A Dark and Lonely Place (38 page)

The chief went on, “We believe he’s still in the area, and may be accompanied by this woman.” He identified her as Laura Groves, her professional name, and displayed for the camera what appeared to be a mug shot.

“I look like a criminal!” Laura gasped. “What terrible lighting! Where did they find such a bad picture?”

“Probably off your driver’s license or concealed weapons permit,” John said.

“We’re not sure,” the chief was saying, “if this woman is an accomplice or another victim. She is a known associate of attorney Ron Jon Eagle, whose murder Ashley was investigating.”

“‘Known associate’?” Katie said. “That sounds like mob talk!”

“Where and when was Sergeant Ashley last seen?” asked TV Six reporter Jeff Burnside, the first news person called upon.

The chief frowned, conferred with a detective behind him, looked unhappy with the answer, then cleared his throat. “This morning, at police headquarters,” the chief mumbled, then looked hopefully at other reporters for simpler questions.

But Burnside didn’t quit. “So John Ashley voluntarily came to police headquarters this morning but wasn’t detained, and now you want tips from the public to find him?” Burnside looked confused, though the light in his eyes was not at all confused.

“The situation changed rapidly,” the chief said. He glanced sharply at the detective and quickly ended the conference.

“How dare they say such things about us?” Indignant tears glittered in Laura’s eyes. “I thought people are presumed innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. And why would they use a terrible photo that looks like a mug shot when so many better pictures are available?”

“It’s deliberate,” Katie said accusingly. “They’re showing their asses. Look how they’re treating John. He’s a hero, the best they have. He’s won more awards, plaques, medals and citations for bravery than the whole department put together. They’re jealous. He’s their top marks-man, the best in the state and probably the country. He learned to shoot from our dad like we all did. But John’s the best. He’s won the gold medal for marksmanship in the Police Olympics every year except one, when his automatic jammed. Which is why I like a good revolver,” she added.

“Me too,” Laura said. “And they don’t jam or spit out hot shells that can fall into your blouse or bra.”

“Damn straight.” Katie swished her long, flowered skirt angrily as she paced the room in her strappy gold sandals.

Their conversation sounded surreal to John, still staring at the TV, the remote in his hand. He switched back to Channel Six. Jeff Burnside’s report was the most fair and balanced, he decided. He replayed it:

“Hero cop John Ashley, accused of fatally shooting his captain in a bizarre motel room confrontation, was the only member of his department to seek press coverage of the incident in which he is charged. Miami’s police chief said today that Ashley reported to headquarters this morning and was allowed to leave. Yet hours later, the chief called a press conference and appealed to the public for help in finding him.”

Burnside gazed into the camera, his clear eyes sincere. “Sergeant Ashley has a sterling record of service to this city and his department, which has had an unfortunate history of cover-ups and corruption. Viewers may remember the young English tourist Sergeant Ashley rescued from brutal attackers in a downtown bus terminal, saving her life, only one of many high profile cases for which he earned recognition. Some colleagues say that he deserves the opportunity to tell his side before being accused of the ultimate crime. In our system of justice, a man is presumed innocent until proven guilty.”

“See?” Laura cried. “Isn’t that what I just said?”

“I love that man,” Katie said.

“Me too,” Laura said.

“He’s an honest reporter,” John said. “That’s rare in this town.”

Laura plucked a glossy folder from her suitcase and removed copies of her modeling composite. “I’m sending photos to the press and the police chief, asking them to correct the impression that I have ever been arrested or in any trouble whatsoever. I want the chief to publicly retract his comment that I was
a known associate of Ron Jon Eagle
,” she said, mocking his solemn delivery.

Both women turned to John for his reaction. He laughed aloud. His career had crumbled, he was a wanted man, but he was with Laura and more content than he ever had been. He had just shared the most exciting and satisfying sex in his life, then enjoyed great food and good wine with two people he loved. How could he even dignify the insane allegations against him by taking them seriously? That they had been made at all seemed ludicrous.

“Sure, darlin’,” he told Laura. “If that’s what you want to do, it makes perfect sense to me. Maybe it is time for us to fight back.”

