The Forgotten

It was a bit more of a challenge to politely fend off reality-show producers or convince the rich and famous that they had to go by the same rules here as everyone else. No one was allowed to just hop in and play with the dolphins; trainers always called the shots. And, of course, no one bossed a dolphin around; if a dolphin didn’t want to play, it didn’t have to play. Each animal could escape human interaction if and when it chose to do so. There was no drama. No one interviewed anyone without the express permission of Willem Rodriguez, who had provided Grady with the financing to buy the place a quarter of a century ago. Willem had used his business savvy in the years since then to make Sea Life what it was now: an excellently run nonprofit with a top staff of trainers and veterinarians. It was one of the most important aquatic mammal centers in the States, possibly the world.

“Ready to get in the water?” Rick asked her.

“You bet!”

Lara slid in; Rick stayed on the dock.

“You’re not coming in?” she asked him.

“No, I’ve had all kinds of dorsal tows in my day. I’m going to teach you how to get one when you need one, though, whether you’re in the water or you’re on the platform, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Swim out into the center of the lagoon,” he told her. “You’ve seen this done, so you know the hand signal. Give that signal and Cocoa will come get you. Just grasp onto her dorsal fin and go for a ride!”

Lara swam out. The day was heating up; the water was still deliciously cool. This was so entirely different from what she had left behind.

Life was good.

* * *

There was something strangely but beautifully surreal about the sight of Maria Gianni Gomez in the banyan tree.

It was almost as if she’d been posed.

Her arms were spread out almost gently, forming a casual arc over her head. Her face was turned slightly to the right.

Her eyes were open.

She was dressed in a flowing white robe. A small branch lay over her lower body, as if set there by a modest and benign hand that might have reached down with ethereal care. The great banyan with its reaching, twisting roots had grown in such a way that the center, where Maria lay, might have been scooped out to create a bed for her.

If it weren’t that death was so visible in her open eyes, she could have been a model posing for any one of the sometimes very strange commercial shoots that took place in the notoriously and historically bohemian section of Miami.

Brett Cody was standing next to his partner, Diego McCullough, and looking up at the tree, studying the body where it lay.

“Ladder?” he asked Diego.

“One of the Miami-Dade cops went to get one. He’ll be right here, along with the medical examiner,” Diego said. “You got here fast,” he noted.

“We’re not all that far from Virginia Street,” he reminded Diego. He lived right down from the mall that was more or less central to the area, almost walking distance to this North Grove area of nicer homes. “You got here pretty quick yourself.”

Diego nodded. “I was at the coffee shop,” he said glumly. “This is just...so wrong.”

“She should have been protected,” Brett said, a feeling of deep anger sweeping over him. But someone out there had killed Miguel—who, after all, had made his living in the drug trade, where violence was common—and now had come after his widow, it appeared.

But how?

“She had a state-of-the-art alarm system and steel bolts on the doors, and there’s no sign of forced entry,” Diego said.

“We need to talk to the fed who was duty in front of the house when it happened,” Brett said. “We knew Miguel’s killers might think she knew too much, so we were keeping a watch on her.”

“He thought she jumped,” Diego told him. “She was deeply depressed, devastated, after Miguel’s murder. You don’t think that’s possible?”

“No,” Brett said quickly. Too harshly. He understood how the officer might have gotten that impression; the tree was fairly close to the master bedroom balcony, which overlooked the pool and the patio area.

But, Brett was certain, no matter what kind of an athlete she might have been when she was young, there was no way she could have jumped from the balcony and wound up where she was.

It would have been possible, however, for someone to throw her over and cause her to land exactly where she had.

“Hey, I know how you feel about this one, how much you wish you could have seen it through,” Diego said quietly. “But if you want to keep the peace, don’t tear into the officer on duty.”

“Sorry,” Brett said quickly. “I didn’t mean to bark like that. And I don’t blame the agent. He didn’t see anyone go by, and should someone have gotten past him, the house has alarms and a top-of-the-line security system. No one broke into that house. How the hell she was killed, I can’t begin to imagine. Unless Miguel has a clone running around somewhere—a clone with his fingerprints and his memories.”

