Shadows

by Edna Buchanan

  ALSO BY EDNA BUCHANAN

  Cold Case Squad

  The Ice Maiden

  You Only Die Twice

  Garden of Evil

  Pulse

  Margin of Error

  Act of Betrayal

  Suitable for Framing

  Miami, It’s Murder

  Contents Under Pressure

  Never Let Them See You Cry

  Nobody Lives Forever

  The Corpse Had a Familiar Face

  Carr: Five Years of Rape and Murder

  SIMON & SCHUSTER

  Rockefeller Center

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2005 by Edna Buchanan

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Buchanan, Edna.

  Shadows / Edna Buchanan.

  p. cm

  1. Cold cases (Criminal investigation)—Fiction. 2. Police—Florida—Miami—Fiction. 3. Miami (Fla.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3552.U324S53 2005

  813'.54—dc22

  2005044144

  ISBN 0-7432-7441-5

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  For Mitchell Ivers, an editor you can trust.

  Fate is the gunman all gunmen fear.

  —DON MARQUIS

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SHADOWS

  PROLOGUE

  MIAMI—AUGUST 25, 1961

  What began with love and surrender now ends in death and guilt. My blood thunders through my veins and I shake with rage as I think of him. Only one of us will survive this night.

  The full moon burns a bright hole in a hot, black summer sky. I hide amid wild orchids, poincianas, and tangled passion vines, overwhelmed by the smells of ripe earth, the windswept water, and my own fear. The superheated atmosphere smothers me in its damp, deathlike embrace, the sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine a poignant reminder of other nights like this. I am dizzy and close my eyes as the planet picks up speed. This night was meant for urgent kisses and breathless promises, not sudden death.

  The gun weighs heavy and my hands tremble. But what’s left to fear? I’m already damned to hell. People would agree with what I am about to do if they only knew the truth. But nobody will listen, and if they did, who would believe me?

  My thigh muscles burn from crouching here beneath the gumbo limbo trees. Mosquitoes feast on my sweat-slick skin. I can endure the pain but not the waiting. Yearning to rest my feverish brow against the cool metal of the gun’s long barrel, I fight the urge, knowing where it might lead. How easy it would be to surrender to the gun. It whispers a promise in the dark, an end to all this in one great fiery explosion of light. Who would care? Not the man for whom I wait. Finding me dead would convince him that he was right about me.

  My shallow sigh is lost in the vast darkness. Night sounds close in around me: the croaks and mating calls of frogs and toads, a nightingale’s lonely song. Foxes yelp nearby. I swear I can hear harsh breathing, the sounds of lovemaking in the dark. Is that a memory, my imagination, or the pulse-beat of this sultry night? I despair as the mosquitoes swarm louder and louder around my face.

  How long can I wait? Where is he? Will he ever come? The other one was easier. Was it all for nothing? My frustration level reaches the danger zone.

  No more. No more waiting. I’ll leave it to heaven. God, if He exists, decides who dies tonight. I swear to my only witnesses, the fast-moving moon and the clouds racing like pirate ships across its face, that I will count down from one hundred—if I finish and he has not arrived, it ends here for me. Forever.

  It’s in God’s hands now.

  Whispering numbers like a prayer, I count down the final moments of a life. Mine or his.

  Ninety-seven, ninety-six…

  Destiny awaits. The world grows still, as though the planet has paused to watch. This place has always had an appetite, a fatal enthusiasm for sudden death.

  Seventy-four…

  I place the gun barrel in my mouth and run my tongue around the muzzle’s rim in anticipation. The oily metal tastes like blood.

  Will he will find his own fate waiting—or my corpse?

  Sixty-five…

  The life I was meant to lead fast-forwards through my mind, unfurling like a memory, alive with color, light, and passion, a future I will never have.

  Sixty-one…

  Outrage overtakes my despair as time ebbs away. He had no right. I take the gun from my mouth and spit out the taste of smoky metal as though on his grave.

  I lick my parched lips and my stomach churns. When did I eat last? Not since early yesterday but I still gag. His belly is probably full, his mind at ease, sated by excellent food and better liquor.

  Fifty-five…

  None of his prestige and power, or friends in high places, can deflect a shotgun blast. My resolve is fueled by my need for revenge.

  Fifty-one…

  I will do it. I gaze at the big, rambling house and imagine its secrets. Music, dance, and laughter live inside those walls. The power to change laughter into tears is mine tonight.

  Forty-six…

  Whose tears? Only God knows.

  I grasp the gun tightly.

  Forty-three…

  No fear.

  Thirty-nine…

  A car. I hear it! At last! As my time runs out. Thank you, Jesus. Please let it be him.

