Dead Run

With that realization had come another—their friendship was over.

He hated having hurt her and regretted having lost their friendship. He wished to God he had never laid a hand on her.

Rick reached the second floor and braced himself for seeing her—he had to pass her office to reach Val’s. If he didn’t stop and she learned he had been in the building, the bad feelings between them would only intensify.

She sat at her desk. She looked up when he approached, a flicker of some strong emotion crossing her face. She looked away and he silently swore.

He wasn’t about to let her get away with that. “Hello, Carla.”

She lifted her face. “Hello, Rick. What’s brings you down to the department?”

“Just stopped by to see Val.”

“He’s not in. I’ll tell him you were here.”

She snatched up some papers and started to stand. He stopped her. “Can’t we get past this, Carla? Can’t we talk about it?”

She jerked up her chin. “What’s there to talk about, Rick?”

He glanced over his shoulder, then took a step into her office. “What do you think? About us, what happened.”

A flush spread across her cheeks. “It’s over,” she said, tone brittle. “What happened between us is ancient history.”

He lowered his voice, not wanting anyone to overhear them. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Carla.” “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I hate that we’re not … I miss your friendship. If we could start over, if we could forget the past—”

She cut him off. “You know what hurts the most? Knowing how little you thought of me. How little you respected me.”

“Carla, that’s not true.”

“It is,” she hissed. “Pretty but dim, that’s what you thought of me. It’s the way you treated me.”

“The problem was me. It is me.” He lowered his voice more, to a strained whisper. “I couldn’t love you or anyone else, Carla. I still can’t.”

“Well, look who the cat dragged in.” Val came up behind Rick and clapped him on the shoulder. “To what do we owe this honor?”

“It’s been a couple days since I saw your ugly mug, and I figured I needed a good dose of gratitude this morning.”

“Kiss mine, buddy.”

“No thanks.” Rick grinned. “Unlike cops, us bartenders have standards.”

“Would you two mind taking your boys’ club elsewhere?” Carla interrupted. “All this testosterone’s making me queasy. Besides, I’ve got a murder to solve.”

Rick cocked an eyebrow. “A murder? On Key West?” “Carla—”

She ignored her superior’s warning. “Larry Bernhardt.”

Rick shifted his gaze to Val. His friend looked annoyed. “I thought Bernhardt killed himself.”

“He might not have,” Carla piped in before Val could respond, her tone self-important. “Trace evidence found at the scene suggests he wasn’t alone the night of his death. The ME placed his TOD between 11:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m. According to friends Bernhardt dined with that night, he parted their company in high spirits around eight. Between then and the time of his death, he managed to have sex.”

“Which proves Bernhardt was a lucky guy,” Rick murmured, falling into the role he had played when he and Carla were partners. “What else have you got?”

Carla made a sound of irritation. “What else do I have? What else do I need? Whoever was there that night was most probably the last person to see Larry Bernhardt alive. I want to know who she was and what time she left.”

“What you should want to know,” Rick corrected, “is whether the man was alive when she left.”

Her cheeks flooded with color. “That’s what I meant.”

In police work, precision was paramount. A precisely worded question could make the difference in breaking a case and not. “Bernhardt lived on Sunset Key,” he murmured. “If you haven’t questioned the ferryboat captains, I suggest you do. I’d also suggest—”

“That’s enough, Rick,” Val muttered. “Unless, of course, you’re here to rejoin the force?” He shifted his attention to Carla, his irritation with her loose talk obvious. “Have you followed up on that attempted rape from last night? I’m still waiting to see your report.”

“You’ll have it by lunch.”

“Good.” He turned to Rick and motioned toward his office. “Shall we?”

A minute later, Val shut the door behind them. “If Carla would spend a little more time on the work she’s assigned and a little less time on her fantasies, she’d make my life a hell of a lot easier.”

“Carla’s a good cop,” Rick countered, defending the woman as much from habit as from a real belief in her abilities. “She’s as loyal as they come and she works her butt off for you. And you know it.”

Val sighed. “True. I’m just a little frustrated with her right now.” He took a seat, then indicated to Rick that he should do the same. “The last couple days she’s been walking around here acting like she’s Miss Supercop. She thinks she’s uncovered a murder.” Val said the last word in a melodramatic whisper.

“Obviously, you don’t think she has.”

“Let’s put it this way, you were the talent in that partnership and I sure could use you back.”

Rick ignored that. “So, what’s the deal with Bernhardt?”

Val looked at him, his gaze measured. “What brought you in here today? Truth, Rick. No bullshit.” “Bernhardt’s suicide.”

“Just curious? Or do you have some information for me?”

“I thought it was interesting, the way Island National lost two employees in a matter of forty-eight hours. First Naomi Pearson, then Bernhardt. I wondered what the connection was.”

“You’re so sure there is a connection?”

“I don’t like coincidences. And Pearson and Bernhardt both taking unexpected leave of Island National, so close together, is a huge coincidence.”

Val leaned back in his chair, measured gaze never leaving Rick’s. “I always say, you can take the cop out of the job but you can’t take the job out of the cop.”

Rick grinned, pleased. “So, I was right? There is a connection.”

Val leaned forward; his chair screeched protest. “First, let me remind you, officially you’re not a cop. And until such time as you realize what a monumental mistake you’re making and decide to come back, you’ll get your news the same way the rest of the civilians do—from the newspaper, radio and five o’clock news.”

“And second?”