“I coulda joined the fire department, the circus, or the CIA. Coulda been a Navy SEAL or a NASA scientist. Something easy,” Nazario said, as Burch drove them toward Miami Beach.
“What if Riley goes crazy and schedules a press conference on this one? How’d you like to explain this to a room fulla hostile reporters asking questions?”
“Crazier,” Nazario said. “You mean if Riley goes crazier.”
“Maybe it’s hormones,” Burch said. “How old is she? Bet it’s her time of the month.”
He remembered that Miami Beach double murder, a real headline grabber.
“It was the strip joint back in those days,” he told Nazario. “The Place Montmartre, on Collins Avenue. Local landmark. Place had a huge cutout sign on the roof. A blonde more than ten, twelve feet tall—and that’s lying down. The broad’s sexy, half naked, lying on her side wearing nothing but high heels, long hair, and a come-hither look.
“Heard a story once about a sailor on a passing Liberian freighter. Horny and out at sea for months, he spots her through binoculars from two miles out. It’s love at first sight, and he goes over the side. He’s swimming hard for the beach until the Coast Guard drags ’im out of the water.
“Place is gone now. I think they built the new Miami Ballet conservatory on the site.”
“How can it be related to our case?” Nazario said.
“Same day, few hours apart? All I do know is I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Yeah, you’re thinking dirty. Me, too.”
Miami Beach Detective Sergeant Eddie Satin worked the case.
“He’s long gone. Drank himself to death,” another detective at Miami Beach Police headquarters said cheerfully. “But Tom Callahan worked it with him. He’s still here.”
They found Callahan at a scene, a body on the beach.
They parked in a loading zone and trudged across sandy beach toward the endless blue of the sparkling sea. A crowd of curious bystanders had clustered around a tiny makeshift raft that had been hauled up onto the beach.
“¡Dios mío!” Nazario whispered. The puny craft, just a piece of canvas crudely lashed between two inner tubes, had bobbed and drifted across the vast Florida Straits and arrived in Miami at last.
Too late for the lone occupant who stared skyward, feet trailing in the water.
“Mighta been dead as long as a week,” Callahan said. He stood sweating in the sun, filling out his report and waiting for the morgue wagon. “Musta died of exposure. He had to be determined. Makes ya wonder how many more are out there.”
The dead man was naked, except for a single red sock on his left foot. He may have shed his clothes as the relentless sun and sea brought madness. Or he might have used them in futile attempts to flag down passing boats and planes.
If he had any food or water when he set sail, his supplies had long been exhausted.
“What brings you guys over to this side of the bay?” Callahan demanded.
He remembered the murders at the Montmartre. “Who could forget that one? What’s up?”
“We’re wondering if it might be related to one of our unsolved cases, a guy named Terrell the same day.”
Callahan squinted across the sand. “Hey,” he shouted. “Get those kids out of there!”
A patrolman waved back a gaggle of curious youngsters scampering toward the raft.
“Terrell? Nah. That name never came up. We solved ours. Got lucky. Shoulda seen it. A stripper blown away with her boss. Just a kid. Turned out she was eighteen years old. Lied about her age, said she was twenty-one to work at the club. Musta thought she was lucky to land the job—all it did was guarantee she’d never make it to twenty-one. Got her brains splashed all over the wall for her trouble. Bullet went through the palm of her hand first, like she tried to defend herself at the last minute. Musta thought she could snatch it outta the air like Wonder Woman. Wonder Woman she wasn’t. Danced under the name Hurricane Allie. Saw her act a couple times myself. Did a thing with the lights and a high-speed fan. Pretty cute. At first we figured a jealous boyfriend mighta interrupted something. But it was strictly revenge, pure and simple. Guy mighta had robbery in mind, too, but he panicked.”
The turquoise surf lapped gently at the shoreline as towering clouds billowed and bright sailboats darted on the horizon.
“How’d it go down?” Nazario asked.
