Cold Case Squad (24 page)

"Drop it now!"

The one in the doorway drops something that clatters heavily to the
floor. My God, he had a gun.

"Hands in the air. Higher! Now kick it over here." The gun slides
toward me across the marble floor in the dark.

"Turn around!" I yell, madder than ever. Does the guy on the floor
have one, too? He gurgles as I put my foot on his Adam's apple and
press. "Hands on the wall," I tell the other one. "Now!"

Thank God he listens. I quickly pat down the one on the floor. All
he's packing is a screwdriver and a flashlight. I take a step and
snatch up the gun. A .357, fully loaded, one in the chamber.

Not until both are cuffed and staring sullenly from the backseat of
a Miami Beach police car do I stop to think about how badly this all
could have turned out.

The Beach cops are a little surly to see that I have this great
housing deal in their city, but they become more friendly fast.

The suspects are pros. Been giving them fits, hitting dozens of
homes since spring. They had managed to dismantle the alarm system,
part of their MO. They turn out to be known offenders, ex-convicts,
both on parole. Their car was parked around the corner. Once they
accumulated all the loot, they would have checked that the coast was
clear, then brought the car up to the house for loading.

Between the multiple burglaries and parole violations, assault on a
police officer, and gun charges, they're looking at some hard time. Not
a bad night's work.

One of 'em even asked a Beach detective how I knew who they were,
that they were "cons." I'm just lucky the guy surrendered at the point
of a TV remote. There ain't no cure for stupid.

Somebody notified the city that I was involved in an off-duty
situation on the Beach. Next thing I know, Riley shows up, just as the
ER doc at Mount Sinai is taking a coupla stitches in my head. In blue
jeans and a T-shirt, all pale with no lipstick, she looks worried,
wants to make sure I'm all right.

"Think you'll be good to travel on Monday?" she said.

"Absolutely," I say. "Wouldn't miss it for anything. I'm on a roll."

Then somebody hands me a phone. Padron wants to talk to me, wants to
write a press release.

This ain't a story I want told. I'm embarrassed. I was stupid. I
walked right into it. Unarmed.

Too late. A Channel Seven news crew descends. I don't want them to
catch me in my bloodstained shirt. My wife and kids might see it. I
tell Padron he better come to run interference.

I realize it's okay. Padron can make anybody look like a hero. For
the second time tonight I am so grateful that I didn't invite Maureen
Hartley home with me. Maybe virtue is its own reward. I call Adair to
say his house is okay and everything's under control. It's the middle
of the night here, but in Italy, the sun is shining.

Then I call home. Jennifer says her mom had a bad day and is asleep.
"Don't wake her," I say. "Just tell her I called to say I'm okay."

"Why, Daddy? What happened?"

"Nothing. I arrested a couple a guys. Got a little bump on the head.
I just wanted you to know I'm fine in case they have something on the
news."

"Where are you, Daddy?"

"At the ER, over at Mount Sinai."

"The hospital?" Bless her heart, the kid starts to bawl. "In the
hospital?"

"No, no, I'm not, sweetheart. I'm leaving right now. Just got a
little iodine and a Band-Aid. A scratch. It's nothing. Get some sleep
now. I miss you all. Nighty-nite, honey."

Somebody loves me after all, I think.

Stone ran late all morning. Though it was Saturday, he went by the
station for the FedEx package sent by Donna Hastings.

She had enclosed the photograph of her father on the front porch,
and a few others. The only dentist her mother remembered him seeing had
died years ago and no records were available, her note said. In his
pictures, Hastings looked like a happy-go-lucky loser who laughed a
lot. Excellent, Stone thought. He checked his mail and messages, phoned
Burch to hear firsthand about his exploits the night before, then took
the photos to the medical examiner's office.

By the time he finished his shopping at Home Depot and arrived at
his grandmother's cottage, it was nearly noon.

She was drying her hands on a dish towel, music playing on a small
radio in the kitchen.

"Thought you were comin' for breakfast." She hugged him. "It's a
little late for that now."

"I'd still love some eggs and grits." He carried his heavy yellow
toolbox into the kitchen. He'd bought a brand-new inch-and-a-half dead
bolt for her back door and some bolts to secure a shaky porch railing.

"A lightbulb in the bedroom ceilin' needs changin', if you got time,
Sonny."

He grinned at her. "I got time."

As he went through the living room to check the bulb, he noticed
something missing.

The frame that had always held his parents' smiling photo stood
empty. The frame next to it, which held the childhood picture of him in
front of the TV in his little blue suit, lay facedown on the shelf. He
stood it up. It, too, was empty.

"Gran, where are the pictures?"

"Oh, Sonny, the girl took them."

"What girl?"

"You know, