Final Grave Read online

  Final

  Grave

  NADJA BERNITT

  iUniverse, Inc.

  Bloomington

  Final Grave

  Copyright © 2012 by Nadja Bernitt.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN: 978-1-4620-7593-5 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4620-7594-2 (ebk)

  Printed in the United States of America

  iUniverse rev. date: 12/29/2011

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  “To whom the grave

  Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight

  Of day or the warm light,

  A place of thought where we in waiting lie,”

  Samuel Taylor Coleridge vol. ii, (Gipsies)

  For my husband Bob and my daughter Fran,

  my two biggest fans.

  Acknowledgments

  I owe thanks to so many. First to my writing group who read countless renditions of this work and who encouraged me when I needed it the most: Barbara Anton, Madonna Dries Christensen, McClaren Davies, Louie Dillon, Joanne Meyer, Peg Russell, Donna Singer, and JB Hamilton Queen. Thanks to my good friends in Boise, Greg and Marsha Johnson and Kathie Corn for their belief in the book and also to George Parker for a thorough edit. For the technical portions dealing with law enforcement, I thank Florida’s Sarasota Sheriff’s Office, Sergeants Ron Locke and Scott Osborne and the many deputies who were kind enough to answer my questions; as well as to Mel Arnold and Sergeant Linda Scown of the Ada County Sheriff’s Office in Boise who kindly showed me around and gave me a feel for crime in the northwest. A special thanks to Boise’s Basque Museum and Cultural Center’s Patty Miller. And to David Poyer and Lenore Hart who chose my book as Best Novel in the Florida First Coast Writer’s Festival and found me my agent, Jacky Sach, thank you so very much. For the many who offered advice while I wrote this piece and were not mentioned by name, please know you too were valuable resources. Finally, if I did not listen as well as I should have and there are creative deviations or technical errors—do not blame these terrific folks mentioned above.

  Prologue

  Boise, Idaho—November 3, 1987

  Joanna Dunlap’s grocery cart steered like a wayward crab, fighting her every step as she made her way to the far end of the parking lot. She had stayed at the office too long and the ominous look of the sky promised another delay. In minutes snow would fall, backing up traffic and making her later than she already was.

  One row over, a black Toyota pickup cruised parallel to her, the same one she’d seen on her way inside. Who could forget the rear window gun rack and over-sized tires? Now here were the same two boys, full of themselves with wheels to prove it.

  The pickup swung into line behind her. Its music system pounded out Bruce Springstein’s Brilliant Disguise. The powerful bass grew closer until it vibrated the pavement beneath her.

  The truck pulled alongside and a punk in the passenger seat mashed his lips against the glass in a juvenile window kiss. He couldn’t be but a few years older than her fourteen-year-old daughter but light years younger in mental age.

  Her husband’s prized Jeep was twenty yards ahead. To please him she always parked in the back to avoid dings. But there was no pleasing John these days, not with him still out of work. She tightened her grip on the grocery cart’s handle and picked up the pace.

  So did the truck.

  It swerved closer then lurched to a stop, the tractor tread tires barely a foot from her stack-heeled boots. She caught herself from hitting the fender but the jolt knocked the paper bags onto their sides. The milk carton and a jumble of canned goods slammed into the bag of tomatoes and lettuce.

  “Damn it.”

  The truck’s passenger-side window lowered. Music blared. A wisp of sweet, organic smoke wafted out. The boy’s eyes looked glassy.

  “Some fine bitch,” he said, “how about some fun?” The door handle clicked, ready to open.

  She had no idea what he meant to do, but positioned her cart to ram him if she had to.

  A horn blasted. Joanna jerked toward the sound. A familiar red Jeep was parked beside hers, two years older but the same blood red. She called out, loudly.

  Despite the music, the boys heard the horn, too. Their pickup veered away.

  What timing, she thought, watching him exit the Jeep and lean against its grille. In his navy down parka and gloves, he resembled a big dark snowman. He smiled.

  “You’re a welcome sight,” she said when she got closer.

  “Did those creeps bother you?” he asked.

  “Not really, but they could’ve run over my foot.”

  He chuckled and nodded.

  She was once again aware of the time and her tight schedule. “What are you doing here?”

  “I saw you. That pick
up.”