They were both quiet for a minute, looking at one another.

“He was burned beyond forensic recognition,” Diego reminded Brett. “No DNA left, even in the teeth or the bones.”

“Identified by the melted remains of his jewelry, and the fact that we saw him get out of his car and go inside, the only person in there,” Brett said thoughtfully.

“Maybe Miguel wasn’t killed in that oil-dump conflagration,” Diego suggested.

Brett shook his head thoughtfully. “Those were definitely Miguel’s things forensics took from the fire. And Miguel truly loved Maria. There’s no way on God’s earth that he would have killed his wife. Even if he didn’t die in the fire,” he added.

They both turned at the sound of footsteps. A uniformed police officer was hurrying over with a ladder. Dr. Phil Kinny, medical examiner, was just behind, followed by two forensic teams, one from the local Miami office of the FBI and one from the Miami-Dade homicide division.

“Let me get a quick look up the ladder first, okay?” Brett called to Phil.

“As you wish,” Phil told him. “I’m here, ready whenever. I can only tell you how she died. You’re the one who’s going to have to figure out how she got in that tree.”

“Thanks,” Brett said.

The ladder was set carefully next to the tree; Brett nodded his appreciation to the young officer ready to steady it. Brett could have climbed the tree without it, but he was trying to maintain a level of professionalism. Once he had studied Maria Gomez in situ, photographers would chronicle everything before Phil started his exam and told them the preliminary time of death and whatever he could about the injuries that had presumably killed her.

Studying the woman, Brett felt again the terrible pang of guilt about the entire Gomez affair. He hadn’t been assigned to the Barillo crime case; other agents and officers—both the feds and local law enforcement—had worked it for years. When Miguel Gomez had come to him, he’d made a point of going undercover to meet the family and find out what was going on, what Miguel had done and what he could give the authorities.

Basically, Miguel had been like a slave laborer, doing whatever his boss told him to do, letting them use his property, forced into the crimes he’d committed. He’d been minding his own business in a family where distant relatives had fallen prey to the lure of money and rewards. It wasn’t always easy for newcomers to trust in the United States government. Miguel’s son had been approached leaving school by a couple of Barillo’s toughs and warned about what happened when the “family”—meaning Spanish-speaking immigrants—didn’t work together.

Nothing had happened to the boy, but Miguel had known that his son being threatened meant that he was supposed to play the game. Only later had he learned that Barillo prided himself on never going after innocent family members, and by then it was too late. He was in too deep.

He had done so for years. Then he had seen a friend who had avoided running “errands” for the family wind up in a one-car fatal crash. Miguel had realized that he might be doing as he was told, but it was impossible to know when you might do the wrong thing, even by accident, and wind up in a car crash—or worse, have one of your children wind up dead, despite the fact that word on the street was that Barillo prided himself on “taking care of” only those who were guilty of betraying the family, never wives or children.

Oddly enough, rumor had it that Barillo’s own children weren’t part of the family. He had two sons and a daughter. They were all seeking advanced degrees at some of the best schools in the nation.

He wanted a different life for them.

Miguel had found Brett by accident; he’d seen him in the street when the FBI had busted a small crew who had dumped five Cuban refugees off the coast in a rubber tube. Miraculously, the refugees had made it. Diego and Brett had been watching the group, and they had talked a terrified mother into identifying the suspects who had taken their life savings and then deserted them to die at sea. Brett and Diego had found the perpetrators because of her tip and taken them down. The United States Marshals had stepped in; the Cuban mother was now living safely with her family in New Mexico, all of them under new government-supplied identities.

Brett had liked Miguel, who’d stopped to talk to him after the takedown, and he’d known that the Barillo cartel had been a thorn in the side of South Florida law enforcement for a very long time, but he wasn’t himself involved in the investigation. The case, and responsibility for Miguel’s safety, had gone to Herman Bryant, head of the task force pursuing Barillo and his “family,” a large group of Central and South American, island and American criminals whose cunning and power rivaled those of the Mafia in its heyday. Herman had a task force of two units, twelve agents, working the ongoing investigation, two of those men undercover. The Barillo family was extensive and dealt with human trafficking, illegal immigration, prostitution, firearms and drugs. Every federal, state, county and city law enforcement agency was kept alerted to their movements.

