A Dark and Lonely Place (14 page)

“Meet my posse,” John calmly told the intruders. “The Ashley family, the fastest guns in Florida.”

Roland shrank, dropped his gun, and threw down the hunting knife. He raised his hands and cursed bitterly at Edgar.

“Hold your fire, boys!” John shouted to his family. “We’ve got the upper hand.”

He turned to Edgar and his companions. “If you want to see the sun rise tomorrow, leave now. But your weapons stay here and you have to swear you’ll never come back.”

Pastor Hasley, Edgar’s father, his brother Sonny, and cousin Roland all agreed and ran for their lives, stumbling back through the woods.

“Edgar,” his father shouted, from behind a tree. “Drop your gun and come on while you got the chance! She ain’t worth it, son.”

Edgar ignored him, as his father disappeared into the darkness. Alone, on a suicide mission, he stood his ground against more than two dozen armed men with weapons trained on him. He still aimed his pistol at John but couldn’t steady his trembling hand.

“You coming, Laura?” His voice cracked. “It’s your last chance.”

“No,” she said. “Of course not.”

“Then give me my children.”

“Not on your life!” John said, before she could even answer.

“You can’t raise them alone, Edgar,” she said softly.

“Yeah, I can. Ma and Pa came down. They’ll stay to help.”

“Drop that gun and get your sorry ass off my property. Now!” Joe Ashley advanced, his rifle in his hands.

“No,” Edgar said.

The others moved forward as one, behind the patriarch. The sounds of metal on metal, guns cocked, rounds racked into chambers, resonated in the night.

Edgar ignored them and stared at Laura. “You can stay here and go straight to hell with John Ashley, but I won’t leave without my children. They’re my flesh and blood.”

“Wait!” Laura stepped in front of Joe’s rifle and turned to Edgar. “Then take them! Now! Take the children! Just promise you’ll be good to them and always tell them their mother loves them.”

“You ain’t coming?”

“No!” she said impatiently. “Just take them and go. Will that satisfy you?”

Edgar nodded.

“Swear you won’t be back?”

“Never, I swear.”

“Don’t do it, Laura.” John sounded indignant. “You don’t have to.”

“I do. Yes, I do. Don’t fight me, John.”

She went back into the house where Leugenia helped her pack up the children’s things, then brought them out. Edgar eagerly exchanged his gun for his baby son. Arlie, the little girl taken from her bed, was drowsy but reached out to Edgar.

“Daddy,” she said, and rested her head on his shoulder.

“We’re going home, baby,” he told her.

“You’re a good father, Edgar. Be kind. Don’t speak ill of me to them, ever. Just say I love them.”

He nodded. “Goodbye, Laura.”

She and Leugenia kissed the small, sleepy faces for the last time. Then they were gone.

The adrenaline faded. The evening ended. The Ashley posse began to wander back into the house to gather up their own families and belongings.

John found Laura facedown on their bed. “My babies,” she moaned.

“I’ll go get ’em right now!” he said urgently. “I’ll bring ’em back! They haven’t gotten far.”

“No!” she protested, as he reached the door. “Don’t.”

“Why? I can’t stand to see you cry.” He paced the room, restless and angry. “What can I do?” His voice rose. “For God’s sake, Laura, what do you want me to do?”

“Nothing! Leave it be.” Eyes flooded, she opened her arms.

“But why?” He held her tight, rocked her back and forth as though she were a child. “I’ll be a good father. I promise,” he said earnestly. “I swear, I’ll work at it every day. You and me will raise ’em together. They won’t even remember him.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But he’d never forget them. You saw how he was tonight. If I didn’t give him the children, he’d keep coming back until one of you was dead. If you didn’t kill him, he’d kill you. It nearly happened tonight.” She gasped between sobs, her cheek pressed to his chest. “All those guns . . . It’s a miracle that nobody died. I don’t want to lose you, and I don’t want the blood of their father on my hands, or yours. I can live without my children but not without you. This is how it has to be.”

PART THREE

CHAPTER TEN

C
haos ruled in the lobby. The couple John had seen earlier was still there. She crouched behind the metal detector. The man, a cigarette clenched between his teeth, sat on the floor clutching his bleeding ankle.