“You wouldn’t turn yourself in? Would you?” Katie asked.

He shook his head. “I can’t. I’d be denied bond, couldn’t be with Laura, or try to clear my name. Nobody else seems interested in what really happened, so it’s up to me.”

“Us,” Laura said firmly.

He called Robby again. “Is that package I sent you in a safe place?”

“Sure is. Want me to get rid of it?”

“No,” John said. “I need to know it’s safe, secure, and doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

“I hear you. What now?” Robby asked.

“We need to send some mail that won’t be postmarked from this zip code.”

“Gotcha. I’ll pick it up early in the a.m., take it to Homestead or up to Broward. I’ll bring stamps. Don’t want face time with some postal clerk who has a photographic memory.”

While Laura wrote her demand letters, John downloaded photos from her cell phone onto Katie’s laptop, then printed several sets on the printer in the study. The photos revealed Capt. Armando Politano, minutes
after his death, still clad in his black garb, gloves, and hooded mask. Others focused on the window glass Politano had removed in order to ambush them in Laura’s motel room: the screen, the diamond cutter, and the suction cups he used. The time stamps showed the photos were taken shortly before John called in the shooting.

He called Joel Hirschhorn’s office and left a message asking the lawyer to represent him. And if so, asked him to subpoena the phone records of his calls to the lieutenant and to 911 that night. He also asked Hirschhorn to arrange a lie test for him with a respected polygrapher used by both the FBI and police. Results were not admissible in court but they could influence both investigators and prosecutors.

He typed a chronological account of what happened that night into Katie’s laptop. Unwilling to involve his family, he simply said that he and the witness had dinner in Miami and noted the time that they switched back to the city car to return to the motel. He described the events as they happened, then had Laura read it to be sure he hadn’t missed anything. He printed copies for the FBI bureau chief in Miami; the medical examiner that autopsied Politano’s body; Hirschhorn, the lawyer; and Jeff Burnside at Channel Six.

In her letters, Laura angrily protested the photo and accused police of smearing her character and damaging her reputation. “I am not a victim or an accomplice,” she wrote. She detailed how and when she first saw John Ashley and cited witnesses, including the photographer and the makeup artist.

“You are the one,” she wrote the police chief, “who announced that Sergeant Ashley and I were linked. We are now, by circumstance. We never met prior to that day. Why,” she concluded hotly, “is no one investigating what really happened? Who killed Ron Jon Eagle? And my two coworkers? Why did Police Captain Politano assign Sergeant Ashley to protect me, then try to kill us both? Isn’t anyone investigating the real story?”

Robby joined them for Katie’s breakfast of sausage, eggs, grits, and gravy. He brought bagels and the morning paper. The story had made the front page, along with photos of John and Laura.

“Don’t look,” John told her.

She did. “Oh, no! It’s that picture again!”

“Warned you not to look.”

“The bad news is they put it in the newspaper,” Robby said. “The good news is, nobody will recognize you. Doesn’t look like you at all; it looks like your evil, ugly duckling twin.”

“Thank you, very much,” she said testily, and swatted him with the sports section.

“It’s not so bad,” John said. “It’s sort of cute.”

“Cute! It’s hideous!” She took another photo from her portfolio, a prim and proper close-up in which she wore a crisp, tailored blouse with a Peter Pan collar and pearls, all-American girl with a million-dollar smile.

She slipped it into an eight-by-ten manila envelope along with a copy of her letter and addressed it to the reporter who’d written the story.

Robby said he’d given the family a heads-up, assured them that John had done nothing wrong and warned them not to believe anything in the press. He planned to take a prepaid cell phone to their parents so John could call them himself.

“It’s heavy.” Robby looked pained. “I’m getting calls from people I hardly know. But they know or have worked with you and are blown away by the news. I tell ’em all that you’re the best cop I know and have never done a goddamn thing to tarnish the badge or your rep.” He looked hollow-eyed and tired. “You okay, John?”

“Never felt better, Robby.”

Robby stared. “Then you obviously haven’t grasped the gravity of your situation, bro.”

“Don’t forget to mail the envelopes,” John said.

“Neither rain, nor snow, nor gloom of night will deter me from my appointed rounds.” Robby grinned and took off.

