Cold Case Squad (23 page)

"Time for my nap," she murmured. "Doctor's orders. I have to take a
nap every afternoon."

"Her niece ain't the only one in show biz," Burch said outside.
"This one could win an Academy Award."

"She's lying," Nazario said.

"You didn't need your built-in shit detector for that one."

"Sylvia, of course," said the smiling young woman in the
administration building. Blond and deeply tanned, she wore white shorts
and a Winslow Park T-shirt.

"She's doing very nicely. Came back completely from a hip fracture.
That's unusual at her age. She's got lots of stamina. You should see
her at the weekly dances. She's cut a wide swath among the gentlemen
here. A heart-breaker if there ever was one."

"This place," she whispered, with a grin, "is an absolute hotbed of
romance, jealousy, and passion."

"Something to look forward to," Burch said.

"Can I fill out my application now?" Nazario asked.

She giggled.

"Sylvia have lots of visitors?" Burch asked. "Family?"

"No immediate family that I know of."

"What about Linda, her niece?"

"What a wonderful woman! She made all the arrangements for Sylvia to
be here. Pays all the bills, but she's out of state. Can't get away
long enough to visit. But she's so-o-o devoted. Stays in touch with her
aunt and writes us every month to check on Sylvia."

"You have her phone number, or an address?"

The girl paused. "I guess it wouldn't hurt."

She checked a file cabinet. "Here's her last letter. I understand
she has a very demanding job."

"What job is that?"

The girl shrugged. "Some sort of business consultant, I think. Must
be lucrative. It's not cheap to live here." She handed Nazario the
envelope bearing a return address. "She used to be in show business, a
dancer. I bet Sylvia showed you all the pictures. I've seen them a
hundred times. She's got scrapbooks full."

Linda Ballard, 1432 Greenway Dr., Portland, Maine.

"Hey, lookit that," Nazario said, as they drove out of the complex.
"Short nap."

Sylvia Pickett was scurrying down the path toward the community
center.

"Musta forgot her cane," Burch said.

Nelson found a vacant bright yellow stool at the red Formica
counter, ordered a cup of strong, black Cuban coffee, and downed it in
one shot.

Nearly every stool was occupied in the noisy Little Havana
cafeteria. Neon signs flashed and the counter space was elbow-room
only. Most customers were men in work clothes, blue jeans, and baseball
caps, or uniforms.

He had to think about what to do next. He already had a bid from the
used-furniture dealer on the contents of the apartment. He had to
smuggle the man inside when Lourdes and the children were not at home.
The offer was very small. Even when Nelson included the stove and
refrigerator, which belonged to the landlord. Like life, used furniture
is cheap in Miami, where restless residents are always on the move. The
money was nowhere near enough. The smuggler, that bastard who brought
Lourdes and the children to Miami, had the
cojones
to ask for
just as much money to return them.

And Nelson had not yet informed the man of possible problems,
because they would not go willingly. He had tested his wife's reaction.
He had turned off the TV and for hours spoke lovingly of their
homeland, its special landmarks and memories, the music, good friends,
and close relatives he knew she missed. Then he had suggested their
possible return, without mentioning he would not be accompanying them.
Lourdes had laughed in his face and called him
loco
. Then had
turned on the
TV
, loud, so that she would not have to listen
to his foolish talk.

He would need handcuffs. He could buy them for a discount at the
police supply store on Twenty-seventh Avenue. How difficult, he
wondered, would it be to obtain chloroform? One of his customers, the
one with the vast green lawn on Sunset Island, was a doctor. The doctor
had given him one hundred dollars last Christmas and said his lawn had
never looked better. Perhaps he would be willing to provide a small
amount of chloroform if Nelson explained he needed it for a family
emergency. A more serious problem was money. The smuggler demanded full
payment, in advance this time. How could he raise so much cash? He had
only one possible source. The time had come for he and Natasha to begin
their future life, together. Her husband must be told. The old man had
to be told the truth at once. He must leave so that their love would no
longer be denied. Then he could ask her for the money. She had so much,
but obviously did not realize how little he himself had. Normally he
would not want her to know this. His pride would not allow him to ask
her for money, not even for his labors on the landscaping at her home.
But this time was different. She loved him. She wanted him to be happy.
Happy with her, forever.
Para siempre
. He could see that in
all of the things she did when they were alone.

