The Forgotten

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 Garcia 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, that 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.

His emails popped up, a few from fellow agents offering off-duty help. Nice. Nothing yet from the tech people, but he wasn’t worried. They would work all night if they had to and make sure they had what he needed in the morning. He started to turn away from the computer when a message suddenly popped up on the screen.

He stared, stunned at first, and then disbelieving.

Miguel did it. It was Miguel, but it wasn’t Miguel.

The words were then gone as quickly as they had come. Brett felt as if every hair on the nape of his neck was standing up.

He gave himself a mental shake. He must have imagined the message. He started hitting keys, slowly at first, and then more quickly, trying to ascertain if someone had hacked into his computer somehow.

Eventually he determined that had to be the case. But even though he didn’t have the skills to do it himself, he would make sure the hacker got caught. They had some of the best computer geeks known to man in the Miami office, so all he had to do was take his laptop to work and let them have at it.

That decided, he rose to go to bed at last.

And it was then that his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number; it wasn’t a local exchange. He thought about letting the caller leave a message, but in the end he answered. “Cody,” he said briefly.

“Brett Cody?” asked a deep, slightly accented voice.

“Yes.”

He wasn’t sure how he instantly knew who it was; he had never been assigned to the Barillo case. He’d seen the man, of course. Barillo appeared at rallies backing certain politicians and liked to make the scene when new clubs opened on South Beach, which was fairly frequently. The beach was a fickle place; the hottest club quickly became passé when a new club opened.

For being such a powerhouse, he was a small man. Only about five-eight, gray haired and slight.

He was a mix of nationalities—born in Mexico, but with grandparents from Italy, Colombia, Brazil and Cuba—and that might well have helped him to become the kingpin that he was, in command of his multinational “family.” He was known to speak at least five languages, including perfect English.

“This is Anthony Barillo,” the man said.

Brett knew he should behave professionally, keep the man talking, try to get something useful out of him, but he couldn’t help himself. “Then you should know, you piece of total crap, that we will chase you to the ends of the earth to see that you pay for what you’ve done. Maria Gomez was innocent, someone’s mother, just like your own.”

Barillo didn’t seem offended by his words. His tone was even, dispassionate, as he said, “Special Agent Cody, my mother was a prostitute of the lowest order. She abandoned me, and I don’t know if she’s living or dead, nor do I care. But that’s another matter entirely. Here’s the thing you must know. I didn’t kill Maria Gomez. I didn’t even kill Miguel Gomez. That’s why I’m calling you. Word on the street is that you’re out for blood. Am I an innocent man? In life, that’s debatable. But in this instance, if you truly want to catch the killer of that lovely woman—yes, even I knew she was nearly a saint—you’re going after the wrong person.”

“Bull! Miguel was wearing a wire when—”

Brett broke off. Barillo had already hung up.

Furious, he hit Return on the call, but all he got was a recording saying he’d reached a disconnected number. He almost threw the phone across the room but caught himself before realizing the futility of the gesture. He would just have to get another cell phone, and Barillo would still be out there.

He called Diego—waking him up—to tell him about the phone call, and then he called Herman Bryant—whom he also woke up—to tell him about the call, as well.

“Man’s a bloody liar. He’s as dirty as a sty on Mars,” Bryant said.

Brett wasn’t sure just how dirty a sty on Mars was, but Bryant was famous for his strange turns of phrase. He also sounded frustrated as hell, which made sense. After all, he was head of a large task force that had so far failed in its efforts to stop the man.

Barillo always managed to keep his own hands clean, letting his henchmen pay the price of arrest. The FBI had taken down a dozen of his men. They never spoke against him. He was known to have a long arm that could reach into any prison—state or federal—in the country. “I’m surprised he bothered to call you. He’s wanted on a dozen murders. What’s one more?”

“I think it offended him that we thought he’d broken his own rule about not going after family, plus I think he genuinely liked Maria. Anyway, I needed to report the call to you.”

“Of course, thanks. I’m glad you’re in on this, Brett. You could be on the task force if you wanted. You know that, right? But at the moment, I’m glad you and Diego are taking lead on the Maria Gomez case.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll keep you up on everything.”

“Any time of day,” Bryant told him.

They rang off. Brett knew that he had to get some rest. It wasn’t easy, given his adrenaline level after Barillo’s call.

His phone rang again; he stared at it. Again, a number he didn’t know. He answered but didn’t speak.

“Hello?”

It wasn’t Anthony Barillo, though this man’s voice was also accented. More of a tenor than a bass, though.

“Who is this?” Brett asked sharply.

“You lay off my father, man. He had nothing to do with Miguel or Maria Gomez. You understand? It will be harder for you if you don’t quit.”

Brett tried to control his temper. To a point, he did. “Listen, you gutless little tadpole. I don’t know which one of Barillo’s kids you are, but you just threatened a federal agent, so shut up or you just might find life getting hard for you. You were smart enough to get out of the family business, now stay smart and keep out of it.”

“Screw you!” the caller said. “My father didn’t do it—you got it?”

For the second time that night his line went dead. He thought about letting the matter go until morning, but it wasn’t that long since he’d woken the other men up, so... He called Bryant and Diego again, and both of them were as surprised as he was that both Barillo and one of his sons had called about the Gomezes’ deaths.

After he hung up for the second time he knew he had to go to bed; the next few days promised to be very long ones.