“Medic! I need a medic over heah,” he yelled, as a rescue van rolled up to the front door, siren screaming.

“Leon?” John sought out the homeless man, who now faced the wall, palms planted above his head.

Leon glanced over his shoulder. “That cop over there,” he muttered under his breath, “told me not to move, talk, or look at anything.”

“Don’t worry about him.” John steered him to a bench away from the confusion. “What happened?”

Leon appeared harmless, even inattentive, but wasn’t. His talent was becoming invisible, disappearing into the background like a chameleon. After helping John identify the killer of several homeless men he’d become a valued confidential informant. Like most with his lifestyle, Leon admitted to a record of minor offenses: loitering, drunkenness, and trespassing. John had always empathized with those who chose a life free from utility bills, pesky neighbors, and permanent addresses. Some were drinkers, addicts, or mentally ill, a few were dangerous fugitives, but others were dreamers, seekers, and wanderers like the pioneers who braved heat, hardship, and danger to settle Florida. Some of their modern counterparts chose to live on the road, in the woods, beneath bridges, or in the treacherous wilderness of a big city. John sometimes envied them.

He also understood that there are no great detectives, only good timing, instinct, and great informants. And Leon’s vision from the observation deck of life was an uncommonly clear one.

While he napped on the green grass at Bayfront Park, he said, a New York couple paused nearby to take photos. She put down her bag, shot a few pictures, then realized the bag was gone, along with their money, ID, and airline tickets.

They saw only one person nearby and shook him awake. Leon denied ever seeing the bag. The irate male tourist knocked him down and the female kicked him repeatedly. Several joggers and other homeless people intervened and Leon shuffled off to headquarters to make a complaint. As he described his attackers to the rookie at the front desk, they walked in to report the missing bag.

“That’s them!” Leon pointed. “Don’t let ’em get away!”

“That’s him!” the tourists shouted. “Arrest him!”

Then two strangers walked in and identified themselves to the rookie as county deputies on business.

“I was here first!” Leon cried.

The noisy New Yorkers demanded that Leon be arrested.

“Did you see him take the bag?” the rookie asked.

“No,” the man said, “but nobody else was there.”

“Had to be him!” the woman insisted.

“Wasn’t me! They attacked me for no reason!” Leon said.

The impatient deputies interrupted and said their business with Sergeant Ashley in Homicide took priority.

When the rookie spoke to John, his attitude changed. “Keep quiet!” he told Leon and the New Yorkers. “I’ve got a situation here.”

The deputies reacted. “They got hinky,” Leon said. “Said they had to go up to Homicide to conduct important business with you. Heard ’em say your name, Johnny. They wuz gunning for you.”

The deputies walked toward the elevators. Only MPD personnel are issued elevator key cards. Yet the female, who’d identified herself as a county deputy, held one in her hand, ready to swipe, as they boarded. They ignored the rookie, who ordered them to halt.

He hit a button, deactivated the elevators, then reached for a switch to lock the lobby doors. Before he could hit it, the “deputies” drew their guns and told him to freeze. The female stayed near the elevators. Her partner advanced on the rookie and demanded he reactivate them. After a hopeful glance at the stairwell, the rookie saw no help in sight, and pulled his own weapon.

“Drop your guns!” he ordered.

The New Yorkers hit the floor and scrambled for cover. Leon watched from behind a potted palm.

The deputy fired two shots at the rookie, who blasted back. “Closed his eyes and pulled the trigger,” Leon said, shaking his head.

They all missed.

The female deputy squeezed off two shots from the elevator. One hit the fallen officers’ memorial plaque. The other ricocheted off the metal detector and slammed into the New York man’s right ankle. The male deputy fired two more at the rookie and rushed the front desk. Hit, the young cop shot back twice as he fell to the floor. One slug shattered a glass display case of trophies from the Police Olympics. The other blew out a ceiling fixture. The fake deputy scooped up the fallen rookie’s gun, jammed it into his belt and fled with his female accomplice.

“Who do you think they were, Leon?”

“Cops, Johnny,” he said, without hesitation. “The way they fired, with the double tap, two quick shots. How they wore their badges and IDs in their belts. Their shooting stance. You only learn all that in one place, Johnny. The academy. It don’t make ’em better shots, but it makes ’em look like cops.”

