Best Defense (12 page)

nineteen

The bus stopped at
the corner of Royal Ridge and Wiles. Dabba stood and made her way to the front, then paused in the doorway and turned toward the driver. “Next time I ride on here, maybe you could miss a few of the bumps. Bad for my rheumatiz.” As his mouth fell open, she dragged her bag down the two steps.

She looked at the street signs, then scratched her frizzled head. “Ain't no soccer fields around here. Ain't nothing but gas stations and drug stores. Same as every corner.” She looked east on Wiles, then west, then back at the names of the streets. “Maybe it wasn't Royal Ridge.” She thought hard, squeezing her eyes shut with the effort. “Royal something. Dang folks name all the roads the same. But I'm sure Bob said Royal something and Wiles.”

A car stopped alongside her, the female driver waiting for the traffic light.

“Hey, you,” Dabba yelled, waving her hand.

The woman lowered her window a couple of inches and stuck out a dollar.

“I don't want your money,” Dabba said, grabbing the bill. “Is there another street around here called Royal something?”

The window came down another tentative inch. “What did you say?”

Dabba repeated her question and added, “I'm looking for a soccer field on the corner of Royal something and Wiles. It ain't here. Do you know it?”

“Must be Royal Springs,” the woman said. “It's that way.” She pointed east along Wiles. The light changed, and the woman zoomed away like she thought Dabba was a carjacker.

“Uppity bitch coulda give me a ride,” Dabba said. “Acted like I got the measles or some kind of fancy flu.”

She raised a hand and crossed the street, paying no attention to the traffic signal. Brake lights flashed, fingers flew, and words were hurled, but she made it across without getting hit. “This way,
that woman said. It's this way I'm gonna go. Shortest way to Linda.”

_____

She started life as Deborah Livingstone, born to lower middle-class parents in Hartford, Connecticut, one of two children. Her father was a plumber with a small business that kept food on the table, clothes on their backs, and a roof over their heads, but provided few luxuries. At an early age, Deborah and her younger brother learned to appreciate the value of a dollar.

Like others of that generation, her parents expected Deborah to grow up, marry, and carry on the Livingstone heritage of being a good wife and mother. That's what she did.

At nineteen, with her father's help, she purchased her first car. The salesman was Morgan Burton, Jr., son of the owner of the dealership. While it wasn't love at first sight, it was close enough that they were married a year later. Another year passed and Linda was born.

Deborah settled into her role as mother and housewife, never questioning that it was her destiny. Morgan worked long hours, learning the business from the ground up with the expectation he would take over when his father retired. Linda was a happy baby who grew into a chortling toddler. Life was good in the Burton household.

Linda was her father's daughter following him everywhere when he was at home—first, with her eyes, then crawling, then toddling. He retaliated by treating her like a princess and Deborah like a queen. As Linda began to form words, she tried to emulate Morgan, but Deborah was too tough for her to pronounce. It came out Dabba, and Dabba it stayed. Soon, Morgan used Dabba, also. It became Deborah's new name, one that never failed to make her smile when she remembered its origin.

Dabba and Morgan took on the mantle of respectable middle class. She joined a sewing circle, became a Red Cross worker, and volunteered at many activities. On Wednesday afternoons, she played party bridge with friends, swapping recipes, and catching up on gossip. Morgan joined the Rotarians and in his fourth year, became president of the local chapter. If there was a social or civic event within their range, one or both were involved. Burton Auto Mart thrived, and Morgan rose to Vice-President.

When Linda turned five, she started kindergarten and distinguished herself with her quick learning and bubbling personality. Her teachers doted on her, sending notes home to Dabba and Morgan extolling Linda, saying how much they enjoyed having her in their classes.

Morgan and Dabba wanted another child—Dabba because she loved being a mother and Morgan because he yearned for a son. He remembered the joys of following behind his father and wanted to share the same experiences with his son. But for reasons no doctor could explain, Dabba did not become pregnant. Even as they told one another they had years to conceive, they spoke in a tentative way about adopting a boy.

Then the nightmare began, the nightmare that turned Dabba's world upside down. It started the morning Dabba dressed Linda all in pink and dropped her off at kindergarten.

