Coming Around Again

Chapter 1

A Hard Day's Night

The methodical beep of the alarm on the bedside table erupted through the silence of the room and roused Horatio Caine from seven hours of slumber. Rolling over onto his side, he squinted at the bright red numbers that blared 5:00 A.M. at him and grunted.

"5 minutes…just 5 more minutes," he mumbled as he hurriedly tapped the snooze button and rolled back over pulling the soft comforter over his bare shoulders and around his neck.

After hitting snooze for the third time, the red-head realized it was now a little past 5:15, so he reluctantly pushed back the bedcovers, swung his legs over the side of the bed and ran a hand through his mussed hair.

Reaching for his phone on the table beside the digital clock, he checked for messages and saw that no new ones had come through since he last checked at 10 P.M., so he rose on stiffened knees pleased that everyone would be on board for work this morning. Maybe the worst of the virus epidemic that had run rampant through the workplace during this late spring season had passed.

Ignoring the pajama pants laid neatly at the foot of the bed, he made his way in bare feet toward the bathroom in the darkness. The crisp air of the 65 degree room roused him further from his slumber and began clearing the cobwebs from his mind. A part of him wished he could crawl back into bed and take the day off, but he had a crime lab to oversee and the Mayor was riding his ass about two high profile cases that were unsolved. A major convention was coming into the city in three weeks and the public relations talking heads stressed that the image of the city was compromised. A vacation day spent on a fishing boat, though desirable, was impossible.

He shivered as his bare feet hit the cold tile floor of the bathroom. The outdoor temperature during the night had dropped, and the chill of the room reminded him that he had failed to adjust the thermostat before retiring. Chill bumps prickled across his pale, freckled skin giving him a start.

Perhaps it was time for him to stop sleeping in the nude and dress conventionally for bed. He had slept that way for years since reading in a science journal about the health benefits of sleeping sans clothing.

After trying it for a week, he'd found that he enjoyed the freedom of it as well. Being a criminalist could be so restrictive…the many rules, regulations, policies, and procedures. Sleeping in that fashion gave him an odd sense of freedom. It eased away the stuffiness of the dark suit and stern behavior he personified during his working hours. But it was his custom to always keep a pair of pajama pants at the foot of his bed…one never knew what might arise during the night and he knew from his chosen profession that it paid to always be prepared.

Starting his morning shower, he began his workday ritual as he stepped under the hot massaging spray allowing the water to wash away the last remnants of the night's sleep. Stepping out of the steaming stall, he dried himself, shaved, brushed his teeth, combed his damp hair, splashed on Armani aftershave and tossed the damp towel into the hamper in the corner.

By 6 A. M., he was dressed in his usual business casual attire and buckling his timepiece on his wrist as he made his way down the hall to the kitchen. He was usually out the door fifteen minutes prior to now, driving eight blocks up the street to Zanna's Coffee Shop in South Beach where he always bought his weekday breakfast…a Venti black coffee to go with a freshly baked raisin bagel going very light on the cream cheese.

But his use of the snooze button had cost him precious time, so he would have to skip Zanna's and grab his coffee at home using the Keurig that Calleigh had given him last Christmas. Filling the machine with water and pressing the button to beginning the heating process, he searched for a coffee pod only to find the pod rack empty. There was an abundance of tea pods, all compliments of Yelina, but no coffee.

"Shit," he mumbled pressing the off button and scribbling a brief message on a notepad on the counter instructing Mrs. Reyes, his housekeeper, to be certain to replenish the rack when she did his grocery shopping later in the morning.

Settling for a bottle of water from the refrigerator to quench his thirst, he checked to make sure his phone was in his jacket pocket as he grabbed his keys from the counter and headed out the door. He was uncharacteristically late, craving his coffee fix, and hungry. Something told him it was going to be a hell of a day…and it was only 6 A.M.

Arriving at the Crime Lab, he parked the Hummer in his reserved space and entered the building with a quicker pace than usual.

Making straightway to the break room, he poured the half-cold remnants of the coffee brewed hours ago by the Night Shift into a Styrofoam cup, turned his nose up at a stale doughnut from the box nearby and walked down the hall toward his office acknowledging several officers as they prepared to turn their duties over to the Day Shift employees.

Seating himself behind his dark mahogany desk, he pulled his day planner out of the top drawer, grabbed a pencil as he checked it for any appointments that might have slipped his mind frowning at the taste of the brew as he sipped it.

One activity penciled in for 7 P.M. stood out glaringly…

Dinner Party Miguel & Adella Santora's

"Ah, hell, and this is a must for tonight," he thought aloud as he tossed his pencil on the desk and laid his head back on the back of his chair remembering the promise he had made to Miguel after a round of golf last Saturday.

'Horatio, Adella asked me to personally remind you about the fund raising event set for Friday at 7. She…we would very much like it if you would attend. We value your friendship.'

'I've always enjoyed Adella's parties, Miguel. She's quite the hostess. Of course I will attend. I would be honored,' he'd lied ashamed of himself while doing so.

'I have spoken to Adella about her unabashed attempts to 'set you up'. I've told her in no uncertain terms not to seat you in a place that might make you uncomfortable. She claims she won't try anything of the kind, but I think we both know otherwise. Just come and enjoy the prime rib and entertainment with no strings attached.'

Miguel Santora was one of his closest friends outside of law enforcement in Miami. Their friendship had been born after he had saved the Cuban-American's life from assassination and had strengthened throughout the years. Miguel Santora was one of the wealthiest men in the state of Florida and his foundation funded charities throughout the region, most importantly to him 'Mari's Miracles', a charity he had set up at Children's Hospital of Florida in memory of Marisol.

