You Only Live Nine Times, page 22
"So what happens next?" Tommy asked as Rachel handed him a slice on one of the paper plates Joey Pooch had packed up with their order. "With the investigation, I mean."
"Natalie's going down to UM this week." Rachel settled with her own paper plate on the chaise lounge next to Scarlett—who had rather liked the idea of having the entire thing to herself, but was secretly pleased to find Rachel sitting next to her rather than one of her needier siblings. "Try to find people who knew Alicia, confirm she's the girl in the photo. If she really is the girl who overdosed the night it was taken, then we know Julian was with her the night she died. Maybe he’s even the one who threw the party."
Homer was sitting next to the pizza with his ears pricked at rigid attention, waiting for the slightest hint that either Rachel or Tommy was on their way to get another slice and maybe—just maybe—pull off a warm, gooey fragment of cheese for him. But his ears drooped as he heard Rachel’s words, and he could sense the deflated looks that passed between Scarlett and Vashti. It shouldn’t have come as a complete surprise that something bad had happened to the young girl in the picture—two people connected to it were dead already—but hearing it still hurt.
The five of them sat in silence, Rachel and Tommy continuing to eat in the sunshine. The faint pulse of electronica drifted up from Hibiscus Road, and Tommy looked at his watch. “Tea dance at 710 started twenty minutes ago.” Once a week, the 710 Bar pushed aside its intimate table settings and threw a Sunday afternoon dance party. “Should we check it out?
“Really?” Rachel looked around at the half-eaten pizza, the peaceful terrace, the three cats blinking drowsily in the sunlight. “This feels pretty perfect to me. Don’t you want to finish your pizza?”
“Pizza is always better than going out dancing!” Homer voted immediately.
Tommy laughed at Homer's insistent meow. "I think someone agrees with you."
"He wants cheese," Rachel said, pulling a small piece of mozzarella from her slice and tossing it toward the table where Homer waited. He immediately leapt down, nose close to the concrete floor of the terrace, and found the aromatic tidbit within seconds.
Below them, Hibiscus Road buzzed with Sunday afternoon activity—tourists with shopping bags, locals heading to early dinners, the distant sound of a steel drum from the beach. The contrast between the peaceful terrace and the busy pedestrian mall below made their perch feel like a private oasis.
"Thank you," Tommy said suddenly.
“For what?” Rachel smiled as Scarlett, seemingly apropos of nothing, stood and walked across the chaise to settle in Rachel’s lap. It was something she didn’t do often—and, somehow, Rachel correctly intuited that it was her way of voting they all remain together here on the terrace, rather than going to the 710 Bar or anywhere else.
Tommy turned to look at her. “Let’s just say it’s been the kind of week where you find out who your friends are.”
Rachel’s cheeks pinked with pleasure as she reached over and squeezed Tommy’s hand. "I’m always in your corner,” she told him. “That’s what friends are for."
“And also cheese.” Homer swallowed the last bit of the mozzarella and licked his chops with satisfaction. Then he scampered over to sit on his haunches before Rachel, turning his face up hopefully toward hers. “Friends are also for cheese.”
Natalie Dunbar sat on a weathered bench beneath one of the University of Miami's sprawling banyan trees, its aerial roots creating a natural cathedral around her. Hot Mike lay at her feet, his enormous head resting on his paws but his ears alert to every passing student. The campus was a hive of midweek activity, buzzing with students who'd survived Monday and Tuesday but weren't yet ready to coast toward the weekend.
Watching the stream of backpacked students hurrying between classes, Natalie studied the Polaroid in her hands. A young woman smiled at the camera, Julian Singer-Adams' arm draped casually around her shoulders, her hand touching a distinctive shell necklace at her throat. Natalie had spent the early part of the week making calls, navigating the delicate dance of academic bureaucracy and five-year-old memories. Professor Nina Reyes had been surprisingly easy to track down—still teaching in the Marine Science department, still advising the students who reminded her of Alicia Rodrigue.
