Ch 2     Ch 3     Ch 4     Ch 5     Ch 6    

Chapter 1

 

“It’s just that you’re here—you know, in the area,” Niles Graham said as he carefully placed his snifter of fifteen-year-old Pinch on the tabletop—little finger still extended.  “This problem has been languishing in my files for two years and there’s no progress on it at all.” 

Becca Fleque watched his precise movements with interest.  He was an intriguing man.  Collarless dark blue silk shirt and beige summer wool slacks with tan Italian loafers and no socks.  He fit right in to the Palm Beach scene.  No one would ever guess he was a very Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  “You know I can’t do anything official, Niles,” she said with a winsome smile.  “I’m supposed to be dead.” 

“Yeah, well, but I’m not asking you do anything in any official capacity.  I’ve been getting pressure to make progress on this matter and I’m stumped.  I need somebody with special skills, Becca, like yours.” 

“Oh, Niles, there are hundreds of people with my skills at the FBI.  I worked with them.  Try them, they can help you.” 

“I have.  I’m working with several of the best data analysts in the Bureau and they’re stumped, too.  In fact, a couple of them mentioned that Becca Fleque was the only one who had the intuitive talent to do this kind of work.” 

“Really,” Becca said.  A little rush of satisfaction tiptoed through her mind which she promptly dismissed.  

“Really,” Graham said.  “It’s too bad you’re dead.” 

Becca Fleque smiled. 

Niles Graham leaned forward and crossed his forearms on the table.  A waiter slipped up expectantly.  Graham said, “I’ll have another Scotch and more black coffee.”  Becca nodded to the waiter to refill her wine glass from the ice bucket at their side.  The waiter did so and left. 

“Come on, Becca.  You can’t just hide out here in Palm Beach forever.  This is something you can do.  Twenty-four people have been found dead under unusual circumstances--their bodies decomposed by an unknown agent.  Twenty-four in the last three years.  All poor or indigents over fifty.  They’re all in the coastal counties between Miami and Orlando.  We never would have noticed a correlation if it hadn’t been caught by one of those analysts you used to work with.  It’s the sort of thing officialdom doesn’t want to spend a lot of time on.  The victims are nobodies.  No family, no income, some are illegal aliens, the dregs of society and under the screen.  Twenty-four, Becca.” 

“Sounds like a job for your forensic specialists, then.  I can’t help you with that.” 

“That might have worked if we’d had foreknowledge of the similarities.  But that’s all there are—similarities.  We’re talking about indigents who were found dead.  A lot of them, the autopsies, I mean, were, um, shall I say, less than thorough.” 

“You can’t blame the MEs, Niles.  They’re overworked anyway.” 

“Yes, and there are fourteen different medical examiners involved.  They’re all stressed with more dead bodies than they can handle and funding for their departments is on the decline.  They concentrate on the high-profile cases and hurry the rest.  That’s why we don’t have better information on the actual status of each of the deceased.” 

“If there are suspicious similarities, what about exhuming them?” 

“Can’t do it,” Graham said with a glum tone.  “In the old days, people who died without family or money were consigned to ‘potters’ graves and given a decent burial by the State.  In Florida, with all the indigent population, that practice has been replaced by cremation.  No bodies to exhume.” 

“Niles, there must be a million reasons for people to die under unusual circumstances these days.  Medically, I mean.  AIDS and cancer, or the combinations of those two and God knows how many other new diseases, are generating all kinds of mutated agents that kill people.  Especially those without health care plans or the money to sustain healthful lives.  You can’t think just because a lot of people are dead . . .”  She stopped, realizing how callous that sounded and regretting it. 

Niles Graham nodded, understanding her pause and said, “It’s more than that, Becca.  In the few autopsies that were complete, we found that tissue degeneration was the cause of death.  In some cases internal, organs like the liver, brain, and kidneys, and in a few others, even epidermal degeneration.”  Niles Graham paused for effect.  “Their skin was melted.” 

“Jesus, Niles, I’m glad we’ve already eaten.  That’s disgusting.  So happy you pointed that out to me.”  Becca combed her long auburn hair with a hand.  “Look, I don’t have the expertise for this.  It’s microbiological and I don’t know a thing about it.  I’m a lawyer by academic training and an analyst by my former vocation—before you guys fired me.” 

“That was one of the biggest mistakes the Bureau’s made in the last fifty years,” Graham said.  “I’m in no position to apologize for that.  It was wrong and you still came out on top when you beat that rogue PAC in Portland.  I’m still amazed you were able to do that.  Happily, it resulted in the suicide of a top FBI assistant director.” 

Becca sighed.  “I appreciate your confidence, Niles, you know that.  But this is out of my league.  I can’t help you when I’m still trying to survive the repercussions of that.  That was our deal, remember?” 

“Only too well,” he said with a grimace that he amended with a wry smile.  The deal he’d made was for a CD containing information that led to a huge shakeup of top-level politicos and bureaucrats in an election-fixing scam that had been running for ten years.  The President himself had directed him to find and stop the responsible Political Action Committee before it wrecked the administration and weakened the electoral process.  Becca had somehow, completely by accident and outside official domain, managed to solve a situation that had eluded the best investigative teams the country could muster.  In the process, she’d almost died. 