“A couple nights before the murders, this schmo, Frankie Scheck, walks into the place. Short, skinny nerdy guy. Not slick with the women. So a couple a the girls come onto ’im and he starts buying ’em drinks. What do you expect in that kinda place? They order champagne, which you know hadda be club soda or seltzer water. The girls evaporate when the check arrives. Nine hundred bucks. He raises hell, starts yelling about being ripped off. So Chris, the owner, you had to hand it to ’im, whatever else you had to say about ’im, he always kept the place under control. Cops were always welcome, our money was no good there. He was cool, for an OC figure. Hired a lotta our guys for off-duty jobs. Chris warns Scheck, who keeps ragging about the bill. Next thing you know, the bouncer roughs ’im up and tosses ’im out on the street.
“He comes down to the station next morning and makes a complaint. Claims they took his wallet, his money, and credit cards during the scuffle.” Callahan shrugged. “He’s still steamed when it doesn’t go anywhere. A couple nights later, he takes it into his own hands.
“Goes back with a gun after closing time. Probably didn’t figure the girl would be there, or maybe she comes outta the john and surprises him in the act. What’s he gonna do? He eliminates the only witness. Musta rattled him ’cuz he takes off without the money. The night’s receipts were still in the safe.”
“He have a record?” Burch asked.
“Nah. But you know what they say: Those who live by the sword get shot by those who don’t.”
“He confess?”
Callahan frowned. “Nah. Never did. But we had the son of a bitch by the balls. Found the murder weapon and evidence from the scene in his car. His prints all over it.”
“What was it?”
“A drawer from the victim’s desk. You won’t believe how that went down. One of our crime scene techs is driving back to the station and sees the punk standing on the street next to his car holding a desk drawer. The tech recognizes it as the one missing from the desk he just dusted for prints at the murder scene. He gets on the radio, we swoop down and find the murder weapon, a stolen gun, in the car as well.
“Why would he take the drawer?” Nazario said.
“Probably looking for his wallet and ID.” Callahan shrugged. “We found ’em later, in the bouncer’s locker.”
Burch frowned. “He leave prints at the scene?”
“Nah. Probably wore gloves. Jury only took twenty minutes to convict ’im.”
“Where’s he at now?” Burch asked.
“Excellent question.” Callahan’s wide grin exposed a crooked row of tobacco-stained teeth.
“We might want to talk to him,” Burch said.
“Good luck. Punk got two death sentences—too bad they could only kill him once. They shot him fulla the juice last year.”
As they trudged silently across hot sand to the car, Nazario paused for another look at the puny craft on the beach.
“Things must be pretty bad where he came from,” Burch said. “Think they’ll ever identify him?”
Nazario shook his head. “I hope he knows he made it.”
Chapter Fourteen
“How do I look, Kath?”
Jo Salazar peered over her shoulder for a rear view of her navy blue suit in the restroom mirror. “I bought these new pantyhose. They flatten your tummy but padding in the back gives you a rounder, higher, curvier butt. What do you think?”
She did an exaggerated model’s spin as Riley stepped back for a better look.
“You sure you didn’t put them on backward?”
“Bitch! I’ll wash your mouth out!” Jo squirted liquid soap fro
m a dispenser onto a paper towel and took a menacing step forward.
“Drop it, Salazar, or I’ll handcuff you to the plumbing!”
Still laughing, they burst out of the restroom into the crowded lobby and the path of Craig Burch.
“Glad you’re enjoying this.” He wondered how long it had been since he’d seen her laugh. “I’m worried about Stone. The kid blows it and we all look like shit.”
Riley tossed her head in that feisty way she always had. “Have faith, Sergeant. He’s your detective, he won’t let us down.”
Sam Stone stared numbly through the glass window of Joe Padron’s office.
“We got CNN, we got Fox News, we got Court TV, we got the NBC, CBS, ABC affiliates, and we got Telemundo,” Padron crowed. “The Herald, the News, and the Sun Sentinel are all sending reporters and photographers.”
Stone saw Burch and Nazario and breathed a sigh of relief. “Where the hell have you two been?”