  Thirty-four…

  I creep forward, inching through the dense foliage, my cheeks wet.

  Twenty-nine…

  He laughed. He’ll soon know I was someone to fear. Am I? Can I take him down? Will I escape? Assailed by doubts, limbs suddenly weak, I almost fall back into the bushes. This is so different from the other. The gun slips on sweaty skin as I brace it against my cheek and shoulder and raise it into firing position.

  Headlights sweep around the curve as the big Buick rolls toward the house. He is alone. Music playing. Skeeter Davis singing “The End of the World” on his car radio.

  I can do this.

  Nineteen…

  I stop counting and hold my breath. My temples throb but my hands are steady. I can do this.

  I grit my teeth and focus as the car’s headlights bounce crazily off the broad gray limbs of the banyan trees.

  Damn. To my left, light spills out of the house into the darkness like secrets from a confessiona
l. Someone has swooped aside the filmy curtains at a front window. Fear cramps my heart. Is that someone inside watching? They must have heard the car, too. Please, God. Don’t let them come out.

  Something else! Nightbirds cut short their hymns as a shadowy creature crashes through the crotons on the far side of the house. I see and hear it simultaneously. Something big. Moving swiftly, close to the ground. I am not alone. My eyes strain against the dark. What…? Is that a wild animal or my inflamed imagination?

  My throat closes as the hunched shadow scrambles through the thick ficus hedge. Branches move and snap. It is real. What is it? No time left. Whatever it is, I can’t let it stop me. Not now.

  The headlights suddenly go dark. The driver cuts the engine. All is silent. My heartbeat accelerates.

  He is alone. I watch him roll up his window, crunch open the door, and ease out. His athletic frame unfolds gracefully for a man of his size and power.

  Larger than life, moments from death, he reaches inside for his jacket, then slams the car door.

  I know what I must do. Ignore the monstrous shadow breathing hard in raspy gasps behind the ficus on the far side of the driveway. Pray that no one steps out of the house. “Don’t come out,” I warn in a long, low whisper. It’s too crowded out here now. The evening star emerges like an omen, a beacon in a clearing sky, as I level the gun.

  Keys jingle in his hand as he locks the big Buick. Unsuspecting, almost jaunty, not a care in the world. He pauses for a deep breath. He smells the jasmine, too. Let it be the last scent he inhales except for the smell of his own blood.

  He walks toward the house, his stride long-legged and comfortable, then stops, startled. He sees it, too. The thing that is hiding, crouched in the far hedge. Distracted, he stares. Nothing distracts me. I rise from the bushes, level the gun, close one eye, take aim, and ever so slowly, like a caress, I begin to squeeze the trigger.

  “Hey! What are you do—” he shouts at the shadow as my gun roars in a fiery explosion of sound and light. The recoil slams my shoulder and hurls me off balance. My ears ring. I blink, through distorted vision, and see him stumble.

  He reels, one arm extended like a Saturday-night drunk trying to steady himself. Bewildered, he sees me for the first time, then lurches unsteadily toward the house, calling, “Diana! Diana!”

  Beyond him, a high, inhuman howl pierces the dark. A wild thrashing and scrambling ices my spine. I try to stay focused.

  Still on his feet, my target staggers toward the lights of the house. No! Propelled by panic and rage, I rack another shell into the chamber and rush him. No time to take aim. I close the distance between us, thrust the barrel toward him, and squeeze the trigger again. The music from inside the house stops. Or am I deaf from the blast?

  No. The front door bursts open, screams shred the soft blanket of night. Shouts. Footsteps, confusion. More cries in the dark. I flee for my life, adrenaline unleashing the speed of wings. Something savage runs as well. The creature from the shadows rounds the back of the house. It’s coming after me! My heart races. My shoulder aches. I barely breathe, pounding blindly through thick brush that rips and tears at my clothes. Too late, too afraid to look back, its hot breath at my heels. Oh, God, what have I unleashed?

  CHAPTER 1

  MIAMI—TODAY

  People applauded when Craig Burch walked into the office. His face reddened. He wanted no attention, no fuss. He wanted his first day back to be like any other day on the job. But that didn’t happen.

  Two of his detectives sprang to their feet. Pete Nazario, usually quiet and introspective, moved in for a bear hug, then hesitated.

  “It’s okay,” Burch said, and hugged back.

  He exchanged a high five with Stone, who grinned like he’d won the lottery. Other homicide detectives pumped his hand.

  “Looking good!”

  “Attaboy!”

  A sea of smiles and good humor, except for Emma, Lieutenant K. C. Riley’s tiny, middle-aged secretary, who blubbered uncontrollably into a flowered handkerchief. She removed her spectacles, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose loudly. “Thank God you’re back.” She hiccuped.