“I need your help on this, Becca.  I’m going nowhere with it.  And,” he paused with a troubled mien, “I have a feeling that it’s not unlike the situation with the PAC.  The more I’m looking at this, the more I’m thinking there’re people in high positions of power and influence that are helping to cover up any, um, hell, it’s just like the last time.” 

“Oh, please, Niles,” Becca said.  “I don’t think I can stand another high-level national emergency.  Can’t we just have a nice dinner and enjoy ourselves while we can?” 

 

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Chapter 2

 

Niles Graham wanted desperately to ignore his FBI obligations and take this woman to a deserted island and make love to her until they exploded in hedonistic bliss.  Hell, a desert island wasn’t required, any nearby bed would do.  He was completely infatuated with Becca Fleque.  He hadn’t been so impressed by a woman for years.  Becca was both beautiful and perhaps one of the most intelligent people he’d ever met.  She sat before him with her wine glass in hand inspecting him with what he hoped was the same intensity that he felt for her.  Her peach tank-top sheathed her well-rounded breasts and black jeans showed off her long legs.  With her low heels, she was only a few inches shorter than his height of six-one.  Just looking at her gave him an erection.  God, I’m almost forty and I can’t control my dick?  What is it with this woman? 

Becca pinched her face in distress and said, “Please don’t ask me to do this, Niles.  I can’t.” 

He wanted to agree, but duty called, damn it.  He’d always been overly dedicated.  Maybe that was why he hadn’t married and had the children he longed for.  “I need your help,” he said.  “You’re the only one I know that has the analytical skills to help me find out what’s going on with this.  It’s beyond mystifying.  People are dying and there’s some connection that’s being squelched at high levels.  I can’t prove that but I’ve been doing this kind of stuff long enough to see when I’m being flummoxed by the—Christ, who are they?  I don’t have a clue, but it’s happening.” 

Her green eyes flared for a moment.  Those incredible eyes.  “We have a deal,” she said.  I’m not in a position to get involved with another FBI operation.  You know that.  I appreciate that you flew down from Washington to see me and I thank you for the wonderful dinner.  You’re company was, well, nice, until now.” 

He watched her shoulders tighten and her visage constrain.  He was in trouble.  The last thing he wanted.  I’m out of practice.  I’ve forgotten how to separate work from the chase.  God, I’m chasing.  How does this woman do this to me?  “Okay, let’s forget it for now.  Let’s just enjoy the evening and forget about reality.” 

“Works for me,” Becca said.  

He paid the bill and they left Charlie’s Crab, one of Palm Beach’s better-known restaurants, to walk along the beach wall back to Peruvian Avenue where Becca Fleque currently lived with her friend Monica Reel.  Monica was an enigma that he didn’t have a handle on.  She’d been a player in the last moments of the takedown of the PAC and he still didn’t know what part she’d played.  He’d asked.  Becca wouldn’t say a word about her.  The two of them were impossible. 

He took Becca’s hand as they walked and she gave him a gratifying squeeze and nuzzled against his shoulder.  The Atlantic Ocean shushed against the shore below them.  There were stars visible in the sky, the humidity low enough to see them. 

Monica’s home on Peruvian was only about three blocks from the restaurant and the walk wasn’t long enough for him.  He wanted it to go on forever.  They approached the front door and he released her hand.  “I’ll be at the Colony until the day after tomorrow.  Can I see you tomorrow?” 

The look on Becca’s face was cautious.  That was a change from the looks she’d given him before he’d asked for her help on another case.  He’d blown it. 

“Of course,” Becca said with propriety.  “You’re the one who’s keeping my dirty little secret, aren’t you?  If I don’t do what you say, you can expose me and let the whole world know I’m still alive.  Of course, if you do that, I’ll expose all that information you so dearly want to contain.” 

“Becca, please,” he said in an anguished voice.  “I’m not threatening you.  I . . .” he stopped, realizing he’d almost said he loved her.  That couldn’t be.  What’s wrong with me?  I have a job to do.  He took a breath.  “I don’t want us to have an argument.  I’m not going to do anything that might jeopardize your safety or our agreement. I just want you to look over the files I brought with me.  They’re in my hotel room at the Colony.  Will you please take a look at them?” 

She regarded him with an inscrutable stare.  She could do that.  She had a reputation for it.  He waited for her response. 

“I’m not going to get involved in this, Niles,” Becca said.  She had that dogmatic, if not quite petulant mien. 

“Okay.  But will you look at the files and tell me what you think?” 

“You won’t stop, will you?” she said. 

“It’s important, Becca.  And you may be the only one who can make sense of such little information.” 

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t have that talent,” Becca said.  “I never asked for it, I don’t appreciate it, and it did nothing but get me fired from the one job I really wanted.”  

“I understand,” Niles Graham said, looking at Becca standing before him, her sensual body beckoning provocatively but her green eyes flashing with infinite resistance.  “But, will you?” 

Becca opened the door and turned to him.  “I’ll look at the files.  But that’s all,” she said with finality. 

“Good enough,” he said. 

He resisted the impulse to try and kiss her goodnight.  She entered the house and closed the door behind her leaving him standing on the marble tiles of the entrance. 

The walk to the Colony seemed interminable even though it was only a couple of blocks.  Instead of going directly to his room, he went to the bar.  It was vacant except for a bored bartender cleaning up for the night.  “Do you have Pinch?” he asked. 

“Yes, we do, sir,” the bartender said, carefully mopping the knurled-wood bar top with a damp cloth. 

Pleased that his favorite was available, Niles Graham said, “Neat in a snifter, please, with a black coffee back.”  Only the more sophisticated bars stocked the unadvertised premium fifteen-year-old Scotch. 

The bartender brought his drink and coffee and went back to his cleanup.  Niles sat at the bar going over his first “date” with Becca Fleque.  It had been an electrifying experience until he’d mentioned why he’d come to the Town of Palm Beach in Florida.  His expense account would say it was FBI business.  He knew, though, he’d come for other, more personal, reasons.  And he’d managed to screw those up completely. 

 

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Chapter 3

 

“So how was date night?” Monica Reel asked at the breakfast table in the kitchen. 

Becca plucked a banana from a hanging basket and sat down at the table and grimaced as she peeled it.

“That bad, huh?” Monica said, spooning a mouthful of Honey Bunches of Oats cereal. 

Becca took a bite and chewed slowly.  It was good to chew your food—it improved digestion.  “Not quite what I expected, Mon.  He’s a really attractive guy.  He’s intelligent, well-mannered, God, he’s good looking enough, and I get shivers every time he smiles at me.” 

“Yeah?  So what’s wrong, girl?” 

“He wants me to get involved in some new investigation he’s doing.  That’s why he came.” 

“And you’re unhappy with that?  What?  You expected something different?  Like romance and flowers?” 

Becca blushed.  “I don’t know, Monica.  He’s interesting.  And, yeah, I expected something different.” 

“Whoa,” Monica said.  “The whiz kid has hot pants.” 

“Please don’t mock me,” Becca said.  “He wants me to review a bunch of files he has on some new investigation.  I don’t want to.  It’s out of my league.” 

“What’s it about?” 

“I don’t know.  Something about a bunch of indigent aliens dying of some unknown disease.  He’s talked to some of the guys I worked with at the FBI and they think it’s a pattern but they can’t go any farther.  He wants me to look at it.  He says it smacks of the same crap we went through with that PAC—in other words, a conspiracy.  I’m sick of conspiracies.” 

“And he asked you to help and that was the last thing you wanted.” 

“Yeah.  I thought . . .” 

Monica gazed at her thoughtfully.  “When was the last time you got laid?” 

“Jesus, Monica.  You may have saved my life a few months ago, but that doesn’t give you the right . . .”  She stifled the end of that sentence. 

“To what?” Monica said with exquisite complacency. 

Becca shuddered.  This was too hard.  Monica had given her a place to live while she hid from the manifest forces of political evil in the aftermath of their last episode.  In fact, Monica had been her mentor—giving her the courage to regain her self-respect and bringing her through firefights with guys with real guns.  Monica was a registered nurse with combat experience, an accredited MSW in social counseling, and a covert assassin for the US government—and maybe a couple of other governments. 

Yeah, a goddamned professional assassin. 

“What?” Monica prompted. 

She stared at Monica across the breakfast table without really seeing.  The woman before her was fifty-two and still looked like a woman in her late thirties.  Okay, maybe early forties.  Very fit, blond hair cut in a Peter Pan, trim and attractive and vibrant blue eyes that were alive in a way that most people could never understand.  Twenty-two years between us—she could be my mother. 

“Sorry, Mon.  You have the right to ask anything you want of me.  I owe you.” 

“Don’t go there, kid.  I’ve told you before, you don’t owe me anything.  You’re still feeling guilt over your stupid fall after you got fired from the FBI.  We’ve talked about it before.  Get over it.” 

“You don’t pull any punches, do you?’ Becca said. 

“Shit, girl,” Monica said, reverting to the streetwise personality that she often cultured.  “You did more than the whole US government could do.  Whaddya want?  A goddamned medal?”  Softening her tone, Monica continued, “What do you expect from the poor bastard?  He’s obviously goo-goo over you.” 

“You think?” Becca said. 

“You’re damned right.  He’s been smitten since he first talked to you.” 

“Smitten?” 

“Don’t play vocabulary games, Becca.  You’re avoiding the point.  Let’s stay on it, instead.  You haven’t had a serious relationship with anyone for—let’s see.  How long?” 

“You’re cruel, Mon, cruel.  To answer your impertinent question, I’m thirty-one and I haven’t ever had a serious relationship with a man.  I’ve been, um, I’ve been too engrossed with, damn, other things, to notice.” 

“In other words,” Monica said, “you’ve been buried in books and bullshit for so long that you haven’t taken the time to notice how many men are attracted to you.” 