“What the hell . . .” J. J. looked stunned, his radio to his ear as John returned to the Homicide Bureau. “Who’s hit?”

“The rookie at the front desk.” John focused on Laura, sitting in his desk chair, her left wrist cuffed, her face taut.

“The same kid who got shot last week?” J. J. asked.

“Right,” John said. “Those ‘county detectives’ you were so happy to hear from tried to kill him.”

“How bad?” J. J. demanded. “Is he gonna make it?”

“Yeah, but if it was me, I’d consider a new line of work.”

“That kid’s a magnet for bullets. The shooters split?”

“Yeah, your pals took off in a Crown Vic with county tags.”

“Don’t call ’em my pals.” Agitated, J. J. paced the aisle.

“You couldn’t wait to hand her over, could you?” John said bitterly. “No questions asked!”

“Who knew? Uniforms, the chief, a county car? Think they’re the real thing?”

“Sure as hell looked like it.” John gently removed the cuff from Laura’s wrist, as she studied his face.

“They came for me,” she said quietly.

“I hear you, girl,” John said. “There’s something you need to know. That return call from Cheryl came from a Montgomery County homicide detective, not her. Don’t be upset, but he said—”

“Don’t tell me,” J. J. groaned.

John nodded curtly.

J. J. cursed. “What the hell is this?”

“Is Cheryl all right?” Laura’s pleading eyes moved from John to J. J., then back. She looked pale.

“No. She isn’t. I don’t know all the details yet.”

Laura gasped.

“What are the odds it ain’t related to our cases?” J. J. said hopefully.

“Zero to none,” John said.

The shooting team assembled along with their legal adviser. John handed over his gun, told them what happened, then briefed Captain Politano, who was en route to the station.

“They had a key card to our elevators,” John said heatedly, “and IDed themselves as Miami-Dade County deputies.”

The captain sighed. “Whatcha trying to say, Ashley?”

“If it looks like a duck . . .”

“We’ve had police impersonators for years.”

John heard the shrug in his voice. Blue-light bandits were common—robbers, rapists, and police wannabes in uniforms, with badges, with blue flashers on their dashboards. One recently arrested impersonator was caught issuing traffic citations he printed himself. But nothing matched the 1980s when Marielito hoodlums and warring cocaine cowboys quickly discovered that police supply stores would sell equipment to anyone. They bought used patrol cars and motorcycles at auction, and on some hot, hectic nights in the bad old days, more fake cops than real ones patrolled Miami. Better armed and outfitted, they often looked more professional than the authentic rank and file. Civilians couldn’t tell them apart and were advised to dial 911 to confirm when stopped by an officer. Many frightened motorists simply fled any flashing blue lights. But that was history; the problem hadn’t been that serious for years.

“Even the worst,” John said, “never walked into the station and shot at us. Two of the three girls with Eagle before he was murdered are dead. His killers just came for the third. It’s only by the grace of God they didn’t succeed—yet.”

The captain sighed. “We should probably put her in protective custody.”

“I can take her to the hotel,” John said. The police and the state attorney’s office housed endangered witnesses and victims at several nondescript hotels off the beaten path. Even that, he feared, might not be safe.

“We could turn her over to the state attorney’s office,” the captain said, “or to one of the female—”

“I’m the lead detective,” John said. “She’s my witness.”

“How valuable is she? How much does she know?”

The hair tingled on the back of John’s neck. Saying she was vital to the case might put her in more danger. But if he said she wasn’t she’d be cut loose with no protection at all.

“Not sure. I’m still persuading her to talk,” he lied. “I’m the only one she trusts. When she heard they’d come for her, she panicked and wanted a lawyer. She’s from out of town, no rap sheet. I’m convinced she’s no material witness for any joint investigation. I doubt one even exists. I should be responsible for her safety.”

“She still want a lawyer?” the captain asked sharply.

“No, not after I said we’d protect her.”

“What have they got in the Silver Spring case? Suspects?” Politano asked.

“All hell broke loose here before I could find out.”

“Stay on it,” he said. “Keep me posted. Take her to the hotel in Doral. I’ll authorize the expense.”

John chose another hotel. The one near Gulfstream racetrack at the north end of the county hadn’t been used lately. The less anyone knew the better.