Slow Burn. Heather Graham Pozzessere
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unhappily at the headlines on the front page of the Miami Herald.
More Than A Year After His Death, Humanitarian Cop’s Killer Remains At Large
The reporter had done one hell of a slam job, throwing suspicion on everyone, including the untouchable Mrs. Huntington, David Delgado, half the crooks in the city—and half the police force.
Jerry groaned and reached across his desk for the large bottle of cherry-flavored antacids he kept there. He took a huge handful as if they were candies.
It was Spencer being back in town that was causing all this brouhaha again. Why couldn’t they just let Danny stay buried? Everyone knew that cops did everything they could when another cop went down. Just like everybody knew there were some crimes that were destined to go unsolved. Maybe everybody didn’t know quite how many there were, but people had to know they existed, especially in a city as big as Miami.
A queasy pain swished in his stomach again; he chewed another handful of antacids. Damn Spencer. Why hadn’t she just stayed in Rhode Island? It would have been better for all of them.
Gene Vichy read the headline at the breakfast table while enjoying the elegant view of water and yachts at his club. He smiled slightly, shaking his head. It was one self-righteous reporter who had done the job on this one! The police were, it seemed, a handful of incompetents. His smile deepened. The general public didn’t always understand the law. Take the case of his poor murdered wife. The cops sure as hell thought he had done it, but they didn’t have a shred of proof. The D.A.’s office could never prosecute him; they had nothing but their certainty that the motive had been money. Now, as to Danny…
The poor cops. They didn’t even have an obvious motive. In the murder of a husband or wife, as he well knew, the cops instantly looked to the surviving spouse.
Spencer had inherited a fortune on her husband’s death, but what did that matter to a woman who had several fortunes of her own already. Then there was jealousy. A lover, perhaps?
But, alas again for the poor cops! Spencer Huntington seemed purer than the driven snow. Where to go from there. To a best friend?
To all those crooks Danny Huntington had been after?
A friend, a foe—a snitch?
He laughed out loud softly. He could almost feel it in the air. Fur was going to fly again.
Ricky Garcia swore violently in his native Spanish and threw the paper on the floor.
¡Merde! The cops were going to be crawling all over him again. Coming down on his gambling, on his prostitutes.
All because the wife was back in town, stirring up trouble!
Jared Monteith hadn’t read the paper at home that morning. He didn’t see the headline until he sat down behind his desk. Even as he sat, his line rang. He winced before picking up the receiver, knowing full well that it was going to be his wife.
“Did you read the damned paper?” Cecily could screech extremely well when she wanted to.
“Yes, I’m looking at it right now.”
“I told you Spencer was trouble.”
“Cecily—the reporter is down on Spencer!”
Cecily sniffed. “As if Spencer is going to worry!”
“Sly’s calling me,” Jared said and sighed. “Cecily, no big deal, okay? Gotta go.”
Trey Delia read the paper in his incense-filled room. He was sitting cross-legged and naked on his floor. The two young women who had recently come to fulfill his needs giggled softly from somewhere behind him as he sipped herbal tea laced with ox blood. Raw chicken hearts sat on a plate before him.
Something human would have been better.
The ancients understood. Consuming an enemy gave a man his enemy’s strength. A heart offered courage and wisdom. Some organs gave strength. Bone-meal gave a man physical and mental powers.
Ah, and now this….
Everyone would be up in arms again.
The cops would be going crazy. It must be Danny’s widow stirring up the dust. Spencer, the beautiful wife. Trey had seen her picture. Very blond, elegant. Tempting.
He popped a chicken heart into his mouth and drew a deep breath from the hashish pipe at his side. The girls were still giggling.
Spencer…
She was trouble. So pretty. So much trouble. So pale, slim, elegant.
He wondered how she would taste.
In his office, Sly read the headline and groaned.
Audrey was sipping her coffee and reading, as well. Poor Spencer. The wound Danny’s death had left was being ripped open all over again. Of course, Spencer was doing it herself, but still, it was sad.
So many people would be upset! Dangerous people. But there would be no stopping Spencer. Audrey knew her well, and she didn’t really blame her.
Audrey bit her lip and continued to scan the paper.
Jon Monteith, Jared’s father, Spencer’s uncle, lay his head wearily on his pillow.
If only they could let matters rest!
After all, it hadn’t been a drive-by shooting, and any fool knew Spencer wasn’t guilty. It hadn’t been robbery.
So why kill a cop?
It was simple. The way he saw it, the cop had known too much.
A cop learned things on the streets. He was an investigator. He found things out, and sometimes he was careful about telling even his associates what he knew.
And pursuing what was going on could be dangerous. Danny had been bright. Danny had been on to so many things. And with Spencer raising a fuss and the newspapers going crazy, things were bound to happen.
Yes…
A veritable Pandora’s box could fly right open.
He swore and groaned.
Spencer had come home, and she wouldn’t let things rest. She just didn’t know what was good for her.
Spencer was one royal pain in the ass.
He picked up the phone and waited for an answer. “Have you seen the headline?”
“Yes,” came the reply. “I’m on it. I’ve been on it, damn it!”
“Make sure you stay on it. Make damned sure, because if you don’t…”
He let the force of the husky threat fade, then replaced the receiver with a sharp click.
Accidents did happen. Oh, yes. Accidents did happen.
3
There were at least a hundred good reasons she shouldn’t be in a cemetery in the dead of night, Spencer thought.
And the longer she stood in the darkness, the longer the list became and the more foolish her errand seemed to be.
It was just that…she had to do something. Someone had to do something. She had tried very hard to let the police do their work. She had even understood when they had grilled her, relentlessly, apologetically, relentlessly again. She applauded their efforts—at least it had seemed as if they were traveling along every possible avenue.
And she even believed—no, she knew—that David Delgado would have stopped at nothing to catch Danny’s killer.
It was just that they weren’t doing enough.
She’d gone away for a long time. She’d stopped working for a while, but idleness had been sheer misery. She knew that she couldn’t bring Danny back.