When Dabba went to the school to pick Linda up, the teachers were surprised. They had seen Linda get in a car with a woman they thought was Dabba. They looked so much alike, it was uncanny—or so they said. Dabba was furious, saying they didn't protect her daughter. Morgan was slower to blame the school, expecting the police to have Linda home soon. His expectations went for naught.

Dabba spent each day driving the streets of the city, looking for Linda. She was likely to slow and stare intently at any little girl with blond curls, especially if she wore pink. Dabba's car became known to authorities as anxious mothers called in complaints of stalking.

Morgan buried his emotions in work and civic activities. His father retired, urged to do so by Morgan, and he became President of Morgan Auto Mart. Sales doubled, then tripled under his whip-cracking leadership.

Conversations between Dabba and Morgan became tinged with anger and blame, then ceased. All thoughts of adoption disappeared into the pink haze of Linda's disappearance.

As the police lost interest in the case because of time, lack of leads, and other priorities, Dabba's search area widened. Soon, she spent days away from home, looking in the nearby countryside, cities, and towns. The house on Utah Street was more and more unoccupied as Morgan slept at the office, and Dabba slept in her car or any motel that happened to be handy. No longer did they share a home.

While Morgan hid in his work, becoming more successful because of it, Dabba's behavior branded her more vagabond. She neglected her hair, her complexion, and her clothing. A quick shower when she remembered and redressing in the same clothes became her trademark. As the odometer on her car rolled up the miles, she turned more grungy, driven by her last image of Linda.

Divorce was inevitable, and it happened five years after the disappearance—without one solid lead to Linda's whereabouts. No ransom demands. No verified sightings. The usual bogus information submitted by people seeking attention, but nothing that helped find Linda.

Although the divorce was fair, Dabba took no interest in the money and ignored the advice of her lawyer on how best to manage it. Her natural thriftiness was the only guide she used, writing occasional checks without considering the dwindling balance. Morgan had agreed, even insisted, on providing her with dependable transportation, but she barely noticed. She drove whatever car he made available. She had only one interest—finding Linda.

Years passed, and Dabba's fanaticism grew while her sanity wobbled. There were periods when she couldn't separate real life from the fantasy of recovering Linda. She spent time in jail for accosting people, accusing them of taking her child. Police escorted her to the city limits and advised her not to return. Everyone was sympathetic, but no one had an answer for her. No one had Linda.

Twenty years after the disappearance, Dabba arrived in Boca Raton, still looking, drifting further and further from reality. When her car died, she left it and walked away with only the clothes on her back and her checkbook. Funds ran out soon afterward, and she took to the street, becoming one of the many homeless who had begun their journeys in the north.

Under a bridge one night, as she huddled against the wind and rain of monsoon season, she met Dot. Dot introduced her to Bob Sandiford, who accepted her without questions and gave her a clean bed whenever she wanted one. She came, she went, she looked for a five-year-old girl dressed all in pink with blond hair and banana curls.

Then Beth walked into Bobby's Bar and announced she was looking for a kidnapped five-year-old girl. Dabba could hardly believe her ears. After all these years, she had an ally, someone who would understand about Linda, someone who would help her. She thought of calling Morgan, letting him know there was new hope. But she couldn't, she didn't know how to reach him. She realized it had been so long. She couldn't remember the last time she spoke to her husband—or was he her ex-husband? So many things were fuzzy in her mind—only Linda in her pink dress, pink shoes, and banana curls was clear.

But now, she had a lifeline. Beth was an investigator who was looking for a five-year-old. That five-year-old had to be Linda. Dabba would help Beth, and that would help Dabba.

_____

Dabba stood on the street corner staring at the soccer field. “That's gotta be it. That's the place Beth found the message. Maybe I'll look around a bit. Linda might have been here.”

She walked the fence line until she reached an opening, then stopped. “Mighty big park. Wonder what's down that way.” She continued, passing baseball fields, a skateboard park, basketball courts, picnic areas, and a playground for tots.

She sat on a bench and watched the children at play. “Don't see Linda out there. Not one little girl in a pink dress. Most of 'em have on shorts. Ain't no fittin' way to dress a girl.” She sighed. “I wish Linda was here.” Dabba smiled, her eyes reflecting memories of long ago. “She'd love this place. Swings, slides, seesaws, sandboxes, 'bout everything she likes. When Beth and I find her, I might bring her here.” Her smile grew wider. “Yes, that's what I'll do. She'll be so happy.”