  “And you came to my rescue?” She shook her head at his obvious gallantry, the notion that she might need help.

  The wind subsided and snowflakes fluttered down. Icy crystals stuck like glitter to the boughs of a white pine, hanging over the Jeeps. No way she’d get home before the sky opened.

  “Well,” she said, “Thanks for stopping, but I don’t want to keep you.”

  He extended his hand and tugged at a lock of her hair. “Silk mahogany.”

  “Not quite.” She pushed her hair from her shoulders, aware it must look a mess. “Meri Ann’s waiting at the gym. Basketball practice. It’s almost six, and I promised I wouldn’t be late.” She checked her watch, hoping he’d get the message, but he just stood there. His presence was like a wall.

  “Let me help you.”

  “It’s fine, really.” She reached for the toppled milk carton, but he nudged her aside and took over the task.

  “I’ve got it.” He motioned for her to unlock her back door.

  She unlocked it, her impatience growing as he placed the bags of groceries on the floorboard.

  He turned around, slowly. “Joanna… .”

  Her name hung in the air, and she knew he wanted to say something else. She closed the door. “Thanks, really. Wish I weren’t so pressed for time.” She gave him the I’ve-got-to-go smile.

  “I’ve got that kitten for Meri Ann.”

  Joanna’s frustration built as she contemplated the myriad responsibilities of owning a pet. “You remembered,” she said, but without enthusiasm.

  “I listen to you, but you’ve never listened to me. Not really.” He sounded angry and hurt all at once.

  She’d never known how to read him, even with all the extra hours spent on his projects. Most of the time, he made her laugh with his antics or wowed her with his talent. But lately he flew off the handle over even the vaguest inequity. She shook her head in exasperation.

  “If only you’d said something earlier. I’m on a tear. Can you bring the kitten over later? Please help me out.”

  A snowflake stuck to his eyebrow, and he brushed it away. His movement was tight, the set of his jaw even tighter.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s just that I’ve gone out of my way to get this kitten. Now what am I supposed to do with it? I’m spending the weekend at the cabin and late getting up there. He pointed to his Jeep. “Come on, Joanna. It’s in the back.”

  She rolled her eyes and gave him half a smile. “I give up.” Reluctantly she followed him to his Jeep’s tailgate. She shivered and rubbed her arms. Her designer jacket with the oversized shoulder pads offered little protection against the weather. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, thinking of Meri Ann waiting in the same bitter cold. Feelings of guilt swept over her and she tried to reason them away. If only I weren’t running late . . . .

  “It’s nice of you to do this.” She moved closer. “Is it a tabby or—?”

  “Gray.”

  “Meri Ann adores the gray ones. I hope it’s in a box.”

  “Yup.” He fumbled with his keys. His hands were big, bigger still in his black leather gloves.

  The lock clicked open. Joanna bent down. She stretched out her hands in case the kitten jumped out. The hatch inched up. She strained to see. But there was no box… no kitten.

  He flew against her, knocked her off balance. His fingers bit into her arms. She reeled in confusion, struggled against him. But he was too strong. She screamed, but there was no one near enough to hear her.

  His breath hissed on the back of her neck. “Be calm. I’ll never hurt you. I have a place for you.”

  Chapter One

  Fifteen years later,

  the West Coast of Florida

  Siesta Key’s mid-November sun bounced off the hood of Detective Meri Ann Fehr’s slate-gray unmarked, making it hard to see the man who jogged out from between two cars. She quickly hit the brakes to avoid hitting him.

  The tourists were out in force on the Key: Europeans, Canadians and Floridians too. They came for the sugar-fine sand said to be the whitest in the world. They strolled along the beach or lay on it and soaked in the sun. Even the shy ones visited with the village shop keepers as they paid their bills and said hello to passing strangers. Drugs existed and drunks and theft; but for the most part visitors and locals drove below the speed limit, rode their bikes on the correct side of the road. They sat in bars and listened to Jimmy Buffet tunes or ate fried oysters, shrimp and grouper sandwiches served at the many colorful restaurants. It was a great place to escape the cold, a great place to escape from anything. Meri Ann understood the need to escape.

  Fifteen years ago she and her father had fled their western roots and found sanctuary here; so long ago she seldom dwelled on the reason—certainly not today with good news moments away. She swung down Avenida Navarra, heading home to pick up the newly printed program brochures for her boss. He’d want to see them and what she’d accomplished in only a week’s time.

