Cold Case Squad

by Edna Buchanan

  “Linda.” She smiled dreamily. “I used to take her to dance class. She’d wear these cute little tutus. Adorable, just adorable.”

  “Where’d you say she lives now?” Nazario asked.

  The woman shrank, as though trying to make herself smaller, like a tiny animal surrounded by predators.

  “Time for my nap,” she murmured. “Doctor’s orders. I have to take a nap every afternoon.”

  “Her niece ain’t the only one in show biz,” Burch said outside. “This one could win an Academy Award.”

  “She’s lying,” Nazario said.

  “You didn’t need your built-in shit detector for that one.”

  “Sylvia, of course,” said the smiling young woman in the administration building. Blond and deeply tanned, she wore white shorts and a Winslow Park T-shirt.

  “She’s doing very nicely. Came back completely from a hip fracture. That’s unusual at her age. She’s got lots of stamina. You should see her at the weekly dances. She’s cut a wide swath among the gentlemen here. A heartbreaker if there ever was one.

  “This place,” she whispered, with a grin, “is an absolute hotbed of romance, jealousy, and passion.”

  “Something to look forward to,” Burch said.

  “Can I fill out my application now?” Nazario asked.

  She giggled.

  “Sylvia have lots of visitors?” Burch asked. “Family?”

  “No immediate family that I know of.”

  “What about Linda, her niece?”

  “What a wonderful woman! She made all the arrangements for Sylvia to be here. Pays all the bills, but she’s out of state. Can’t get away long enough to visit. But’s she’s so-o-o devoted. Stays in touch with her aunt and writes us every month to check on Sylvia.”

  “You have her phone number, or an address?”

  The girl paused. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

  She checked a file cabinet. “Here’s her last letter. I understand she has a very demanding job.”

  “What job is that?”

  The girl shrugged. “Some sort of business consultant, I think. Must be lucrative. It’s not cheap to live here.” She handed Nazario the envelope bearing a return address. “She used to be in show business, a dancer. I bet Sylvia showed you all the pictures. I’ve seen them a hundred times. She’s got scrapbooks full.”

  Linda Ballard, 1432 Greenway Dr., Portland, Maine.

  “Hey, lookit that,” Nazario said, as they drove out of the complex. “Short nap.”

  Sylvia Pickett was scurrying down the path toward the community center.

  “Musta forgot her cane,” Burch said.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Nelson found a vacant bright yellow stool at the red Formica counter, ordered a cup of strong, black Cuban coffee, and downed it in one shot.

  Nearly every stool was occupied in the noisy Little Havana cafeteria. Neon signs flashed and the counter space was elbow-room only. Most customers were men in work clothes, blue jeans, and baseball caps, or uniforms.

  He had to think about what to do next. He already had a bid from the used-furniture dealer on the contents of the apartment. He had to smuggle the man inside when Lourdes and the children were not at home. The offer was very small. Even when Nelson included the stove and refrigerator, which belonged to the landlord. Like life, used furniture is cheap in Miami, where restless residents are always on the move. The money was nowhere near enough. The smuggler, that bastard who brought Lourdes and the children to Miami, had the cojones to ask for just as much money to return them.

  And Nelson had not yet informed the man of possible problems, because they would not go willingly. He had tested his wife’s reaction. He had turned off the TV and for hours spoke lovingly of their homeland, its special landmarks and memories, the music, good friends, and close relatives he knew she missed. Then he had suggested their possible return, without mentioning he would not be accompanying them. Lourdes had laughed in his face and called him loco. Then had turned on the TV, loud, so that she would not have to listen to his foolish talk.

