Right to Die

by Jeff Mariotte

  This, she thought, is really a mystery.

  And as with most mysteries, evidence would reveal the answer.

  She went back inside, trying to look at the house with a fresh eye. Now she wasn’t trying to determine where Lyall Douglas had gone, but what had become of Eric. The clues might be the same and they might be entirely different.

  She looked at his crime scene kit. At the vacuum. At the mud.

  Mud?

  She remembered the last day it had rained in Miami. She’d been off duty, helping a friend move from an apartment into a condo of her own. At the apartment building, Becky had lived on the second floor, and the staircase was an exterior one.

  So, of course, rain. They had tried to wait it out, but the clouds settled in over the city like they didn’t plan on going anywhere. Every now and then the rain lightened up, but it wouldn’t quit.

  Finally, they had decided that they had to go for it, or they would not only be moving in the rain but also in the dark.

  It had not, all in all, been Calleigh’s favorite Miami day.

  And it had been nine days ago.

  She crouched beside the mud on the floor, looked at it. With her gloved hand she picked up a small clump, turned it over. This had definitely been wet more recently than nine days ago.

  Rising, she followed the trail of mud through the kitchen to the back door. From there she could see recent tracks in the grass, blades of it smashed down, trying to stand up again. Big footprints. Eric was no NBA center, but he was a tall man, and to her his feet had always seemed huge.

  At the back of the property, the footprints disappeared into thick foliage. The kind that might grow up around a stream. Where mud might come from.

  Maybe Eric had found something in there. Calleigh followed his path. As she went, she hoped for a quick end to this particular mystery, so they could get back to the larger one.

  Wendy Greenfield’s killer was out there somewhere. Every minute not spent finding him was a minute he could be increasing his lead.

  That wouldn’t do at all.

  Time slowed down.

  Eric’s mind raced. He stared at the man who could only be Lyall Douglas, physically and in his posture identical to the man he had seen on the Quick Spree surveillance tape. His narrow face, with hooded eyes and a cruel, thin-lipped mouth surrounded by a brown mustache and goatee, framed by longish brown hair, was the same as the one in Douglas’s mug shot.

  But Eric also saw a sparrow flitting from a low branch to one slightly higher up, its individual wing beats distinct, frozen in space, as if photographed under a strobe light. A shred of leaf fell from the branch the bird landed on (branch vibrating under its miniscule weight), twisting and turning on a gentle breeze as it wafted down. High overhead, an airliner, not much more than a spot of silver against the azure sky, passed behind a white cloud as it arched out over the Atlantic.

  Sounds, too, came at him distinctly, amplified by whatever in his brain had slowed the world down to this degree. He could hear the beating of the sparrow’s wings, Douglas’s ragged breathing, his own pulse pounding. He smelled sweat: his and Douglas’s, twisted in a blend of fear and anxiety, and the rich, dank odor of the creek, and the oily stink of Douglas’s gun.

  While all this was happening, Eric tried to figure out how to react. Douglas had come around the far corner of his hideaway cabin holding a Taurus 9 semiautomatic pistol. Catching Eric peeking through his window, his hands against the cabin wall to steady himself, Douglas had aimed his weapon at Eric’s chest while Eric’s gun dangled uselessly from his fingers. He hadn’t just opened fire, which was good. But he had killed once—at least—and Eric didn’t doubt that he’d be willing to do so again. The only reason he hadn’t already been shot, Eric guessed, was that Douglas wanted to know what was going on before he killed again. If Eric had still been at the other window, closer to the corner Douglas had rounded, Douglas might have been startled enough to shoot immediately.

  As it was, Eric had only seconds to come up with a plan.

  Douglas had ordered him to drop his weapon. He could do that, hoping to stall the killer for another minute or two, while he figured out that Eric was with law enforcement. But he knew that cops who surrendered their weapons usually didn’t live long enough to regret it. Or he could hang on to the weapon, see if Douglas was really willing to shoot, and hope for a chance to get a shot of his own off.