Becca stood from the breakfast table.  “How about some more coffee?” 

“Sure,” Monica said. 

Becca sat back down after the break to pour the coffee and think about what she could say next. 

Monica Reel saved her the trouble.  “You’re getting lazy, Becca.  You’re well-off and don’t need the money that would make most people do something to legitimize their existence.  But you’re an intelligent woman who can’t exist without purpose.  If Niles Graham has something for you to do that’s within your particular area of competence, do it, for God’s sake.” 

“I’m not lazy, Mon.” 

“The hell you aren’t.” 

“You can’t say that,” Becca insisted. 

“I sure as hell can, and I do,” Monica said with uncompromising vehemence. 

“Why are you doing this, Monica?  You know why we’re here.  We have to stay off-screen.  We’re being hunted by people who want to kill us.” 

“Becca, although there’s some truth to that, it’s unlikely that there’s anyone left to do it.  Most of our, um, adversaries are dead, in jail, or otherwise out of the picture.  It’s time for you to start thinking about what you want to be when you grow up.  Niles has a problem that’s right up your alley.  Why don’t you just buckle up and give him some support.  Who knows, maybe you’ll find true love.  That aside, what does he want you to look at?” 

Becca took the last bite of her banana and tossed the peel into the trash basket.  “He says he has files that he brought with him.  I don’t know what’s in them.  Something about a lot of poor people who’ve turned up dead by some mysterious disease.  I don’t know what he expects me to do with them.” 

Monica finished her cereal and rinsed the empty bowl in the sink.  She turned to Becca.  “Don’t try to anticipate his expectations.  Just take a look at the files and tell him what you think.” 

“This is some kind of microbiological anomaly, Monica.  I can’t help him with that.  I’m not a medical person.” 

“If he came to you, dear, it was because you have that innate talent to see stuff no one else does.  It has nothing to do with the medical details—he’s looking for an overall picture.” 

Becca slumped at the table.  “Actually, I was kind of hoping he was looking at me.  But, as usual, all he really wants are my overly lauded and personally unwanted professional skills.  I’m not sure what’s going on in my head these days.  I used to get mad at guys because they were after my body instead of my acerbic wit and intellectual acumen.  Now, I’m getting mad at a guy I like because he’s after my mind instead of my voluptuous and sexually deprived body.” 

Monica walked over and stood next to Becca and pulled her head to her side in comfort.  “I know, kid.  Everything in its time.” 

 

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Chapter 4

 

Becca and Zoey greeted Niles Graham at the door at about ten.  He seemed awkward standing there in his formal suit and carrying a brown accordion file with little alphabetical tabs.  Nearly all the tabs had at least one thick folder.  She asked him in and they sat in the living room. 

“I’m leaving in a couple of hours,” he said with a tight voice.  “I hope you’ll review this material and tell me if anything strikes you.” 

He was uncomfortable.  She didn’t know why.  He seemed as though he didn’t know what to say next.  He fingered his earring nervously and ran a hand through his medium length light brown hair.  He kept his eyes on Zoey laying at his feet.  Zoey liked him.  She let him scratch her ears.  A breakthrough with Shiba Inus.  “I had a nice time last night,” he finally said. 

“So did I,” she said.  Paused.  “Niles, what is it?” 

“What?” he said.  Blithe. 

Now is when he tells me he’s married.  His nervousness was completely out of character.  Castrol, his contemporaries called him, more often than not envious of his access to the mighty pistons of government.  God, I finally meet someone I really like, oh, and by the way, he turns me on, and he’s probably married. 

“I just hope,” he stopped and took a breath.  “I hope I can see you again.” 

She breathed an inner sigh of relief.  “Is there any reason you shouldn’t?” 

His eyebrows shot up.  “Why would you say that?” 

This was getting too hard.  “Are you married?  Do you have AIDS?  What’s the problem?”  She knew she was being too pushy but she didn’t care. 

His eyes widened.  “No, and no,” he said.  “And there’s no problem, Becca, it’s just . . .” 

“Just what, Niles?”  Her hopes went up again. 

His chest expanded and deflated.  “I’ll have to get back to you on that.  How’s your wound healing.”  His eyes went to her legs.  “I can’t even tell where you were shot.” 

The quick change of subject annoyed her.  It also told her he probably wouldn’t continue on the track she wanted him to go.  She leaned back in her chair.  “It’s fine.”  She stoked her thigh just beneath her shorts where the bullet had ripped a nasty path.  “The docs are stunned and amazed.  They say they haven’t seen anyone heal so quickly.” 

“That’s good, that’s good,” he muttered, and studied her for a moment.  “I’m sorry I have to ask you to help on this case, Becca.  Really.  I wish . . .” 

What do you wish, damn it?  “I said I would, Niles,” Becca said.  “It’s just that I don’t think I can help you much with it.” 

“I know,” he said.  “Do what you can.”  He rose in a stiff motion, his eyes swung from left to right. 