“Trust me. You don’t wanna know right now. We’ll bring you up to speed later,” Burch said.
“You think you’re bummed, shoulda been with us.” Nazario sighed.
“Think the lieutenant will change her mind?” Stone said.
Camera crews were positioning their lights. “Too late now,” Burch said. “It would be like trying to call back a bullet after you pull the trigger.”
They huddled in the small office as Padron stepped out to meet and greet the working press.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Burch warned Stone. “Anything you say will be misquoted and used against you.”
“Look at the bright side,” Nazario said. “The FBI didn’t catch Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber, for years. Didn’t have a clue. They finally go public, publish his writing in the newspaper, and his own brother recognizes his wacky shit and drops a dime. Maybe this guy has a brother who’ll blow the whistle.”
“Yeah. Sometimes the press can work in your favor,” Burch said. “ ’Member how it helped us in the Ricky Lee Chance case? Ya just have to be smart about it.”
“Is that reporter here?” Stone hoped for a friendly face.
“Nah, haven’t seen her since McDonald.”
“She took it hard,” Nazario said.
“Not the only one,” Burch said.
“He had a way with the ladies,” Nazario said.
“Beats me,” Burch said. “Personally, I liked McDonald. He was one helluva a cop. But the guy would screw a snake. All these women carrying on like it’s the end of the world? I don’t get it.”
“Who knows what women want? But wait till they get a load of you on the tube.” Nazario nudged Stone’s shoulder. “You’ll be answering fan mail.”
Padron came back and hustled the other two out.
“Looking good,” he told Stone, brushing an invisible speck off his lapel. “We got a full house. Remember, the average schmo can’t get a letter to the editor published. And forget TV. But that crowd out there wants to hear every word you say and repeat it to the world. The power of the press. It’s all yours. A politician would kill for this. Just remember, be yourself, address each individual who has a question, except the guy in the green shirt from the New Times. They’re always busting our balls.”
Hell, Stone thought. I can do this.
“Excuse me a sec,” he said, suddenly energized. “I need to make a quick call.”
“Make it brief, the chief just got here.” Padron rushed out to greet his boss.
“Gran,” Stone said into the phone, “I’m gonna be on TV. You remember how to use the VCR?”
“Show time.” Padron was back, checking his watch. “Here, fasten this button. I’ll get it. Look straight into the camera. Be strong, forceful. Make us proud. Break a leg.”
Chapter Fifteen
SIX HOURS LATER
The cat playfully bats my hand with his paws as I fast-click the remote from station to station.
Stone appears on every freaking channel, including CNN and MSNBC. He is flanked by the flags of Florida and the USA, the huge city crest embossed on the wall behind him.
Jockeying for position on the dais are all the brass and a number of dignitaries. Even Miami City Commissioner Victor Sanchez. He represents the district where Virginia Meadows was murdered. She is still one of his constituents. Never mind that she’s been dead for twenty-four years.
His loyalty is not unusual. Given the state of Miami politics, Virginia Meadows has probably voted in every city election since her demise.
The cat has abandoned the toys I bought him, his squeaky mouse, his sparkly ball, and his feathered bird, to watch TV news with me. That’s more than Max the sheepdog ever did.
I bought a sandbox and set it up in a bathroom corner. Better to keep him safe inside until his owners’ return. I don’t want to have to explain how their beloved pet disappeared on my watch. I have enough to explain—to my wife, my bosses, my detectives, and myself.
“He works for me,” I tell the cat, as Stone’s face reappears. His words echo as I surf the channels. Earnest, indignant, and dedicated, he is the voice of justice closing in on evil.
Intense and clear-eyed, hands gripping the sides of the podium, he comes on like gangbusters, fielding questions with grace and aplomb. He does the dance. Revealing few details—God forbid anybody should guess how few there are—just enough to work the media into a lather.
Even the chief looks impressed.
The best sound bite, replayed over and over, is his response to a reporter who asks what he has to say to the killer.