  Either scenario could easily end with a hole in Eric’s heart and a trip to Alexx’s morgue.

  So Eric chose option number three, without even thinking it through.

  Although he’d been caught with his gun pressed up against the cabin, when Douglas had startled him, he had dropped his hands away from the wall. He hadn’t aimed the weapon, assuming that would be taken as a threat and would bring an immediate response, but it was held more or less pointed at the ground several feet to Douglas’s left.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  The gun roared, and with it time sped up again, to normal speed and then some. Even as the gun bucked in his hand and the bullet hurtled in Douglas’s general direction and Douglas reacted by yanking on his own trigger, Eric was airborne, diving toward the near corner of the cabin. He launched himself into the air and flew, arms out-spread, around the corner. He hadn’t been able to see what was there, but now tall grass with a couple of loose cinder blocks in it zoomed toward his hands. His feet were the last to clear the corner, and before his trailing right made it around, he felt an impact like someone had kicked his shoe, hard.

  Then he was rolling, tumbling, a chunk of concrete block tearing at his shoulder, grass spiking at his face. He found his balance and rolled to his feet, aiming the weapon at the corner for what he assumed would be a fairly immediate appearance by Douglas. Whipping his head around to check the far corner, behind him, he knew that this situation wouldn’t be acceptable for more than a few seconds. Douglas could go around the house in either direction, or he could go back inside and fire through a window. Either way, Eric was out here alone, on unfamiliar turf, with no escape plan and no backup.

  Stupid. Just stupid, Delko. What the hell?

  He risked a glance at his foot. A bullet had grazed his shoe, ripping off a chunk of tread. At least it had not passed through an inch higher, which would have shattered some of his cuneiform bones and crippled him.

  He heard the rustle of grass. Douglas making his move. Eric’s finger tightened on the trigger. This shot would be make or break. Life or death. He blew out a long breath, trying to steady his hand.

  And he heard Calleigh’s voice, loud and commanding. “Miami-Dade PD! Put that weapon down on the ground and kick it away from you, then lock your hands behind your head!”

  Nothing had ever sounded so sweet.

  Eric rose and went back to the corner. Calleigh had just come through the brush by the creek, her service weapon gripped in both fists and pointed at Douglas. Her arms were as steady as her gaze. “On your knees!” she barked.

  Douglas complied, lowering himself to his knees, hands behind his head. His balance was precarious.

  “You have handcuffs, Eric?” she asked.

  “Not on me.” They were back in the house, with his evidence kit. Also stupid, he thought. This has not been your best day, Eric.

  Calleigh released her gun with one hand, reached behind her, and brought out a pair from her belt. Her gaze remained riveted on Douglas the whole time and her weapon didn’t waver. She tossed the handcuffs toward Eric.

  “Thanks,” Eric said, holstering his weapon and picking them up from the grass. They had fallen well short of him, but he couldn’t blame her for not focusing on her throw. Passing between Douglas and the cabin so he didn’t block Calleigh’s shot for even a moment, he went behind the man, and closed one of the manacles around his right wrist.

  “Lyall Douglas,” he said, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Wendy Greenfield.” He closed the other manacle over Douglas’s left wrist and pulled him to his feet.


  “You might as well add the attempted murder of CSI Eric Delko,” Calleigh suggested. “Just for good measure.”

  “Why not?” Eric asked. “And what she said. You have the right to remain silent….”

  21

  WHEN THEY CROSSED into Bal Harbour, it was apparent from the scenery—neatly manicured topiary, spotless streets, a stretch limo the length of a football field or two idling outside a high-end pet groomer’s. “You’d better not speed here, H,” Ryan cautioned. “They don’t care who you are.”

  Horatio was already driving within the legal limit, but he double-checked the speedometer at Ryan’s warning. He was right—Bal Harbour’s police took great pains to prosecute speeders, and any other violator of the law, to the fullest possible extent. Their efforts kept the tony community safe, if a little on the bland side.