She followed his gaze and couldn’t see a thing that might be the least bit interesting.  Is he stalling?  Why doesn’t he make a move on me?  He stood there wavering for a moment, all skin and bones and sharp facial planes.  She also knew he was as strong as men twice his girth and weight.    

“Well, I’d better be on my way.  Airport security and all.  Even my credentials don’t catch me a break.”  He turned toward the door. 

“Niles, stop.”  She strode up to him, took his face in both hands and kissed him lightly, just a touch to his lips, just a tingle of tongue on his lips.  She felt his hands brush her hips with an electric shock.  She leaned into his body.  His lips parted and she plunged her tongue into his mouth with a hungry passion that surprised her.  His hands slipped to the small of her back and crushed her to him.  She felt his erection against her abdomen. 

“Hi, I’m home,” Monica Reel’s voice came from the kitchen. 

Niles snapped away from her mouth, embarrassed.  “Whoa,” he whispered. 

She didn’t want to let him go.  Her body was on fire.  She wanted him—wanted him to do wonderful sexual things to her that she hadn’t felt for years.  Her imagination ran rampant.  God, what a little slut I am.  

He moved her away from his body with a gentleness belying what she’d felt from him moments ago.  His face was flushed and his hazel eyes bright with inner heat. 

Monica came from the back of the house carrying designer plastic bags from Neiman Marcus and Lily Pulitzer.  She stopped when she saw them.  “Oh boy.  Well, I guess I interrupted something.  Sorry.”  Monica stepped quickly into a study off the dining room and closed the door. 

“Becca, I . . . I’m sorry, Niles Graham moaned.  I shouldn’t be—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.  I’m not.” 

“It’s just that I . . . I haven’t—”  

“Good, Niles,” she smiled up at him.  He was only three or four inches taller than she.  She liked that.  “I haven’t either.” 

“I have to go.  I have to get back—” 

She put two fingers to his lips.  “Shush.  I know.  Just come back to me, Niles.” 

A few minutes later he was gone.  Becca sat on a plush wing chair and scratched Zoey’s back, the accordion file at her feet.  She couldn’t believe what had just transpired between them.  We’re like a couple of fourteen-year-olds. 

Monica opened the study door and stuck her head out.  “Can I come out to play?” 

Becca laughed.  “Yes, Mon.  He’s gone.  But he’ll be back.” 

“Good for you.  Hell, good for both of you.  If I ever saw two more sexually frustrated people I can’t remember when.” 

“That obvious, huh?” 

“I’m a trained psychologist.  Jesus, you two glowed when I walked in.” 

“I’m not getting any younger, you know,” Becca said.  “And I’m still looking for true love.” 

“Actually, I wonder about that.  Whether you’re not getting younger.  You’re—what—thirty-one?  And you still look eighteen.  That’s weird, kid.” 

“You should talk, Mon.  You’re fifty-two and could easily pass for thirty-five.  I’ve never seen an old woman that looks as good as you.”  Becca’s green eyes sparkled with merriment. 

“Old woman?  I gotchur old woman.  Say that again and I’ll have to kill you.” 

“And you know just how to do that.” Becca said. 

“And don’t you forget it,” Monica said. 

“Don’t worry, I don’t.” 

“I’m not the one who’s worrying, Becca,” Monica said, her voice softening.  “So what’s going on?” 

“I want to see him again.  I want to be held again.  I want sex again, damn it.  But it’s hard.  I’m past sport fucking.  I want a real relationship.”    

“As good as that is, Becca, sometimes a roll in the hay can do wonders,” Monica said and flopped into a chair.  Zoey came over and put her head in Monica’s lap to check for food.  Finding nothing, she lay at Monica’s feet.  “But that’s not what I meant.  What’s the deal?  You said this morning he had some files he wanted you to look at.  What does he want you to do?  Professionally, I mean.” 

“Look over these files.”  She pointed to the accordion file at her feet next to the chair. 

Monica said, “Big file.  Lotsa stuff.  Important?” 

“I don’t know, yet.  He thinks it is.” 

“And you want to help.” 

“Actually, yes.  I can’t just hang out in paradise without having something to do.  But I’m not clear yet how I do that and not let on where we are and that we’re still alive and kicking.” 

“He expects you to go investigating?” 

“No, just to review the files and tell him what I think.” 

“Well, hell, then.  Get on it, girl.” 

“Maybe I’ll do just that,” Becca said. 

“Dinner at six?” 

“Sure.” 

 

She reached down and picked up the file and took it upstairs to her room where she could spread the material out on her desk.  For the next two hours she learned more about horrible death than she ever wanted to know. 

 

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Chapter 5

 

The victims’ profiles were varied.  The only real consistency that popped out immediately was the age group—all victims were over fifty and under seventy.  Actually, that wasn’t really the only consistency—each person, seventeen males and seven women, had died from a fast-acting degenerative malady that left no trace, only ruined organs and tissues.  In that respect, it was hard to say whether there was a consistency or not.  The reports of the medical examiners who made full autopsies were confounded by the apparent speed and viciousness of the condition that caused death. 

