Picture Me Dead BY Heather Graham
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, for Robert Merrill, forensic artist, Miami-Dade Police.
For the great folks with the South Miami Police: Pam Stack, Victim Advocate; Lillian Gilbert, Communications Officer; and Detective Kathleen Sorensen.
With thanks as well to some of the wonderful people who keep life fun and challenging in the midst of all else, the very talented staff and instructors at Arthur Murray Studios, Coral Gables, Florida: Wayne Smith, Kene Bayliss, Ana Chacon-Bayliss, Mauricio Ferreira, Romney Reyes, Christina Davo, Adrian Persad (and Rhea!), Shaine Taylor, Liz Myers and Carolina Francesehi, and definitely, above all, the one who keeps us all moving and in shape, Nelida Nunez. Thanks also to a number of fellow students who have been tolerant, kind and kept a lot of nights filled with camaraderie and laughter: Adriana Alvarez, Carolina Alvarez, Dyann Alvarez, Sean Abreu, Silvia Curiati, Judith Camposano, Lauren Carroll, Larry Durham, Enrique Gonzalez, Majo Gomez, Stella Gomez, Denise Herrera, Yvette Herrera, Raymond King, Barbara Mishaan, Vanessa Monlina, Garry Norris, Kristy Pino, Susanna Robles, Samantha Rodriguez, David and Lynn Squillacote, Jim and Dee Bowers, Kim and Angie Wahlstrom, Sergio Alcantara, Brianne Grafton, Rosans Winarto, Jan Svenson, Merle Roe, Sean Lawrence, Ben Wisz, Miguel Sandoval and last, but never least, Kenda Avery, who gives new dimensions to swing and also loves to read.
PROLOGUE
She stared into the darkness of the room by night, suddenly and acutely aware of where she was—and the man at her side. Her mind sped up as she tried to retrace the last hours…but nothing would come to her. She had thought herself so aware, so savvy, and yet she had been taken in.
She listened. In time, she was certain she heard the slow deep breathing indicating that he was asleep.
No time to consider just what she had done, how far she had taken her quest. No time to consider the ramifications of her actions. There was no time to think of anything now….
Other than escape.
Carefully, she rolled to her side. Still careful, she rose. With the greatest quiet, she dressed.
“Going somewhere?”
She turned in the moonlight. He was resting on one elbow, watching her.
She laughed softly, came back to the bed, eased a hip on to it and leaned over to kiss his forehead. “What a night,” she said softly. “Wow. But now…I have the strangest craving for ice cream. And coffee. I’m in such a blur,” she said. Her nightly habits shouldn’t seem too strange to him; she had just made it here, into the inner sanctum.
“I’m sure there’s ice cream in the freezer. And we always have coffee.”
“But I don’t want just any ice cream. I want some of that new stuff they’re serving at Denny’s,” she said. “Thank God it’s Denny’s, or else it wouldn’t be open now. And, of course, I’m feeling a little strange. About being here. With you.”
She stood, slipped on her shoes, and went for her shoulder bag. It felt strangely light.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You’re not going anywhere.”
He rose in the darkness. She didn’t underestimate the extraordinary shape he was in. Being in shape was one of life’s passions for him. Along with a few others.
“I just want ice cream,” she said.
He walked toward her. There was no malice evident in his face, rather a form of sorrow. “You’re such a liar. I have a feeling you’ve had what you wanted now, what you really came to achieve. And I’m so sorry, but you’re not going to leave.”
She felt in the large leather handbag for her sidearm.
“The gun is gone,” he said softly.
He took another step toward her. The gun was gone. The terror of that simple fact registered in her mind, along with a change of gears. Run. Get the hell out.
“What are you going to do to me?”
“I really don’t want to hurt you, you know.”
The bastard. He didn’t want to hurt her. Just kill her.
He took a step toward her. She decided to use the bag as a weapon, swinging it with practiced force. She caught his head dead center, then stepped forward and brutally slammed a knee into him. She heard the ragged intake of his breath; he doubled over.
And she burst out the bedroom door.
She ran desperately through the house and out to the front room, seeking the exit. Then she stopped dead still, stunned, staring at a person she had never expected to see blocking her way. In a flash, it made sense. The fact that she had been recognized for what she was…known.
“You…cockroach,” she managed to whisper.
“Rich cockroach now.”
Bile rose in her; sick fury rose to her lips. Now she knew the extremity of the position into which she had put herself. There was nothing she could say to describe the depths of her revulsion and rage.