TALL, DARK, AND DEADLY
Heather Graham
MARNIE LIVED FOR PLEASURE. DID SHE DIE FOR IT, TOO?
She was a high-powered attorney with beauty, brains, and a brand-new dream house. Men found her irresistible. Women called her out-of-control. And when Marnie Newcastle disappeared one fateful night, everyone assumed she'd run off for a wild weekend of self-indulgent pleasure.
But Samantha Miller suspected the worst. A close friend and neighbor, Samantha knew that Marnie's life wasn't as perfect as it seemed. Her past was haunted by abuse; her nights, fired by passion. So many men. So many suspects. And Samantha was determined to meet them face-to-face: The lawyer. The homicide cop. The contractor. And the gorgeous rock star who aroused more desire than suspicion…
With a lineup like this, Samantha would either fall in love—or get herself killed.
Prologue
The swamp was deadly.
But the swamp could hide a million sins.
He steered his small boat through the water, watching the woman as she lay in the rear of the boat. So fragile and beautiful, smiling at him, eyes glued on him. He smiled in return. It was dark and lonely, and here they were, together in a solitude that was rare to find. He had chosen to come here. And so they had come. His whim, his love, his night.
Because the night, like the swamp, could hide so many sins. He loved the swamp, and he loved her, and she had learned at length that she loved him as well.
“Not long now,” he told her. “Not long now.”
She never wanted to come here with him. Yet tonight, she had silently agreed. She never wanted to give him the things that he needed. Tonight, he had given her no choice. And he felt the greatest elation, a sense of power and pleasure, for there she lay, beautiful lips curled, smiling at him. It was his night. He had made this decision. She was here, with him, and he was ready to see it through to the end.
The sky was strange. Only a few stars dotted the heavens, sometimes covered by clouds, sometimes crystal clear. The moon, a beautiful, gibbous curve, appeared and disappeared, touched by dusky clouds. One minute it was entrancing, touching the surface of the water, illuminating them both as they moved through the silent wilderness. Then a cloud would cover the moon, and the shadows would descend again. He felt an odd sense of peace and power because he knew the night, and he knew the swamp. Knowledge was survival here. Knowledge that all which was so beautiful could also be so deadly.
It was still, barely a breath of air stirring now and then. The quiet around them was haunting, compelling, and yet he knew… they were watched. The denizens of the night, of the darkness, tracked their passage. He knew, because he liked to watch himself, to study those around him. He tried to make each stroke with his oar a powerful one, for the sound of it seemed loud, like a strange drumbeat in the night.
A savage beat, he thought, for a savage place. Even in the dim light he could make out what appeared to be stonelike fixtures in the water. But they weren’t stone. Given the right incentive, they would sink the bulk of their bodies beneath the water. With only eyes and nostrils seen at the water’s surface, they would glide in silence, zeroing in for the kill…
Gators. Wondrous creatures. There were just a few here, though. Farther along the canal, there were more. Just as there were moccasins. Strangely beautiful creatures, so sleek and smooth, elegant in their movement, able to master land and water. There were other dangerous creatures in the swamp as well. Coral snakes, Eastern diamondback rattlers, and the little pygmy rattlers. The rattlers liked the hammocks. The moccasins haunted the waterways. And still, despite the dangerous creatures, there was so much beauty. Orchids that grew wild, birds with colors no artist could ever reproduce. And the sunsets and the nights…
Nights like this one.
“Cold?” he asked her. Cold, how strange. The temperatures here could be suffocating, but night brought a cooling; he imagined that she shivered.
“Of course you’re cold,” he said, then realized he had left his jacket back at the car. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry… I forgot my jacket, and you’re in practically nothing at all. I should have thought… I’m so sorry. But it won’t be long now.”
His oar touched the water. They shot along through the night. And there, ahead of him, lay the area he was seeking. There was an air of expectancy to the darkness and the silence of the night. The stillness.
But beneath the stillness…
They’d suffered a dry spell this year. Common enough. But this was one area where the water had remained deep, where the foliage had remained heavy. The birds came here, hundreds of them. They came to drink, to build nests, to seek fish, insects.
Small animals came, too. Possums, squirrels, foxes, even an occasional cougar, though hunters had made the fabulous cats all but extinct. And where they came…
Life was, after all, just one big food chain.
“My love, look, we’re here!” he told her. He set down his oar and moved carefully, coming before her hunkered down, and staring out at the water by her side. “They’re fantastic,” he breathed with reverence. “Nature created them as such incredible machines, don’t you see? They’re old as the dinosaurs, millions of years upon the earth.” He sighed, enraptured by the scene.
Then he remembered himself, and his purpose.
“Oh, well,” he said flatly. The sense of poignancy was over. He looked at her again.
Yes, for once in her life she was smiling at him. He’d made her smile before, but this time he’d taken her lipstick and drawn that damn smile on her haughty features, features that had, too often until recently, expressed the fact that she was too good for him. She was just a tramp, who took her clothes off in front of strange men.
He touched her flesh. He’d been right. She sure was cold.
Stone cold.