  Her two-bedroom cottage was mid-way down the usually peaceful street, but the moment she spotted the familiar Dodge Charger backed into her driveway, she knew she was in for trouble—that and the broad-shouldered man at the side of the house about to lift her kayak from its cradle. The hackles on the back of her neck rose.

  She got out of the car and strode to where he stood. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Her soon-to-be ex husband spun around to face her. His corn-flower blue eyes were intense, and his muscular frame as sturdy as a Viking warrior’s. No sign of the poet or the wannabe Thoreau inside him and no sign of guilt.

  “Did you get my message?” he asked matter-of-factly.

  She nodded. “I’ve signed the papers. I’ll mail them tomorrow.”

  He just stood there.

  “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go,” she said, “I’m on my way to meet with my boss.”

  “On a weekend.” He sneered. “Always chasing the next promotion.”

  Her work had always been a rock in his shoe. She took two steps closer to him. “You’ve got no business here at the house.”

  “I’ll need the Dagger,” he said.

  “You want my kayak?”

  “It’s mine,” he said.

  Already he’d forgotten their agreement. “You got the Grady White,” she reminded him. “For God’s sake you’re out on the water five days a week.”

  “So? You kept the house, a great little bungalow here on the Key,” he said.

  “It’s my father’s, Ron. That wasn’t part of the settlement.”

  “Don’t forget, I carried the mortgage for how many years?”

  She glared. “We were married, weren’t we?”

  “I didn’t mean—it’s just I promised Debbie we’d get away for an overnight. I haven’t had a day off in months. She’s been sitting home while I hustle charter groups. I gave my word.”

  “Your word,” she said. “Get off my property.”

  # # #

  Meri Ann strode into the Criminal Justice Building in downtown Sarasota, using her pass key to bypass security. Still the deputy beside the metal detector blocked her way. “Hold it right there, deputy. Answer me this, when you go to Hollywood will you still remember the little people?”

  She smoothed back her chin-length auburn hair. “Only the annoying ones like you, Larry. They won’t get autographs.”

  This week she had taken a lot of ribbing. At least on Sunday no one else was around to join in the teasing. She stepped inside the elevator and pushed the third floor button for Criminal Investigation Bureau, CIB. She stepped out into an empty vestibule and corridor. The weekend silence felt eerie as she made her way to Lieutenant Joe Pitelli’s office. She knocked on his open door.

  He motioned her t
o enter. He didn’t so much look at her as at the brochures in her hand. The deep wrinkles at the edges of his brown eyes crinkled in delight. “You got them back from the printer already?”

  “Yesterday.” She handed them to him and sat in a roller chair facing him.

  “These look great. I like the cover with the big guy on the mat and you standing over him. You flip him or did he just fall down?”

  “It’s a picture, Pitelli. But trust me I know how.”

  “Just kidding, Fehr. Chill out. I’m serious, you look tense. That ex-husband of yours still giving you grief? Yeah, yeah, yeah, I see it. Tell him to go fuck himself.”

  She smiled, feeling her chest muscles relax. “Basically, I think I just did. He wanted to borrow my kayak for a weekend-get-away with his child sweetheart. He bought me that kayak instead of an engagement ring.”

  Seven years of her life wasted on a man who dumped her for a nineteen-year-old named Debbie—adoring Debbie who spoke in a high school sing-song and chewed five sticks of gum at once. And still it hurt. “I’m mailing the papers tomorrow. It’s over with.”

  “Sometimes over is good.” Pitelli set the brochures to the side of his desk. “About last week’s news clip on Channel Eight. Did you know it went national?”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I am not. The Sheriff told me his ma saw it in Chicago. Your self-defense class is now our man’s pride and joy. Forget there was no money to fund it last week. You’ll get a commendation and an invitation to the Governor’s conference on law enforcement…”

  Her cell phone rang and she glanced at the calling number.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, knowing her boss’s aversion to cellular phones. Still, she couldn’t take her eyes off the 2-0-8 area code and the Ada County tag. She tentatively held her finger on the talk button. She was both afraid to push it and afraid not to. “I’ve got to take this. It’s from Idaho.”