From there, the variables were too many.  In some cases, food remained in the stomach and intestines indicating death within hours.  In other cases the stomach and intestines were practically evaporated as if dissolved by something that struck internally.  In still other cases, the heart, brain, or major organs were compromised or, again, eaten away.  Most awful were the cases where skin and bones were vastly reduced in texture and density as though they’d been partially digested. 

“Lord,” she muttered. 

Reading on, she learned that examinations were as confused as the symptoms.  Several of the MEs had just written off the physical trauma as “unknown causes” and moved on.  A few had actually tried to determine the cause without results.  One had written, “The victim’s cranium and bone structures at the left shoulder appear to be eaten away as though by an application of a strong corrosive agent, possibly lye.  A major fraction of brain tissue is similarly missing.  Chemical analysis shows no presence of lye or any other such agent.  Unable to determine cause of death and there is no evidence of foul play.” 

All the files were consistent on that issue, no evidence of foul play.  The consistencies ended there.  Different organs or appendages were affected.  One victim’s chest and abdominal cavities were empty.  Another’s skeletal bone structure was virtually gone.  It went on. 

No evidence of foul play meant that the victims were filed by number in the absence of any identification found on the body.  All but two had no valid ID and were consigned to the cooler pending the very unlikely notification of next of kin.  None being found within thirty days, the bodies were summarily cremated. 

She shoved the files away.  It was too awful.  The clock showed it was almost time to have dinner with Monica.  She threw on some dark blue slacks and a light blue silk blouse.  She glanced in her bathroom mirror and ran a brush through her hair, applied a smidgen of lip gloss, headed downstairs. 

Monica sat in the study reading and looked up as Becca came into the room.  “How about the Ritz Carlton.  They have a great early bird special if we can get there before six-thirty.” 

“You want to go to the Ritz for an early bird?  I thought you didn’t want to be old.” 

“Hey, don’t knock us early birds,” Monica said. 

The Ritz Carlton is south of the Town of Palm Beach in Manalapan, the former home of the National Enquirer magnate, Generoso Pope.  Beachfront properties start at thirty-five million for the small ones.  The Ritz looked like it should be in Disneyworld. 

“For my money, the best thing about the Ritz is the ice cream shoppe across the street,” Monica said pointing to the single-story mall on the west side of A1A as they got out of the Chevy. 

“Where’s the Lamborghini, Ms. Fancy?” the young male valet said with a grin. 

“Don’t be impertinent, Todd,” Monica grinned back.  “You just want to leave town with it.” 

“I could do worse,” the valet said. 

“Be nice and I’ll give it to you in my will.” 

“I won’t live that long,” he said. 

Monica flashed a million-dollar smile and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand, palmed him a twenty with the other.  “Sweet.” 

As they walked into the lobby to one of the restaurants, Becca said, “Ms. Fancy?” 

Monica blushed a little.  “It’s a name I’ve been using here in Palm Beach for some time.  I kinda like it.” 

“Christ, Mon, and just in case I should know, what’s your first nom de guerre.” 

“Nothing.  No first name.  Why would I ruin a name like Fancy?” 

“You crack me up,” Becca said. 

They sat sipping wine after dinner.  “So, what did you find in the files?” Monica asked. 

“Becca placed her glass on the tablecloth.  “It’s sketchy.  There are twenty-four bodies on, what do you call this coast?” 

“The Treasure Coast.  Basically runs from Palm Beach to Indian River County up north of us.” 

“Not down to Miami?” 

“Nope, and I don’t know what they call their part of the coast.  I try to stay out of there.  Too crowded.” 

“Humph,” Becca muttered.  “Well, there are four victims from the Miami area, thirteen from the Fort Lauderdale area, and the another seven from our area.” 

Monica was startled.  “You mean Palm Beach?” 

“No, no, but from the poorer sections of the county, according to the police reports.  Been turning up for about two years.  All indigents, usually without identification.  The few that died with ID were living in temporary places--flop houses, shelters, one of them in little one-room one-bath rental in the old section of Lake Worth west of the tracks.” 

“Cause of death?” 

“Some kind of rapid tissue degeneration.  Other than that, not a clue.  The few tissue samples that were collected were biologically inert.  That might be why there was no bio-alert.  No viruses, no bacteria, no natural decay or degeneration at all, almost as if whatever caused it sterilized the affected tissues even to the point of resisting further decomposition.  It’s weird.  Too often, the MEs rushed the autopsies and the local gendarmes didn’t give them much thought without any apparent crime.  They died really gruesomely, Monica.” 

She went on to explain some of the conditions noted by the coroners.  When she was finished, Monica looked a bit green.  “I could have lived without hearing all that,” she said with a grimace. 

“Me, too,” Becca said. 

“So, how did it get to Niles at the FBI?” 