After a half hour, she stood, stretched, and continued her trip around the complex, then entered where she'd begun—at the soccer field. The playing surface stretched in front of her, tucked into a corner of the park. It was green, the color of well-watered grass, except in front of the goals. That consisted of bare dirt, worn from the many struggles that took place there. Two sides were fenced, the ones bounded by streets. The third had a parking lot and a baseball diamond.

The fourth, actually an end, approached the Sawgrass Expressway. Dabba saw tall growth that looked like the boundary separating the highway property and the city park. A large, well-manicured ficus hedge blocked the hillside of the elevated roadway from view. Only the cars whizzing by above were visible. She walked toward it, mumbling, “Betcha there's plenty of cubbyholes in there. Bet I could hide, and nobody'd ever find me.”

She stopped and measured it with her eyes. “Must be ten-feet-tall. I'd hate to have the job of cutting it. Must have some mighty tall gardeners. Probably basketball players.” She giggled at her joke. “And thick. I can't even see light on the other side. Now, let me see. There's gotta be a hole in here a person can scoot right into.”

Dabba walked along the hedge, keeping her eyes glued to the ground. “Yep, just like I thought. There's a way in.” She knelt and peered into the shadowed interior. “Uh-huh. Perfect.” She crawled in, dragging her large bag behind her.

Once inside, she hunkered down and looked around. “There's been somebody else here, and it ain't long ago.” She sniffed. “Cigarette smoke. Somebody was in here smoking.” She pulled a leaf
up to her nose and sniffed again. “Can't fool an old ex-smoker like
me. I can smell the stink a block away. And some bad perfume …
no, aftershave. A man was here last night. Wonder where he bedded down.”

She crawled on all fours, examining the ground. “Ought to be some sign of a bedroll.” She ran her fingers along the surface. “Oh, what's this?” She felt a small round depression with her fingers. “Could it be? Maybe he didn't come here to sleep.” She continued exploring. “Yep, here's a second one.” A moment later, she found a third. “A three-legged stool. Some man was in here with a three-legged stool. Twarn't homeless neither, not with that perfume smell. I be damned.” She peered through the hedge toward the field where the center circle was in her line of sight. “He sat right here smoking and watched Beth get the message. And I bet she never knowed it. Don't that beat all?”

She sat a moment, her face screwed up in thought. “Think I'll just hang around to see if he comes back. If he does, I can grab him and find out where he hid Linda. Not here though. This is his place. I'll go down the line a bit.” She exited the hole and began another search. Twenty feet away, she found a small opening and crawled in. There was enough space for her and her bag. Perfect.

She took out a soiled space blanket, one side dark green and the other silver. “With all this shade to keep me cool, nice place to take a nap.” She rolled herself in the emergency sleeping bag and soon slept.

twenty

He stood in the
doorway, scratching his neck. “There must have been five thousand mosquitoes at that soccer field last night. Had to be because about two thousand drank my blood like Kool-Aid. The rest spent their time buzzing my ears and flying up my nose.” He walked to the once-upscale sofa, dropped onto it, and yawned as he rubbed his hairy belly. His chest glowed with tattoos, many of them prison tats. At six-two, two hundred seventy-five pounds, his stomach protruded like a medicine ball, hanging over a pair of dirty shorts. His shoulder length hair hung in wild disarray.

“Did the package get picked up?” The voice came from a recliner facing a picture window. Heavy curtains hung over the opening, shadowing the person.

The furnishings had the look of expensive—years ago. Now they showed the signs of age, cigarette burns, and moisture circles scarring the coffee and end tables. The lampshades bore a yellowish tinge as if nicotine had swirled around them for too long.

“Yeah. Some broad showed up. You should have seen her—so scared she couldn't wait to grab and run.” He shook a cigarette free from a pack on the table, lit it, and took a deep drag. “If that's the best they got, the money's ours.” Smoke pulsed out with the words.

“Maybe. But until I have John Hammonds' cash in my pocket, I'll keep expecting a trick. Sleazy lawyers like him aren't likely to give up that kind of capital without a fight. Bank balance is all those people understand.”

He sucked another drag on the cigarette and blew smoke toward the recliner. “I'll take your word for it. Ain't never been around such rich cats—well, except when they was putting me in jail. What's next?”