“You think you’re getting away with it. Well, your worst bad dream is about to come true. Keep looking over your shoulder,” Stone said, gesturing for emphasis, as if his words needed any. “Because we’re coming for you.”
I envision thousands, maybe millions of viewers, all thinking: I wouldn’t want that guy looking for me.
“We know more about the killer than he realizes,” Stone is saying on screen. “We’re cataloging his travel and his behavior.”
I wish to hell it was all true.
A reporter asks how close we are to an arrest.
“Every day brings us another day closer,” Stone says confidently.
Where does the Meadows case go from here? And what about Terrell?
If only those charred jawbones in a box at the medical examiner’s office could talk. Who were you? We know who you weren’t. In the morning we start pulling old missing persons reports filed around the time of the fire.
Somebody’s still missing. Somebody with bad teeth and a fatty liver. What the hell does Natasha know? The faces of Terrell’s kids haunt me. How can he not be dead? How could he be alive all this time and never contact them? If he really is alive and well, somebody should shoot him.
What about my kids, my wife?
I continue to channel surf, flicking the remote long after the cat tires of the game. We lie on the bed and listen to this huge old empty house creak, groan, and settle in the dark.
By the time the press conference ended and we brought Stone up to speed, it was too late to run by Downtown Automotive to pick up the Blazer, so I managed to score a take-home car from the motor pool, a beige Ford Taurus.
I miss my family and wonder what they’re doing right now. Then I realize that, though the Blazer would be a dead giveaway, nobody would spot me in a beige Taurus.
So I grab the keys and skulk off under cover of darkness to spy on my family like a stalker. The familiar drive home to Kendall comforts me. I crack open another beer from the six-pack beside me on the seat of the Taurus and start to feel better. Maybe this will again soon be my daily commute. I am optimistic because Connie hasn’t called the station since noon. She is simmering down, I can feel it in my bones. Or is that just wishful thinking?
Maybe it’s ominous. She may have lost interest, found somebody else. Even negative attention from her is better than no attention at all. I miss her rubbing my shoulders and giggling at my jokes as she lies beside me in our bed.
>
I can deal well with chaos on the job when my personal life is good, and vice versa. It’s hard to handle when both turn to shit at the same time. Nirvana is when both are in sync. That’s heaven. I didn’t appreciate it enough the few, rare times I was that lucky. I’ll know better next time. If there is one.
I slow down to turn onto our street, watching stealthily for neighbors and family members. Our house is all lit up. I roll by slowly. The grass needs cutting and the ficus hedge looks out of control. Damn. If it isn’t kept trimmed its invasive roots will infiltrate the septic tank’s drain field for sure.
Through the kitchen window, I see Connie’s silhouette at the kitchen sink. My heart flipflops. Since when did seeing her rinse dishes make me sentimental? The light is on in Craig Junior’s room. He’s probably listening to music or accessing who knows what crap on the Internet. Hopefully he’s cracked one of the books on his summer reading list.
A dancing pixie figure hops and spins past the living room picture window. Annie, the youngest, who always rests her little head on my shoulder when we watch TV together. Shouldn’t she be in bed by now?
Where is Jennifer? She must be driving Connie’s Saturn, which is missing from the driveway. Or out on a date with some adolescent, pimply-faced, sex-crazed teenage pervert who probably smirked when he didn’t have to shake hands and hear rules laid down by her father.
Down the street, I pull over to call her cell phone number and am relieved when she answers on the first ring.
“Hi, honey.”
“Daddy?”
“Wanted to say I miss you, honey.”
“Miss you, too, Daddy. But Mom is, like, really unglued.”
“Still?”
“Daddy, Melissa’s having a coed sleepover at her house Friday night, but Mom won’t let me go. Is it okay with you if I do?”
“Coed?” What are parents thinking? “No way.”
“Melissa’s mother and stepdad will be there.”
“If Mom said no, it’s no.”
“You never let me do anything!”
I tell myself that at least she hasn’t hung up on me.
Cold Case Squad Page 13