Sleep was elusive at first. He kept playing the case over and over again in his mind. He hadn’t been there when Miguel Gomez had burned to cinders. But he knew the agents and many of the officers who had been, and he knew that the accounts he’d heard were as accurate as humanly possible. The warehouse had been surrounded; it had been under surveillance for days before Miguel had gone in wearing the wire. There had been no other voices, so almost certainly no one else had been in there. Not to mention that only one set of charred-beyond-recognition remains had been found, with Miguel’s melted jewelry right there.

But—somehow—Miguel had survived. They’d found someone’s body, but not Miguel’s.

Maria had been murdered, too. Thrown from her balcony only minutes after Miguel Gomez had been seen in his neighborhood, behaving strangely.

At last Brett fell asleep.

At five thirty, his alarm rang. Blindly, he groped for the button to turn off the obnoxious buzzing he’d chosen because it guaranteed that he would get up.

He opened his eyes, ready to roll out of bed.

But he didn’t.

He froze.

Because there was a woman sitting at the foot of his bed. Maria Gomez. Her dark hair framed her pretty face, and there was a look of infinite sadness in her eyes.

“Miguel did it. It was Miguel, but it wasn’t Miguel,” she said.

And then she was gone. She simply faded into nothingness.

And he was alone in his room, frozen rigid, staring at the empty foot of his bed.

* * *

“You really should get your diving certificate,” Agent Cody told Lara.

She turned to look at him. They were on the Coast Guard cutter Vigilance. The day was just about perfect; the temperature was warm, but the breeze kept them from getting too hot. The sea was calm, and only a few white clouds puffed delicately above them. She and Rick were the only Sea Life personnel on the vessel, though Grady, Adrianna and Dr. Amory had been there to see them off before they joined Cocoa in her enclosure. Dr. Amory was fascinated by Cocoa’s preference for Lara. He said he’d never seen a bond form so quickly, and he’d been doing research on dolphins’ abilities for thirty years. But when they’d asked him if he wanted to come along, he’d said, “No. I don’t want to distract Cocoa from her task. She’ll be fine with you and Rick.”

Lara wished he’d come so she would have another friendly face onboard. Not that their Coast Guard crew weren’t great, because they were. But she’d been nervous about this whole thing to begin with, unsure that she had the skills she needed, and now Rick had headed aft, Diego was nowhere to be seen and she was alone with Agent Stick-up-the-Ass, who seemed to think she’d had a lamentable upbringing because she didn’t dive.

The better to find body parts, my dear.

“You’re going to be all right in the water, right?” he asked.

For a moment she wondered how someone so drop-dead good-looking and presumably intelligent could be such an ass. It didn’t help that he was standing so close to her that while she was busy thinking what a tremendous jerk he was, she was also far too aware of his leanly muscled body, clad only in a pair of swim trunks. She wished she was wearing more than a bathing suit herself; it was almost as if their flesh was touching. Not that he seemed to be the least bit aware of her in a physical way.

“I’ll be fine, Agent Cody. We do swim in Virginia. We do, in fact, have dive shops. We have rivers and lakes and yes, even direct access to the Atlantic. It’s just that not every kid in Richmond grows up to dive.” She hoped she managed to sound cool and disinterested in anything but the task ahead.

“Sorry,” he said curtly. He was staring out at the water, the sun gleaming down on his shoulders, those granite features facing into the wind, which seemed somehow appropriate. He turned to look at her. “Down here, it’s just...well, it’s just something most people are able to do. The reefs off the Keys are magnificent. They say there are prettier reefs other places, but I think ours compare to anything out there. In my opinion anyway. It’s just...”

His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. “It’s something you might want to look into, living down here. It’s magical. You move so easily in water you think you were born there. You hear your own air bubbles, the world is far away, and you see amazing creatures in their own universe.”

“Thanks. I’ll consider it,” she murmured, thinking how strange his words had been. It had sounded as if he actually cared whether she liked South Florida.

They weren’t more than a mile due south of the facility when one of the crew came around to join them.

“We’re going to drop anchor,” he told them. “You might want to gear up, sir.”

Agent Cody thanked him, then turned to Lara again. “How’s your dolphin doing?”

She looked overboard. Rick was still standing just down the deck and had been watching the water the whole time, keeping an eye on Cocoa as she accompanied them. She had to admit that it had been a very interesting morning so far. She and Rick had swum out of the lagoon toward the cutter, with Cocoa following, then he had talked to Cocoa before they had climbed up the ladder to the deck.

Cocoa had kept pace with them all the way. Lara was even more impressed with her intelligence, and gratified that such an amazing animal had decided to choose her as, well, a friend.

As if on cue, Cocoa surfaced, giving out her squeal.

“I believe she’s fine,” Lara said.

“You can manage snorkel gear?” he asked her.

It was a real question, she realized. She managed not to be totally sarcastic in her reply.

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

He headed to the stern, where he, Diego, Rick and one of the crew helped each other with their dive tanks.

Then Agent Cody came back over to her. “There’s an embankment just that way, and we’ll be close to the surface until we reach it. The depth there maxes out at about twenty to twenty-five feet, so we won’t be far at any time. Do you need some type of flotation device?”

“I’ll be fine in a mask and flippers,” she said.

“You’re sure.”

“I am.”

“All right. Just keep telling her to fetch. One of the crew will be with you. You’ll never be out there alone.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded. That curt nod of his seemed to be his trademark.