Santiago fell in behind the green landscape truck, blue light flashing. The driver ignored him and accelerated.
“Pull over. Driver of the green van, pull over to the curb,” Santiago calmly instructed over the PA. The dispatcher had reported back that the license tag was valid. The van was not reported stolen. This guy was acting like an asshole for no good reason.
Motorists in the stream of traffic around them hit their brakes. But the driver of the green landscape truck pounded his steering wheel. Then he floored it.
“Goddammit.” Santiago switched on his siren. Miami police policy forbids the high-speed pursuit of traffic violators. Orders are to let errant motorists escape rather than risk a crash.
They had taken all the fun out of police work, Santiago thought bitterly.
Luckily, the inevitable traffic jam loomed up ahead. Moments later the landscape van was pinned in by traffic.
Nelson knew he was in trouble. That woman! Damn Natasha. She had called the police! Now they would handcuff him, drag him to jail, treat him like a common criminal, all for love!
Filled with helpless rage, he knew he had done nothing wrong. Every man knows what it is like to have a woman make you crazy, drive you insane, and force you to do things you would never otherwise do.
Hands on the steering wheel, he ignored the policeman who approached his van.
He would not be humiliated again.
His window was halfway down. The policeman asked for his driver’s license and registration. Nelson ignored the request and continued to stare straight ahead.
Was he being tested? Santiago wondered. Was this a setup? Was the green van a plant arranged by internal affairs detectives who were out to get him? He’d show them.
This was his first opportunity to apply his newly acquired expertise in verbal judo in real life, on the street.
He had already taken the first of the five steps. Just ask them what you want them to do.
Santiago smoothly segued into Step Two: Explain why you have asked them to do it.
“Sir, I need to see your driver’s license and registration just to check and make sure that they are, indeed, valid and up-to-date.”
Nelson stared at him contemptuously.
The old Fermin Santiago would have had this mope facedown on the pavement by now, handcuffed and bleeding.
The reformed Officer Santiago refused to take this motorist’s recalcitrance personally.
Step Three: Give the citizen positive and negative reinforcement. Make them think it is their idea to cooperate. Allow them to surrender with dignity. Give them a choice.
“It will be beneficial for you and good for me if you decide to cooperate,” Santiago said carefully, wondering if Internal Affairs had this mope wired. “We’re both working men and you are probably having a bad day. We all do from time to time. You’ll be on your way shortly if you show me your driver’s license and registration. Otherwise, I might have to tow away your nice green truck. I’d hate all that paperwork. I’m sure you don’t need the hassle either. How about it?”
“She lied,” Nelson said, with a sneer.
Shit, Santiago thought, woman trouble. He knew how that was. He put on his most sincere face and launched into Step Four. “Sir, is there anything I can say that will persuade you to cooperate with what I’ve asked you to do? If so, can you share it with me now?”
Nelson glared.
“Anything at all?” Santiago sighed. He had done the best he could, by the book. Time for Step Five: Get reaaaady to rumble.
He radioed for backup. The van door burst open. Nelson leaped out, his .45 caliber Walther in his hand. Santiago launched himself headlong to the ground behind his patrol car. He took cover as Nelson fired wildly.
Cars screeched around him as Nelson shot the patrol car’s radiator, windshield, and right front tire. Then he dove back into his van and hurtled west.
“Fuck!” The old Santiago radioed that he was under fire, leaned over his car, closed one eye, and emptied his eighteen-shot semiautomatic Glock at the fleeing van. One slug shattered the plate-glass front of the Chevrolet dealership across four lanes of traffic. Another bullet ricocheted off an airport shuttle loaded with tourists bound for South Beach, then hit a passing pedestrian in the ankle. The shuttle careened wildly across two lanes, causing a Ford Explorer and a Toyota to collide. The Explorer slammed into a royal palm and rolled over. The huge tree toppled onto Florida Power and Light wires, knocking out the power to the traffic signals.
