Dead Run Page 6

  He had been married twice; he and wife number two, the barely-out-of-her-teens Mrs. Bernhardt the housekeeper had spoken of, had divorced shortly after they’d moved into the Sunset Key home. He had two grown children, a boy and a girl, from his first marriage, both of whom he was close to. Carla had spoken with the daughter, who had been stunned. Devastated. The young woman had talked to her father the week before, she’d said; his mood had been jubilant.

  His mood jubilant. Carla frowned. That had been a recurring theme. Everyone she’d talked to had described Bernhardt as happy, relaxed…on top of the world-personally and professionally. In fact, the night of his death he had been out to dinner with friends. He had talked with them about his children, his work, the future.

  He hadn’t mentioned a trip, however. And he certainly hadn’t mentioned thoughts of taking his own life.

  Carla tapped the fax, curious. The only dissenting opinion about Bernhardt’s psychological state had come from his shrink. Dr. Irwin Morgenstern had stated that he’d been treating Bernhardt for severe depression and anxiety. He had prescribed a number of different medications in an attempt to stabilize him.

  Considering what everyone else had said, Carla figured that was bullshit. Bernhardt had been a recreational drug user-either wittingly or unwittingly, Dr. Morgenstern had been his supplier.

  A one-way ticket. She frowned. Typically, a person who bought a one-way ticket was either someone without a job or personal responsibilities or someone who was running away from something. Or somebody. A bad marriage. Financial responsibilities. The law.

  So, what had Bernhardt been running away from? And why did a man with a one-way ticket to the Cayman Islands, a beautiful home and plenty of money, on top professionally and, from what the housekeeper and other friends had said, getting laid frequently, take a swan dive out his third-floor bedroom window?

  He didn’t. No way.

  So maybe Bernhardt had been helped out that window.

  Carla shifted her attention to the evidence report. They hadn’t found much. The fingerprints on the champagne bottle and pill vial were Bernhardt’s. They’d collected several pubic hairs from the bed; the satin sheets had been stained with what appeared to be semen. Fresh stains, the report said. Not ones that had been laundered in.

  Carla frowned, something plucking at her memory. Maybe she should head over to Bernhardt’s, take another look around?

  She slid her gaze to the clock mounted on the wall across from her. Just after noon. Val was at lunch. He had an appointment with the D.A. afterward. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Val liked to be kept abreast of his detectives’ activities; she respected that, and she certainly trusted his instincts a hell of a lot more than she trusted her own.

  But she didn’t feel like sitting on her thumbs all afternoon waiting for him to give her the go-ahead. Screw it, she decided, pushing away from her desk and standing. Val had made it clear that Bernhardt’s death was priority one, and she had nothing else to do this afternoon. She’d just go and take another look at Bernhardt’s bedroom.

  Within ten minutes Carla stood at the Hilton/Mallory Square boat dock, waiting for the ferry. A murder on Sunset Key presented some interesting challenges, she acknowledged. The key was accessible only by boat, a twenty-four-hour ferry that motored guests and residents to and from the mainland. With the exception of “official” battery-powered carts, no motorized vehicles were allowed on the island. And other than a sign warning Private Property, Sunset Key Residents Only, security was nonexistent. People came and went; nobody asked for proof of resort registration or residency.

  Typical Key West, Carla thought. Not a care in the world.

  The ferry, a handsome, thirty-two-foot powerboat, arrived. Carla waited for several passengers to disembark, then she climbed aboard. She caught the captain’s curious gaze and met it. He looked away.

  After waiting five minutes for more passengers to arrive, he set off. Carla faced forward, holding her hair away from her face to keep the wind from tearing at it.

  “You’re a cop, right?”

  Carla shifted her gaze to the ferryboat captain once more. “Right. How did you-”

  “I ferried you over on Monday. I heard you and your colleague talking.” He looked away, then back, squinting against the brilliant sun. “Shame about Bernhardt. He seemed like a nice guy.”

  “You knew him?”

  “Not really. I’ve only been on staff a month. It’s just…I mean, I ferried him back and forth.”

  “I bet you’re from Boston,” she said, tilting her head, deciding he was cute. “Judging by your accent.”

  His lips lifted. “My family’s still in shock. They just don’t get why I like it here.”

  She slid her gaze to his left hand, found it ringless and smiled. “Mine didn’t either.”

  “You know-” He cleared his throat. “I ferried him the night…he did it.”

  Carla straightened, flirtation forgotten. “That so? How’d he seem to you?”

  “Same as always. Friendly. Relaxed. Nice guy,” he said again, easing up on the throttle as he neared the dock.

  “Anybody with him that night?” she asked as he cut the power, then maneuvered the craft against the dock.

  “Not that night.” He hopped up, tied off the bow, then stern. That done, he turned back to her, a frown marring his forehead. “Bernhardt seemed to have it all. So why’d he do it? I don’t get that at all.”

  That made two of them. She stood and allowed him to help her disembark, though she was capable of managing on her own.

  “I’m Detective Carla Chapman.” She handed him her card. “You think of anything, give me a call.”

  He slid his dark gaze over her. “I’ll do that…Carla.”

