blame in the name of the Church of the Real People? I’m sorry—the rest of the world may have bought it. I still don’t,” Chloe said.
Jared cleared his throat. “Chloe, the experts said it was a ritualistic murder and that it all made sense. And I did a lot of research into cults myself, after that, and I have to agree.”
“The church officials were horrified, and of course their membership really dropped,” Brad said.
Chloe looked back at Brad. They’d all grown up going to the same beautiful church in the Grove. She had found comfort in returning to that church, but Brad and Jared had gone in the opposite direction. It made her feel sad that Brad, in particular, had lost something that had once meant so much to him.
“Earth to Chloe, you’re staring at me,” Brad told her.
“Sorry,” she said. “But I still don’t buy it.”
“Chloe, you’re the one whose sketch ID’d the one guy,” Brad said.
“The dead man was one of the killers, yes. I just don’t think it stopped with the two of them.”
“Chloe,” Jared said, “if there had been someone else—a Charles Manson or whatever—the killing wouldn’t have ended when it did.”
“I know what you’re saying makes sense, but I’ve just never believed it, that’s all.” She picked up her menu to end the conversation. “I’m thinking waffles, but the eggs Benedict are really good, too.”
She could feel her friends looking at each other and knew they were worried about her.
She looked from one to the other of them. “Honestly, I’m fine. It’s just the way I feel.”
“It’s okay. We still love you. So, how about I get the waffles, you get the eggs Benedict, and we share?” Jared suggested.
Luke was surprised by how quickly and easily he had learned so much about Chloe Marin. She had started college late, after going on an extended tour abroad after high school, earning a double major in psychology and art at NYU. She had worked with patients doing art therapy at the Dade County Hospital for three years after gradu
ation, and had been working freelance, with an office on Brickell, for the last two.
She had survived what they called the Teen Massacre during her senior year of high school. Eight of her friends had been slaughtered. Chloe had survived by being one step ahead of a pair of killers, Michael Donlevy and Abram Garcia, members of the Church of the Real People, a cult with socialist leanings and strict versions of the code of God—their God. To their way of thinking, the teenagers had been sinners, and the killers had saved them from eternal damnation, or so claimed the suicide note found carefully sealed in a Baggie next to the bodies in a wildlife park just off the Tamiami Trail in the Everglades.
Information regarding the massacre had been easy to dig up—the newspapers had carried the story until there was nothing new to carry.
The details were horrifying.
Death to defilers! written in blood, on the living-room wall. Eight dead, six wounded, two who had been passed out on the beach, unaware of the tragic events unfolding inside, and four who had miraculously escaped.
Victoria Preston, Brad Angsley, Jared Walker—and Chloe Marin. Victoria claimed that Chloe had saved her life, but Chloe hadn’t wanted to talk about any of it. She had given one interview, and that was that. He’d found a picture of her standing at a news podium, with a tall man at her side. There was a definite family resemblance. He had to be her uncle, the A.D.A., Leo Marin. Chloe had long hair then, falling nearly to her waist. Bangs, and huge eyes. Innocent eyes showing the pain of what she’d been through. She’d been so young, seven teen, and she’d been forced to grow old over night. The survivors had spent hours in the police station, giving their individual statements. They hadn’t been able to shed much light. The killers had worn black dive suits with hoods, working swiftly and efficiently in the dark.
Only Chloe had been able to give a description that had been any help at all. She had even drawn a picture of the man whose face she’d briefly seen. A picture that had matched one of the bodies that had been discovered later.
Death to defilers! And something else. An odd drawing…like a hand.
Everything done in blood. Obviously the work of a cult.