As brakes squealed, tourists screamed, and cars collided all around him, Santiago’s sole, small consolation was that most of his eighteen full-metal-jacket, hollowpoint rounds had found their mark. He’d riddled the back of the now-vanished landscape truck. His euphoria lasted only a split second before the urgent voice of the dispatcher called out his unit number.
“Hold your fire, Three thirty-three. I repeat, do not fire at the van. The subject driver may have a white female kidnap victim restrained inside. Do you read me, Three thirty-three? Repeat. Do not fire at the van.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Stone sighed in frustration. He’d cross-checked all the names the new tips had generated with the names of witnesses, suspects, and neighbors interviewed twenty-four years ago after Virginia Meadows was murdered. None matched.
He decided to look at the total picture. All the cases took place in cities with thriving Orthodox congregations, synagogues, Jewish cemeteries, kosher markets and restaurants, and what else?
He spoke again to Mordechai Waldman, who suggested religious bookstores, mikvehs, the ritual baths, and Judaica shops.
Stone’s phone never stopped ringing. Callers were eager to chat about Sunday’s newspaper story; some had lost loved ones to murder, others were friends or acquaintances. Nell Hunter had left two messages. Stone tossed hers. A courier from her newspaper had returned the borrowed photographs to his grandmother. He had no reason to talk to Nell again.
He studied city directories, street maps, and locators on the Internet and, city by city, began the tedious process of creating geographic profiles of each crime scene radiating out from each victim’s address. Many didn’t drive, they walked or rode buses.
By the end of the day he found that stores that sold Judaica were located within two miles of each victim’s home.
He found the small store in Miami filled with books, candles, picture frames, even kosher scouring sponges.
“Most of our merchandise comes from New York and from Israel,” the pudgy proprietor said. He wore a yarmulke, gold-rimmed spectacles, and a snowy white shirt under a black vest and tie.
“When a young man becomes engaged to be married, he is given a gold watch and a set of shas, books that contain writings from the Torah.” He displayed some of the tall, handsome leather-bound volumes, some sets worth as much as twenty thousand dollars.
Brides-to-be receive sterling candlestick holders and a silver challah knife.
There were rows of mezuzah cases, each containing a small scroll with a quote from Deuteronomy 6:9: “And you shall write them on the door posts of your house and on your gates.”
He has seen them fixed in a slanted position on the upper right-hand doorposts of Jewish homes.
Stone was frustrated again to learn that the Judaica stores were independent and family-owned, not part of a national chain.
“Are there salesmen or suppliers who call on you and travel to other stores all over the country?”
“No. We go to New York, to the showrooms, once, twice a year.”
“Who among observant Jews working in religious-related fields would travel from city to city?”
He shrugged. “Maybe a chief mashgiach, from the National Council. He is the one who oversees the overseers who certify kosher food establishments. He visits, once, twice a year. His job is to inspect and check that all the local mashgiachim properly do their jobs, that everything is kept up to par. The laws are very strict. That they don’t open on the sabbath or on
holidays. That even for Passover, they can’t begin to prepare before midnight, that they don’t use nonkosher products. There is even kosher Tide detergent. And the flame on the stove must not be lit by a nonobservant Jew. His is an important job.”
The proprietor excused himself to help a man carrying a department store garment bag. Price tags still dangled from the suit inside.
The man who bought the suit had come to have it inspected for shatniz. Orthodox Jews are not permitted to mix wool and linen. Stone watched the proprietor use a microscope to carefully examine the suit’s fibers. The suit passed. Had the presence of linen fibers been detected, it would have been returned to the store.
Back at headquarters, Stone rechecked his geographic profiles. Kosher restaurants were also located within a two-to three-mile radius of the crime scenes.
He riffled through his messages, found one from the medical examiner’s office, and drove to Bob Hope Road.
Dr. Everett Wyatt, the thin, wiry, and intense forensic odontologist, was holding forth in the chief ’s office.