Just the thought of her writhing in passion made his blood pulsate
in concert with the flashing neon signs. Natasha would understand. Only
a loan. She would not miss it. The price of just one of her shiny
bracelets would more than pay for the one-way journey that would help
insure their future happiness together. A small price to pay for love.
And he would repay her every cent.

They must do it, he thought. Her husband must be told. Nelson had
never asked Natasha for anything. But she would understand. He would
deliver the cash she gave him directly to the man in Hialeah and then
arrange to take Lourdes and the children to Marathon, to the dock from
which they would depart. He would take them in his truck. The children
would do as they were told and could ride up front with him. But
Lourdes…

He could roll her up inside a tarp in the back of the truck with his
lawn mower and tools. But the children might object. Perhaps he could
trick them, say he was taking them fishing. He knew that at the last
minute they would recognize the men and their boat. Lourdes would never
forget them. She and the children had been seasick through rough
weather all the way across the Florida Straits. But by then it would be
too late.

The stool beside him became vacant and one of the B-girls at the
café sidled up, sat down next to him, and pinched his thigh. Her name
was Tonya. An illegal from Nicaragua, she wore a skimpy midriff top, a
miniskirt, and big hoop earrings. He had liked her, before Natasha.
After dark, the lights went down and the café became even busier as
"waitresses" fraternized with the customers for money. In exchange for
a series of escalating fees, the girls would sit, talk, and flirt with
the customers, dance with them, fondle them. Sometimes even accompany
them into a tiny back room.

But who would be interested in a woman like Tonya, with her
pockmarked complexion, big frizzy hair, and bigger behind, when a
goddess like Natasha awaited him? He could not believe his good
fortune. That soon they would be together. Forever.

He looked at Tonya's chipped-tooth smile, smelled her cheap perfume,
and knew he was doing the right thing. Natasha would give him the
money. He would demand it. Content that he had made the right decision,
he ordered a
palomilla
steak and
frijoles negros
.
He had to shout to be heard over the din.

I'm numb as I drive home. The Blazer is handling perfectly at last.
My cell phone is turned off. Maureen sat there beside me this
afternoon, as lovely as ever. Her tear-filled eyes haunt me. She begged
to stay with me. It was hard to say no. I yearned to bring her back
with me to my quiet, private place with its secret gardens and shaded
courtyard patios. But what if she and her husband never tire of that
sick game they play with each other's heads? If some people can make
themselves miserable, they will. You can count on it. I care for her. I
always will, even if she continues her slam dance with him. But what
about my family? Nazario's words repeat like a warning drum beat in my
head.

"Your wife is hunting your ass down and you're about to become road
pizza." Nice. I feel like one of the settlers waiting for the Indian
attack.

I can't wait to pack a bag, get out of town, and head for Maine.
We're hot on the trail. I'm totally focused and hope to achieve some
satisfaction there. Make somebody proud, even if it is only myself.

The authorization for travel money won't come till Monday. I hate
red tape, warned Riley that Big Red could run. I'm sure her aunt, the
one with instant amnesia, tipped her off. When we saw her last, she had
to be beating feet to the nearest pay phone. Big Red had probably
warned her to never call from home.

Maybe she was just sniffing for the trail of Bob, the boyfriend.
Would she ever stoop to advertising him under "Men Seeking Men" in the
personals?

Being away will give Connie a little more time to cool off. I'll be
out of range, too distant a target, and then, when I come back, I'll
try to figure out this whole mess between us. I can't believe Connie
had all those guys calling me.

We'll be gone just a day or two at most. I bought a feeder to funnel
a constant supply of cat food into his bowl till I get back. Stone will
come by to check the house while I'm gone.