  He would need handcuffs. He could buy them for a discount at the police supply store on Twenty-seventh Avenue. How difficult, he wondered, would it be to obtain chloroform? One of his customers, the one with the vast green lawn on Sunset Island, was a doctor. The doctor had given him one hundred dollars last Christmas and said his lawn had never looked better. Perhaps he would be willing to provide a small amount of chloroform if Nelson explained he needed it for a family emergency. A more serious problem was money. The smuggler demanded full payment, in advance this time. How could he raise so much cash? He had only one possible source. The time had come for he and Natasha to begin their future life, together. Her husband must be told. The old man had to be told the truth at once. He must leave so that their love would no longer be denied. Then he could ask her for the money. She had so much, but obviously did not realize how little he himself had. Normally he would not want her to know this. His pride would not allow him to ask her for money, not even for his labors on the landscaping at her home. But this time was different. She loved him. She wanted him to be happy. Happy with her, forever. Para siempre. He could see that in all of the things she did when they were alone. Just the thought of her writhing in passion made his blood pulsate in concert with the flashing neon signs. Natasha would understand. Only a loan. She would not miss it. The price of just one of her shiny bracelets would more than pay for the one-way journey that would help insure their future happiness together. A small price to pay for love. And he would repay her every cent.

  They must do it, he thought. Her husband must be told. Nelson had never asked Natasha for anything. But she would understand. He would deliver the cash she gave him directly to the man in Hialeah and then arrange to take Lourdes and the children to Marathon, to the dock from which they would depart. He would take them in his truck. The children would do as they were told and could ride up front with him. But Lourdes…

  He could roll her up inside a tarp in the back of the truck with his lawn mower and tools. But the children might object. Perhaps he could trick them, say he was taking them fishing. He knew that at the last minute they would recognize the men and their boat. Lourdes would never forget them. She and the children had been seasick through rough weather all the way across the Florida Straits. But by then it would be too late.

  The stool beside him became vacant and one of the B-girls at the café sidled up, sat down next to him, and pinched his thigh. Her name was Tonya. An illegal from Nicaragua, she wore a skimpy midriff top, a miniskirt, and big hoop earrings. He had liked her, before Natasha. After dark, the lights went down and the café became even busier as “waitresses” fraternized with the customers for money. In exchange for a series of escalating fees, the girls would sit, talk, and flirt with the customers, dance with them, fondle them. Sometimes even accompany them into a tiny back room.

  But who would be interested in a woman like Tonya, with her pock-marked complexion, big frizzy hair, and bigger behind, when a goddess like Natasha awaited him? He could not believe his good fortune. That soon they would be together. Forever.

  He looked at Tonya’s chipped-tooth smile, smelled her cheap perfume, and knew he was doing the right thing. Natasha would give him the money. He would demand it. Content that he had made the right decision, he ordered a palomilla steak and frijoles negros. He had to shout to be heard over the din.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  TWO HOURS LATER

  I’m numb as I drive home. The Blazer is handling perfectly at last. My cell phone is turned off. Maureen sat there beside me this afternoon, as lovely as ever. Her tear-filled eyes haunt me. She begged to stay with me. It was hard to say no. I yearned to bring her back with me to my quiet, private place with its secret gardens and shaded courtyard patios. But what if she and her husband never tire of that sick game they play with each other’s heads? If some people can make themselves miserable, they will. You can count on it. I care for
her. I always will, even if she continues her slam dance with him. But what about my family? Nazario’s words repeat like a warning drum beat in my head.

  “Your wife is hunting your ass down and you’re about to become road pizza.” Nice. I feel like one of the settlers waiting for the Indian attack.

  I can’t wait to pack a bag, get out of town, and head for Maine. We’re hot on the trail. I’m totally focused and hope to achieve some satisfaction there. Make somebody proud, even if it is only myself.

  The authorization for travel money won’t come till Monday. I hate red tape, warned Riley that Big Red could run. I’m sure her aunt, the one with instant amnesia, tipped her off. When we saw her last, she had to be beating feet to the nearest pay phone. Big Red had probably warned her to never call from home.

  Maybe she was just sniffing for the trail of Bob, the boyfriend. Would she ever stoop to advertising him under “Men Seeking Men” in the personals?

  Being away will give Connie a little more time to cool off. I’ll be out of range, too distant a target, and then, when I come back, I’ll try to figure out this whole mess between us. I can’t believe Connie had all those guys calling me.

