Slow Burn

David swore softly, turned away from his sister and headed toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Reva asked him.

“Somewhere quiet. To visit Danny.”

To visit Danny…

Well, at the very least, it really was quiet. After he’d stopped the car, at least. He drove an accelerated Mustang, not ostentatious, not a junk pile, and fast enough to follow just about anything on the road. And besides, Michael MacCloud had always believed in buying American.

The cemetery wasn’t far. Just through Coconut Grove and north past downtown Coral Gables, then to the right where it became the City of Miami again. Danny’s grave was almost at the center of the graveyard; he’d been laid to rest beneath a marble angel. David stood over the grave. The grass was all grown in, and a bouquet of fresh flowers sat in the brass vase just above the headstone that stated Danny’s full name, his rank and “best friend, beloved husband, always cherished within our hearts.”

Sometimes, he still couldn’t believe that Danny was gone.

“Why couldn’t you have talked to me, buddy?” he said softly. “You didn’t tell me anything about the killer—you had to whisper her name! Well, I suppose I just might have done that, too. But it would have helped me a hell of a lot now if you’d just given me a clue.”

There was a slight motion behind him. He wore a gun beneath his jacket, but instinct told him that he wasn’t in any real danger in this realm of the dead. He turned around slowly, expectantly.

Sly was there. Sly Montgomery. David wasn’t sure just how old Sly was—but it was definitely very. He’d come south with some of the earliest pioneers, not too long after Julia Tuttle had sent Henry Flagler an orange blossom to convince Flagler to bring his railroad south. Sly was somewhere in his nineties—unless he’d hit a hundred—but age didn’t seem to affect the man much. He was slim as a reed and straight as an arrow. He’d never lost his hair. It was snow-white, but there was a lot of it. And he had the most intense blue eyes David had ever seen anywhere—unless he compared them to Spencer’s. Sly had made enough money to retire anywhere on earth, but this was his home, working with his hands was his craft. When David had been young, Sly had told him that he intended to die working. He’d meant those words.

A smile curved old Sly’s lips. “David. How nice to see you.”

David arched a brow. “We just happen to be out here at the same time?”

“Of course not.”

“Then…?”

“Reva told me where you were.”

“Why were you looking for me?” he asked, then sighed, staring at the grave again and speaking once more before Sly could answer the question he’d been asked. “Spencer was by, and I’ve got to tell you the same thing I told her. You can’t hire me to look for Danny’s killer. I’m already doing everything I can. You’ve both got to believe that. He was my best friend. I don’t need to be paid to put everything I’ve got into it.”

“Oh, I believe that,” Sly said. “And I didn’t come to ask if I could hire you.”

David turned to Sly, arching a brow. “Surely this isn’t a social call, not in a cemetery, Sly.” Sly grinned. They couldn’t be his own teeth, David thought, but whether they were or not, they were perfect.

“I didn’t come about Danny.”

“Then…”

“I came about Spencer.”

“What?”

“I want to hire you to look after Spencer.”

“Why?”

“I think that someone is following her. No, that’s not right. I’m sure that someone is following her, stalking her. In fact, David, I think that someone is trying to kill her.”

Jerry Fried, Danny Huntington’s last partner in homicide, drummed his fingers on the table, staring unhappily at the headlines on the front page of the Miami Herald.

More Than A Year After His Death, Humanitarian Cop’s Killer Remains At Large

The reporter had done one hell of a slam job, throwing suspicion on everyone, including the untouchable Mrs. Huntington, David Delgado, half the crooks in the city—and half the police force.

Jerry groaned and reached across his desk for the large bottle of cherry-flavored antacids he kept there. He took a huge handful as if they were candies.

It was Spencer being back in town that was causing all this brouhaha again. Why couldn’t they just let Danny stay buried? Everyone knew that cops did everything they could when another cop went down. Just like everybody knew there were some crimes that were destined to go unsolved. Maybe everybody didn’t know quite how many there were, but people had to know they existed, especially in a city as big as Miami.

A queasy pain swished in his stomach again; he chewed another handful of antacids. Damn Spencer. Why hadn’t she just stayed in Rhode Island? It would have been better for all of them.

Gene Vichy read the headline at the breakfast table while enjoying the elegant view of water and yachts at his club. He smiled slightly, shaking his head. It was one self-righteous reporter who had done the job on this one! The police were, it seemed, a handful of incompetents. His smile deepened. The general public didn’t always understand the law. Take the case of his poor murdered wife. The cops sure as hell thought he had done it, but they didn’t have a shred of proof. The D.A.’s office could never prosecute him; they had nothing but their certainty that the motive had been money. Now, as to Danny…

The poor cops. They didn’t even have an obvious motive. In the murder of a husband or wife, as he well knew, the cops instantly looked to the surviving spouse.

Spencer had inherited a fortune on her husband’s death, but what did that matter to a woman who had several fortunes of her own already. Then there was jealousy. A lover, perhaps?

But, alas again for the poor cops! Spencer Huntington seemed purer than the driven snow. Where to go from there. To a best friend?

To all those crooks Danny Huntington had been after?

A friend, a foe—a snitch?

He laughed out loud softly. He could almost feel it in the air. Fur was going to fly again.

Ricky Garcia swore violently in his native Spanish and threw the paper on the floor.

¡Merde! The cops were going to be crawling all over him again. Coming down on his gambling, on his prostitutes.

All because the wife was back in town, stirring up trouble!

Jared Monteith hadn’t read the paper at home that morning. He didn’t see the headline until he sat down behind his desk. Even as he sat, his line rang. He winced before picking up the receiver, knowing full well that it was going to be his wife.

“Did you read the damned paper?” Cecily could screech extremely well when she wanted to.

“Yes, I’m looking at it right now.”

“I told you Spencer was trouble.”

“Cecily—the reporter is down on Spencer!”

Cecily sniffed. “As if Spencer is going to worry!”

“Sly’s calling me,” Jared said and sighed. “Cecily, no big deal, okay? Gotta go.”

Trey Delia read the paper in his incense-filled room. He was sitting cross-legged and naked on his floor. The two young women who had recently come to fulfill his needs giggled softly from somewhere behind him as he sipped herbal tea laced with ox blood. Raw chicken hearts sat on a plate before him.

Something human would have been better.