The frequent discovery of the family’s victims’ mutilated remains reminded them all that Barillo and his crew stopped at nothing to reach their goals, following up threats and intimidation with stunningly effective violence. The men who had infiltrated had reported back that loyalty to Barillo was all. Traitors were executed; the rule was immutable and simple.

But though Special Agent in Charge Herman Bryant was good at his job, and had managed to prevent murders, drug sales and more, so far they had been unable to crack the back of the giant beast. Bryant was a veteran of drug wars around the world; he’d dealt with cases from Brazil to the deepest sectors of China, interacting with local law enforcement agencies along the way. Brett had been certain that Miguel had been in good hands.

After Miguel’s murder, Bryant had urged Maria to make an excuse to leave Miami, or to move in with her children. When she’d refused, he had kept men watching her house. He had done all the right things.

Even though it didn’t really fit the Barillo methods for family to be killed—especially not with Miguel already dead.

Miguel had worn a wire the day he’d been killed.

Despite that, when he’d headed into his own warehouse before meeting with members of the Barillo family, he’d been killed. When—supposedly—he’d been early and alone. None of the officers watching had heard anything—no voices other than Miguel’s—before the warehouse had burst into flames so strong and high that the conflagration had been visible miles away. Clearly his boss had suspected he was a traitor and had taken care of things in his own violent way.

Miguel had been seen entering the building; no one else had been there.

It hadn’t seemed much of a question that the remnants of bone that had been found had belonged to Miguel Gomez. Melted fragments of the man’s watch had been found mixed in with the charred remains along with his signet ring, the initials still partially visible. There had been no reason to doubt that the man was dead.

But there must have been someone else in the warehouse who the officers hadn’t seen, who had, perhaps, been there waiting, staying when others had left for the day. Someone who was already there when Miguel first arrived and who had then set off a detonator to ignite the fire, and then had escaped unseen in the chaos.

That person had never been found, though, nor had he left any clues they could trace. The most logical conclusion had been that Miguel had been killed. After all, he certainly hadn’t come home after the fire.

It must have been that person who was killed, though how Miguel’s effects had come to be there was still a mystery. It would have been easy to misidentify the body, though, since there truly hadn’t been anything useful left for the medical examiner to work with.

And now Maria, too, was dead. Brett had liked her. She’d been a slim, fit, energetic woman in her late forties; there had been nothing plastic about her. Miguel had loved her with all his heart. He’d told Brett once that they’d met, dated about two weeks, then eloped. So quickly? Brett had asked. And Miguel had told him, “I knew—I just knew. And it didn’t matter how long we’d been together or what others thought. I knew that I would love her forever.”

Maria had been wonderful. She’d had warm brown eyes and a few wrinkles, no doubt the result of her quick smile, and a great heart. From the ladder, Brett observed her and made mental notes to help in his investigation. Her head was at an angle, and he had a feeling her neck was broken. One arm looked broken, as well.

There was nothing in her hands, as far as he could see. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup; it appeared she had been just about to go to bed when...

She looked so alive—except that she was dead, of course.

Instinct told him that she had seen her killer coming.

Her open, glazed eyes showed disbelief and pure terror, and he couldn’t help wondering just who she had seen before she died to put that look in her eyes.

“Anything?” Diego called to him.

“Looks as if she was tossed off the balcony like a rag doll. As if she died when she hit the tree,” Brett said.

“We’ll scrape beneath her nails,” Phil said. “If we’re lucky, she got a piece of her attacker.”

Brett climbed down from the ladder.

Diego set a hand on his shoulder. “You can’t take this on yourself, mi amigo,” he said. He had been born in Miami and grown up with English as his first language, but he liked to switch to Spanish when he thought the Spanish words sounded more “real” or appropriate. “Mi amigo,” he had once told Brett, was warmer than “my friend,” with more real meaning.

“I’m not,” Brett said, but he knew that he was lying. “Diego, her eyes—you should see the look in her eyes.”