  We’ll be gone just a day or two at most. I bought a feeder to funnel a constant supply of cat food into his bowl till I get back. Stone will come by to check the house while I’m gone.

  I pull into the driveway, grateful to be home. I think about Maureen and how nice it would be to have company in that lonely room upstairs tonight. To stroll with someone in that scented garden amid the splashing fountains. I fight temptation. Maureen needs time to think about her future as well. I focus on Big Red and Charles Terrell instead. Do they sense change? Do chills run up and down their spines? Does something tell them that we’re coming, at last, that after twelve years somebody knows what they’ve done?

  The driveway is dark and shadowy. I pick up my dry cleaning and the bag from the supermarket as the cat streaks out from behind the hibiscus to greet me. Uh-oh. I left him inside. Locked in. What is this? I reach for my gun.

  No other cars here. I didn’t notice the action out on the street before pulling into the driveway. Damn. I wasn’t paying attention. Was that a Saturn parked halfway down the block? Shit. Connie must have made me! Found out where I’m staying. She’s damn good. That woman would make a hell of a detective. Nazario was right. She probably followed me the other night. Whew! Close call. Thank God I didn’t weaken and bring Maureen Hartley home with me. What a mistake that would have been! I lock my gun in the glove compartment for safekeeping. God forbid Connie gets her dainty little paws on a loaded weapon.

  The cat looks agitated. What happened? I ask him. She must have scared him. He doesn’t know her.

  He doesn’t wind himself around my leg as usual. He paces between me and the house. Stay outta the way. There could be fireworks, I say, and carry the bag and clean shirts up the stairs. I leave the packages on the landing and try the door. Locked. I unlock it as quietly as possible.

  It’s dark and hushed inside. But somebody is, or has been, here.

  The drawers in my bedroom have been opened and disturbed.

  I think I hear a distant sound. Damn, did she go into the big house? Sure enough, the door at the top of the stairs is ajar.

  This could be good, I begin to think. We’re alone. We can argue, talk it out. Without the kids, no distractions, I can explain. Win her over. This could wind up cozy, maybe even romantic. I’m glad I made the bed this morning. Connie hates a messy room. I’m thinking romance here.

  “I know you’re in there,” I shout down the stairs. “Come on out. Let’s talk.”

  Something hits the floor and breaks. Shatters, like glass.

  Shit, the place is full of valuables. I can’t let her trash the house.

  “Don’t do that, Con! Stop what you’re doing. Right now! Talk to me.”

  All I hear are footsteps. Running. Shit!

  “Con, listen to me.” I descend the stairs. “We can work this out.” My voice echoes through vast empty space.

  More running.

  “Con,” I bellow, losing my temper. “You’re exhibiting an antisocial personality!”

  Scrambling, more running footsteps.

  She wants to play games? Okay, I can play, too. I’m a helluva lot faster than she is.

  I sprint through the kitchen. My shoes crunch through broken glass on the floor. Meanwhile, a stray thought nags at my subconscious, just as the questions begin to surface: What happened to the alarm system? How did she manage not to set it off? I stumble against something. Something that shouldn’t be there. Things that shouldn’t be there.

  In the dining room, stacked beside French doors that open out into the garden, is a mountain of items. Heavy wooden silverware chests, TVs, stereos, statues, binoculars. Everything but the kitchen sink.

  I grab for my gun. It isn’t there.

  I see movement out of the corner of my eye just before he tackles me. We grapple, then hit the floor rolling. I smack the side of my forehead, hard, on a corner table as we thrash around. I think I’m bleeding.

  Now I’m furious. The dumb son of a bitch let the cat out and now he’s stealing the stuff I get free rent to guard.

  “Goddammit.” I whack him in the face with my elbow and grab him in a choke hold. Meanwhile, more footsteps. He’s not alone. I let go of him, scramble to my feet, and give him a swift kick to the groin to keep him down as his buddy comes through the door. I grab something, a television remote, from the stacked loot and fake it.

  “Miami Police, don’t move or I’ll shoot!