Stone-cold dead.
Too bad. There were enough gators here, maybe even enough really hungry gators to have ripped her right to shreds if she’d been alive. What an event that would have been. He smiled, thinking of the way she would have screamed.
But that was all right. He’d played long enough, and he’d waited long enough. And when it came to a point of danger…
Well, he’d learned from the gators. Make the kill. Just make the kill, be certain that the victim can’t fight back.
She’d been so haughty…
Until she had learned to listen. To obey him. It was almost too bad that he’d had to let her go. She’d just been getting good, whimpering all the time. Actually, she’d become far too pathetic. Killing her had been easy.
All that pride, all that arrogance…
And she hadn’t even fought.
He was smart. He didn’t want to get caught. Always, he’d waited, he’d been careful, he’d taken his time. He’d watched the forensics shows on the cable station. Autopsies could point straight to a killer. But a consumed body was damn hard to autopsy.
“Out with you, bitch!” he said impatiently. He’d had enough of the night, and the swamp. He started to laugh. “It was wonderful while it lasted, but it’s all over now.”
He pushed her overboard.
She didn’t start to sink right away. He made her arm waggle in the water.
At first the gators didn’t move.
“Come on, you bastards!” he cried.
He swore, soaking his good shirt, as he leaned over, making her body move more vigorously in the water.
He heard a splash… one of the creatures slipping into the water. Another splash… another gator.
The body was viciously wrenched from his hold.
He smiled.
And he watched.
There was a tremendous frenzy in the water. Giant, powerful tails whipped about.
Jaws snapped, huge heads swung back and forth.
Then she was dragged down. Gators were excellent at the work of survival. They dragged their victims down into the water, drowning them, to keep them from fighting back. Not that gators had many vulnerabilities. Their hides were tough, their jaws could exert more pressure than most steel traps. But like all good predators, they dealt with their adversaries’ defenses before they could become dangerous.
So…
She was gone.
Given time, the creatures would consume her.
What would be left? Pieces of flesh, torn away in a frenzy? Nah, the little fish would see to that. Bone… bone that was consumed, then eliminated? Maybe, but would it ever be found? He doubted it. Would there be a snatch of fabric, a tuft of hair? Would even that remain? Maybe. What could it prove? Nothing—except that she was gone.
Simply gone.
Oh, yes.
The swamp was deadly.
And the swamp could hide a million sins.
And there were so many more women out there to pay the wages of sin.
Chapter 1
The house was coming along beautifully. Marnie Newcastle breathed a sigh of pleased relief as she opened the door and peeked into the old home she’d been renovating. It was almost done. There were still a few odds and ends to be taken care of—the contractor still had workmen coming in to do touch-up painting and carpentry. But she was thrilled—she finally felt as if she’d come home. It hadn’t been easy. She’d been ready to kill the contractor. He’d been ready to kill her. But it had finally all come together.
She stepped into the foyer and absently closed the door behind her, looking around. The floor here was beige marble with accents of amber, the walls were ivory, and the antique chandelier was showcased against the plainer backdrop, making it a true focal point. To her left, she could see the living room and its captivating fireplace, flanked on either side by a goddess, Athena on the right, Hera on the left. To her right was the library, already filled with her books. Before her was a spiral staircase to the rooms above; around it was the hall to a completely renovated kitchen.
No, it hadn’t been easy. She knew that all the men working on it, from the contractor to the plumber, had called her names behind her back—while accepting their checks, of course. But now even they could be proud. They had rebuilt a masterpiece.
She stepped into the center of the foyer, whirling around. Yes, she was home now.
The phone started to ring. She automatically reached into her purse for her cellular phone, but it wasn’t there. She frowned, wondering where she had left it. Back at the office, in the car? But it wasn’t the cell phone ringing anyway, it was the house phone. Where were the lines she had in at the moment? She’d only been sleeping here for a few days now. The phones… there was one up in the bedroom and one back in the kitchen… yes, that was the closest, a minimum of steps.
She walked through the hallway, still feeling a sense of satisfaction. The kitchen had a center butcher-block work stand and state-of-the-art stainless-steel appliances. She had wanted all this so badly, and she had gotten it. She worked, she’d sacrificed, she’d achieved. Her friends had always called her focused. She paused, biting her lip. Yes, she was what people called “hard.” That was because they didn’t understand how she had gotten this way.
For a moment she felt some of the old discomfort. Let them grow up with an abusive, alcoholic father and they’d figure it out fast enough.
She allowed herself a smile. She was good. She’d pursued some of the toughest cases out there, defending no-good—but rich—criminals to get where she wanted to be. She was a realist, and realistically, someone was going to take the cases, make the money. The way she saw it, that someone ought to be her. She tried to explain to her friends, that to move forward, you had to get your hands dirty. People said that attorneys were like sharks. Maybe. She had to be, though. She was a woman, and there were other associates in the firm ready to step on her, anxious to make partner first. They were always swimming with their jaws wide open.
The phone kept ringing. How did anyone know she was here? Silly question—she’d told her secretary she was coming here. And, she reminded herself, she lived here now.
