“What the fuck?”
“Hey! It’s me. Where the hell have you been? Poor Hooker has been barking her brains out.”
Riley gasped, hand over her heart, heavy rain pelting her face. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
“Stop answering questions with questions,” Jo Salazar yelped. “I hate it when you do that. Open the damn door. It’s wet out here.”
The women burst into the living room, dripping water. Hooker, McDonald’s old hound dog, stood hopefully in their path, tail wagging expectantly, staring beyond them, out into the rainy night.
“No,” Riley said bitterly. “He’s not coming.”
Rain streamed from her hair as she stepped to the liquor cabinet, an ornate old sideboard inherited from her grandmother, found a half-full bottle of vodka, and splashed some into a tumbler. She swallowed, eyes closed.
“What?” she croaked, opening them to Jo’s solemn gaze. “This stuff gets the citizens of Moscow through cold Russian winters.”
“This is a hot Miami summer.” Jo shook her head, her big eyes shiny.
Riley ignored her and focused on the dog still standing stiff-legged near the door. “She always does that,” she said bleakly.
“It takes a while,” Jo said softly. She yanked off the hooded rain jacket she wore over a halter top and blue jeans. “They were together a long time.”
“Yeah, right.”
Silence hung between them, more pained than awkward.
“Let me go hang this in the bathroom,” Jo said.
Riley poured another drink before letting the dog out into the backyard. Hooker plodded stoically into the downpour, which showed no signs of letting up.
Jo returned, curly brown hair tousled, a bath towel around her neck. She tossed another towel to Riley.
“Dry yourself off at least. You look like a drowned rat.” Tall and statuesque, with broad shoulders and hips created for childbearing, she crossed her arms like a angry parent. “Where the hell were you?”
“Took the kayak out on the bay.”
“Smart move. I was afraid of that when I didn’t see it here. Don’t you check the weather anymore? My NOAA radio was broadcasting thunderstorm alerts all afternoon.”
“It’s summer in Miami, Jo. You just said so yourself. Thunderstorms are forecast every afternoon.”
“You’re lucky you’re not a fried, drowned rat sleeping with the fishes.”
“What are you drinking?” Riley sounded exhausted as she dried her face and hair.
“The usual,” Jo chirped. “You got Earl Gray?” She stepped into the galley kitchen, put the kettle on the gas stove, opened a cupboard, and rummaged familiarly for the tea bags.
“I was worried,” she said. “I called the station and they said you weren’t working.”
“Who’d you talk to?”
“Burch, the sergeant.”
“Wonder why he was still there?”
“Didn’t ask.” Jo took two mugs down from a shelf.
“So what are you doing here? Who’s watching the kids?”
“Their dad—it’s Ricky’s turn for a change. He’s making corn dogs. They were looking forward to it.”
“You want some dry clothes?” Riley pulled her drenched T-shirt over her head. Her bra was soaked, too.
“Your stuff is all too small for big healthy girls like me. By the way, have you lost weight?”
Riley shrugged, went to her bedroom, stepped out of her soggy shorts and panties, and donned a short terry-cloth robe.
“Come on, Kath. You okay?”
“Sure, never better. Not.”
“You should have taken time off.”
“I didn’t think it would be this hard.” Riley sat barefoot on the sofa, head in her hands. “I did a really stupid thing. The guys must think I’m nuts. We had a walk-in, a woman who thinks her ex-husband’s death twelve years ago was no accident, that it was murder.”
“So?”
“He died in a flash fire, burned beyond recognition.” Riley’s words were barely audible.
Jo winced and took a deep breath.
“I immediately jumped on it, ordered the guys to chase it, top priority. It’s not even a homicide. It’s classified as an accident. But you know who I saw when I looked at the scene pictures. They freaked me out. The guys are really pissed.”
“They’ll get over it. It’s no big deal to check out.”
“It’s not fair to them. They have more important, real cases to work. They always thought I was a bitch. Now they think I’m a crazy bitch.”
