or more just to afford the high rental prices. The clientele for these winter getaways ran the gamut of humanity. Many were retirees fleeing the cold back home in Michigan or Ohio or Pennsylvania – Rust Belt states where the sun only shined three or four months out of the year. But there were also some younger couples there, as well. These people were in their late thirties or early forties who were embarking upon their first real vacations with their small children in tow – sawed-off, freckle-faced little tots who invariably clutched plastic buckets and shovels in their tiny hands to facilitate the digging of elaborate trenches in the sugary-fine sand of Fort Myers Beach.
The gravel-lined driveway crunched beneath Dana’s rubber-soled Nikes, causing Bill Krugman to turn around and smile down at her from the landing. ‘Dana,’ he said warmly, not looking in the least bit embarrassed by the fact that he’d just been caught playing the role of the quaint, seaside town’s Peeping Tom.
Krugman’s gold Rolex glinted in the bright sunlight as he straightened the crisp white sleeves of his dress shirt, pulling them into sight from beneath the arms of his lightweight, flawlessly tailoured blue suit. Dana wasn’t at all surprised to see the Director’s choice of attire. Even considering the blazing temperatures, Krugman wasn’t the kind of guy to break a sweat. Ever. Cool as a cucumber at all times, that was him.
Dana nodded a hello up at her former boss, squinting against the irritating drops of sweat searing her eyes. ‘Hello, sir,’ she said. ‘How is Marie doing?’
Krugman beamed. ‘Picture of health, I’m proud to say. Not a single trace of cancer left.’
Dana smiled. And why not? She was genuinely happy to hear the news. ‘Thank God,’ she said, meaning it from the bottom of her heart. ‘I’m so happy to hear that.’ Dana paused, knowing the Director hadn’t traveled all the way down to Florida just to deliver a personal update on his wife’s medical condition. There had to be something else. Clearing her throat, she asked, ‘So, sir, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’
Krugman descended the wooden steps. ‘No time for pleasantries, huh, Agent Whitestone? Fair enough, I guess. I was never one for small talk myself.’ He reached the foot of the stairs, squinting irritably against the blinding sun. ‘Could we maybe go inside? It’s hotter than hell out here.’
Dana flushed, suddenly remembering her manners. She might have been raised in six different foster homes, but not one of them had been a barn. ‘Of course, sir,’ she said quickly. ‘Come on in and I’ll get you something cold to drink.’
Dana brushed past Krugman and ascended the wooden steps before sliding her key into the lock and opening up the door, stepping aside to let Krugman in first. She followed him inside and asked, ‘What can I get for you, sir? Beer? Water? Soda?’
The look on Krugman’s face let Dana know that alcohol was out of the question for him – and probably should be for her, as well. Crinkling up her face in sudden embarrassment, Dana hoped he couldn’t smell the beer on her breath. Then she shook her head to chase away the concern. What did she care if he smelled beer on her breath? She didn’t work for him any more. She could drink whatever she wanted whenever she wanted. ‘Water would be great, Agent Whitestone,’ Krugman said. ‘Thanks.’
Dana did her best to ignore the fact that Krugman was calling her by her former title as she headed into the kitchen with the Director following closely at her heels. Pulling out a bottle of Aquafina from the refrigerator, she twisted off the cap with the gunshot sound of snapping plastic and handed it over. Then she and Krugman went back into the living room and took seats on opposite ends of the rattan settee.
Krugman tilted back his head and took a long swallow of his water before clearing his throat. ‘I need you back, Dana,’ he said, cutting right to the chase. ‘I’ve got a serial killer on my hands who’s murdering famous people.’
Dana looked away from him, knowing she couldn’t even deal with what had happened to her in the parking lot of the coroner’s office back home in Cleveland yet. No way in hell she’d be able to deal with another serial killer. Not now and probably never again. It was just too much too ask of her, not to mention too soon. After all