Natalie glanced at her watch—Professor Reyes' office hours started in ten minutes. She'd deliberately arrived early, wanting a moment to collect her thoughts before what promised to be a difficult conversation.
The building itself was a modern structure of glass and white concrete, designed to catch the ocean breezes. Inside, the halls smelled of salt water from the specimen tanks and the sharp scent of preserved samples. Natalie found Professor Reyes' office easily—third floor, corner office with a view of the green campus below. The door was ajar, and Natalie could see the professor at her desk grading papers. She knocked gently.
"Come in," Professor Reyes called without looking up. "If this is about the midterm extension—" She stopped mid-sentence as she registered Natalie and Hot Mike. "Oh. You're not a student."
"I'm Natalie Dunbar. I called yesterday about Alicia Rodrigue?"
The change in the professor's demeanor was immediate—a closing off, a protective wariness. She set down her pen. "Yes. I remember." She studied Natalie for a long moment. "I don't usually discuss former students with journalists."
"I understand," Natalie said. "May we come in? This is Hot Mike—he's very well-behaved."
Something in Natalie's tone—or perhaps Hot Mike's steady, dignified presence—seemed to soften the professor slightly. She nodded. "Close the door, please."
Professor Nina Reyes's office was a comfortable chaos of marine charts, student papers, and photographs of coral reefs in impossibly bright colors. The professor herself—late fifties, steel-gray hair pulled back in a practical bun, kind eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses—gestured to a chair across from her desk.
"Ms. Dunbar." Her handshake was firm, her gaze direct but cautious. "I must admit, your request to discuss Alicia after all this time was unexpected."
"I appreciate your willingness to see me. I know this must be difficult." Natalie took the offered chair while Hot Mike positioned himself beside her.
"She was a good student,” Professor Reyes said, “hoping for an internship with the Coral Restoration Foundation. She used to stay after class with questions all the time, always excited about the next research project.” Professor Reyes raised her glasses to rub at her eyes, her face momentarily fragile and almost birdlike in their absence. Then she sighed and resettled the glasses on her nose. “When Alicia died, it felt like such a waste."
"The official cause was accidental overdose," Natalie said. "But I understand there were unusual circumstances."
Professor Reyes' shoulders tensed, and there was old anger in her eyes now. "She was abandoned outside the Jackson Memorial emergency room. Someone—whoever was with her when she overdosed—simply tossed her out and drove away. By the time someone found her and got her inside..." She trailed off, composing herself.
"Did Alicia ever mention Julian Singer-Adams?"
The change in the professor's expression was subtle but unmistakable—a tightening around the mouth, a sharpening of the gaze. "Why do you ask about him specifically?"
Natalie withdrew the Polaroid from her bag and placed it on the desk. "Is that Alicia with him in this photo?"
Professor Reyes's hand reached toward the photo, stopping just short of touching it. "Yes, that's Alicia. That's her shell necklace—she made it herself and wore it everywhere." The professor's eyes glistened. "Where did you get this?"
"It's part of an ongoing investigation," Natalie told her. "This was taken at a party the weekend Alicia died."
The silence stretched between them. Hot Mike shifted, pressing closer to Natalie's leg.
"Alicia mentioned being invited to a party at Julian Singer-Adams's home," Professor Reyes finally said. "She was excited—networking opportunities, yes, but also..." A sad smile touched her lips. "She was twenty-one. The idea of a glamorous party on Mercury Island appealed to her. I advised caution, but..." She spread her hands in a gesture of helpless regret.
Natalie noted that Professor Reyes had confirmed what she’d already suspected: Not just that Alicia had been with Julian Singer-Adams on the night she died, but that Julian’s own home had been the scene of the party.
They talked for another few minutes, Professor Reyes telling Natalie about a beach cleanup Alicia had once organized. Her grief for the once-promising student was palpable. Hot Mike rose and padded over to her side of the desk, resting his head near her hand—not quite touching, just offering his presence. Professor Reyes’s fingers briefly touched his fur.