She reached the phone, picked up the receiver, said a breathless “Hello?”
“Marnie?”
“Yes?”
She didn’t recognize the voice. It was very low and raspy, almost a whisper. Her contractor? No, he always sounded brusque and angry.
“Hi, Marnie.”
“Who is this?”
“You like the house?”
Was it her contractor? Must be. Maybe he had a cold. Or a hangover.
“Yes, it looks fabulous. Phil?” Phil Jenkins and Associates were the people working on the place.
Soft laughter followed.
“You didn’t answer. Do you like the place?”
“Yes, of course, it’s fabulous. Look, Phil, I’ve had a long day. I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t want to spend time—”
“Time, Marnie. Time. Your time is so limited. More precious than you know.”
“Yes, my time is precious!” she said impatiently. Hmm. Maybe she’d given Phil a bit too much of her time. He was getting possessive. Men never understood that there were women who lived on a logical plane. Not every relationship in life had to have a deep emotional meaning. “Look, Phil, I want to enjoy my house. Call back when you have something to say, huh?”
She set the phone down, annoyed. For a moment, though, she wondered if it really had been Phil.
She looked around her kitchen again. It led to the family room, which led to her pool and patio. The sun was beginning to set. The sky was the gold that came just as night blanketed day. The water in her pool seemed to be aquamarine. There was a little fountain in it. And beyond the pool was the bay. She could see all the way over to Key Biscayne. Upstairs, her bedroom looked out on that same incredible view. She couldn’t wait to sleep here, have her first party here… entertain here. She thought about her beautiful bedroom. For a moment she allowed herself to feel wistful. It would be nice to find a special guy. A really special guy.
The phone started ringing, irritating her back to the moment at hand. Phil again, being annoying, or one of her friends? Samantha Miller lived next door and could easily see her car. Maybe it was Sam and she could hop on over and see the house. They were right next door on the beautiful little man-enhanced finger of land reaching into the bay.
She picked up the phone, feeling happy once again. “Hello?”
“Don’t hang up on me.”
The same voice, grittier. Angry.
“Oh, no? Who the hell do you think you are? I’ll hang up on whoever the hell I want to hang up on, asshole!” She slammed the receiver down, shaking her head. She turned from the kitchen and walked back to the stairway. He was ruining it, whoever he was. Her first trip into her almost absolutely completed, beautiful new home. A place that was everything she had worked for.
She frowned as she walked up the stairs. Didn’t that idiot Phil read the papers? They had said that she was beautiful and brilliant—and cold as ice and hard as steel. They could have been just a bit more imaginative, but still, she had liked the billing. And her firm had been inundated with requests after the article. Beautiful and brilliant, hard as steel, cold as ice—she was hardly likely to tolerate irritating phone calls.
Forget it, see the house! she told herself. Her home. Her achievement.
* * *
From her kitchen window next door, Samantha Miller looked over at her friend’s house. She turned from the window to her oven. Time to flip the fish. Delicate stuff. Fresh dolphin, brought to her just that afternoon by Ann and Harry Lacata, clients of hers. She’d helped Harry get back in shape after a heart attack, but it was their son, Gregory, with whom she’d formed the most important relationship. She called him the man in her life. At age nine, Gregory was one of the most beautiful children she had ever seen, but he
lived in his own world. He didn’t come out often. Sometimes Sam could coax him out, and in the coaxing, she’d fallen a little bit in love. She glanced through the open kitchen doorway back to the glassed-in Florida room. Gregory, a lock of his pitch-black hair falling over one eye, was watching Lion King on the video. He could watch it for hours. Over and over again. Frequently he didn’t respond when his name was called, but he could sit down at a piano and pick out any piece of music he had heard, barely missing a note on his first try.
Back to the matter at hand, she warned herself. Fresh seafood. Cook it just right, it was delicious. They were having dolphin the fish, not the mammal—she thought mechanically, something she always said to Northerners unaccustomed to the fish. Dinner was important tonight, and she wasn’t exactly the Galloping Gourmet.
“Laura!” she called to her cousin, who was perched on one of the kitchen counter barstools. “I think Marnie is home. Why don’t you give her a call and see if she wants to join us?”
Laura had been in the process of carefully touching just the tip of a raw carrot into a bowl of raspberry vinaigrette dip. She looked up, startled. “Call Marnie—tonight?”
“Sure. We’ve got plenty of fish.”
Laura hesitated. “But—”
“She’s just moved in. Call her, please.”
Laura sighed. “It’s just that… well, this is for Aidan.”
“Aidan likes Marnie.”
“What male doesn’t?” Laura murmured.
“He’s your son,” Sam reminded her.
“Umm, she likes ’em young and innocent.”
“Laura…”
“It’s family night, and we already have Gregory here.”
“Aidan is great with Gregory, and Gregory loves to see Aidan.”
That was true. On some level, the very nearly adult Aidan and the nine-year-old autistic boy communicated beautifully. Their language was music.
“I adore Gregory, too, you know,” Laura said a bit defensively.