Cold Case Squad

by Edna Buchanan

  Stone called Missouri himself. The number was still valid. The mother answered and gave him another number for her daughter.

  He caught Donna Hastings at work.

  “I don’t believe this!” she said, when he told her he was calling about her father. She sounded almost giddy with excitement. “I’m getting married next month. Finding him would be such a great wedding present! I’ve always dreamed of my dad walking me down the aisle. Do you know where he is?”

  “Sorry,” Stone apologized. “I didn’t mean to give you false hopes. This is just routine. A follow-up. I saw the old news story about your search for your dad. Have you heard from him since that May 1992 letter?”

  “No.” She sounded crestfallen. “Nothing. But I’m glad the police haven’t forgotten him. I came to your headquarters when I was in Miami looking for him.”

  Stone’s discomfort was exacerbated by a blinding flash. He’d forgotten the photographer, now crouched several feet away, shooting candid shots of him on the phone.

  Donna Hastings said that the big “break” her dad had written about and the money he’d promised to bring home had probably fallen through.

  “He was probably too embarrassed to come back and face us. But we—”

  “The reason I called,” Stone said, still blinking at the spots before his eyes, “is to locate his dental records. Do you know where they’re located?”

  She gasped.

  “It’s strictly routine,” he lied, “to complete the file.”

  “I don’t know,” she said uncertainly. “I’ll ask my mother.”

  “And that photo you were holding in the newspaper picture, could you send me a copy? And any other good pictures you might have of your dad.”

  She hesitated. “I’ll FedEx them this afternoon.”

  “Great.” He gave her the street address.

  “To the Missing Persons Bureau?”

  “No.” He couldn’t bring himself to say Homicide. “Just make it to the Cold Case Squad, fifth floor.”

  “That’s impossible,” April Terrell said. “It can’t be. It just can’t.” Tears filled her eyes.

  “Nothing is certain,” Burch said. “But that’s the direction this thing is moving in, and I thought—the lieutenant thought—you should know.”

  They sat at a table in the coffee shop of the high-rise building housing the law firm where April Terrell worked as office manager.

  Her tears spilled over.

  Nazario handed her his handkerchief.

  “How can I tell the children?” She dabbed at her eyes.

  “Don’t,” Burch said. “Not yet. We’ll let you know when the time is right.”

  “Does Natasha know?”

  “We’re not sure what, or how much, she knows. It’s important to keep this just between us right now.”

  She nodded, sniffled into the handkerchief, then blew her nose. “I’m sorry. But the kids, they idolize his memory.”

  “Kids are resilient. They’re strong. You did a good job with yours,” Burch said.

  “You probably regret now that you ever came to us,” Nazario said.

  She looked up at them quizzically, eyes swimming. “No. Not at all. If it is true, it means someone else is dead. Someone else’s husband, or father. You have to find out the truth. Please, promise me you won’t stop until you know what it is.”

  The message was waiting when Nazario got back to the office.

  He called Floria back.

  She’d outdone herself. She always did, he thought, in every way. His pulse quickened as he took notes. Was it the information she gave him, or her voice?

  “When am I going to see you?” she said at the end. She sounded like a little girl.

  “We’re up to our asses in alligators right now. Maybe after we wrap up this case.”

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  He sat staring at the phone for a moment after they said goodbye.

  Stupidity, he told himself yet again, is repeating the same behavior and expecting a different outcome.

  “S’matter, Naz?” Burch said. “Bad news?”

  “No. It’s good.” He stood up, clutching his notes. “Wait till you hear this. My CI came through.”

  Big Red’s real name was Linda Pickett, aka Desiree. Last seen in South Florida headlining the show at the Place Montmartre.

  When the club shuttered after owner Chris Martelli and a young dancer were murdered, Linda Pickett had apparently packed up her python and left town.

  Most people assumed she’d married the boyfriend she’d been involved with and retired from the business. Nobody had heard from her since. A local relative, an aunt, lived in North Bay Village. Linda had often stayed with the woman while performing at Beach clubs.