John’s cell rang a short time later. “Are you all right, John?” Emma sounded breathless.

“Using the phone I gave you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Where are you?” He heard traffic sounds in the background.

“On a bench in that little park across from the State Building. Didn’t want to call from the office or the car, just in case . . .”

“Good thinking. What’s up?”

“It’s a madhouse,” she whispered. “They’re searching for you everywhere. The tip line hasn’t stopped ringing since the news broke. One caller even insisted he saw you posing as a homeless man near the Metromover station at the Omni,” she chuckled.

John raised both eyebrows.

“Dozen of calls from people who say they saw you at the airport, checking luggage, at the ticket counter, or passing through security. One swore you were working as a screener, in a TSA uniform, forcing elderly passengers to take off their shoes. Lots of tips from Little Havana. You were seen drinking Cuban coffee at Versailles. One man said that when he called you by name, you put your finger to your lips to shush him, then left in a hurry. And a couple insisted they saw you playing piano at a nightclub on South Beach last night.”

“Always wanted to break into show biz,” he said.

“John!” She sounded shocked. “You saw the news, right?” She sounded on the verge of tears.

“Sure.”

“Then how can you joke? They’re watching your apartment and your parents’ place. I think they’re trying to get a warrant for a wiretap. I don’t know where you are and I don’t want to know. But the best leads they’ve had either put you behind the wheel of a sports car headed south on US One toward the Keys or watching a movie at the Regal Theater on South Beach.”

“Which movie?”

“John! Stop that! They’re taking it seriously. The caller insisted he knows you, was convinced it was you with a girl who looked like Laura, the witness.”

“Did they follow it up?”

“You bet. Sent a team right out. Beach police and fire assisted, activated the fire alarm, evacuated all eighteen theaters, and checked every patron. Several people on the escalator fell in the panic and confusion, and three had seizures brought on by the flashing laser lights and high-pitched sirens. The theater complex is in a building that covers the entire block. It also houses high-end shops, a beauty salon, ice cream parlor, pizzeria, bar and grill, and a jeweler. There’s just one central fire alarm system for them all, so everybody had to be evacuated. Lots of
arrests. People refused to leave, some fought police and firemen who ordered them out. With no fire or smoke, some people just flat out refused to leave with bleach on their hair, half a haircut, or a meal, hot pizza, or drinks in front of them. Some bikers took on the Beach cops, half a dozen tourists joined in, and—”

“I get the picture,” John said. “It wasn’t pretty.”

“Right. You escaped in the confusion, the detectives said.”

“A close call,” he said. “But it was a lousy flick anyway.”

She sighed in exasperation.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m in a situation where if you don’t laugh—”

“You cry,” she finished, her tone sympathetic. “But be careful, this is nothing to be cavalier about. You have stacks and stacks of messages. People who had beefs with Captain Politano called to wish you well. Most didn’t leave names. Others cheered you on. Here, I wrote down one I thought you’d like.”

He heard her fumble in her purse, paper being unfolded.

“Here it is. ‘Run, Johnny, run! Safe journey! God bless, and stay safe, man.’ I thought that was nice. A flood of calls are also coming into Homicide from people whose cases you handled. They’re supportive, shocked, and upset. They say they need you, want you on the job; some say without you, there’ll be no justice in their cases.”

John turned away from Laura and Katie for a moment. Frightened witnesses and victims needed his support and encouragement, to help them find the courage they’d need to testify in court.

“There’s another message; actually it’s the reason I called. It might be important, John.”

“Go,” he said.

“It’s from that assistant, Lowenstein or Lonstein, Eagle’s office manager—”

“Right, Gil Lonstein.”

“That’s him. Says he has new, urgent information. Really important, related to the case. He sounded excited.”

“Did he talk to anybody else in the office?”

“Not that I know of. He said it was for your ears only. When I offered to transfer him to another detective, he hung up. He’s called twice since. I told him that, under the circumstances, the Homicide Bureau was the
last place he could expect to find you. He’d seen the news but didn’t know how else to reach you and hoped that maybe, somehow, you’d get the message. Here’s his number.”