punched in the heart. He’d loved Danny, too. Just about everyone who ever met Danny Huntington cared about him. Except, of course, the killer. Or killers?
“Spencer, remember the case just a few years ago? Right on Bayshore Drive. Wife calls in, her husband’s been shot. Says some men broke in and killed him. Turned out she hired the men who shot them, let them in and out, waited long enough for them to disappear, then called emergency. Remember, Spencer?”
“Yes, I remember,” she said impatiently. “She was also much younger than he was and wanted his money. The two cases are nothing at all alike.”
“Spencer, the police can’t help it. Most murders are committed by people close to the victims. Wives rank right on top.”
“Damn you, David, I didn’t come here to listen to you explain why the cops questioned me. Danny has been dead for over a year. A cop, David, a cop murdered—and no suspect in sight! And you sit there justifying why they questioned me! I want to know what else they’ve got! And all anyone will ever tell me is that, oh, we’ve a few leads, we’re following this one or that one! They humor me. They pat me on the back, but nothing happens!”
“Spencer, they’re trying. It takes time—”
“I want to know what you’ve got.”
“Spencer, go home. Reconstruct something,” he told her. Was reconstruct the right word? He wasn’t sure. Montgomery Enterprises wasn’t really a construction company, nor was it a decorating firm. Sly had begun the business in the very early days of the city’s existence. Back then he’d done detail work, cornices, moldings, mantels, working with the best architects and builders. He had liked to remember those old times, when the now bustling, international city had been nothing but a small southern settlement carved out of a swamp. Now they preserved the old, making it as good as new. They restored buildings, down to the small details, the tiles, moldings and cornices. David found it hard to imagine that there was enough here to keep them going, but it was remarkable to see sometimes, through Sly’s eyes, just how much was considered to be of historical value. Especially in the last decade or so, with the Art Deco boom, the refurbishing of the beaches and certain other areas of Greater Miami, the old had become in. Montgomery Enterprises was doing extremely well.
“Go home, or go repair a quaint old bathroom or something,” he told her, rubbing his temple.
Her eyes narrowed. “I went home, David. I went away for a year, and I left everything to the cops and to you, his best friend, the hometown boy who could find out anything! I went away, but damn it, it seems like I’m the only one who really cares! I have to stay on this if we’re ever going to find Danny’s killer. The eulogy was just great, the cops who turned out were wonderful, the twenty-one-gun salute was grand! But that buried him, and he’s stayed buried. And the case has stayed buried with him. I want something done now. I want to know what you’ve got. He was a homicide cop. What was he on to? Why was he meeting you that morning?”
Reva cleared her throat from the doorway. “Coffee!” she said cheerfully.
David was glad for the interruption. It bought him a little time as his sister came into his office and set the tray on his desk. He was deterred from his thoughts by the tray, though. They kept mugs in the office. Good sturdy mugs. But there were china cups sitting on a silver tray, and the coffeepot was silver, as well, along with the creamer and sugar bowl.
He stared at Reva, who glanced at Spencer and shrugged. He smiled, shaking his head.
“Thanks, Reva,” Spencer said, restlessly standing again, approaching the tray.
“Spencer, please, relax!” David said.
“I can’t just sit still!” she exclaimed, reaching for the coffee server. She glanced at Reva. “I don’t mean to be difficult—yes, I do, except not about the coffee—but do you still have those great mugs around here anywhere?”
“I—” Reva said blankly, then stared at David again. “Yes, sure, of course.”
Reva went out. David leaned back in his chair, not knowing whether he wanted to grin or pick Spencer up bodily and remove her from the office altogether.
He leaned forward, fingers folded on his desk. “Spencer, if you believe that I cared about Danny, then you know that I’m doing what I can. Everyone in the world knows that cops will do anything they can to catch the killer of another cop—”
“Why was he meeting with you that morning?” Spencer interrupted determinedly.
“To go over the Vichy case.”
“I want to know about the Vichy case.”
Reva returned with the mugs. Spencer flashed her a smile of gratitude. “Thanks. I don’t know why, but coffee always tastes better in a mug.”
“A quick cup of coffee shouldn’t matter much,” David said.
“But it may not be quick,” Spencer warned.
How the hell was he going to be able to get rid of her?
He stood up. “I’ll pour the coffee.”
“None for me!” Reva said, casting David a quick glance and grinning. “My work is looking good at the moment.” She made another quick departure.
“Spencer, damn it, if you’re staying, sit down!” David said, his tone carrying the rough edge of aggravation. Spencer sat, and he poured coffee into two mugs. “Still black, one sugar?” he asked her.
“Yes, please.”
Still black, one sugar. Exactly the way she’d been drinking coffee since high school.
Some things just didn’t change. Like the way he had always felt about her.
He almost slammed her mug down in front of her before returning to the chair behind his desk. He opened a drawer and threw a mile-high pile of folders on top of his blotter. “This is what I’ve been doing all year, Spencer. There are over two hundred interviews in here, notes on people, places, stakeouts. Five of the files are completely closed—they concern homicides Danny was working on that have been solved and could in no way have anything to do with his death. The Vichy case remains open and may remain open forever.”
“Why?”
“You know Eugene Vichy.”
“I know him?”
“He belongs to your yacht club.”
Spencer frowned. He realized that she probably hadn’t been to the yacht club in a very long time.
“He’s fifty-something, white-haired, good-looking, always looks like he just walked off a movie set. His wife, the late Mrs. Vichy, was sixty-something, and not quite so good-looking but very rich. She expired from a knock on the head. The house had been ripped up, some diamonds were missing. Vichy claimed to have come in and found the place in disarray and to have been brokenhearted at the loss of his beloved Vickie.”
“Vickie? Vickie Vichy?” Spencer said.
“You know her?”
She shrugged. “The name sounds vaguely familiar—and