  The aunt’s name, also Pickett. “First name maybe Sara or Saundra, something with an S.”

  “Hope she’s still around,” Burch said. “Good work.”

  “But that ain’t the half of it, Sarge.”

  Desiree, Big Red, was more than an employee. She’d known Chris for years. “She was a former squeeze who apparently stayed friendly with the guy even after he moved on to younger girls.”

  The murdered club owner had been the dark prince of Miami Beach nightlife. Into more than just booze and strippers, he was deeply involved in drug trafficking, loan sharking, prostitution, and all the other shady businesses that thrive in South Beach.

  Some had believed that Chris kept the bank for all those operations stashed in a bookcase safe at the club. Big bucks. The money had reportedly vanished with the killer.

  Burch and Nazario locked eyes.

  “A night’s receipts were small change compared to what was in that safe. Word on the street at the time was that nobody was sure if the killer stole the big cash, or if the cops who showed up took it, or even if the cops killed him for it.”

  “What about Scheck, the guy they busted?”

  “My CI says that the Miami Beach cops were happy as hell to close the case in a hurry. Some were on the take, some worked for the dead guy. The last thing the department wanted was outsiders looking at their high-profile investigation.”

  “Shit,” Burch whispered. “Scheck is dead. What the hell are we into here?”

  “¡Dios mío!” Nazario said. “The State of Florida executed the wrong man.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Nazario was on the telephone when Burch’s cell rang again.

  This time Burch sent it sailing through the air. It clattered to the floor, skittering between their desks.

  “Hey, hey,” Nazario protested. “Bet it’s busted now.”

  “You heard it,” Burch said. “Damn piece of crap’s been ringing nonstop all day. Wrong numbers, every one of ’em weird guys, sickos, perverts. This some kind of joke? What the hell’s going on?”

  “Let’s see the thing. Hope you didn’t kill it,” Stone said. “I’ll answer it next time it rings.”

  “You’re not in for a long wait,” Burch warned. “I’m telling you, you don’t want to talk to these guys. There it is again.”

  Stone reached under the desk, retrieved the phone, and answered it.

  “No, he’s not here right now, but I can take a message.”

  Burch tried not to listen to the conversation, which went on for some time.

  “You wanna do what?”

  Burch nodded grimly, his expression saying I told you so.

  “Yeah, I see, and what would the date on that be? Sure thing, I’ll check it out. It’s a mistake. Do me a favor and don’t call this one again. No. Not me either. You’re wasting your time. Okay, if you insist.” He jotted down a number. “Thanks.

  “Be right back, Sarge. I gotta go get a copy of the South Beach Times. Padron must have one down in PIO with all the others.”

  He returned a few minutes later with the tabloid open to a back page.

  “Okay, Sarge, solved your mystery.” Stone looked pleased. “Just remember, lay off my problems with Padron, PIO, and
the press. They’re not my fault. And I presume—I hope—that your present problem is not your fault. At least directly.”

  “What’re you talking about? Spit it out, Sam.”

  “You’re in the classifieds, Sarge. The personals to be exact. Under ‘Men Seeking Men.’ ”

  “Let me see that.” Burch snatched the paper. “Which one?”

  “The one that says ‘Boy Toy.’ Listen to this.” He read the ad aloud. “ ‘I have a smooth, toned body, a tight butt, and strong hands. Seeking an older male to help bring out the feminine side of me for fun, games, and a possible LTR.’ ”

  “What the hell is an LTR?” Nazario asked.

  “Long-term relationship, something you ain’t familiar with,” Stone said.

  Nazario picked up the paper. “Look at these. Whoa! You see the ones under ‘Women Seeking Women’?”

  “Connie,” Burch said grimly. “She thinks this is funny. Well, it ain’t. Enough is enough.”

  “The guy insisted on leaving his number,” Stone said. “In case you change your mind and want to give him a call.”