“She was murdered, Brett, of course she has a look in her eyes.” Diego was quiet for a minute. “We’re lucky we got here before the birds,” he added softly.

Brett had to agree. He’d come across victims who had been hidden by nature before. Nature wasn’t gentle on a corpse.

“There’s just something disturbing about her,” Brett said.

“Yeah, she’s dead.”

Brett looked at Diego, trying not to show his aggravation at his partner’s callous comment, but then he saw that Diego was staring up at the tree, obviously upset by Maria’s death himself.

Diego looked at Brett. “So we’re going to be lead on this? Despite Bryant and his crew having been on the Barillo thing so long?”

“Bryant himself suggested to the powers that be that we take this on. I have to keep him advised, of course. He felt I deserved in on it. His team wouldn’t have had a lot of the information they used to bust a number of Barillo’s underlings if it hadn’t been for Miguel. They were all upset when he died, and not only because they lost a source, though I know that this will really affect Bryant and the team professionally, too. They were really hoping Miguel’s info could give them enough to arrest Barillo, or at least his immediate lieutenants.”

“We will find who did this,” Diego assured him.

Brett nodded. “Yes, we will. I’m going to speak with the agent who was watching the house.”

Diego nodded back. “I’m going to step out on the street, see if I can find anyone who saw anything odd, do a bit of canvassing.”

“Great. By the time we finish we can see if the forensic teams came up with anything.”

“I think we know who did this—the same people who murdered Miguel Gomez.”

Diego was probably right. But it was impossible to just go and arrest Barillo or his people. Barillo himself usually kept his hands clean. The man had been trained as a doctor in his native country, but he’d found crime far more profitable.

Brett followed Diego to the front of the beautiful old deco house. Some of the places around here were surrounded by big wood, stone or concrete walls. Not the Gomez home. The sides were fenced, as was the rear, but the front was open to the street.

Agent Bill Foley, who had been on duty in his car watching the house, was still by his car and staring up at the place. When he saw Brett coming toward him, his ruddy face grew even darker and he shook his head in self-disgust. He started speaking without even pausing to say hello.

“I wasn’t sleeping, I wasn’t on the phone, texting or even listening to music, Brett. I was watching that house. I don’t know how the hell anyone got inside. I tried to reach her on the phone for a prearranged check-in, but she didn’t answer. I went in and did a quick sweep and...no one. When I got upstairs and couldn’t find her I looked out, and I thought she’d jumped. She loved Miguel. She’d been depressed. Brett, I don’t know how the hell anyone got in there. If you don’t punch in the alarm code, a siren loud enough to wake the entire peninsula goes off.”

“Someone knew the password,” Brett said. “All we can do is theorize right now. Someone had the code—somehow. I don’t know. We’ll check into the alarm company, make sure they don’t have someone on the Barillo payroll. Someone could conceivably have come over the gate in the rear, lipped around through the foliage to the front door and then keyed in the entry code.”

“I don’t know how they got by me,” Bill told him.

“We’re canvassing the neighborhood,” Brett told him. “We’ll see if we can find anyone who saw anything unusual.”

Diego, he saw, was down the street, speaking with an elderly man who was walking a small mixed-breed dog. Diego motioned to him and he excused himself to Bill to join his partner.

Diego looked at Brett with a grim smile. “This is Mr. Claude Derby,” he said.

Brett nodded. “Special Agent Brett Cody, Mr. Derby. Thank you for speaking with us.”

“Of course,” the elderly man said.

Diego cleared his throat. “Mr. Derby says that he saw Miguel Gomez.”

Derby strenuously nodded. “It was right around dusk last night. I was out walking Rocko here. I saw him and said, ‘Miguel! Thank God—we all thought you were dead.’”

“Are you sure it was Miguel?” Brett asked.

“Of course I’m sure!” Derby said indignantly. “I’m old, but I’m not senile, at least not yet! And my eyesight is probably as good as yours, especially when I was standing as close to him as I am to you.”

“I’m sorry,” Brett said. “What did he say?”