“It’s amazing it did at all.  Niles told me that if two of the MEs hadn’t sent their reports to the NIH and the CDC in Atlanta, it might never have been noticed.  The Centers for Disease Control freaked and started looking for other cases.  They found two more and then stopped.  He doesn’t know why.  But the data floated up to the FBI databases and one of the analysts I used to work with saw a commonality and did some more research.  Ten more were found.  Always in a different municipality, different MEs.  But all clustered in South Florida.  Since some of them, the victims, I mean, were considered illegal aliens, it put them in the purview of the FBI.  The analyst turned in a report on the findings and moved on to other work.  When the CDC got another one just three months ago, they sent it directly to the FBI with a query for additional information.  That prompted another analyst to find nine more reports.  Then it sort of died again.  The National Institutes of Health got in on the act and demanded to see a compilation of the medical ramifications.  Niles said it was dropped in his lap with a special tag—one of those that got him involved with us the last time.” 

“And that was no fun,” Monica said.  “Sounds sinister.  By that I’m guessing that it’s supposed to be priority classified.” 

“He doesn’t get anything else, Mon.  There’s a sentiment against starting a panic over this.” 

“Terrorism?  Somebody found a new bug?” 

“It doesn’t seem that way.  There isn’t any indication of contagion.  The victims are racially mixed, gender mixed, and none of the trauma is consistent.  But the fact that they’re all poor, over fifty, no next of kin, and very very dead says something.” 

“And the fact that Niles gave it to you.” 

Becca scrunched her eyes in a wince.  “There is that, as you say.”  Becca leaned forward and regarded her friend.  “You’re a nurse, Monica, maybe you could go over some of these files with me.  It’s like something out of the X-Files.  To be honest, I’d like the company and the knowledge.  I know the difference between a sphincter and a sphygmomanometer but that’s the end of my medical smarts.” 

“So what does your renowned gut tell you?” 

“Not a damn thing, except to scare the hell out of me.” 

 

 Top of Page

Chapter 6

 

Becca rose just after sunrise and went for her regular three-mile run on the beach.  She took Zoey, her Shiba Inu, with her.  Zoey loved the runs.  She didn’t have to be leashed on the beach and was able to stop and sniff every shell, bead, and kelp bulb that escaped the morning cleanup crews from the Town of Palm Beach.  Couldn’t have the Town’s beach looking tacky.  After all, Palm Beach had an image to protect and the “season” was about to start.  The Snowbirds expected pristine beaches. 

Niles Graham, now there was something to think about.  I’m not sure I like him getting me involved again.  The FBI hadn’t done her any favors.  She still smarted from the strain of being fired from the Bureau.  It was almost two years ago, now.  Maybe I should be over it. 

She returned to the weathered wooden stairway leading up to Ocean Boulevard and put the leash on Zoey’s collar to walk the half block to her home, Monica’s actually.  She still thought of her real home as the little cottage on Mercer Island outside of Seattle.  She’d restored the place almost from the ground up as an exercise in restoring herself.  Basil was looking after it now. 

Monica came into the kitchen as she stood at the six-burner stove gently massaging the scrambled eggs cooked in extra virgin oil with orange peppers and scallions to bring the mix to the perfect temperature.  Zoey sat eagerly at her feet with complete confidence the food was for her. 

Becca Fleque liked the two-story house in Palm Beach.  It was huge compared to her former cottage in Seattle, but pleasantly designed with seven bedrooms and six baths.  The kitchen alone was twenty by twenty, and sported two stoves and two refrigerators all built-in.  Just off the kitchen, a pantry held a second sink and dishwasher, extra cupboards.  The pantry was as big as the cottage’s kitchen. 

Not all that bad for a hideout.

Monica strolled over to the breakfast table and sat down with a glum thump.  The table was big enough to seat six.  “We might have a problem,” she announced without preamble. 

“So, the idyll is about to burst?” Becca said.  She could sense Monica’s discomfort. 

“Yep,” Monica muttered. 

“How?” 

“Well,” Monica said, leaning back in the swivel-rocker and with her eyes fixed on a stand of bougainvillea in the back yard, “just like you, I’m supposed to be dead.” 

“But what?  Someone contacted you?” Becca guessed. 

“Correct.  Actually, someone contacted Angel.  I have to assume they may know I’m not dead.” 

“Reasonable assumption,” Becca said, dishing the scrambled eggs onto two plates and walking to the breakfast table with Zoey in close-floor support. 

“That’s not good, Becca.” 

“My eggs?” 

Monica glared at her. 

“Jeez, Mon, lighten up.  Is it that bad?”

“Maybe they’re fishing,” Monica said.  “Just seeing who salutes.” 

“And you don’t know whether to respond,” Becca said. 

“Correct,” Monica said. 

“And you think you have to protect me,” Becca said. 

“And a lot of other people who were included in that report of that building in Seattle that blew up and was supposed to kill us all.  If I’m alive, so may all the others be.  That’s a problem.” 

“Do you want coffee?” 

“Who wouldn’t?” 

“Permit me to serve you,” Becca said with a grin. 

She poured two cups of Jamaican Blue Mountain fine-ground coffee from the Cuisinart on the counter and placed them on the table.  She tried to sit and nearly tripped over Zoey who let out a terrible shriek.  Zoey wasn’t hurt but she always shrieked first and apologized later. 

“My food, Zoey,” Becca said to the dog.  “Go over and eat your own.” 