  The cell phone rang again.

  “Let me get it.” Nazario answered. His expectant grin faded. “Hold on a minute. He’s here.”

  Burch shook his head, frantically signaling no.

  “Sarge. She says it’s Maureen Hartley.”

  Burch took the phone back to his desk.

  “Uh-oh. You know who that was,” Nazario told Stone.

  “The other woman. The mother of the girl, the surviving victim in the Chance case,” Stone said.

  “Right. When she surfaces, it’s trouble for the sarge.”

  “When are he and Connie gonna stop the games and realize they’re meant for each other?”

  “Maureen, what’s wrong?” Burch was saying into the phone. “Calm down. Okay. Okay.”

  His stomach churned. She was weeping. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry, Craig, I’m so sorry. I don’t have anybody else to turn to. Donald and I quarreled. He pushed me against the wall. I’m leaving. But I have nowhere to go.”

  “Maureen, Maureen,” he said helplessly, running his hand through his hair.

  “Look, I can come and take you to a shelter for battered women, or to your daughter’s place. But, hon, I’m in a world of trouble at home myself right now. There’s no way I can—”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She sounded on the verge of hysteria. “I tried to reach you at your office an hour or so ago. You weren’t there. Your cell phone was busy every time I tried to call. So I called your home number…”

  He felt suddenly deflated as though something had just sucked the air out of his lungs.

  “Oh, jeez. You didn’t…”

  “Your wife answered. She was very rude. I told her it was an emergency. But you wouldn’t believe the things she said to me…”

  “From the look on the sarge’s face,” Nazario told Stone, “the news ain’t good.”

  “Want me to call your daughter?” Burch asked.

  “You said you’d always be there for me.”

  He sighed. “I’ll be right there.”

  “I gotta go out for about an hour,” Burch told the detectives.

  Emma, the secretary, called after him as he left.

  “Sergeant Burch, your wife is on line four.”

  Burch kept walking.

  He still looked grim when he returned ninety minutes later.

  “Good news and bad news,” Nazario greeted him. “I got a line on Big Red. Never arrested. But the Beach used to require city ID cards on all nightclub employees. Showed her date of birth as January fourteenth of ’fifty-five, and a name and address for next of kin. Sylvia Pickett, the aunt in North Bay Village. I’m heading up there now.”

  “What’s the bad news?”

  “Connie’s been calling every five minutes. She’s really steamed. Had Emma in tears, and even Riley can’t do that.”

  “Christ. Let’s get out of here and go find the aunt.”

  They drove north on the boulevard, then east on the Seventy-ninth Street Causeway to North Bay Village, three man-made islands dredged out of Biscayne Bay in the 1940s.

  The quaint waterfront village, only two miles long, was a sin city from the sixties to the early eighties. All-night bars, strip joints, and restaurants, known havens for hoodlums, hookers, and assorted shady characters, including the local politicians, lined the causeway strip.

  The area had since settled into a tranquil residential community but was about to explode in a major upheaval. A dozen new high-rise tower projects were under construction or in the planning. The once-quaint village was about to double its population and blossom into a towering urban skyline on the causeway between Miami and Miami Beach.

  “I hate to pry, Sarge. But your thing with the little woman—”

  “Look, I took Maureen to stay with a friend, another former model, in Bal Harbour,” Burch said, as they crawled through traffic behind a slow-moving cement mixer. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

  “Connie’s really on your case. You shoulda heard her on the phone.”

  “Maureen’s timing sucks. She called my house today and Connie apparently blew a gasket.”

  “That explains a lot.” Nazario whistled. “If you want to make things right with your wife, you’ve got to do some serious work. You’re gonna need more than a couple a Hail Marys and Our Fathers. More than candy and flowers. You’re gonna need a priest, a rabbi, and an exorcist. Your wife is hunting your ass down, and you’re about to become road pizza.”