  I point it at him in the shadows, I’m praying the son of a bitch doesn’t hit a light switch. And that he doesn’t have a real gun. Shit, I think, everybody in Miami has a gun. You can count on it. “Police!” I yell again. “Drop the gun or I’ll fire! Son of a bitch. I’ll drop you right there!” I’m so good I almost convince myself I’ve got a gun. The guy on the floor makes a sound and tries to roll over. I give him a quick kick to the side of the head. He cries out in pain.

  “Drop it now!”

  The one in the doorway drops something that clatters heavily to the floor. My God, he had a gun.

  “Hands in the air. Higher! Now kick it over here.” The gun slides toward me across the marble floor in the dark. “Turn around!” I yell, madder than ever. Does the guy on the floor have one, too? He gurgles as I put my foot on his Adam’s apple and press. “Hands on the wall,” I tell the other one. “Now!”

  Thank God he listens. I quickly pat down the one on the floor. All he’s packing is a screwdriver and a flashlight. I take a step and snatch up the gun. A .357, fully loaded, one in the chamber.

  Not until both are cuffed and staring sullenly from the backseat of a Miami Beach police car do I stop to think about how badly this all could have turned out.

  The Beach cops are a little surly to see that I have this great housing deal in their city, but they become more friendly fast.

  The suspects are pros. Been giving them fits, hitting dozens of homes since spring. They had managed to dismantle the alarm system, part of their MO. They turn out to be known offenders, ex-convicts, both on parole. Their car was parked around the corner. Once they accumulated all the loot, they would have checked that the coast was clear, then brought the car up to the house for loading.

  Between the multiple burglaries and parole violations, assault on a police officer, and gun charges, they’re looking at some hard time. Not a bad night’s work.

  One of ’em even asked a Beach detective how I knew who they were, that they were “cons.” I’m just lucky the guy surrendered at the point of a TV remote. There ain’t no cure for stupid.

  Somebody notified the city that I was involved in an off-duty situation on the Beach. Next thing I know, Riley shows up, just as the ER doc at Mount Sinai is taking a coupla stitches in my head. In blue jeans and a T-shirt, all pale with no lipstick, she looks worried, wants to make sure I’m all right.

  “Th
ink you’ll be good to travel on Monday?” she said.

  “Absolutely,” I say. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything. I’m on a roll.”

  Then somebody hands me a phone. Padron wants to talk to me, wants to write a press release.

  This ain’t a story I want told. I’m embarrassed. I was stupid. I walked right into it. Unarmed.

  Too late. A Channel Seven news crew descends. I don’t want them to catch me in my bloodstained shirt. My wife and kids might see it. I tell Padron he better come to run interference.

  I realize it’s okay. Padron can make anybody look like a hero. For the second time tonight I am so grateful that I didn’t invite Maureen Hartley home with me. Maybe virtue is its own reward. I call Adair to say his house is okay and everything’s under control. It’s the middle of the night here, but in Italy, the sun is shining.

  Then I call home. Jennifer says her mom had a bad day and is asleep. “Don’t wake her,” I say. “Just tell her I called to say I’m okay.”

  “Why, Daddy? What happened?”

  “Nothing. I arrested a couple a guys. Got a little bump on the head. I just wanted you to know I’m fine in case they have something on the news.”

  “Where are you, Daddy?”

  “At the ER, over at Mount Sinai.”

  “The hospital?” Bless her heart, the kid starts to bawl. “In the hospital?”

  “No, no, I’m not, sweetheart. I’m leaving right now. Just got a little iodine and a Band-Aid. A scratch. It’s nothing. Get some sleep now. I miss you all. Nighty-nite, honey.”

  Somebody loves me after all, I think.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Stone ran late all morning. Though it was Saturday, he went by the station for the FedEx package sent by Donna Hastings.

  She had enclosed the photograph of her father on the front porch, and a few others. The only dentist her mother remembered him seeing had died years ago and no records were available, her note said. In his pictures, Hastings looked like a happy-go-lucky loser who laughed a lot. Excellent, Stone thought. He checked his mail and messages, phoned Burch to hear firsthand about his exploits the night before, then took the photos to the medical examiner’s office.