  The Ibanez family had lived in Little Havana originally, just a couple of blocks off Calle Ocho. With the neighborhood’s transition from original Cuban families to those from Central America and Mexico—and with their growing wealth—the Ibanezes had moved to Bal Harbour, while many of their Cuban neighbors chose Hialeah or the Gables or even the southern suburb of Kendall. Little Havana was nowhere near as Cuban as it had once been, but some families of Cuban descent still lived there, and you could still find a good ceviche or arroz con pollo there if you knew where to look.

  Their Bal Harbour home was a startlingly modern structure, stark white with angles and planes that seemed almost randomly chosen instead of designed—which could only mean that its design had been carefully thought out, and expensive. Huge windows took full advantage of sun and views, and mature palms offered shade from the worst of the afternoon glare (even now, the sun hammered down on the west side, but behind the trees the house looked cool). The grounds were as carefully maintained as the rest of Bal Harbour. Horatio thought that to fail to mow one’s lawn here might cause the neighbors to rise up in a mob as angry as any that ever stormed Doctor Frankenstein’s castle, but he didn’t know if that theory had ever been tested.

  A cruiser sat outside the house. The officer at its wheel had made Horatio and Ryan for cops even before they came to a stop, and was out of his car by the time their feet hit the pavement. “You Lieutenant Caine?” he asked. He was tall and trim, with a bushy mustache and eyes that never slowed down.

  “I am,” Horatio said.

  “Was told to expect you.” He checked Horatio’s ID badge carefully, leaving nothing to chance. Horatio appreciated that.

  “I’m here now. Can you stick around? I’m not sure how long we’re staying.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” the officer said.

  “Family inside?” Ryan asked.

  “Mrs. Ibanez is home with a couple of household servants, and there’s a gardener working in the back.”

  “That’s fine,” Horatio said. “Thanks for your help.”

  He and Ryan proceeded up a concrete walkway flanked by yard lights—handy, since otherwise he’d have had no clue where the front door was. It turned out to be recessed into a shady alcove bursting with greenery in elevated pots. A maid opened the door before he knocked, a slender woman with jet-black hair and a bashful gaze.

  “I’m Horatio Caine with the Miami-Dade Crime Lab,” he said. “I’d like to see Mrs. Ibanez, please.”

  “Yes, come in,” she said. Even with those few words Horatio could detect a strong accent. Not Cuban, but maybe Nicaraguan, he believed, or Salvadoran. She hadn’t been in the country long.

  She led them into a library, which seemed to be the only room that didn’t have floor-to-ceiling windows on at least one wall. Instead, it had floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The books on the shelves didn’t look like your typical magazine layout array purchased by the foot, but instead appeared to have been read and shelved in ways that made sense. Mostly nonfiction, with lots of Latin American history and biographies, there were also pockets of fiction best sellers and a wide assortment of books in Spanish. Paperbacks had been shelved in with hardcovers, another indication that this library was meant to be used rather than merely admired.

  In the library, a woman in her midfifties, Horatio guessed, sat in a comfortable leather chair with her feet tucked up under her, reading a book. Beside the chair, a small round table held a reading lamp and a cup of coffee or tea. She looked up when she heard footsteps on the tile floor, tilting reading glasses down on her nose and eyeing the newcomers over their rims. Her eyes were dark and direct, her face open, angular but quite lovely. A few threads of silver accented her black hair, as perfectly placed as if they had been painted there by a master. Her pose was entirely casual, but there was an air of entitlement about her that could only mean she was the head of the household.

  “You are the lieutenant,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  “I am, Mrs. Ibanez,” Horatio said. “Horatio Caine. This is CSI Ryan Wolfe.”

  “A CSI. And the officer sitting outside, frightening the neighbors. He said you’re from the crime lab?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Don’t you usually show up someplace after a crime has been committed?”

  “That’s right, ma’am,” Horatio said.

  “Do you think that one has been committed here?”

