If Looks Could Kill. Heather Pozzessere Graham
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for the screen. Tourists loved to flock here just to see who they could see, with the assurance that—should the crowd be quiet—the music would be good. At the moment, it was late afternoon, and a technician was just finishing fussing with the wires to one of the microphones.
Today, some of those who wanted to be seen were out. A young starlet with an entourage of bodybuilders was at the bar, drawing her share of attention from the tourists, as was Niall Hathaway, author of the latest publishing phenomenon, a hardcover about a priest brought back from a coma through the prayers of his congregation—and dreams about a life with the woman he had once loved and would love again. The book had been on the hardcover bestseller lists for over a year now; the movie rights had gone for well over a million dollars. Didn’t matter. The old guy just wanted to take his newfound wealth and go fishing. Key West was a good place to get on a boat with a rod and a few knowledgeable fishermen.
Kyle wanted to get out on a boat, as well. He wanted to get into the water, fish, dive. Lie back, crisp himself in the sun, drink beer in the breezy heat that usually fell over the water here. And he would. He didn’t have his own boat anymore, but Jordan had told him that the Ibis was his for the length of his stay, however long it might be. He hadn’t had much of a chance to talk to Roger yet; he hadn’t had much of a chance to do anything. He’d just arrived via a commuter flight through Miami International from Washington National, and it felt good just to sit in Jordan’s tavern. Key West wasn’t exactly home, but it was certainly home away from home. It was a good break before starting out in Miami with the local boys from Metro-Dade and Miami. He’d already done some preliminaries, but the Miami authorities had just turned to the FBI, so they were in the early stages of an investigation into what appeared to be a serial crime spree.
Odd, how life moved along—and it did move along. His memories of Fallon still hurt, but the pain was like that of an old knee injury; the flesh had healed over, but the joint would never be quite the same. Still, enough time had passed that he could smile now and then, thinking about her, and recollections of good times, of her smile, mingled with the pain, and sometimes it was okay. Still, it hadn’t been the tragedy of Fallon’s passing that influenced his life most strongly.
Lainie’s death had charted the path his life would take. In coming to terms with what had happened then, he had come to believe that only justice could make things better, could ease the pain her horrible death had brought to her family. Not to mention the fact that his father had been suspected of murder, just as Jordan Adair had been. Following the cops and the lawyers around, he’d been horrified to discover just how hard it could be to catch a killer. Crimes of violence fell into two categories: crimes of passion against loved ones, friends or acquaintances; and then the crimes that were growing alarmingly more frequent as time went along—crimes of random violence. As he tagged along behind Jimmy in his search for clues to Lainie’s killer, he had come to know that the victims of a crime were often those who were left behind to come to terms with a new life and the injustice of their loss. Nothing could bring back a loved one, but closure, knowing what had happened, helped put people on the healing road to sanity.
Crimes of passion against loved ones, Jimmy had taught him, were often the easiest to solve. Science had come a long way; DNA samples could be used in a courtroom, along with fingerprints, hairs, fibers and more. A rapist could be convicted on a semen sample.
Random crimes, on the other hand were hard to solve. Even if the cops could lift a dozen fingerprints, it wouldn’t help if those fingerprints weren’t on record somewhere. Random crimes kept the cops looking for needles in haystacks.
Which was why he’d wound up going into the psychological business of profiling killers. It narrowed down that haystack for the cops.
Closure. It was so damned important. Arresting and imprisoning a killer allowed those left behind a sense of justice—at least the killer had been stopped, and others wouldn’t have to feel their pain.
His work was important. He was glad that it still broke his heart to study the victims of the killers he sought; pain for others let him know he was still living. Because though, it might have been his stepmother’s death that had influenced his life’s work, it was his wife’s death that continued to haunt his own life. He was grateful that she hadn’t been brutally killed, but she had suffered even so, and he couldn’t help but be bitter that someone so young, with everything to live for, had died. There was no justice in her death, no rhyme, no reason. No sense. Fallon had not just been young, beautiful and full of life. She’d been kind, caring and warm. She couldn’t pass a bum in the street without giving him a dollar; she couldn’t let a stray dog run by without setting out a bowl of food. Kids had loved her. She would have been a great mother to the daughter who never managed to draw breath. There was an emptiness inside him as well, a pain that remained for the child he would never hold.
Kyle had been told that time could heal what reason could not. He’d been told that God would give him strength at a time when he couldn’t find it in his heart to believe in God. One thing he could say was that time did go on. He was a survivor, so he lived. He breathed, ate—and drank. Heavily, at first. moderately now. He slept with other women. Sometimes there was something of a relationship there, and sometimes he just hoped for good sex. Life went on, and he did his best with his work and with other people. True justice wasn’t coming in this lifetime, and he knew it; still, it somehow mattered more than ever now that he make his very best effort toward achieving whatever justice he could help achieve.
“Hello out there!” a husky masculine voice suddenly boomed over the sound system. A lanky, good-looking young man of perhaps twenty-eight or thirty had come to the microphone at the center of the stage, which was to the left of the bar. “Welcome, to our locals, our old friends…and to you out there enjoying a spell in our fantasyland. We’re the Storm Fronts, and we’re going to keep you entertained this afternoon while you kick back, eat, drink and catch some rays. My name is Joey King, and with me are David Hamel on bass, Sheila Ormsby on keyboards, Randy Fraser on drums and, I’m happy to say, Ms. Madison Adair herself is with us this afternoon on vocals. Ladies and gentlemen…enjoy.”
Kyle was suddenly glad that he was in the shadows, because he certainly wasn’t prepared for Madison. Especially Madison as he saw her this afternoon.
The band members filed casually out onto the rustic stage as their names were announced, Madison arriving last. It didn’t seem that it had been so long since he saw her last, but it had, of course. It had been a lifetime.
She was the same; she was different. There had still been a little bit of tall, gawky teenager left in her the last time he saw her.
And now…
Now there was not.
She walked with an easy, confident sway. Her smile was as breezy and sensual as a hot summer’s day. She was tall and slender, without being too slim; there were definite curves to Madison. She managed to be elegantly slim and voluptuous, all at the same time. Her hair remained red—like a sunset, deep and dark in the underlayers, sun-tinted with searingly gold highlights. She wore it long down her back, thick and wavy. Her face had matured; her features were fine against the lean oval of her bone structure. Her eyes were large, and a brilliant, crystalline blue. She hadn’t dressed in a way meant to allure; she didn’t need to. She wore a midthigh-length denim shirt with a simple soft-knit shortsleeve pullover in baby blue. Her long, tanned legs were bare, and she wore sandals with inch-high heels.
She was electrifying. The minute she breezed onto the stage, she drew all eyes. It was more than her intense, vibrant, dramatic coloring, more than the stunning beauty with which she’d been genetically blessed. It was her walk, her ease, her confidence, her smile. Her every casual movement seemed to be as naturally, sensually lithe and arrogant as that of a cat.
Yes, she was startling, certainly. Attractive, beyond a doubt.
But, God, oh, God, it was more than that.
She looked like her mother. Exactly like her mother.
Longer hair; shorter skirt, but she might have been Lainie.
Back in the shadows, he felt a grim smile slip onto his face. Funny. She’d always been a little