Monday, November 5

8:45 a.m.

Hand to her nose, stomach rolling, Detective Carla Chapman bent over the decomposing remains of Larry Bernhardt. It appeared that the man had jumped naked from the third-floor balcony above. He had landed facedown. She would guess broken bones, internal injuries and bleeding. The fall had busted him up-but hadn’t killed him. He had dragged himself a few feet before succumbing to either his injuries, pain or both.

Poor bastard. Damn uncomfortable way to go.

Carla spied an open pill bottle peeking out from under the man’s left shoulder. She bent closer, examining the empty vial. Quaaludes.

Or maybe not that uncomfortable, Carla amended.

She squinted up at the still-scorching November sun. Today’s forecast called for zero cloud cover and a high of ninety. The same as the last three days. Basically as unrelentingly hot as hell.

That meant Larry Bernhardt’s remains had been cooking for some time, the amount to be determined by the medical examiner. Placing the time of death would be tricky, Carla acknowledged. Exposure to heat sped up the decomposition process, playing havoc with the measures they used to determine TOD: rigor mortis, lividity and body temperature.

Let the ME work the formula, she thought, glancing toward Bernhardt’s housekeeper, hovering in the doorway to the house. The woman looked a hairsbreadth from falling apart, her dark eyes wide, cheeks ashen. She stared at her former boss, her mouth moving as she worked a rosary clutched in her hands.

Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee…

The prayer ran through Carla’s head, a dim but still potent memory from her childhood. How long had it been since she had uttered those words? she wondered. How long since she had gone to mass? Since she had partaken in Holy Communion or confessed her sins?

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…

Jesus, where would she start? To be forgiven, would she have to recant all her sins or only the ones she could recall?

“I can go now, please?”

Carla blinked, refocusing on the housekeeper. She experienced a surge of pity for the woman. She had reported for work this morning only to find her boss’s crushed, fly-covered body. Not the most of pleasant good mornings. To top it off, she was now out of a job.

“Go on in, but hang around a while. I expect I’ll need to ask you a few questions.”

Obviously relieved, the woman nodded and disappeared inside. Carla watched her go, then tipped her face to the balcony above. She found Val there, staring down at her. “You called, Lieutenant?”

“If you’re finished down there, I could use a fresh pair of eyes.”

“Coming up.” She straightened. “By the way, got an empty bottle of ’ludes down here.”

Her superior nodded. “Looks like he washed them down with Dom. Made his landing a bit softer. Leave it for the crime-scene guys. They’re on their way.”

Carla left Bernhardt without a backward glance. She crossed the patio, entering the house through the same door the housekeeper had used. It led to a large, beautifully outfitted garden room.

She moved her gaze over the room. White wicker furniture, French Quarter tile floors and an abundance of tropical plants. Lots of throw pillows in a fresh-looking floral print. White plantation shutters and a gently whirring ceiling fan. Very south Florida, she thought. Very Key West.

After six years on the island, Carla could recognize the style while comatose. Casual. Breezy. Easy-living, island style. It permeated everything on this floating three-by-four-mile chunk of land at the southernmost tip of the continental United States. Clothes. Food. Music. The lazy way people moved and spoke. Their laid-back attitudes and unhurried lifestyles.

She had been enamored with it at first. Key West had seemed a paradise accessible without passport. A world away from her hard-driving, industrial girlhood hometown of Pittsburg, Pennsylvania.

The garden room metamorphosed into another, more formal living space. That led to a cavernous three-story foyer. Marble floors. Chandelier. A wide, central staircase.

Carla climbed the staircase. The upstairs hallway was wide, carpeted in a pile so thick her toes would get lost in it-if she took off her shoes and socks.

She had a big picture of that. “Oh, hey, Val. I just wanted to experience what real wealth feels like against the bottoms of my feet.”

Val appeared in a doorway at the end of the hall. “In here.”

The bedroom was pure opulence. Huge four-poster bed carved out of some light, no doubt rare, wood. Satin and velvet drapes in a gold color. Tassels as big as a linebacker’s fist. Mirrors, gold framed, ornate. Carla’s lips lifted. Positioned, cleverly, to both the left, right and head of the bed.

Larry Bernhardt had lived like royalty. And, apparently, he enjoyed watching the fun his money could buy.

“What are you thinking?” Val asked.

Carla glanced at her boss. He stood, hands on his hips, head cocked slightly to the side as he studied her. Sometimes Valentine Lopez took her breath away-he was that handsome.

Too bad he had never given her a second glance.

“That Larry Bernhardt was self-indulgent, self-important and more than a little bit naughty.”

Her boss’s eyebrows shot up in question, and she smiled. “Check out the mirrors. And I’m sure with his assets, he didn’t lack for company.”

Her superior knew exactly what kind of assets she referred to. “Money,” he murmured with a hint of bitterness, “the international language of love.”

Carla nodded, agreeing with the comment and understanding the bitterness. For a woman it wasn’t money, but youth. A killer body. Big breasts. The ability to suck a golf ball through a garden hose.

What about personality? Carla thought. What about brains, loyalty and a good heart? She glanced back and caught a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors. Sun-streaked sandy hair, pert nose, wide-set hazel eyes. Too many freckles, each earned on the beach while baking.

A lump formed in her throat. She looked old, she thought with a sense of shock. Not the dewy-eyed twenty-four-year-old who had accompanied a man she barely knew for a weekend on Key West, packing little more than lip gloss and a string bikini.

Six years. It seemed impossible. She had officially become what the locals referred to as a “freshwater conch” just this past January.

The same month she had turned thirty.

She swallowed hard, remembering that twenty-four-year-old girl. She had dumped the guy and begun a passionate love affair with Key West. And like all such affairs, it had burned hotly but gone cold fast.

Not that she regretted her decision to move here. But the fact was, she was no longer twenty-four, no more a total babe in a string bikini. Now, instead of worshiping the sun, she feared it for the damage it had done to her skin. Now she recognized that the most eligible bachelors on the island were beyond her reach-they were all tourists; they didn’t stay.

Carla wanted stability. A good man who loved her. Kids.

She feared she would die single and childless.

“This look like the scene of a crime to you?” Val asked.

Carla blinked and glanced at her boss, confused. “Crime? Looks like a suicide to me.”

“No note.”

“Leapers don’t always leave a note.” She moved her gaze over the bedroom. Other than the unmade bed, the room was Home and Gardens neat. It appeared the man had awakened, walked out onto the balcony and jumped.

She shook her head. “What makes someone like Bernhardt kill himself? Looks to me like he had just about everything a guy could want.” When Val remained silent, she frowned. “You think someone helped him over that rail?”

“No, that’s not what’s bothering me. This place cost big money. Too much money. He was a loan officer, for Pete’s sake.”