  Horatio glanced around. The maid who had brought them in still waited by the door, in case someone ordered a drink, Horatio guessed. Now he could smell Carmen Ibanez’s café Cubaño, and he wouldn’t have minded a cup, but she didn’t offer and he didn’t ask. “I don’t know yet,” he said. There was no gentle way to phrase the next thing he had to say, but he kept his tone as soft and comforting as he could. “Mrs. Ibanez, I’m afraid that someone is killing people who were involved in the legal case surrounding your husband’s hospitalization and death. So far, Karen Platt and Doctor Marc Greggs have both been murdered. I don’t know who’s next, but I believe that you might be in danger.”

  Carmen Ibanez bit down on her full lower lip, and moisture showed in her eyes. “I saw Marc at a charity luncheon just a few weeks ago,” she said. “I’m afraid I haven’t spoken to Karen in months.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Horatio said. “I know this has been a terrible year for you, and now this is just making things worse.”

  “And you think I might be a target?”

  “You, and possibly your daughter,” Horatio said.

  “Who could be behind this?”

  Horatio’s first thought, after the obvious idea that the Baby Boomer had simply switched gears slightly, was that Esteban Ibanez, Hector and Carmen’s son, might be involved. He didn’t want to broach that idea without some evidence, though, so he didn’t mention it to her. “The FBI believes that a man who has been bombing abortion providers in other states has come to Miami and taken on a new cause.”

  She rose from her seat and walked toward Horatio. She projected calm command, but he could tell her knees were rubbery. “I didn’t understand why people in Washington would debate our private family matters,” she said. A single tear had started down her cheek. “And I certainly can’t understand why someone would kill over them.”

  “People kill for strange reasons,” Horatio assured her. “And sometimes for none at all. In this case, we’re not sure if the motivations are religious or political, or both, but the killer appears determined to make a point. He’s taken many lives and we don’t want one of them to be yours. Is your daughter at home?”

  “No, she’s in Spain for a month,” Carmen said.

  “Is she safe there?”

  “I’m sure she is,” Horatio said. “That’s a good place for her right now. Can you gather whatever servants are on the premises now?”

  “Lupita,” Carmen said sharply.

  “Sí,” the maid said. She vanished from the room.

  When she was gone, Carmen caught Horatio’s gaze again. “I notice you didn’t ask if my son was home.”

  “I know he doesn’t live with you. And frankly, considering what we believe to be
the killer’s motives, I doubt that he’s in any danger.” He had every intention of talking to Esteban, and very soon, once he was finished here.

  “You have done your homework, Lieutenant Caine.”

  “I always do.”

  Lupita returned with two more servants, an older man in a cotton jumpsuit who looked like a handyman, his hands nicked and scabbed by his work, and a woman in a white uniform who smelled of ammonia-based cleaning products from across the room. All of the household staff were Hispanics. “This is everyone,” Carmen said. “You’ve met Lupita. This is Jesus, and Hilda.”

  “And there’s a gardener?” Horatio asked, remembering what the officer outside had reported.

  “I meant to ask you about that,” Jesus said. “I never saw that gardener before, ma’am. Did something happen to Guillermo?”

  Carmen froze in place, her expression one of shocked dismay. “I didn’t hire any new gardeners.”

  “It’s okay, ma’am,” Horatio said quickly. “You just stay right here, and CSI Wolfe and I will check it out.” He nodded toward Ryan. “Let’s go.”

  22

  JESUS SHOWED THEM the way to the backyard, where he said the gardener had been working last time he had seen him. Jesus’s face was deeply lined, his hair no more than a few dark strands combed across his scalp, but his eyes were lively and bright even though he was deeply afraid.

  Some gardening tools had been abandoned near a flower bed, but the person who had left them there was nowhere in sight. Horatio scanned in every direction, then made a decision. “Here’s what I need you to do, Mister Wolfe. Go back inside and quietly get everyone out the front door, and then a thousand feet away from the house. Not an inch less, all right?”

  “Got it,” Ryan said. Without another word he took Jesus and hurried back into the house.

  Horatio followed as far as the back door.

  From there he was on his own.