Dead Run. Erica Spindler
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He had warned that signs of her fragile state would manifest itself in a number of ways: emotional highs and lows, forgetfulness, feelings of being overwhelmed or confused. Inability to concentrate.
“Ms. Ames? Are you all right?”
Liz glanced over her shoulder. Lieutenant Lopez stood in the KWPD doorway, expression concerned. Obviously, he had seen her boneheaded waltz into oncoming traffic. Dammit. The last thing she wanted him to know was just how thin an emotional thread she was hanging by.
She forced a smile. “Fine. Thanks for asking.”
“You need to be more careful. Traffic in this town can be pretty unforgiving.”
She stared at him a moment, unsettled. She found something vaguely threatening in his tone, his conciliatory expression. Just as she had earlier, when he had warned her about stepping on Key Westers’ toes.
Sweat beaded across her upper lip. She opened her mouth to speak, the voice that passed her lips was hardly her own, high and frightened sounding. She cringed at it, imagining his amusement. All but hearing his thoughts:
A family of fruit loops. Her and her sister both.
Liz turned and hurried toward Duval Street, concentrating on walking with purpose and confidence, shoulders back, head held high. She felt his gaze on her and fought glancing back.
If she did, he would know. He would see.
She was losing her mind.
Liz put one foot in front of the other, again and again. Sweat pooled under her arms and rolled down her spine. Light-headed, she focused on breathing deeply, on filling her lungs. Oxygen in. Garbage out.
People streamed around her. She sensed their curious glances. Her heart beat faster, out of control. She struggled to breathe, to keep moving blindly forward, to maintain.
Liz knew what was happening to her. A panic attack. Brought on by stress, by extreme anxiety. She had suffered a number of them in recent months, her first the afternoon she’d caught her husband in bed with her so-called best friend, the second a week later when one of her clients, a teenager named Shera, attempted to kill herself by taking a handful of pills.
She couldn’t think about that, those things, not now. A bench. She needed to find a place to sit. Frantic, Liz darted her gaze from left to right, searching.
Finally, she located one. She collapsed onto it and dropped her head to her knees. She breathed deeply and slowly, as her therapist had instructed.
Oxygen in. Garbage out.
Let it go. It was going to be all right. Everything was going to be all right.
Little by little, her heart slowed, her skin cooled. The attack that had held her in its clammy grip passed. Still she sat, face cradled in her hands. Dear Lord, how could she help others, when she was falling apart herself? How could she find her sister’s killer, when she couldn’t even talk to one of the good guys without sliding into an abyss of anxiety?
Liz lifted her head. And realized where she was. Where her subconscious had led her.
Paradise Christian Church.
Calm poured over and through her. A sense of focus, of purpose.
Rachel.
Gooseflesh raced up Liz’s arms. She whispered her sister’s name, her thoughts and senses flooded with her. She felt her presence so keenly, she fully expected to see her emerge from the church. Rachel would smile, wave and cross over in that goofy loping gait of hers, the one more like a golden retriever’s than a grown woman’s. She would enfold Liz in her arms for a big warm hug.
And everything would be okay.
“Are you all right?”
With a start, Liz jerked her gaze from the church entrance. A woman she had never seen before stood in front of her, expression concerned.
Liz blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
The woman held out a bottle of water. “I own the store across the street. You look like you could use this.”
“Thanks. I really could.” Liz managed a weak smile and took the bottle. She cracked the seal and took a long drink. She felt better immediately.
“This heat is vicious. I tell visitors to keep water with them at all times. Staying hydrated is the key.”
The woman smiled again and Liz realized this was the most beautiful woman she had ever met. A natural blonde, the way some very young children are, with eyes the color of a perfect summer sky.
Liz returned her smile. “What do I owe you for the water?”
She waved aside the offer. “My treat.”
“A real Good Samaritan. In this day and age no less.”
“Go figure.” The woman looked over her shoulder. “I better get back to the shop. Bikinis & Things.” She pointed. “Stop by, I’ve got some real cute bathing suits.”
“Thanks, I will.”
A couple of teens zipped by on bicycles. One of them twisted around and waved. “Hey, Heather!”
“Hey, Melanie,” she called back. “Got a new shipment of suits in.”
“Awesome.”
The woman turned back to Liz. “Nice meeting you. Remember, stop by.”
“Wait!” Liz launched to her feet. “I didn’t say thanks.”
“You didn’t have to.” She wiggled her fingers.
“Ciao.”
Liz watched the other woman walk away, feeling for the first time like maybe not everyone on Key West was her adversary.
CHAPTER 9
Tuesday, November 6 Noon
Carla sat at her desk, staring at the fax she had received only moments before. It was the facsimile of an e-ticket, one-way, to the Cayman Islands. The name on the ticket: Larry Bernhardt. The travel date: November 9, 2001.
This coming Friday. A week to the day after he had leaped out his bedroom window.
She might not be an ace detective, but that didn’t make sense to her.
But then, much of the information she had amassed in the past twenty-four hours hadn’t. Bernhardt had been well thought of at Island National, liked and respected both by his co-workers and superiors. His boss believed he had come into a sizable inheritance this past January, though he hadn’t known from where. That’s when he had bought the oceanfront home.
He had been married twice; he and wife number two, the barely-out-of-her-teens Mrs. Bernhardt the housekeeper had spoken of, had divorced shortly after they’d moved into the Sunset Key home. He had two grown children, a boy and a girl, from his first marriage, both of whom he was close to. Carla had spoken with the daughter, who had been stunned. Devastated. The young woman had talked to her father the week before, she’d said; his mood had been jubilant.
His mood jubilant. Carla frowned. That had been a recurring theme. Everyone she’d talked to had described Bernhardt as happy, relaxed … on top of the world—personally and professionally. In fact, the night of his death he had been out to dinner with friends. He had talked with them about his children, his work, the future.
He hadn’t mentioned a trip, however. And he certainly hadn’t mentioned thoughts of taking his own life.
Carla tapped the fax, curious. The only dissenting opinion about Bernhardt’s psychological state had come from his shrink. Dr. Irwin Morgenstern had stated that he’d been treating Bernhardt for severe depression and anxiety. He had prescribed a number of different medications in an attempt to stabilize him.
Considering what everyone