“I have to ask this, so please don’t be offended,” Brett said. “Is it possible that you might be a little bit paranoid—perfectly natural, after everything you’ve been through—or are sure you saw that man twice? I mean, maybe the first time you saw him, he was just a lost guest. But couldn’t you have imagined him the second time?”
Lara nodded, smiling drily. “I can understand why you might suspect that I’m losing it, but I’m not. I saw the man. I saw him as clearly as I saw you. He was in the doorway of my office, and later he was in my yard. Staring in at me through the sliding glass door.”
“Did you suspect at any time that he meant to harm you?” Brett asked.
She puzzled over that for a minute. “I don’t—I don’t think so. He just kept staring at me.”
“It sure as hell sounds like the ghost of Miguel Gomez,” Diego said, causing both Lara and Brett to turn and stare at him.
Was he seriously talking about a real ghost?
Lara didn’t mean to, but she shivered visibly as Diego’s words echoed her own thoughts. “A ghost?” She lowered her head for a second, thinking about Meg, who definitely saw the dead. Could she be seeing them, too?
“I was just thinking about your Krewe friends. Don’t worry. We’ll find out what’s going on here,” Diego said. “Tomorrow we dig up poor Mr. Nicholson, prove he’s in his coffin and start searching the city for look-alikes.”
“Is there a computer we can use?” Brett asked Lara.
“Of course. There’s a house computer just over there,” she said, pointing toward a comfortably arranged grouping of wicker furniture.
“Would you mind logging me on?” Brett asked.
Once he was online, he pulled up a newspaper article featuring a close-up of a man.
Lara stiffened, as cold as Arctic ice as she read the clipping. It was Miguel Gomez’s obituary. And the face looking out at her from the computer screen was the exact same face she had seen earlier that day.
Twice.
Brett Cody turned to look at her. “Is that the man?” he asked.
She stared at Brett. And she didn’t know how he knew—or even how she did—but they both knew there was no doppelganger running around the city.
She’d seen the ghost of Miguel Gomez.
“That was him,” she said at last.
“Obviously the man has a twin who’s trying to reach you. Maybe he’s afraid to go to the authorities, maybe he thinks you can help him somehow, since you were the one who found his brother’s remains,” Diego said.
“Even if Miguel had a twin—which I’ll bet you cash money he doesn’t—how would he know that when we haven’t released an ID on our dead man?” Brett asked.
“I don’t know, but what other explanation could there be? A real ghost? I won’t discount the idea, though...” Diego let his words trail off and he shrugged. “Or maybe Lara is loco? Sorry, Lara. I’m just trying to cover every possibility. But, I mean, it has to be another man.”
“I’m not crazy,” Lara assured him. “I swear to you, despite all the therapy I probably still need, I’m not crazy. I saw a man—who looked just like this man—here today, and then later in my backyard.”
Brett looked at Lara and nodded slowly. “I promise you,” he said softly, “we will find out exactly what’s going on.” She was surprised by the crooked smile that twisted his mouth as he spoke. “I swear,” he added softly.
7
Randy Nicholson had been buried in one of Miami’s older cemeteries on Southwest 8th Street near 37th Avenue. It was a large cemetery, stretching for many city blocks, and one of the most beautiful in the city, in Brett’s opinion. While the City of Miami Cemetery was the oldest and housed many of the city’s original rich and famous, along with some Confederates and Yankees who had survived the Civil War, he’d always preferred this one, which traced its origins back to 1913. There were beautiful angels and cherubs, and impressive mausoleums throughout, along with trails and trees that created a parklike yet still solemn atmosphere. It was perfectly manicured, not at all forlorn and overgrown, as so many older cemeteries were.
The exhumation was carried out smoothly; there was only one funeral happening that Wednesday morning, and it was taking place in a section far away from them.
Nicholson’s headstone was courtesy of the United States Marine Corps; it was the headstone he had requested, according to his son. Henry Nicholson seemed like a decent guy, and he’d done everything they’d asked to help the process proceed. But no matter how respectful people tried to be, there was just something inherently disquieting in digging up a human grave. At last the cement sarcophagus that was a cemetery requirement was removed and the coffin was set on a gurney for its journey to the morgue.
One of the workers came over to speak with Brett and Diego. “You get used to how coffins feel,” he told them. “This one—it don’t feel right.”
Brett wasn’t sure why, but he had a sinking feeling that the man was right.