“For you? Quit blowing smoke over here, then take a shower. You reek. Sometimes I wonder how you stand yourself.”

“Hell, I smelled a lot worse in prison, and them around me smelled worse than me. Besides, it weren't no picnic setting on that stool last night with them lizards and bugs running around. You wouldn't believe the size of them things. Don't give me no shit about smoking or nothing else. I'm the one taking the chances. I'll smoke where I please and shower when I get damned-well-ready.”

The voice from the recliner took on a more serious tone. “Then ready better be about now. The way you stink you'll scare the kid so bad we won't be able to control her.”

“You want to give me a clue what you're thinking? When do we collect?”

“Get cleaned up. Don't make me tell you again. This job can be done just as well without you.”

“Don't try to be so damn bossy. There's no way you can drop me. And knock off talking like I'm some kind of servant. You just remember, if I walk, you're stuck with the kid.” He pulled on the cigarette again, then crushed it in an overflowing ashtray.

“Yeah? Well I can blow your damn head off, and you won't have to worry about it.” There was the distinctive click of the hammer of a revolver. “Then what do you have?”

“Alright, I'm going. Where's your sense of humor?” He rose and sauntered from the room in an
I'm in no hurry
shuffle.

Forty-five minutes later, he reentered. “So now I'm clean and smelling good. What's next?” He wore different shorts, cleaner but no less wrinkled. His hair looked better, but he had not shaved.

The recliner turned toward him. “Clean? Maybe. Smelling good?
That's a laugh. You must buy that cologne by the gallon. In any lesser amounts, they'd have to pay to get rid of it. They can smell you downtown. Go scrub some of it off. And while you're back there, shave and put on some decent clothes. I need you to go out in public.”

He glared. “Once I get dressed, maybe you'll get down off your high horse and let me know the plan.” He stomped from the room.

When he next entered, he was clean-shaven, had combed his hair, and his pants and shirt were suitable for South Florida. Sandals adorned his feet. He pirouetted. “Do I pass inspection?”

“I suppose. My eyes aren't watering from the smell anymore.”

“What's my assignment?”

“I've been thinking about that woman who made the pickup. Not a cop. I'm pretty sure they wouldn't use a cop without backup. They just wouldn't take that chance. Police are like wolves, travel in a pack. Are you sure there were no police around the area?”

“I already explained that. I was there three hours before she arrived, and I stayed an extra hour after she took the package. I didn't see a soul except the woman.”

“That brings us back to who she was. Find out. That's your assignment.”

“And just how do I do that?”

“I don't know. You say you're an expert. Hell, ask a cop for all I care.”

_____

When the phone rang, Hammonds, Bannon, Maddy, and I jumped. I can't speak for them, but I'm pretty sure I quit breathing. The chief or the kidnappers? Either could be good—or bad. We waited until Officer Winthrop stuck his head in the doorway. “Chief's on the line. Wants everybody to listen.”

We exhaled, and John punched the conference button.

“We're here, chief,” he said. “Beth, Detective Bannon, my sister, and me. What did you find out?”

“Not as much as I wish. It'll take awhile to track three of them. But we can scratch two off the list.”

“Which two?” I asked.

“Mankosky and Simonson. They're both dead. Died in prison. Mankosky didn't have a lot of friends. One of his non-friends slipped a homemade knife between his ribs. He must have tried to con the wrong guy. That was two years ago.” The chief paused.

“And Simonson?” I asked, impatience creeping into my voice. “What happened to him?”

“Slow down, Beth. I'm getting to him.”

I heard the flipping of papers. “He was a heavy smoker. Lung cancer took him out last year.”

“That fits,” Hammonds said. “He drove me nuts, always having to rush outside for a cigarette. I told him those things would kill him. He just laughed at me.”

“Yeah? Well, the cigarettes had the last laugh. He died in the prison hospital.”

I looked at my list. “That accounts for numbers one and two. How about three, four, and five?”

“What's with the numbers?” the chief asked.

“Beth had Mr. Hammonds rate them in order of probability,” Bannon said. “Mankosky was one and Simonson two.”

“Good idea, Beth. Who's your three?”

“Sheila Lively-Wesler. Anything on her?”