Parties at the Santora Mansion were attended by the rich and powerful from all over the southeastern United States. One never knew which celebrity, sports figure, or political power player you might run into, but he always seemed to luck up and get stuck with a socialite who'd had an ungodly amount of cosmetic surgery or a silly woman who talked incessantly on about her newest acquisitions. 'Who in the hell cares about where you shop?' he'd always ask himself as he listened politely to their endless prattle.

The last party he'd attended found him seated beside a woman sporting a severely low cut dress with a ridiculous breast enhancement who whispered a proposition to him during the dessert course inviting him to the pool house with a promise of an intimate encounter.

Excusing himself from the table, he'd pretended to receive a call-out and left the event swearing to himself that he would never attend another one, but Miguel was a friend and good friends are rare. So, he'd show up and play nice despite the fact that he sure as hell didn't want to.

The next three hours went by uneventfully. He'd checked in with Calleigh on a ballistics report on the Rearway case. Murder weapon confirmed as a 45… gsr on the hands of the perp with a fingerprint match in the database…case file with the results going to the State's Attorney office for the bond hearing. Nice going, Calleigh. One case down.

After making the rounds of the Lab and attending mundanely to the stack of paperwork on the corner of his desk, he dodged calls from the Deputy Mayor before receiving a sweet moment of relief with a call-out coming in around 10:30. It would take him to the Everglades, but at least he would be released from the ringing of the phone for a few hours.

And that's where the noon hour found him, standing beside Frank Tripp as the pair watched Ryan and Walter methodically collect evidence from the around a bloated, decaying corpse.

Clearing his throat, the bald detective glanced over at Horatio, shook his head, and asked, "Do you think that Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber can work any faster? It's hot as 70 miles deep into hell out here."

Overhearing the remark, Ryan looked up and retorted, "You know Frank, this poor guy has been out here cooking for probably three days. He ain't exactly fragrant right now. If you want us to work faster, maybe you should step over the pretty yellow tape in front of you and help us out!"

"I'm a street cop, Buckaroo. I'm just out here with you CSIs for security purposes. I don't walk around with a shiny kit full of fancy thing-a-ma-boppers and a pair of latex gloves on my hands. I do real police work…you know things the old fashioned way…us old school guys call it leg work. You kiddos ain't got a clue," Frank replied swatting in the air at a mosquito.

"Yeah, well Frank, let me explain something to you, I can do…"

"Gentlemen, we are here to do a job and each one of us has a valuable and important role in that process. So…let's focus on the task at hand and do what we are called to do, shall we," Horatio interjected as he glanced sternly between the two cutting off Ryan's response.

"I'm sorry, Horatio. Hey, no offense, Ryno! This place just gets to me. Seems like half the body dumps in South Florida somehow manage to wind up in the Glades. And my deodorant seems to fail about fifteen minutes after I get out here…all this heat and humidity! You know, I can spend all day on a fishing boat in the Atlantic and not seem to break a sweat, but this damned swamp…nah…you can have it…gettin' too old," Frank answered with a grimace.

"The Everglades is a thing of natural beauty... a slow moving river, Frank, not a swamp…but no worries…I do understand," the red-head corrected as the Medical Examiner's van drove up.

"Ah…Dr. Loman, are you ready for transport?" Horatio queried.

"I am. I'll do a quick glance over here and will prepare to get him to the morgue for processing and autopsy. That strip mall fire down in Homestead has claimed two lives and I had to work that before coming here."

"Sorry to hear that," Horatio answered. "Ryan, Walter, I have called Eric in to assist you. He should be here within the hour. Gather up what you can and take it back to the house. Last night's rain didn't leave us much to work with. We'll just have to see what we've got and make do with it. Frank and I are heading back to town."

As the pair of seasoned cops made their way back to Horatio's Hummer, the red-head climbed in behind the wheel and asked his cohort, "Its lunch time and my belly thinks my throat's been cut. How does a bacon burger and fries from Five Guys sound? Leave the rising temperatures to the younger bloods."

"Double the bacon and that sounds like a plan," Frank nodded as Horatio started the motor of the Hummer.

As the engine purred, Horatio made his way through the tall sawgrass toward a path that would lead them back to the Tamiani Trail and into the city of Miami.

Chatting amiably about the pitching rotation of the Florida Marlins as the drive progressed, Horatio glanced down briefly to adjust the air conditioning vent when the vehicle jolted and he heard Frank call out, "Horatio! Did you feel that?"

The sound and force of a thud stunned both men as Horatio slammed on the brakes and looked over at Frank quizzically.

"What in the hell was it? A gator? Did we just run over a gator? Was it in the path? I didn't see one crawl out," Horatio asked in bewilderment.

"Either that or some kind of varmint I'm guessing. You never know in the Glades. If it's wounded, it'll be either riled up or suffering. We better check it out. I'll put it out of its misery if needed," Frank replied pulling his service revolver from its holster as he slowly eased out of the passenger's side of the vehicle.

Walking around the front of the Hummer toward the passenger's side, a sick feeling stirred in Horatio's stomach as he surveyed the scene under the passenger's side wheel base.

"Put away the gun, Frank," Horatio commanded his stunned companion. "It's not an animal… it's uh...it's a child."

At that moment, time stood still for Horatio Caine. And it was only 1:00.

TBC