I pull into the driveway, grateful to be home. I think about Maureen
and how nice it would be to have company in that lonely room upstairs
tonight. To stroll with someone in that scented garden amid the
splashing fountains. I fight temptation. Maureen needs time to think
about her future as well. I focus on Big Red and Charles Terrell
instead. Do they sense change? Do chills run up and down their spines?
Does something tell them that we're coming, at last, that after twelve
years somebody knows what they've done?

The driveway is dark and shadowy. I pick up my dry cleaning and the
bag from the supermarket as the cat streaks out from behind the
hibiscus to greet me. Uh-oh. I left him inside. Locked in. What is
this? I reach for my gun.

No other cars here. I didn't notice the action out on the street
before pulling into the driveway. Damn. I wasn't paying attention. Was
that a Saturn parked halfway down the block? Shit. Connie must have
made me! Found out where I'm staying. She's damn good. That woman would
make a hell of a detective. Nazario was right. She probably followed me
the other night. Whew! Close call. Thank God I didn't weaken and bring
Maureen Hartley home with me. What a mistake that would have been! I
lock my gun in the glove compartment for safekeeping. God forbid Connie
gets her dainty little paws on a loaded weapon.

The cat looks agitated. What happened? I ask him. She must have
scared him. He doesn't know her.

He doesn't wind himself around my leg as usual. He paces between me
and the house. Stay outta the way. There could be fireworks, I say, and
carry the bag and clean shirts up the stairs. I leave the packages on
the landing and try the door. Locked. I unlock it as quietly as
possible.

It's dark and hushed inside. But somebody is, or has been, here.

The drawers in my bedroom have been opened and disturbed.

I think I hear a distant sound. Damn, did she go into the big house?
Sure enough, the door at the top of the stairs is ajar.

This could be good, I begin to think. We're alone. We can argue,
talk it out. Without the kids, no distractions, I can explain. Win her
over. This could wind up cozy, maybe even romantic. I'm glad I made the
bed this morning. Connie hates a messy room. I'm thinking romance here.

"I know you're in there," I shout down the stairs. "Come on out.
Let's talk."

Something hits the floor and breaks. Shatters, like glass.

Shit, the place is full of valuables. I can't let her trash the
house.

"Don't do that, Con! Stop what you're doing. Right now! Talk to me."

All I hear are footsteps. Running. Shit!

"Con, listen to me." I descend the stairs. "We can work this out."
My voice echoes through vast empty space.

More running.

"Con," I bellow, losing my temper. "You're exhibiting an antisocial
personality!"

Scrambling, more running footsteps.

She wants to play games? Okay, I can play, too. I'm a helluva lot
faster than she is.

I sprint through the kitchen. My shoes crunch through broken glass
on the floor. Meanwhile, a stray thought nags at my subconscious, just
as the questions begin to surface: What happened to the alarm system?
How did she manage not to set it off? I stumble against something.
Something that shouldn't be there. Things that shouldn't be there.

In the dining room, stacked beside French doors that open out into
the garden, is a mountain of items. Heavy wooden silverware chests,
TVs, stereos, statues, binoculars. Everything but the kitchen sink.

I grab for my gun. It isn't there.

I see movement out of the corner of my eye just before he tackles
me. We grapple, then hit the floor rolling. I smack the side of my
forehead, hard, on a corner table as we thrash around. I think I'm
bleeding.

Now I'm furious. The dumb son of a bitch let the cat out and now
he's stealing the stuff I get free rent to guard.

"Goddammit." I whack him in the face with my elbow and grab him in a
choke hold. Meanwhile, more footsteps. He's not alone. I let go of him,
scramble to my feet, and give him a swift kick to the groin to keep him
down as his buddy comes through the door. I grab something, a
television remote, from the stacked loot and fake it.

"Miami Police, don't move or I'll shoot!"

I point it at him in the shadows, I'm praying the son of a bitch
doesn't hit a light switch. And that he doesn't have a real gun. Shit,
I think, everybody in Miami has a gun. You can count on it. "Police!" I
yell again. "Drop the gun or I'll fire! Son of a bitch. I'll drop you
right there!" I'm so good I almost convince myself I've got a gun. The
guy on the floor makes a sound and tries to roll over. I give him a
quick kick to the side of the head. He cries out in pain.