“She's out of prison. Gone back to her old neighborhood to live with her family. Far as I could get on short notice, she's clean. Keeping her nose out of politics and enjoying her freedom. But I've got her parole officer coming in tomorrow. I'll interview him, then ask him to keep a close eye on her. Your number four?”

“Esteban Edwardo Sabastion.”

More papers flipping. “He got out a year ago on parole. I'm trying to reach his P.O. to see where he is now. Put him on the later list.”

“Last is Daniel Kelso Stevenson.”

“He got out and rumors say he skipped the country. Again, I'm trying to verify.”

“So we have three active possibles, Lively-Wesler, Stevenson, and Sabastion.” I underlined their names. “The other two are dead. Are you sure about the dead ones?”

“I'm told they have death certificates. Does that help? But before you doubt me, I have a call in for the warden at Marion. I'll find out for sure.” He sighed. “Sorry, but that's the best I could do with the time I had. We just have to hope it's one of the three. They're our best shot for solving this mess. I'll keep working the phones and email.”

In a heavy voice, Hammonds said, “I know you're doing your best, chief. No one expected you to have a crystal ball.”

“So, how are your preparations coming?” Chief Elston asked. “Any problems raising the money?”

“Problems? Four million dollars on short notice? Chief, you obviously think I'm worth a lot more than I am. I'm calling in every IOU I ever collected. And if that doesn't work, I'll steal it.” He smiled a sad smile. “Anything to get Ashley back.”

“I don't suppose there's been any more contact.”

“No,” I answered, looking at Hammonds who had collapsed into his chair. “The note said they'd give us today, so I suppose they're lying low until the sun sets.”

“Yeah,” the chief said. “Let me get back to work. I'll be in touch.”

“Wait,” I said. “Do you have pictures? I need something my sources can show around.”

“Sure, if you want their mug shots from years ago. I'll have them emailed to you. And, if I can get anything more current, I'll ship those, too.”

“Good. Can you have them age enhanced? That might help.”

“Will do. Now, if you don't have anything else, I'm out of here.”

Before I could think, there was a click on the line. I reached over and hit the off button. Palpable sadness filled the room.

Maddy said, “I wish he'd show more sense of urgency. Doesn't he know how serious this is?”

“He knows,” Bannon said in a defensive tone. “The chief is—”

“Maddy, we have to trust him,” I said. “He's pushing every button he can find. If there's anything to be discovered about them, he'll get it.”

“Well, you can sit on your ass, but not me. I'm going to do something—even if it's only drive the streets. Ashley's out there somewhere.” She rose and stalked from the room.

I watched her go, then turned toward John and Bannon. John still looked lost, and Bannon looked pissed.

I patted Bannon on the arm. “Civilians. They don't understand things like us
professionals
.” I gave him my best grin to let him know I shared his angst.

Quietness settled over the room. I could guess what Hammonds had on his mind. Bannon, not a clue. Perhaps he was wishing he was on the street doing what he did best—tracking down criminals. Maybe he was thinking how he'd be handling the case if things were different. Or maybe he had Maddy in his imaginary gun sights.

I kept sorting through the chief's words, looking for more than I'd heard. As far as I could tell, it wasn't there. The simple fact was that all we'd managed to do so far was eliminate two possibilities. That left three from John's list—plus the rest of the population of South Florida.

After another few minutes, I said, “Do you have addresses for Sabastion, Stevenson, and Lively-Wesler?”

“Yes,” Hammonds said. “But they're the ones from when I represented them. They may be way out of date, plus the chief says their whereabouts are unknown.”

“True, but checking them out will give me something to do. Maybe they're hiding in plain sight.”

He flipped papers in two of the folders, then turned the pages toward me. “Here's where they used to live.”

After copying the addresses, I said, “Excuse me. I need to relay what we have to the folks who are helping me.” I stood and left the room, dialing as I walked.

Five minutes later, I paced in the gazebo after updating Bob on the three suspects. I promised pictures as soon as they were available. In return, he said he'd pass the info to his homeless friends and see who was willing to check their houses. He warned me not to expect much. He doubted any of his people had ever moved in the same super-rich circles as Lively-Wesler, Sabastion, and Stevenson.

I continued pacing. Couldn't think of anything else to do. Then Mom came to mind making me feel guilty. I grimaced and pushed her out.