LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

They’d both brought boxes to save things to remember Erin. So far, there was nothing in his.

      “Great. I’ll go get it.” He headed to the living room, where he’d left the empty box.

      Madison sifted through the photos haphazardly thrown into the shoe box. Again, the scent of something like Lysol, only stronger, made her stomach roil. Rob had arranged for a special service to clean Erin’s home. None of the bloodstains remained, but the astringent odor was a constant reminder of Erin’s brutal death.

      Flies.

      The image blipped across her brain. In her mind’s eye she could see the flies on Erin’s body where they’d lay eggs. Maggots would soon follow. It took twenty-four to forty-eight hours for maggots to appear on a corpse. The autopsy and embalming fluids would delay them. But for how long? For once the answer wasn’t in the trove of trivia that occupied her brain. She forced her mind back to the task at hand.

      There were several pictures of Erin and Madison taken over the years. Not very many, she mused, considering all they’d done together. There were almost no pictures of Erin’s parents.

      Madison thought of her family. Her mother had taken hundreds of photographs. She’d lovingly compiled them into artistic scrapbooks long before scrapbooking became a fad. Madison missed her mother now in a way that she hadn’t before Erin’s death. Madison hadn’t been able to accept her mother’s relationship with Scott Whitcomb. Not only was the guy too young for her, but she’d begun seeing him within months of Zach Connelly’s death. It seemed like a betrayal to Madison.

      It wasn’t until Aiden had walked out on her and the true meaning of loneliness set in that Madison realized her mother’s remarriage must have been an attempt to restore the happy life she’d lost. By then, the damage to Madison’s relationship with her mother had been done. Jessica Connelly—now Jessica Whitcomb—had left in Scott’s sailboat. Madison had turned, as she always had, to Erin.

      Now she was truly alone for the first time in her life. She decided to keep the box of photos and sort through them later. Who else would want them?

      “Hey,” Rob said from the doorway. “Why don’t we take a break and grab a bite to eat?”

      “Good idea.” She stood up and glanced over to the foot of the bed, where Aspen was stretched out, head on his paws, watching her. “Is there someplace where we could eat outside with Aspen?”

      “What about Casa Carreta? That’s not far and they have a patio.”

      “Great. Come on, Aspen.”

      The dog eagerly leaped to his feet. She waited at the bedroom door for him to lumber after her. She’d discovered he couldn’t see too far ahead and was more comfortable if he followed her. For an instant, she thought of Paul Tanner. She was certain he suspected something about Aspen.

      “The police took the bill of sale that Erin had for Aspen,” Madison told Rob as they walked out to the van he’d brought from his animal clinic so they could load Erin’s things. “I hope it doesn’t show Dicon Labs owns Aspen. I won’t let him be hauled back there to be tortured.”

      Rob opened the sliding door to the back for Aspen. Madison patted the floor and the dog hopped in.

      Rob slipped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a slight squeeze. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure the EADL created a certificate that couldn’t be traced if it were challenged. I’ve paid careful attention to the news. The lab hasn’t mentioned any lost dogs. Like I told you, I doubt they want any negative publicity.”

      Rob had a slow, deliberate way of speaking that emphasized important words. Madison found him to be very reassuring, exactly what she needed at this point.

      She shifted out from under his arm and opened the passenger door. “I hope you’re right. We haven’t discovered anything to indicate Erin was still part of the group.”

      She climbed in and waited for Rob to come to his side. They hadn’t found anything, but the police had confiscated Erin’s computer and all of the records that she’d kept in the small desk in the corner of the bedroom.

      Rob settled himself behind the wheel and started the van. “Trust me. Erin was too careful to leave any trail. There’s a firewall between people to protect their identities. Everyone in the group became hyperconscious of security when the FBI began to crack down on what they called domestic terrorism several years ago. A couple of animal rights activists on the West Coast were jailed.”

      They parked in the lot outside Casa Carreta. During the years Madison had been growing up, Cubans and their culture had spread beyond Little Havana, the area of Miami where the first immigrants from Cuba had settled. Cuban food and coffee and music could be found throughout southern Florida.

      It was nearly nine o’clock—early for the SoBe crowd, but late for dinner in this neighborhood. They had no trouble finding a table on the small patio. She directed Aspen to a spot at her feet, under the table so he wouldn’t be in the way. The smell of fried plantains reminded Madison that she hadn’t eaten since she’d grabbed a few crackers from the platter of goodies in the lunchroom, where Jade had set out the food from the reception.

      “Erin used to have the palomilla,” Rob told her, but he needn’t have bothered. Madison knew her friend always ordered the thinly sliced beef laden with grilled onions and spices. Usually it was served with French fries but Erin always substituted fried yucca.

      “That’s a bit heavy for tonight,” she said, her appetite suddenly gone. How many times had she shared a plate of palomilla with Erin? Never again.

      “Why don’t we share it?” Rob suggested with a smile.

      She almost said no but stopped. Why not? She would have if Erin were sitting beside her. Rob ordered palomilla and café cubano to drink.

      “Is something bothering you?” Rob asked after the waiter deposited the coffee in cups hardly bigger than thimbles. “Besides Erin’s loss, I mean.”

      As usual, the café cubano was so strong that it hit her stomach like a grenade and sent an explosion of caffeine through her system. She realized she hadn’t spoken for several minutes. She hadn’t meant to be rude, but her mind had been on Paul Tanner and her promise to consider meeting Wyatt Holbrook.

      “Sorry,” she said, and gazed into Rob’s dark brown eyes. He was such a nice guy and he’d loved Erin so much. He had to be suffering even more than she was. She’d been thinking about discussing her problem with him. Now was the time. Maybe it would distract them both from their grief.

      “Something strange happened to me and I don’t know how to handle it.” She paused, not sure where to begin.

      “Run it by me. I’ll help if I can.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

      “Okay. A private investigator came to see me.” She pulled her hand from his and took a sip of her coffee. The story tumbled out in as succinct a version as she could manage.

      “Wyatt Holbrook is your father?”

      Rob was clearly impressed—not that she could blame him. Wyatt Holbrook was a big name in Miami, a city with no lack of stellar personalities. But just hearing Rob say that man could be her father made her feel uncomfortably disloyal to her real father.

      “That’s what Paul Tanner claims.” The words were underscored with a hiss of anger. “Like I told you, the clinic closed in a hail of lawsuits for falsifying records and who knows what else.”

      Rob let the waiter deliver the palomilla and two plates to share the platter. With it came a side order of pan cubano. The bread had been flattened on a grill and was oozing butter. When the waiter left, Rob asked, “Okay, so they tried to capitalize on some megasperm, but what reason would this private investigator have for manufacturing records to show you were Wyatt Holbrook’s child? I could see this as a scam if you were worth megabucks.” He shrugged and picked up his fork. “But you’re not. Wyatt Holbrook is the one with the money.”

Скачать книгу