“If I find out more about that night—about what really happened—I’ll let you know.” Natalie rose to leave, picking up Hot Mike’s leash as he dutifully returned to her side.
"I'd appreciate that." The professor straightened, composing herself. “Thank you,” she added. “For still caring about what happened to her.”
Natalie nodded, closing the door softly behind her as she and Hot Mike left.
"No, we don't have records going back that far." The receptionist's voice crackled through the phone. "Have you tried Beacon Staffing?"
With a sigh, Rachel crossed another agency off her list, the yellow legal pad now covered in scratched-out names and dead ends. Homer, sitting nearby with one ear cocked, shook his head subtly in a silent no for the benefit of his sisters across the store. But it was unnecessary; they could hear the back-and-forth scratching sound the pen made on the pad, and by now they knew what it meant.
Rachel hadn’t expected the work to be exciting when she’d first volunteered to do it, and had said as much at the time. “I was always the kid who helped the other kids do their homework,” she’d told Natalie cheerfully, drawing a reluctant chuckle.
“It’ll just be a lot of background research and phone calls,” Natalie had warned, her hesitation apparent even as she’d acknowledged there was only so much ground she could cover alone. Even with Rachel’s help, she still faced the prospect of days spent making fruitless phone calls before maybe—maybe—turning up a single useable lead. It was the kind of grunt work she would normally have hired an assistant to help out with—work, she reflected now, that Daisy herself had done for her, once upon a time. “At least ninety percent of it’ll be dead-ends and hang-ups.”
“My whole life is on the phone these days.” Title Wave’s phone line had been rather busier of late with back-and-forth calls to vendors for the Halloween party. “Please let me help,” Rachel added earnestly. “At least with this little part of it.” She couldn’t have said why, but Rachel was almost as invested in uncovering what had happened to Alicia Rodrigue as she was in finding the truth about Daisy. The smiling girl in the photograph with Julian had deserved better than what she’d gotten.
Natalie, understanding everything Rachel wasn’t saying, had nodded. "Say you're researching Coacoochee social history for a book project. Don't mention my name or the investigation."
The cats had been delighted by this turn of events. Nobody, they’d told each other, was more organized and determined than Rachel was, once she’d made up her mind to do something. New information about Daisy and Marc’s killer was bound to start rolling in the moment she picked up the phone.
The cats, of course, had never done homework of any kind—their own or anybody else’s. So they had no idea what days of research for a group project—taking notes, making calls, looking things up in old newspapers—actually looked like. Their own part in the investigation thus far had been dangerous and terrifying and more exciting than anything else they’d ever done. They didn’t expect Rachel to break into private homes or chase bad guys through the streets of Coacoochee the way they had. Still, the reality of investigative work—dull, repetitive, and frequently pointless—was far from what they’d anticipated.
Rachel had been more prepared, but even she was starting to get discouraged. Between helping customers, she'd spent hours calling every employment agency in the phone book, starting with the large firms and working her way down to smaller specialty services. Now it was Thursday, and so far all she had to show for her efforts were sore ears, a stiff neck, and a growing pile of dead ends. Homer had been by her side the entire time, occasionally offering commentary in the form of small chirps and meows that Rachel interpreted as encouragement.
“I don’t understand why humans make everything so complicated,” Scarlett groused. “When we investigated Marc's house, we just went there and looked around."
“How would Rachel walking into all these employment agencies instead of calling them be easier?” Vashti asked—a fair point for which Scarlett had no response.
"I know, I know," Rachel said to Homer as he meowed plaintively. "It's boring for you too, isn't it?" She reached over to scratch behind his ears before dialing the next number. One of her regulars, Mrs. Richter, approached the register with her Thursday selections, and Rachel quickly tucked the phone between her shoulder and ear while ringing up the purchases.
"Maven Staffing Solutions, how may I direct your call?"
"Hi, I'm trying to reach former employees who worked events for Julian Singer-Adams on Mercury Island in the early Nineties. I'm researching the social history of Coacoochee for a book project," she added, the lie now smooth as sea glass after days of use.