“Your cooking sucks,” Monica groused. 

Becca gave Monica a long look. 

“Okay, it doesn’t suck, but it gets to be boring,” Monica said with a conciliatory glance. 

“Humph.  It may not be mushroom and caviar omelets at the Breakers but it’s good food.” 

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you the basics of kitchenhood?” 

“I’m not oppressed, Mon.  I’m a liberated woman of the millennium.  I have skills and vocational attributes that transcend the bounds of kitchenhood.” 

“Maybe that’s your problem.” 

Becca sat at the table across from Monica Reel and forked scrambled eggs into her mouth.  “What kind of a gig is it?  Who do you have to kill?” 

“Don’t get smart with me, girlfriend.  What I do and how I do it is none of your concern.” 

Becca ignored the reprimand.  “Sure it is, Mon.  I care for you.  I don’t want you to be hurt.” 

“I haven’t hurt been in fifteen years,” Monica said. “Not much, anyway.” 

“But now you could be, especially if any one is checking to see if we’re still alive and well.” 

“Not you, just me.  My contacts come through an electronic maze of legal and professional institutions.  It’s damn near incomprehensible.” 

“Damn near,” Becca mused. 

“Yeah, well, nothing’s perfect.” 

“The FBI report on the fire in Seattle was pretty convincing, Monica.  I read the report.  All the false facts were covered by Niles Graham as agreed.” 

“That’s why I’m worried.  The report said Monica Reel was killed, not Angel.  And there’s still one guy out there who knows who Angel is.” 

“Hmm,” Becca said.  

“Yeah,” Monica agreed. 

“And you think it might be Slade who’s fishing?” 

“Could be.  If it is and I respond, we’re all in trouble.”

“And you won’t say what it’s about,” Becca said. 

“Nope.” 

A thought breezed through Becca’s mind like a ribbon of fine silk.  “But that’s not the problem, is it?” 

“Nope,” Monica said, her expression lightened a bit.  “One of your goddamned hunches, again?” 

“So, what’s up?” Becca asked. 

Monica reached over with a bit of bacon and handed it to Zoey, the bottomless pit from hell. 

“Don’t feed her from the table, Monica.  Please.  We’ll never get rid of her.” 

“Give it a rest,” Monica said.  She actually grumbled.  “She’s a dog, for crissake.  You feed dogs from the table.” 

“You’re avoiding the question,” Becca said. 

Monica drank the rest of a glass of Florida fresh squeezed orange juice from an orchard in Boynton Beach, just twenty minutes from their haven in Palm Beach. 

“Your brother and I had plans for next week,” Monica said. 

Becca grinned.  “So I heard.  Basil told me he was coming again.  He seems to be flying a lot between Seattle and Palm Beach these days.” 

She looked at her friend of the last few months.  Even frowning, Monica looked ten years younger than her years.  Blond, short cut hair, brilliant blue eyes that sparkled with merriment.  Five foot six, a couple of inches shorter than her, with a healthy figure still well-toned and lithe.  Monica had the fastest hands she’d ever seen and she’d seen Monica in action.  The fledging romance between her brother and Monica was a wonder to behold.  Basil Fleque had never married and Monica had been widowed when her husband was killed in a car accident several years past.  Bass, her childhood nickname for him, was one year older than Monica. 

Becca said, “Today’s his birthday, too.” 

“I know.  How old is he, anyway?” Monica asked, squinting impishly over the top of her coffee cup as she sipped. 

“I’ll never tell,” Becca grinned.  “But with you two, no one would ever guess either of your ages.” 

“Yeah, well.”  Monica took a long breath.  “At the risk of using hopeless clichés,” she said, a nasty edge to her voice, “I’m getting too old for this shit.”  

“Maybe you should stop,” Becca said.  “You sure as hell don’t need the money.” 

“Maybe you should mind your own business,” Monica said with garrulous disdain. 

“Monica, you give new meaning to the phrase ‘working girl.’  You’re a damned assassin who—” 

“Enough, Becca,” Monica interrupted with a wave of her hand and smoothed the harsh words with a wry smile.  “You know I’m not going to discuss it.  You’ll have to wait for my memoirs like the rest of the world.” 

“You’re the one who brought it up.” 

“So I did.  I guess I’m not used to actually living, uh, with someone again.  I used to take in the wayward teenage girl every now and then but . . .” Monica ran out of words.  She stared into her coffee cup. 

Becca filled the silence.  “But not anyone who knows what you do.  And I had to find out the hard way.” 

Monica looked up and her blue eyes narrowed for a moment, then softened.  “There is that,” she said.  She put down her cup with a thunk.  “I need to check out some shit.  Can you take care of this?”  Monica gestured at the table. 

“Sure,” Becca said. 

With that, Monica rose and left the kitchen.  Becca took the dishes to the sink.  Zoey leapt to her feet and followed, hoping for a plate to lick clean. 

Three hours later Monica was gone.  A note placed on the kitchen table was handwritten with cryptic brevity: I’ll be back. 

 

© 2007, Copyright Michael G. Patrick, All rights reserved.