“Well, he didn’t,” Derby told him. “I’ve never seen anyone act so strangely in my life. He just stood there, as if he was completely unaware of me. Like...like a zombie.”

“Like a zombie,” Diego repeated.

“Did he shuffle when he walked? Was his flesh rotting off?” Brett asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Derby said indignantly. “I’m not a fool, and you’ve seen too many movies. He just wasn’t right. It was as if he didn’t even know I was there, that I was talking to him. I’d say he totally ignored me, but I don’t think he really even saw me. It was weird. I figured maybe he was heading home, except he didn’t head for the front door. I thought maybe he was going around to the side door, that he wasn’t dead and the papers had had it all wrong. I figured he could be on some kind of medication that was making him spacey. Anyway, I figured he’d get home and his wife could deal with him. Rocko and I, we just kept walking.”

“Thank you, Mr. Derby, thank you very much,” Brett said, but some of his skepticism must have been evident.

Derby wagged a finger at him. “Listen, Mr. Whatever Special Agent, I’m telling you God’s truth. I’m as sane as you are, and I’m not in the habit of seeing zombies around every corner. I saw Miguel Gomez, and he was not himself, not to mention the fact that someone who was supposedly burned to ashes would have a hard time coming back as a zombie.”

“I agree with you completely, sir,” Brett assured him. “And I thank you for your help. I would like to ask you, though, not to speak with the media.”

“Not a problem,” Derby said. “Well, not for me, but I did tell my wife when she was headed to bingo, so I’m not sure who else knows that I saw Miguel by now. If you have any more questions, I live catty-corner across the street.”

Brett thanked him again and looked at Diego.

“Miguel Gomez is alive after all,” Diego said.

“And he killed his wife?” Brett said, puzzled. “I just can’t believe that Miguel Gomez would have killed the woman he loved so much.”

“Zombies kill anyone,” Diego said lightly.

Brett looked at his partner.

“Sorry,” Diego said. “But you know it’s going to hit the news. By now everyone at bingo knows that one way or another, Miguel came back from the dead, and if they don’t know by now that his wife’s been killed, they will soon. I’ll go try a few more houses, find out if anyone else saw Miguel.”

* * *

Being in the water with Cocoa was an incredible high. Lara couldn’t remember when she’d felt quite so exhilarated. She’d done “flipper shakes,” dancing, dorsal pulls, splashing and more. Now they were playing with toys.

First she threw balls and rings. Then Rick told her that Cocoa was great at diving and finding things by sight, so they often sent her down to find anything someone had accidentally dropped.

“Guests use their phones and iPads as cameras on the docks and sometimes even on the platforms,” he told her. “But whatever they drop, Cocoa will find it. Not that your average cell phone still works after a dip in the lagoon, but Cocoa will bring them back up. Here, I’ll show you how good she is.”

“You going to sacrifice your cell phone?” she asked skeptically.

“No,” he assured her. “I have some little boxes that sink, same general size as a phone or a small camera. Cocoa has picked up lots of cameras, and a purse or two, as well. Here, I’ll show you. Take the box. Drop it, and then twirl your hand like this—” he demonstrated “—and say, ‘Cocoa, will you get that for me, please?’”

Lara did as Rick instructed. Cocoa was great, chattering her pleasure each time she made a retrieval.

“Shouldn’t I be giving her a fish?” Lara asked. “She’s done all her tricks, so doesn’t she get a reward?”

“Do you give a dog a treat every time you see it? Or do you let it know how much you care by petting it?”

“So I should just stroke her?”

“Yes, give her a nice stroke along the back, and then, when we’re finished, we’ll give her some fish.”

Lara tossed the boxes, first one, and then another. Rick told her to give specific vocal commands, asking Cocoa to get the big box or the little one.

It was amazing the way the dolphin responded.

“She’s brilliant!” Lara told him.

“I agree. She’s my girl, but she sure likes you.”

So I actually have a real friend in Miami, Lara thought wryly.

She happily tossed boxes and asked Cocoa to bring them up, and Cocoa kept complying.

Then she went down and came up with something else. It was on the tip of her nose, and she nudged it toward Lara.