Page 6 of Poison Wood

I searched online for police-scanner activity in Miami-Dade County and found an unofficial website. Two posts on it got my attention:Missing Person Alert 02/11/19 20:25. key biscayne. 35 year old female reported missing. (FLA169). Trauma Alert 02/12/19 06:30. Hobie Beach. Station 12 on scene. Possible female victim.

I need to know if Laura Sanders is the possible female victim.

A white van pulls up with Carl behind the wheel. I jump in before the valet can get the door for me.

“What the hell, Rita?”

I pull up my GPS app and type in Hobie Beach. “Get us here,” I say. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”

Hobie Beach is a strip of white sand that sits between the Rickenbacker Causeway and the Atlantic Ocean. The water offshore could be called fifty shades of green. Windsurfers glide across its surface as Carl parks the van in a sandy lot and we hop out.

It’s beautiful and warm and completely tainted by a swath of blue uniforms. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I whip it out. It’s not Laura. It’s Debby. Usually her messages come in one long run-on sentence and rarely make sense:What’s that kit thing you can order checkup for your dad today bad weather coming darcy longfellow broke her hip snakes are on the move a little worried.

The one today, though, is unusually short:Call me.

I slip my phone back in my pocket and remind myself to find out why as soon as I have a free minute.

Carl pulls his camera and tripod from the equipment bags when I meet him behind the van. The inside walls are covered with audio and video equipment.

Carl sees me eyeing it.

“Dom wants to go live,” he says. “He made a call to get this equipment for us on short notice.”

I nod. The van has everything we will need for a live segment: a portable broadcast antenna, a Wi-Fi hot spot, extra monitors, and random IFBs. Not my personalized earpieces, but they’d do in a pinch. I pick one up and frown. God knows whose ear this has been in.

Carl follows me across the sandy lot toward the water. I stop as the lot turns to the beach.

The scene in front of us is chaotic. There is a tent set up, and deputies are trying to keep the surfers and lookie-loos away, but they are doing a piss-poor job. Tells me what I need to know about my chances of getting closer. From this vantage point, I can see tangled fishing nets and a swath of blond hair. My pulse thumps in my neck. It’s her. I know it’s her.

My cell vibrates in my pocket again, but I ignore it as I glance down at the sand, then at my heels. No way my red bottoms are making it through that. I reach down, pull them off, and set them on asphalt. “Ready?”

Carl lifts his camera and motions for me to lead.

As we approach, I notice the body being carefully untangled from the fishing net. Definitely female. I’d guess early to mid-thirties. I swallow. Like me. Her water-logged jeans and top look designer. No decomposition yet. She hasn’t been here long.

Block it out, I tell myself. Put your emotions on mute. It’s the only way to look into the vacant eyes of victims, to look into the shocked eyes of their next of kin. Bury it. Of course, burying my emotions was something I learned to do years before I started this job, at ten years old when I looked up at my father in the parking lot of a funeral home and he told me to be strong for others. Tears are for the weak. And then we buried my mother.

I hang back and assess how many officers are here. What’s the rank of the ones flanking the scene? Today I count ten. Several state deputies, a few that look like sheriff’s department types, and two who are plainclothes. Those are who I need to aim for.

“Showtime,” I say to Carl.

A door slams behind us, and I follow the sound to the coroner’s van. I need to get going. They’re starting to move the body.

Remnants of sea debris have washed up next to the tent pitched over the body. The police are huddled together nearby it, sweating through their shirtsleeves. But even with the crowd and the fishing net, I can still see the woman is lying face down, and something on her shoulder gets my attention. A tattoo. I can’t tell what it is, but I make a note of it. It will help confirm her identity faster.

I lead Carl to the huddle of law enforcement officers, beelining for one of the plainclothes detectives. She glances up as I approach and shakes her head. “No comment.”

I ignore her and point to Carl. The camera is up and on before I turn back to the detective. “I’m Rita Meade,” I say.

“Well aware,” she says. “And I’m not in the mood to be Rita’d.”

That’s a new one. I like it. “And you are?”

“Lead detective Janice Mulholland.”

“Detective Mulholland—”

“What are you doing here?” she says. “Weren’t you just in Fort Worth talking live about all that shit that happened to you down in that bayou town? How’d you find out about this one so fast?”