Homer's ears perked up as the woman on the other end laid the phone down with a thunk. His sensitive hearing picked up her muffled conversation in the background: "—asking about the Singer-Adams parties—" and then, more clearly, "—Maria needs to hear this—"
Homer let out a sharp chirp of excitement. "This one's different!" he announced to his sisters. "They're actually getting someone!"
The cats pressed closer, and Mrs. Richter had to sidestep them carefully on her way out with her shopping bag. Homer's ears swiveled forward with intense focus, trying to hear more. Vashti abandoned her perch in Caribbean Travel to sit near the phone, and even Scarlett stopped pretending to be uninterested. "Move over, Homer," she said imperiously, walking over and batting at his head with her upraised paw as she jostled for position. "I can't hear anything."
A new voice came on the line, older and more cautious. "This is Maria. You're asking about the Singer-Adams estate?"
"Yes." Rachel felt her pulse quicken. "I'm particularly interested in anyone who might have worked security or—"
“You move over.” Homer gave Scarlett a good shove with his shoulder. “I was here first! It’s not my fault you’re practically deaf.”
Their mutual sniping and meows of complaint had gotten so loud, they were audible over the phone. Rachel placed one hand over the receiver and angrily whispered, “Both of you, stop it now! I’m sorry about that," she added to Maria automatically. "My cats are being vocal today."
"Oh, you work from home?" Maria's tone warmed slightly.
"Actually, I manage a bookstore. They come to work with me."
"They? You have more than one?"
"Three." Rachel found herself smiling, despite her momentary irritation. "They think they run the place."
"Wait—" Maria's voice changed completely. "Do you mean Title Wave on Hibiscus Road? Are you the one with the little blind cat who greets everyone?"
"That's Homer, yes."
"Oh my goodness! My granddaughter is obsessed with him. She makes these little toys for him out of yarn—brings them every time we visit. She must have given him a dozen by now."
"The fuzzy mice?" Rachel laughed. "He loves those! Your granddaughter is very sweet."
“Hey.” Vashti pawed at the leg of Rachel’s jeans for attention. “Did she say anything about me?” It seemed improbable that any cat-loving little girl could spend time at Title Wave yet fail to notice the beautiful white feline who looked just like a fairy-tale princess.
“What is with you guys today?” Rachel once again covered the receiver and shooed Vashti away. “Can’t you see I’m on the phone?”
"She'll be thrilled to know I talked to you." Maria was still talking about her granddaughter. Then she paused, and when she spoke again, her tone had shifted. "You know, my daughter thinks I'm crazy, but I always say you can tell a lot about a person by how they treat animals. Especially animals that need extra care."
"Homer doesn't need extra care," Rachel replied. "He's pretty convinced he's invincible."
Maria chuckled, then grew quiet. Rachel could almost hear her making a decision. "Listen…I shouldn't be talking about former clients. But that Singer-Adams contract..." She paused. "We had good people working security at those parties. One of them—Eddie Torrino—he was one of our best. Honest, reliable, never missed a shift."
"Was?" Rachel prompted.
"December of '93, something happened at one of those parties. Eddie came into our office the next Monday, turned in his uniform, and quit. No explanation, no notice. Just said he was done."
Rachel's pen hovered over her notepad. "Did he ever say why?"
"Never. And then, maybe a week later, Julian Singer-Adams called personally to cancel our contract. Said he was 'going in a different direction' with his security needs." Maria snorted softly. "Five years of business, gone just like that."
There was a long pause. Then Rachel, sensing Maria wanted to talk but needed a little more prodding, asked conversationally, “Do you still keep in touch with Eddie?”
“Haven’t talked to him in years. I think he’s working construction these days.” Maria hesitated. “Always used to stop by the Deuce on South Beach for a beer after his shift ended,” she finally added.
“Thank you," Rachel said quickly, scribbling down the name. "Thank you so much. I really appreciate it." She set down the receiver slowly, staring at the name she'd written: Eddie Torrino, the Deuce.
All three cats stared at the notepad with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for can openers at dinnertime.