“Here he is,” he greeted Stone.
“We’ve got some news for you,” the chief medical examiner said.
Dr. Wyatt placed a computerized blow-up of the photo of a laughing Charles Terrell beside the jawbones of the man who died in the garage. “Although the victim’s upper front teeth are burned and blackened, the protected lower teeth were distinctive. Mr. Terrell’s lower teeth, clearly visible in the laughing photo, do not display those same distinctive characteristics.
“These,” he said, “are two different men. So now that we know who this fellow wasn’t, let’s see who he was.”
He placed another photo, a computerized enlargement, next to the jaws.
“Now, look at the overall arrangement of the lower teeth,” said the fast-talking, ebullient dentist. “See how that left lateral incisor overlaps? And the chipped edge of that right lower central incisor? Voilà! A perfect match! We have our man.”
“The victim found dead under the car in Terrell’s garage was your fellow from Wyandotte, Missouri,” the medical examiner said. “Michael Hastings.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The midday flight was full, packed with the usual cast of characters assembled before any passenger jet can take off. They were all there: the screaming baby, the wheezing, sneezing stranger with a runny nose, and kids who kick the seat backs nonstop.
A large Latino family, parents and an indeterminate number of teenagers, sat inexplicably in distant sections of the plane, then spent the flight shouting back and forth to one another.
“Lucky we didn’t plan to take a nap,” Burch said.
Nazario cut his eyes at the hacking passenger across the aisle and two rows back.
“This is what I hate about flying. God knows what we’ll take off this bird with us. Remember the old days? You catch a cold and you go to bed until you get better. Maybe your family or the guy working next to you catches it. No big deal. Today somebody sick books on a jet from Singapore to London or Seattle. All the way, he’s coughing little invisible drops of what’s ailing him into the same recirculated air the rest of us are breathing. When the plane lands, a couple hundred passengers fan out, coughing and sneezing, into a whole new unsuspecting population. No place in the world you can’t reach in hours. That’s how fast a bug can travel.
“Look at AIDS, look at SARS—who the hell knows what’s next. We might be inhaling it on this flight right now. Plus, we have to change planes in Atlanta. That doubles our chances.”
“Don’t do this to me, Naz. Just try not to breathe, okay?”
“They should give everybody a physical before they board.”
“Not a bad idea. They already make you take off your shoes.”
“Hey, the first AIDS patient was a flight steward who infected people from New York to L.A.”
“Yeah, and I’m already suffering from IDS.”
“What’s that?”
“Income deficiency syndrome. Thank God for that place I’m living. At least I’m not paying rent.”
“The guy who owns that spread isn’t doing you any favors. He got his money’s worth the other night. He owes you. They’da cleaned him out.”
“I hope his cat’s all right,” Burch worried. “Maybe I shoulda boarded him. Hated to leave ’im alone. Anything happens to me, tell Stone to take good care of that cat until Adair comes back.”
“Jeez. What brought that on?”
Burch shrugged and went back to an old Newsweek he’d plucked from the seat pocket in front of him.
“See this?” He indicated a story about a wildlife photographer and his companion, killed by the Alaskan brown bears they were filming.
“Yeah,” Nazario said. “The guy was like a paparazzi.”
“What d’ya mean, a paparazzi?”
“They said the guy had been sneaking up on the bears, shooting their pictures for twelve years. The bears had no privacy. They’re eating, they’re drinking, snoozing, or having sex, and every time they turn around, some guy’s creeping through the bushes, shooting their pictures, filming everything they do. A bear can’t even take a crap in the woods without this guy and his camera.
“That’s exactly what Alec Baldwin and all those other celebrities are always complaining about. They take swings at those photographers, try to run ’em over. Even Jackie O. got a restraining order against one of them. Guy was following her all the time. A bear can’t get a restraining order, he doesn’t even have a lawyer.