“So just be upfront. Say you reread the file, rethought it, and they can drop it. You’re the boss, remember?”
“Maybe you’re right. Stone would appreciate it. He’s hot on an important case.”
The teakettle whistled.
“None for me,” she said, as Jo poured. Riley reached for the vodka.
“Did you eat today?” Jo deliberately poured a second cup. “Want me to fix you something?”
“No, I couldn’t. I had a big lunch,” Riley lied, and sipped her drink.
“Jesus, Kathy, you never used to drink alone.”
“I’m not alone. You’re here.”
“Take some vacation time. Go away for a while.”
Riley snorted. “There wouldn’t be a Cold Case Squad when I came back. With all the budget cuts they’re looking at, we’re expendable. I have to fight for our survival every day.”
“Same thing in our office,” Jo said. “Sometimes I wish I was still a cop. Remember the fun we had in the academy?”
“What are you talking about, girlfriend? We were miserable, bruised, banged up, and exhausted. Remember how you almost drowned during the underwater swimming test?”
“Yeah, but it was exciting, and we made it.” Jo’s eyes sparkled. “We kicked ass, kid. We showed ’em all.”
“Who’da thought they’d turn out to be the good old days?”
“Well, I ain’t having much fun now. We’ve got a hiring freeze, no raises, no support from Alexander the not-so-great, and you wouldn’t believe my caseload.”
“How is your boss, the state attorney, these days?”
“Still an ignoranus, both stupid and an asshole.”
“He keeps fucking with my detectives. He hates cold cases.”
“And he’s not exactly crazy about you. The man takes rejection poorly.”
“He can’t still hold it against me, not after all these years. He just wants every case on a silver platter, tied up in red ribbon, with a smoking gun and a signed confession. It’s too risky for his record to take on old cases with witnesses who have died or forgotten and outmoded evidence-gathering methods the defense can target. The man’s got no cojones.”
“What do you expect from a damn politician? He’s hung up on his conviction rate and the next election. He has his eye on higher office. And the public doesn’t give a rat’s ass. We’re not important anymore because the crime rate has dipped,” Jo said. “Sociologists do studies trying to figure out why. Politicians brag and hog the credit, when we’re the ones who really helped make it happen.
“You arrest them. I prosecute them and they ship out to the Graybar Motel. That’s why the crime rate is down, because we’ve got more than a million scumbags behind bars, the biggest prison population in U.S. history. Ten percent of the people commit ninety percent of the crime; lock up that ten percent or close to it and voilà, the crime rate declines. Duh. No mystery there.” She reached into the refrigerator, sniffed a bottle, then wheeled, her expression accusatory.
“Yuck! Kathy, the milk is sour. Damn. Can’t I come over here and drink tea with milk and sugar like a civilized person?”
Riley put down her drink, leaned forward, and covered her eyes.
“Okay, okay, Kath. I’ll rough it, go commando, do without. You don’t have to cry about it.”
She knelt next to her friend and put her arm around her shoulder. Riley leaned on her and wept.
“It’s m
y fault.” Her voice trembled. “He’s dead, and it’s my fault.”
“You are a crazy bitch. You had nothing to do with it, sweetheart.”
“That’s the point, I did nothing. I didn’t fight for him. When he told me he was in love with that reporter, I was so sure it wouldn’t work that I told him to go for it if he felt that way. And he did. I was so stupid,” she said miserably. “I took the high road, thought it was best, that we’d be closer when he came back. See, I was in it for the long haul. Worst-case scenario, I’d still be his friend, which was better than nothing.
“But I was so sure he’d come to his senses, that he’d be back, I let him go. I was so stupid.”
“But, honey, you had no choice. You can’t make somebody love you. All the stalkers in jail can attest to that.”
“You can try. I should have raised holy hell, tried talking him out of it, told him all the reasons why it wouldn’t work. I could have thrown myself at him, plied him with sex till he was too exhausted to even remember her name. Jo, it works for some people. I mighta pulled it off. Instead, I caved to my pride, didn’t want to embarrass myself, told myself that we were meant to be, sooner or later it would happen. I counted on it. Who knew there’d be no later because the damn reporter had a friend with a crazy ex-husband?
