Maybe.
Or maybe someone was taking up where Bordon had left off.
Or maybe…
He was back to the possibility that Bordon himself was involved.
There was no reason why he couldn’t be calling the shots from prison.
“Who was she? Where did she come from? Why did she die?” Marty murmured, thinking aloud. “A young woman, just trying to live her life, making a wrong turn in the road somewhere.”
Marty’s words made Jake wince inwardly. This was business, his job; he wasn’t a rookie. He was a seasoned homicide cop, who—if he hadn’t seen it all—had certainly seen enough. The world, hell, the county, had enough homicides to keep cops moving.
And it was what he had wanted. From the time he had joined the force, he had wanted to go into homicide.
He’d always wanted to be a cop. Not because he’d grown up in a family where joining the force had been tradition, because he hadn’t. His father and grandfather had both been attorneys.
He’d wanted to be a cop because the guy who had become one of his best friends in life had been a cop. The guy who had shown up when, at the age of eighteen, Jake had wrapped his graduation gift, a brand-new Firebird, around a tree in Coconut Grove.
He’d been driving under the influence.
Too many times, his dad had gotten him off on speeding tickets. Of course, his father never knew he got behind the wheel while drinking. When he drank with his buds, he usually stayed out. That night, however…
He’d decided to drive. To show off. His family had been thinking about buying a house at the end of the street. He’d wanted to show it to a girl. He could race his Firebird around a few blocks without any damage being done.
Like hell.
He was supposedly a pretty tough kid. Football, soccer, baseball, a star player on every team. Grades high enough to see that he got into the right college. He usually knew when to play and when to keep himself straight as an arrow. But not that night. That night he was exactly what the cop called him when he reached the accident. A snot-nosed rich kid, thinking he could buy his way out of everything.
Carlos Mendez had been a police officer for nearly twenty-five years the night he had come upon Jake in his folded-up Firebird. He could have taken him in for DUI. But he didn’t. He told him off—and when Jake tried to tell him that he wanted to call his father, an attorney, Carlos had said that he’d get his every right, his phone call, his attorney, the whole nine yards—when the time was right. He’d told him what he thought of him—and where he was going to wind up. And that however rich he might be, he was going to spend one night in jail.
He hadn’t been mean, hadn’t raised his voice. But something about the way he’d spoken, so soft and so sure, had scared the hell out of Jake. He’d realized he could have killed not only himself but his date.
“You know, kid, you’re in trouble. But you ought to be on your knees, thanking God. You slaughtered a palm tree. That was it—the only fatality. You could be in a morgue now. Or you could have killed that pretty young girl you were with. So be thankful, accept what you get and try to make it mean something,” Carlos had told him.
Jake had listened. And at some point, he wasn’t sure when, Carlos Mendez had realized he’d had a real effect on the snot-nosed rich kid. He hadn’t charged him with DUI, only with the lesser charge of failure to have his vehicle under control. His leniency had come with strings—promises Jake made that night to Carlos. Of course, Carlos had no guarantees that Jake would abide by his promises. He later told Jake that he had gone on gut instinct—the most important tool a cop could have, no matter what technology offered.
Jake kept all his promises, grateful not to have had to spend a night in jail. He’d even been sober and somewhat cleaned up before he reached his parents’ house, before his mother cried and his father yelled. He’d promised Carlos Mendez an afternoon at the station and fifty hours of community service. He’d put in the hours working for Habitat for Humanity and in downtown Miami at a soup kitchen for the homeless. He’d seen some of the worst the city had to offer there, men and women so strung out on drugs that life had lost all meaning, and the kids who paid the real price for their parents’ addictions. Toddlers with no futures because they’d been born with AIDS. He saw, as well, those few whose lives were changed by others. The junkie thief who’d gone straight because of a decent cop and opened a home for abused children. The prostitute who had changed her ways because of a down-to-earth priest. Even the crooked accountant who had gotten out of jail to do tax forms and apply for assistance for the elderly.