  Sylvia Pickett didn’t live in the small apartment house on Treasure Island anymore. The manager of the building, a new hire, wasn’t familiar with her name. He said he’d check with someone else in the office.

  He came back shaking his head. “She hasn’t been here for more than three years. Apparently had a fall, broke a hip—”

  “Please don’t tell us she’s dead,” Burch said.

  “I won’t. She moved out to Winslow Park, that assisted-living center that the Methodist Church runs for the elderly. Hear it’s a pretty nice place. A couple of friends here still stay in touch with her.”

  They drove west on the Palmetto Expressway.

  “I hate visiting old-age homes,” Burch muttered. “They’re too depressing, smell like urine and bleach. The forecast of things to come, the place your kids are gonna dump you someday.”

  They turned into the complex.

  “This is not your typical old-age home,” Nazario said. “Look at this place. God bless America.”

  Charming vine-covered town houses were lined up like spokes radiating out from a large circular community center. There was a pool, deck chairs, a gymnasium, a recreation hall, a library, and a craft center.

  On the south side was the golf course and to the north, tennis courts. Bright flower beds bloomed everywhere.

  Residents drove golf carts along paved pathways.

  “I want to live here when I grow up,” Nazario said. “Think my pension will cover it?”

  They circled the community center, then stopped an elderly man for directions. He was driving a golf cart with two women passengers. “Tell Sylvia that her boyfriend Bob said hello.” He adjusted his jaunty cap and pointed the way. “She’ll know who I am.”

  Sylvia Pickett answered the door. Her short silver hair was stiff and freshly sprayed as though she’d just left the beauty parlor. She appeared to be in her seventies. An ornate cane stood unused near the door. Her linen slacks and matching silk blouse were the same shade of pastel blue.

  Inside, the furniture was mostly antique, with a blue velvet settee and two china cabinets displaying Hummel figurines. Her kitchen looked as though it had never been used. Meals were available in the community center dining room or could be delivered, she told them.

  Bob was right. She knew who he was. “The man’s in his second childhood,” she sniffed. “Absolutely girl crazy.”

  “He did ha
ve two of them with him,” Nazario said.

  Sylvia asked questions. She wanted to know what his companions looked like. Which way their cart had been headed.

  The woman appeared sprightly, talkative and active, her eyes bright and birdlike, until they mentioned her niece Linda.

  Sylvia Pickett slumped a bit in her chair, suddenly less animated.

  “We need her current address.”

  The woman shook her head slowly as though trying to remember. “Linda? I have no idea. Haven’t seen that girl for years and years.”

  “She used to dance, right?” Burch said.

  “Beautiful, a beautiful little girl,” Sylvia said slowly. “Started when she was five years old, or maybe it was six. Classically trained. Would have been a ballerina but she grew too tall. Ballet dancers have to be petite so they can be lifted and carried.

  “You should have see her in Nutcracker when she was just seven or eight. I think it might have been 1962, or was it ’63? Prettiest, daintiest little thing you ever saw.”

  “You have pictures?” Burch asked.

  She shifted in her comfortable chair, shoulders drooping into a hunch. Sylvia Pickett seemed to be aging rapidly before their very eyes. “Must have lost them when I moved, I guess.”

  “Where does she live now?”

  She closed her eyes. “Who knows?” She sounded lost and forlorn.

  “When did you last hear from her?”

  “So many years ago…” Her voice trailed off. “Ten? Twenty? Who can remember?”

  “Where did she tell you she was going when she left town?”

  “At my age, my memory is not what it used to be. Could you hand me my cane, please?” She pointed to it with a shaky finger.

  “Going somewhere?” Burch said.

  “No.” Her voice trembled. “I’m just lost without it.”

  Nazario fetched the walking stick from beside the door.

  Sylvia Pickett held it across her lap, hands resting on it, as though for support.

  “Is she married now, or still single with the same last name?”

  “Who?” The bird eyes widened, as though bewildered.

  “Your niece. Desiree, Linda, Big Red,” Burch said impatiently.