“The bears got tired of it, just wanted some privacy, a little peace and quiet. But here comes the guy again, sneaking around stalking ’em with the camera. Enough is enough. The bears just snapped. So what they do? They shoot the bears. It’s a shame.
“Same thing with the big cat in the casino. Wild animals don’t belong in a casino.”
“Yeah, that was trouble waiting to happen,” said Burch. “The way this little cat I’m baby-sitting plays and pounces is cute, but I’d be in a shitload of trouble if he weighed six hundred pounds instead of six or seven.”
They rented a car at the airport in Portland and checked into a Holiday Inn a mile away from Big Red’s Greenway Drive apartment.
“Do we go see her now? Or grab something to eat first?” Burch asked, after they checked into their room.
“No time like now. We wait and maybe she’s out for the evening.”
The Silver Briar, a gabled four-story condo in a fashionable neighborhood, offered private parking for residents and visitors. They found a metered spot on the street instead.
“You think Terrell is here?” Nazario said, as they walked to the building.
“Could be. But if he ain’t, Big Red’s the key.”
“The femme fatale,” Nazario mused, “the long-legged, red-headed exotic dancer. She’s gotta be something if he dumped Natasha for her. You saw Natasha.”
“Wonder if she’s still MIA?” Burch said.
“We shoulda told Riley to check out the cabanas. Think she’s all right?”
“Somebody like her always lands on her feet.”
“Or her back. At least you don’t have to look over your shoulder for the little woman while we’re here.”
“I’m straightening it all out when we get back,” Burch said. “One way or the other. Talked to my daughter, the oldest, the other day. She’s such a good kid.”
A boyish security guard in a blue uniform sat at the lobby desk.
His name tag said Greg Everett.
“Hi, Greg,” Burch said. “We’re here to see Linda Ballard.”
The young guard smiled and reached for the house phone. “Who shall I—”
“We don’t want to be announced.” Burch flashed his badge.
The guard hesitated, expression uncertain. “Can I see some ID?” he said.
Burch handed over his badge case.
“All the way from Miami, huh? Sorry, Sergeant. The condo association is really strict about the rules. Didn’t want to ru
n the risk of losing my job.” His wide gray eyes lit up. “How hard is it to get hired down in Miami? I qualified for the police academy here, but there’s a waiting list. I just got married and we sure could use the security. I hear the benefits are good.”
“Forget Miami,” Burch said. “Unless you can shake a Hispanic or two outta your family tree.”
Linda Ballard was in apartment 402. “A nice one,” the young guard said. “A two-bedroom corner, she’s got views of the park and lots of privacy. Owners of the other three units on the floor are all away for the summer.”
“She entertain a lot?” Burch asked.
“Once in a while a few of her lady friends come for lunch. They make a lot of noise and laugh a lot. Otherwise she’s pretty quiet.”
“Ever see this guy around?” Burch handed him Charles Terrell’s photo. “He’d be twelve years older than he looks here.”
Greg studied it, then frowned. “I don’t know. I’m not sure, I’ve only been on this job for three months.”
They left Greg at his post in the pink marble lobby and took the silent, mirrored elevator to the fourth floor.
Nazario rapped three times with the elaborate front door knocker, a gold lion’s head.
Big Red opened the door. She was not what they expected.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Norma the maid said that Nelson’s truck had been in the driveway. Mrs. Ross had stepped outside to speak to him.
Then she and the truck were gone. Vanished.
A single, impossibly high-heeled Jimmy Choo sandal lay broken in the driveway.
How could she walk in a shoe like that? K. C. Riley wondered. Surely she couldn’t run.
“Something’s happened to her,” Milo Ross said gravely. “Natasha wouldn’t just disappear. There has been no ransom demand. I’ll offer a substantial reward if you think it might help.”
“That might be premature.” Riley wondered how much Ross knew about his wife and Nelson the landscaper. “What do you think the man’s motive might be?”
Cold Case Squad Page 20
