“Go on,” Diego said.
“A neighbor swore he saw Miguel—alive, even if not exactly well—going to the house. Shortly afterward, Maria gets thrown off her balcony into a tree. The next thing we know, pieces of Miguel wind up in Biscayne Bay. Then nice, gentle retiree Arnold Wilhelm is killed on the Metrorail platform, and all three eyewitnesses gave the same description of the killer, who just happens to be a dead ringer—no pun intended—for the victim’s best friend.” He was quiet for a moment. “So you’ve got two victims, each one apparently killed by someone close to them—someone who was already supposed to be dead. Setting aside the whole question of how the dead could rise...why? Why kill someone they loved? Did someone make them do it? How? What the hell is the connection? What’s going on?”
“It will help when we dig up Nicholson tomorrow,” Diego said. “Because then you’ll know that the dead didn’t rise.”
“And hopefully Phil Kinny will have something for us tomorrow. He told me that if he had a head—Miguel’s head—he should be able to tell us more about cause of death.”
Diego started to speak, then stopped, looking past Brett, who turned to see what was going on. Two of Miami’s finest, probably on duty, were strolling through the mall. Brett realized that they knew one of the officers: Greg Dewey. He’d helped them when they were homing in on a crack house about a year back.
Dewey saw Brett and Diego and walked over to their table. Brett and Diego stood, and they all shook hands as Dewey introduced his partner, Carlos Martino.
“You guys on duty? Or can you join us?” Diego asked.
“Just got off shift,” Dewey said, pulling out a chair. The first thing he asked after he sat down was “What do you guys think about this zombie invasion talk?”
“We’re trying to nip it in the bud,” Brett said.
Dewey shook his head. “Man, I hope you can. There’s nothing but this zombie stuff on the news—but it is uncanny how much that police sketch looks like the victim’s dead friend. You guys running this? The briefing before our shift, they said you feds were taking the lead. Actually, I have to admit, I’m damned glad it’s not us.”
“We’re all on this one,” Brett told him.
Martino shook his head. “I hope we get this solved quickly. It’s already starting to make people a little crazy, you know?”
“Who’s gone crazy?” Brett asked.
“Kind of an exaggeration,” Dewey said, grinning at his partner.
“Yeah, actually, it would have been nice if she’d begged us to stay awhile,” Martino said, grinning, as well.
“She, who?” Diego asked.
“What are you talking about?” Brett asked, feeling more keyed up than he knew he should be. Maybe he was still spooked by seeing the ghost of Maria Gomez sitting at the foot of his bed, but he was getting worried that he was losing it.
But some kind of a sixth sense alerted him that anything could be important right now. This wasn’t—or wasn’t only—obsession on his part.
“We got a call tonight from a woman who was certain there was a man in her yard,” Dewey said. “Gorgeous young blonde, lives alone, really nice even when she was scared out of her senses. It’s easy to believe some stalker might be after her. But we searched the place up and down. It’s surrounded by a wall—you know those row houses just down the street? Stone walls around them and gates that lock. We got the call because we were literally down the street.”
Brett wasn’t surprised they’d been nearby. The Grove was a popular tourist destination. It had multi-million-dollar mansions a stone’s throw from basic working class homes, and a few drug dens, too. The Grove hosted college kids by the dozen and scores of restaurants, bars, music venues and shops. Historically, it had always had a bohemian flavor, and it was beautiful, with rich trees and foliage. Tourists and locals both came to see the Barnacle, one of the oldest homes in the county, now a museum. And there were plenty of docks and yacht clubs, since it bordered Biscayne Bay. But because it was such a busy and diverse neighborhood, it could be a tough zone to work as a cop. He admired the guys who handled it well.
“So the woman seemed crazy?” Diego asked.
“No, that’s just it,” Martino said. “She didn’t seem crazy at all. She was stunned when we didn’t find anyone. She wasn’t hysterical, she was scared—and absolutely certain of what she’d seen.”
“And you’re sure no one was there?” Brett asked. He didn’t know what it meant yet, but he’d learned to pay attention to the prickly sensation shivering down his spine.
A blonde. Gorgeous.
Miami definitely had its share of beautiful women, including beautiful blondes.
And yet... “You’re sure she was all right when you left?”
“We didn’t just desert her. She was going back to work, planning on spending the night there,” Martino said.