  Where is Riley? Burch wondered. Joe Corso, his temporary replacement, was missing in action as well. He scanned the sprawling homicide office and spotted their heads together in the lieutenant’s glass-enclosed office, the door closed. What’s that all about? he wondered. Corso, who had seniority, had been appointed acting sergeant in Burch’s absence.

  The two emerged to join the welcome.

  “So ya finally got off your lazy ass and came back to work!” Corso trailed behind the lieutenant’s welcoming smile.

  “Yeah, had to make sure somebody was doing some detecting around here.”

  Burch had made certain, despite his impatience, that before he returned he looked suntanned, robust, and fit, as though back from a vacation, not life-threatening gunshot wounds. He wore a new jacket, shirt, and shoes, and had had his hair cut a week earlier.

  No dead-man-walking look for him. Cops rush to donate blood, money, and vacation time to a fellow officer in need. You can take that to the bank. But reappear limping and scarred, with a hospital pallor, and the camaraderie pales as well. Survivors can read it in their eyes. Nobody on the job needs a daily reminder that there but for the grace of God…

  Hailed from all directions, Burch made the obligatory rounds, to briefly shoot the breeze.

  “You won’t believe the one I caught today, Craig,” homicide detective Ron Diaz said. “Guy shot a dozen times—by his own kids.”

  “Not those little rugrats out there?” Burch had seen them in the hall on the way in. A curly-haired thumb-sucker with wide, frightened eyes. She and a sturdy boy about seven clung to a plump middle-aged woman with a half-closed, swollen, and purpling left eye. They huddled on a hard wooden bench.

  “That’s them. The two little ankle biters.”

  “Holy crap! He at the morgue yet?”

  “Hell, no. He’s at Jackson, in the ER. Doing okay.”

  “Where’d he get hit?”

  “Both legs, groin, chest, face, arms. You name it, they shot it. Guy looked like Swiss cheese.”

  “What’d they use? Old ammo with no punch?”

  “Nah! Get this. He picks a fight with ’is old lady, lands a right cross to ’er eye. They’re in a shoving match when she starts screaming, ‘Shoot ’im! Shoot ’im! Shoot ’im!’ to the kids.

  “Unlike mine, her kids listen. They open up on Dad with the trusty Red Ryder BB guns he got ’em for Christmas. Keep shooting even after he falls down the front steps and cuts his head trying to get away. Damn good shots; guy should be proud.

  “Moral a this one is: Be careful what you give ’em for Christmas. Don’t buy ’em nothing they can use against you.

  “Pisses me off, ’cause now I gotta figure out who to charge and with what. An ASA said I could charge the kids with agg battery, a felony. They’re five and eight. I could bust Dad for spousal abuse instead. Or lock Mom up for neglect, child abuse, and contributing to their deliquency. I’m leaning toward the last one at the moment.”

  “A little harsh with that shiner she’s sporting.”

  “Yeah. Ain’t it a beaut.” Diaz shrugged. “But the ASA says it’s a crime to encourage kids to break the law. Or I could just bust both parents for spousal abuse on each other and let a judge sort it out….”

  Burch sighed. “Some people shouldn’t have kids.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  An attractive long-haired woman sat at a detective’s desk, waiting to give a statement, her expression forlorn.

  “What’s her story?” Burch asked.

  With her silky, low-cut blouse, dangly earrings, billowy skirt, and high heels, she looked dressed to go dancing, except for her tear-streaked makeup—and handcuffs.

  “Yeah, all dressed up with no place to go. Domestic. Long history. Husband lies to ’er, cheats on ’er, beats on ’er. Separated for a while, but he claims he changed, tu
rned over a whole new leaf. Talks ’er into letting him move back in. Promises to take ’er out on the town to celebrate last night. At seven, she’s ready and waiting. She’s still waitin’, sittin’ out front, when he finally gets home this morning, drunk as a skunk, lipstick on ’is shirt. Poor bastard hops outta ’is car with a big grin. ‘Qué pasa, baby.’”

  “‘Qué pasa, my ass!’ she says, and shoots him between the eyes. DRT, dead right there.”

  “My wife would call that justifiable,” Burch said.

  Another weepy suspect inside a small interview room wore open-toed stiletto heels, a miniskirt, and a bad case of five o’clock shadow.

  “You don’t wanna know about that one,” Diaz said. “Rivers’s case. Fatal shooting up on the Boulevard. The victim was dumped out of a pickup on Seventy-ninth Street. He was wearing a red dress. Some kind of transsexual turf war up there in hooker heaven.