The Forgotten. Heather Graham
event, which quickly became known as the Miami Zombie Attack or the Causeway Cannibal Attack.
They didn’t need the media seizing hold of this situation—especially when years of work by a half dozen law enforcement agencies might well be at stake.
And especially when Miguel and Maria had left behind a loving family who didn’t need that kind of story marring the memory of their loved ones.
“With any luck, we’ll avoid the zombie stories,” Brett told him.
Diego snorted.
He was right, actually. A zombie story was inevitable, unless they managed to gag the press and anyone who might have seen Miguel before Maria’s death.
And now, of course, they had body parts that proved Miguel hadn’t died in that fire. They were going to take some major-league credibility blows from the local, county and state police, not to mention every federal agency out there.
They arrived at the medical examiner’s office on Northwest 10th Avenue. Brett sighed. He’d been there far too many times—but none quite like this. The gurneys were sized to hold bodies, but the one today held nothing but the severed foot.
The ME was waiting for them and started right in after a quick hello.
“Here’s what I can tell you. Yes, the foot goes with the finger goes with the DNA of Miguel Gomez. We’re dealing with body parts that have been compromised by seawater, but that doesn’t mean there’s not a certain amount I can tell you. First, this foot wasn’t in the water more than twenty-four hours—I’d say more likely around twelve to sixteen. Gomez was already dead when his foot was removed. It was anything but a precision operation. You’re not looking for a surgeon. You are looking for someone capable of swinging a blade. That foot was removed by something like a large hatchet or an ax.”
“How did Miguel die?” Brett asked.
Phil Kinny stared at him. “Brett, I’m looking at a foot and a finger. I’ve sent out tissue samples for analysis, in case that can tell us anything, but all I know so far is that a seemingly healthy man was dismembered after death. If he had drugs or alcohol in his system, the tox screen will tell us that. When I have anything more, I’ll call you.”
“How long?” Brett asked.
“I marked this as top priority,” Kinny told him. “But this is Miami,” he added drily. “So no guarantees.”
“Thank you, Phil,” Diego said.
Brett quickly echoed his words.
“If I only had a head,” Kinny said.
Brett felt as if he’d stepped into a bizarre version of The Wizard of Oz. He understood what Kinny meant, though. Unraveling the mystery of death was Kinny’s passion; his determination to know the truth had helped them many times.
“Unfortunately, it’s probably in Biscayne Bay—somewhere,” Diego said.
“But maybe near Sea Life,” Brett speculated.
“We searched Sea Life. More than a half dozen divers and as many dolphins searched Sea Life,” Diego reminded him.
“But if you had the head, you could tell us more?” Brett asked Kinny.
“The brain is complex,” Kinny said. He looked at the two of them. “True story—and bizarre. Police were called to a home where the husband and wife had been attacked, shot several times. The husband was found at the foot of the stairs. He’d brought in the paper, set up his cereal bowl and then died at the foot of the stairs. The wife was in bed—alive, but just barely. She came to enough to say the name of one of their sons. When she came out of the coma, she denied she’d ever said her son’s name, but consequent investigations proved that he had come down the tollway, his car had been seen—and he had ditched the gun.”
“I’m lost. What are you getting at?” Diego said.
“The son finally confessed. He was mad at his father and wanted his parents’ money. But here’s the thing—he got to the house and shot them both in bed around 2:00 a.m. Apparently, he wasn’t much of a shot, though. His mother survived, and his father... The kid shot him in the head. The father was doomed, but despite that, a portion of his brain was untouched—the portion that dealt with mechanical memory. He rose, got the paper and set up his cereal before dying, and without any idea at all that he’d been shot and was dying and needed medical attention.”
“Mike the headless chicken,” Diego breathed.
“Is that possible? Are you making this up?” Brett demanded.
Kinny looked almost hurt. “Have you ever seen me joke in this office?” he demanded.
“I’ve got to find Miguel’s head,” Brett said.
* * *
The night was beautiful. It might be summer in Miami, but as if ordered by a celestial being, the breeze coming off the bay was exquisite, Lara thought. Like many attractions in the South—and even the North in summer—Sea Life was equipped with a number of spray stations where fans were set with water pumps to send a cooling mist into the air. Now she walked out from beneath the massive roofed-but-open dining area at Sea Life to cool off in the fine spray.
As decked out as many of the guests were that evening—mostly the women, because most of the men had opted for lightweight tailored shirts and trousers—they weren’t about to get their clothing or their hair wet. Lara didn’t care. Her hair was down, and her white halter dress, sandals and a shawl could handle a little moisture.
Lara had discovered that Miami was most beautiful by night. Darkness hid the seedy faults of certain areas, while the lights highlighted the shimmer of the water and the many fantastic skyscrapers downtown. Lights on the many causeways and bridges created a stunning combination of dazzling colors.
So much here was so beautiful—until a body part showed up.
She gave herself a shake, trying not to think about what had happened earlier. They’d kept Sea Life closed throughout the day while the authorities had done a thorough search of the facility, but the police had assured them that they could go on with tonight’s gala and open the following day.
Which was good, since they were fully booked for every swim and encounter, many of those reservations made after word had leaked of Cocoa’s discoveries.
Apparently the public was slightly ghoulish.
And since the news was out, they’d decided to bite the bullet and answer any questions honestly, giving what information they could, which wasn’t much. A finger and a foot had been found in the lagoon. The police and other agencies had conducted a thorough search for additional body parts but had found nothing else. More information would be forthcoming pending the investigation.
It was easy for Lara to say that she didn’t know anything, because she really didn’t.
Now she looked around and took time to really appreciate everything that had been put together to make the evening special. The interns had done a fabulous job of arranging colorful plants around the open square, decorating the tables—each one held a vase filled with shells and a candle—and creating an elegant ambiance by the sea. Rain might have ruined everything, but they’d lucked out. No rain that night. Just the perfect breeze, the moonlight and the occasional sound of a dolphin calling from the nearby lagoon. Lara had worked on the menu to make sure there were delicacies for everyone. Sonia Larson was a vegetarian, Mason Martinez lived a gluten-free lifestyle and Ely Taggerly was in his early seventies and on salt restrictions, while Grant Blackwood was a forty-year-old Texan who had made his millions in the oil industry and still liked a good steak.
Rick and Adrianna Laramie were pescatarians, eating fish but nothing warm-blooded. As they said, fish ate fish, and so did their dolphins, so they had no problem eating fish, too. Everyone else—both guests and staff—ate just about anything.
Lara was proud that she’d managed to create a gourmet