“He wouldn’t have been with her, at the wrong place at the wrong time, if I had cried, argued, fallen on the floor, and clung to his goddamn ankles, for God’s sake, he’d be alive.”
“Where the hell is the reporter?” Jo muttered. “Haven’t seen her byline in the paper lately.”
Riley shrugged. “Out of town, I guess.”
“Duh. Somebody had the sense to take time off. I know it had to be tough to lose him to a reporter, the way you’ve always felt about them.”
“Funny.” Riley wiped her eyes. “I don’t hate her. Wish I could. She’s stubborn, hardheaded, but not a bad person when you get to know her. And she’s miserable. She lost him, too, except I had a lot more invested, since second grade. I wish I could hate the man responsible, but he’s dead. I wish to hell I had somebody to hate. But I don’t. I just hate myself—and the city for how they’ve treated him.
“This year’s nominations for the silver medal of valor and the gold medal of courage were posted yesterday. His name wasn’t there, Jo. A fucking major on the fast track for chief, a dead hero, but they ignored him because it happened off duty and he didn’t go by the book. He didn’t even have a full honor guard at his funeral. That’s not right. I can’t stop thinking about it. Sometimes, in meetings with the brass, I just want to start screaming.”
“Not a good career move, kid.”
“But a violent ex-convict, high on drugs, snatches his six-year-old kid, beats up his ex-wife and his own mother, barricades himself in his mother’s house, and holds the kid hostage. The kid is screaming, the father’s splashing gasoline, threatening to ignite it. The place is full of fumes. He’s flicking a cigarette lighter. The house could go up in a heartbeat. Kenny knew if he went by the book and waited for fire, SWAT, a hostage negotiating team, and the domestic violence unit, they’d be too late. No way the cavalry could arrive in time. So off duty, unarmed, he gives it his best shot to get that little boy out alive.”
“And he did, sweetie. He did.” Jo sighed. She’d heard it all before, too many times. She listened again.
“The kid said Kenny Mac threw him out the front door and yelled for him to run. He did, and a few seconds later, the whole place explodes. It kills the worthless piece of shit who started it and the only man I ever loved. Why?”
“Every life has its purpose, Kath. It’s not something we can ever understand. But maybe in his life, at that moment, he’d accomplished what he was here to do.
“It’s a circle. Life is a continuum. The soul is all that’s permanent. Death is a rebirth. Leaves and birds come back, so does the soul. We all have a life cycle. It’s nature, part of the universe, part of everything around us. The billions of stars out there, they’re born and they die. In fact”—she cocked her head—“I read that astronomers see more stars dying now and fewer being born. Which means that the universe is going dark.”
Riley sighed. “Thank you very much. If this is your inspirational spiel for grieving witnesses in your homicide cases, it needs work. I’d leave out that last bit if I were you.” She wiped her face on her towel.
“Sorry, I digressed,” Jo said, “but what I meant to say is that grieving is for us, not him. He’s going forward. Staying positive will help his soul to move on.”
“Bullshit, Jo. Don’t try to sell me that crap, I won’t even rent it. You know his name belongs on that plaque in the lobby with all the others killed in the line of duty.”
“It’s not important.” Jo shrugged. “He didn’t do what he did for recognition. He did it for all the right reasons. Maybe that was his reason for being.”
“You mean his sole purpose in life was to rescue a little kid who’s probably destined to wind up a bad, sad, dead druggie, like his dad?”
“We’re not here to judge. That’s for God on Judgment Day. Maybe that little child was saved for a reason.”
“I wish,” Riley said bleakly.
Hooker scratched at the back door and Jo let her in. The old dog shook herself, spraying her with water before docilely submitting to her towel. “Whose good ol’ dog are you?” she crooned, as she wiped her paws and rough-dried her coat.
Riley watched, eyes pained.
