The Forgotten. Heather GrahamЧитать онлайн книгу.
the fields of marine mammal behavior and physiology.
Lara didn’t even want to look at Agent Cody. She had to, of course. He was standing right in front of her, waiting for her attention.
“What now?” she asked with a wince.
“I wanted to let you know that we’ll be heading out early. I need you to be at the end of the dock by seven.”
“Seven. After today and tonight. No problem,” she said drily.
“Thank you. And good night.”
“Good night,” she said.
He took a step away, but then he paused and turned back. She could almost have sworn that he nearly cracked a smile. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“What?”
“Feel free to use me. To protect yourself from Blackwood’s advances, I mean. His Lothario tendencies are well-known. Thinking of me as your boyfriend will probably keep him from bothering you. Even if I do have a stick up my ass.”
He turned and was soon swallowed up by the shadowy path to the parking lot.
As he drove home, Brett was surprised to find himself actually smiling.
So he had a stick up his ass.
Well, the woman he suspected was his key, however unwilling, to finding what he sought was abrasive, annoying and a pain in the backside herself. Self-assurance was an asset, however, and she possessed plenty of it. She was beautiful in a fairy-princess way, long blond hair, beautiful sky-blue eyes with a hint of green and a body that didn’t quit.
Speaking of bodies... He couldn’t really blame her for being upset at being asked to continue the search for more body parts. Most people never found even one in their lives, and she’d already been the unwilling recipient of two.
His smile faded as he thought about Miguel and Maria. He knew that it was contrary to everything in his training to feel so guilty over what had happened. It wasn’t that any agent was ever supposed to forget his or her humanity, but getting too close to an informant was definitely a job hazard. Empathy was great; becoming obsessed was not.
And he had to admit it: he was obsessed.
What plagued him was the discovery that Miguel had been alive when they thought he’d been dead, and that he’d been seen by his home right before Maria was killed.
Brett just couldn’t believe that Miguel had killed his wife. Even if ordered to kill her on penalty of torture or death, Miguel would have borne any pain, any degradation, even death itself, rather than do anything to hurt Maria.
Brett pulled into his garage, closed the door with the remote and sat for a minute. It was after nine; morning was going to come quickly. Hopping out, he saw that he’d locked Ichabod—the neighbors’ cat—in with him. Ichabod was a great cat, mostly Maine Coon with whatever else thrown in. His eyes were orange, and his huge furry body was pitch-black.
Brett had always figured it would be cruel to keep an animal himself, since he was often away from home. But he lived in a strange cul-de-sac in an old area of West Miami that bordered the Gables and South Miami. For being in the city, it was oddly remote. Ichabod had always been free to roam the neighborhood, and somehow he always seemed to know when Brett was home.
“You know I’m just a sucker who keeps cat treats, right?” he asked the animal.
Ichabod meowed loudly and followed him as he entered the house through the garage door.
Shake it off! Diego had told him earlier that evening. Do something else, think about something else. Start with a clean slate in the morning.
His partner was right. After obliging Ichabod with a handful of treats, he tossed his jacket and tie over the back of a chair, then threw himself down on his sofa. Ichabod hopped up beside him, and he rested one hand on the cat and used the other to feel around on the side table for the remote. It wasn’t there; he really had no idea where in hell he’d left it. He wasn’t a bad housekeeper. He was just rarely there.
He liked his old house. It had been built just off a small lake in the late 1940s, and the builders had given it a bit of retro deco styling. Rounded archways led gracefully between rooms, and the stairway to the second floor curved in a handsome C shape. He’d been able to buy when the market had been low. He liked the house’s style, and despite the busy city, he felt as if he lived in a little enclave of privacy. Greater Miami was made up of over thirty municipalities, some of them old, some of them recently incorporated. He was within minutes of downtown South Miami, downtown Coral Gables, the Coconut Grove area and downtown Miami itself.
He didn’t, however, spend enough time at the house. He realized that it really needed something resembling decoration and style. It had almost had style once. That was when Bev had lived with him. She’d suggested drapes and art. But then she’d decided that living with a man who was only home to sleep—and not every night, even then—wasn’t what she’d been looking for. Maybe she’d wanted to prod him into promising more, but if so, she’d failed, because he hadn’t been able to.
She’d moved to the Orlando area, he’d heard. He honestly hoped she was doing well.
He realized that was the last time he’d had a woman in his house for more than a few hours.
Brett stroked the cat. “I wonder if that’s why I’m obsessive, Ichabod. Yeah, I’m obsessed with this case—just don’t tell that to Diego. Somehow they found one another, Maria and Miguel. They were good together. You don’t get to see love like that too often, you know?”
Ichabod meowed. Brett was pretty sure it was in appreciation for the petting, not his words.
He rose and looked around for the remote, found it and turned on the television. It was already tuned to one of the national news stations.
He winced. There was no way to gag the public. The death of Maria Gomez and the news that Miguel Garcia had been seen walking around alive after he was supposedly dead and buried had made it to the big time, along with joking speculation that zombies were roaming Miami once again.
Next up—national news again—was the discovery of body parts at a dolphin facility in South Florida. As yet, no information on the victim was known. The anchor in Atlanta switched to their local correspondent, and an image of Lara Ainsworth flashed on the screen. She was cool, smooth and likable as she spoke to a sea of reporters, telling them that the facility had closed for the day but would reopen, that law enforcement had scoured the lagoons with the help of Sea Life’s dolphins and that they were always willing to help in any way.
One idiot asked if it was possible that the dolphins had committed murder.
She kept her cool as she told him no, that dolphins might be aggressive at times, but they weren’t capable of dismembering bodies. The picture cut to scenes of the dolphins with handicapped children and wounded servicemen and women; it was some of the best PR spins Brett had ever seen. Ms. Ainsworth wasn’t only an extremely attractive woman with an easy way when she was on camera, she was damn good at her job. She’d been filmed soon after they’d gotten out of the water, he realized. Her hair was still damp, and she was in casual shorts and a polo shirt.
She cleaned up nicely, too, he thought, thinking back to the party earlier. Her halter dress had been stunning on her. He chastised himself for not noticing more, but he’d been too focused on the case. He realized, though, that part of her beauty came from her animation. Her smile was sincere and her movements fluid.
He smiled briefly, thinking of her stick-up-the-butt comment; he knew she’d been referring to him. Maybe he’d deserved it. He’d been a lucky man most of his life. He was generally well liked. Relationships—though most were merely casual—came easy for him. But this woman really didn’t like him. And she was, at the moment, according to Grady Miller, the one woman he needed on his