  For a split second, she thought he might suggest they get together sometime. He didn’t, and she quashed her disappointment and returned her attention to Bernhardt. Since his death hadn’t been officially classified yet, his home was still considered a crime scene. She ducked under the police line and entered. The interior was dim and cool. The housekeeper had drawn the drapes and closed the blinds when she left.

  Carla climbed the stairs. The air conditioner kicked on. Other than the bed having been stripped by the evidence guys, she found the bedroom just as she had left it the other day. She moved her gaze slowly over the room acknowledging that she had most probably wasted her time by coming here.

  Suddenly she realized what had been plucking at her memory. The housekeeper had told her that Bernhardt had insisted on fresh bedding every day. Which meant, when he had climbed in the sack the last night of his life, the sheets had not been stained. She narrowed her eyes. Sure, the man could have jacked off one last time before taking the plunge. The hairs could be his.

  But they might not be. And if they weren’t, that meant Larry Bernhardt had not been alone the night of his death.

  CHAPTER 10

  Tuesday, November 6

  3:00 p.m.

  Paradise Christian Church rose up from the sidewalk, a stark, blistering white against the flat blue sky. Its bell tower and crucifix broke the sky, as if stamped from the field of blue by a baker wielding a giant cookie cutter.

  Several types of palms dotted the churchyard; a royal poinciana tree with its brilliant red blossoms draped itself over the walkway.

  Liz passed through the open iron gate and climbed the tile stairs to the church’s front doors. They stood open, welcoming the faithful, bidding them an invitation to enter. And be saved.

  She thought of Rachel and a lump formed in her throat. Liz paused to collect herself. She couldn’t let emotionalism get in the way of what she had to do here. This was her next step. The last place Rachel had been seen. The place she had loved most in the world.

  If there were clues to be found, surely she would find them here.

  She had made an appointment with Pastor Tim Collins, her sister’s replacement. She had rehearsed what she would say to him, none of which included th
e whole truth. She feared that if she announced her real reason for being on Key West, he would clam up. She feared everyone would.

  Liz entered the church narthex, becoming immediately aware of the stillness, the absolute quiet. She breathed deeply, registering the scent of lemon polish and candle wax.

  Liz glanced around, realizing immediately why her sister had fallen in love with this church. It was old, lovely and imbued with the feeling of God’s presence, one not every church possessed. Perhaps it was the stained-glass windows-of which there were an abundance-or simply the echoes of more than one hundred years of prayers.

  “Are you here for the tour?” a young woman asked from the hallway to Liz’s right. “You’re early.”

  “No, not for the tour.” She moved her gaze over the interior. “Though I’d love to take it.” She returned her gaze to the teenager, a pretty girl of about sixteen. Liz wondered what the teenager would say if she asked her about Rachel. Would she remember her? Could she be the girl Rachel had been counseling? The one mentioned in the police report? “I have an appointment with Pastor Collins. Do you know where I could find him?”

  “Pastor Tim? Sure.” She smiled widely and pointed down the hallway behind her. “He’s in his office. I was just talking to him.”

  “Thanks.” Liz started past the girl, then stopped. “What time’s the tour? I might try to join up after my visit with Pastor Collins.”

  “Three-thirty. I’ll look for you.”

  Liz continued down the hallway, one side lined with shuttered windows that faced Duval Street, the other with what appeared to be classrooms and the nursery. She found the church office and pastor’s study at the end of the hall.

  The receptionist’s desk was empty so Liz moved on to the study and tapped on the half-open door. “Pastor Collins? Liz Ames.”

  “Ms. Ames, hello.” He smiled warmly, stood and waved her inside. Liz realized with some surprise that he was quite tall, over six feet, and built more like a professional football player than a preacher. “And please, call me Pastor Tim. Everybody else does.”

  “I will. And call me Liz.” She returned his smile and crossed the room. After shaking his hand, she took the seat across from his. “Your church is lovely.”

  “Thank you.” He swept his gaze over the study, his expression one of pure pleasure. “Paradise Christian is the oldest church on the island. It was actually St. Stephen’s until 1936, when the Catholic archdiocese sold the property to build a larger facility on the other side of the island.”

  “It’s amazing it’s survived,” she murmured, recalling the things Rachel had told her about the church. “Didn’t I hear that it was destroyed by a hurricane and had to be rebuilt?”

  “Partially rebuilt, twice actually. The first after the hurricane of 1846, then again after the one in 1935. The present building dates from 1940.”

  “I love old buildings. I might try to hook up with the tour later.”

  “If you miss today’s, we offer them every day but Sunday.”

  “Have you been with Paradise Christian long?”

  “Just a few months. My predecessor left rather suddenly and after only a short time with the congregation.”

  Liz’s heart skipped a beat. She fought to keep her reaction from showing. “How strange. I can’t imagine just up and leaving a place as beautiful as this.”

  “Not everyone is cut out for island life,” he murmured, then changed the subject. “You said on the phone that you’re a family counselor?”

  “Yes.” She straightened. “As I explained then, I’m a licensed clinical social worker, which is a fancy way of saying I’m a social worker who is certified for private practice. I specialize in adolescent counseling and, as you know, am new to Key West. I’m trying to get the word out that I’m here.”