“Maybe we can find her a good home,” Jo offered. “I can ask around the office.”
“No way.”
“But every time you see her…”
“Kenny found her injured, lying in the fast lane up in hooker heaven, on the boulevard around Seventy-ninth Street, when he was working vice. She looked dead. Dirty and skinny, bleeding from the mouth, couldn’t walk, had no tag. They wanted to call animal control. He scooped her up in his raincoat, put her in the back of his patrol car, and took her to a vet. He could have been in trouble for leaving his zone, but he did it anyway. Hooker is all I have left.”
“Okay, okay. But if it’s too hard, if you change your mind, let me know. I’m just trying to help.”
“I know you are.”
She walked Jo to her car, parked out on the street. The rain had stopped.
“I promised Ricky I’d be back by midnight. But I wish I could stay over. You worry me, Kath. I hate seeing you so depressed.”
“I worry myself. Because you’re wrong. I’m not depressed. I’m angry. I’m so angry, so filled with rage, that sometimes I’m afraid I’ll kill somebody.”
“Time to see the department shrink?”
“Sure. How swell would that look on my resume?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Take care, Kath.”
Riley hugged her friend and watched her drive away. She lingered, staring at the sky.
“They’re right,” she murmured to the old dog beside her. “The universe is going dark.”
Chapter Nine
The chief stepped gingerly into his office, wincing as he eased into the chair behind his desk. Only 8:30 A.M. and his head throbbed. After words with Mildred, he’d stormed out of the house forgetting his sunglasses. The white heat of Miami’s morning sun on the drive to headquarters had triggered a jackhammer behind his eyes. He cautiously touched an eyelid, certain that his retinas were blistered.
He was acutely aware that he was the fourth chief in three years. One went to prison, another was fired in disgrace, a third forced to resign. Neither his present nor his future appeared bright. So far his entire administration appeared to be a slow-motion train wreck. His solicitous aide brought coffee as the chief vaguely wondered why his command staff and aides were all men. Probably something to do with the ill-fated romance of one of his predecessors. The woman had worked at police headquarters but was married unfortunately—to a convicted drug dealer. The press had a party with that one.
He forced open a watery eye. José, his young
aide, stood poised, eagerly awaiting orders, like a faithful K-9. If the boy had a tail, it would be wagging. The chief had him close the blinds, quickly, to block out the blinding sunlight and the towering steel and mirrored skyline of the city that mocked him. Then he sent José for an Alka-Seltzer. Aspirin would upset his stomach. The chief wished fervently for something stronger, some happy pill, some psychotropic drug.
He’d heard about Miami’s corruption, violence, and banana republic when offered the job.
But he felt strong, vital, and still young. Three years of sterling service would enhance his resume, paving the way for his entry into the private sector as a highly paid consultant and expert witness. He had retired from the top job in Milwaukee in his early fifties, his reputation relatively intact. At least nobody had anything he could be indicted for. Ready to conquer new worlds, he felt invincible, convinced he had what it took for the job.
Most important, he had what it took to be accepted in this Hispanic city—sangre hispana, a trace of Hispanic blood in his heritage. His grandmother, bless her heart, after dumping her second husband, had fallen for a skinny, fiery-eyed, square-jawed flamenco dancer passing through on tour. The doomed union endured long enough to produce his father, who had changed his name from Diego Granados to Donald Green.
His son, foreseeing America’s future, took back the Granados name upon entering law enforcement.
He owed his career advancement, the opportunities he’d enjoyed, and the position in which he now found himself all to the grandfather he never met, that son of a bitch, the flamenco dancer.
Bubbles from the Alka-Seltzer tickled his nose as he downed the drink.
Something afloat in the oppressively hot and humid Miami air had activated his allergies. He awoke that morning wheezing. Then he’d complained that all his boxer shorts were now pink. His wife showed no sympathy.
“I never promised to live in a foreign country,” she said bitterly, apparently still upset after a bad experience the day before.
Cold Case Squad Page 9