  She dug several business cards out of her wallet and handed them to him. “I thought you might know of some within your congregation in need of counseling and that you might send them my way.”

  He paused as if searching for the right words. “My congregation isn’t a wealthy one, Liz. Yes, there are people of great wealth on the island, but many more of moderate means. Our main industry is tourism and the majority of the island’s year-round inhabitants service that industry.”

  He stood and crossed to his window. Sun spilled through, drenching him in golden light, making him look younger than the thirty-five she had originally guessed him to be. “As I’m sure you’ve already discovered, Key West is a very expensive place to live. Cost of living here exceeds that of Miami and is, in fact, one of the most expensive places to live in the continental United States.”

  “That surprises me.”

  He turned and met her eyes. “We’re so isolated here. Three and a half hours from Miami, with only one road leading out. Everything has to be shipped in. Power, most food, tap water and nearly anything else you can think of. We’re landlocked, so property, even rentals, go for a premium.” His mouth lifted. “Not many of my flock can afford fifty to ninety dollars an hour for counseling, no matter how much they may need it.”

  The pastor had a rich, melodious voice and a way of looking at her when he spoke that made her think he really did care about her. That he really was a man of God.

  “Which is why,” she responded, “I’m willing to waive or reduce my fees for those in need. I believe that it’s often the ones who need help the most who can least afford to get it.”

  He glanced at her business card, then back up at her, eyebrows arched. “And exactly how are you going to pay your rent? This address doesn’t come cheap, that I know.”

  “As best I can,” she answered evasively, then smiled. “I don’t live lavishly, Pastor. As far as I’m concerned, there are things much more important than fancy cars and designer clothing.”

  The truth was, she had sold her parents’ home to finance this endeavor. They had left it to her and Rachel when they passed away last year, and she believed her parents would have supported her decision.

  He grinned. “Luckily, neither of those things fit in here on Key West. A pair of cutoffs and a moped and you’re all set.”

  She liked him, Liz decided. As much as she could under the circumstances. “Don’t forget sunglasses and a baseball cap. Very important, I’ve learned that already.”

  “Smart lady.” He glanced at his watch. “I tell you what, I’ll put some feelers out. There are many confused teenagers on Key West. They run the gamut from runaways and the Rainbow Nation kids, to kids of great privilege.”

  He paused a moment, as if carefully considering his next words. “However, there’s one girl who comes to mind immediately. Nice girl, but troubled. Her parents are frantic…She was seeing the previous pastor but refused to allow me to counsel her.”

  Liz caught her breath. “The previous pastor was counseling her?”

  “Yes, Pastor Howard. But when she left-”

  “Disappeared, wasn’t it?” Liz dropped her shaking hands into her lap, praying she didn’t overplay her hand. “I overheard someone talking about it. They said it was kind of a freaky thing.”

  “Talking about it? Really?” He frowned. “I’m surprised to hear that.”

  “Was it…freaky, like they said?”

  He returned to his chair and sat, expression pensive. “I never met Pastor Howard, but I had to…box up her things when I took over. It was an uncomfortable task.”

  Liz remembered getting the boxes. Remembered looking at them and falling apart. When she had finally found the strength to go through them, she’d seen nothing to indicate her sister had been in a crisis. Or in danger.

  But maybe the pastor had.

  “Was there anything…in her things that suggested what happened to her?” she asked, hoping she came across as simply curious. “Anything at all?”

  For a second, as the pastor stared at her, Liz was certain she had given herself away. Then he shook his head. “The police feel she suffered a mental breakdown and ran off. Everything I’ve he
ard seems to support that.”

  “What do you mean?” She wondered if she sounded as upset as she felt. From his expression she feared she did.

  He leaned forward. “Look, I don’t feel comfortable talking about this. The Ninth Commandment warns us against bearing false witness against another. In today’s vernacular, that translates to not talking about others, not gossiping or spreading rumors. If I knew the facts, I would share them-”

  “I understand,” she said quickly. “But if there’s a possibility I’m going to counsel the teenager you mentioned, or anyone else whose life was touched by Pastor Howard and her disappearance, I feel I should be informed.”

  “The police…” He let the thought trail off, then began again. “Pastor Howard was liked quite well by the congregation…at first. As time passed, her behavior became erratic. Or so many in the congregation told me.”

  He looked down at his hands, folded on the desk in front of him. Big hands, Liz noted. Callused and strong. Not the soft hands of an academician or scholar.

  He returned his gaze to hers, the expression in his troubled. “She’d let her pastoral duties slip. Calls to the sick and elderly weren’t made, appointments weren’t kept. When I came on, I found the church office in chaos. A similar situation existed in the parsonage. So you see why I agree with the police department’s belief that she suffered a mental breakdown?”

  Liz struggled to keep from revealing how much his words upset her. She tried to speak but found she couldn’t.

  “I feel for her family,” he said softly. “I can only imagine how they must be suffering.”

  A prickle of apprehension moved up her spine. Did he know? she wondered. Had he figured out who she really was?

  And if he had, could she trust anything he had just said to her?

  But how could he have figured it out?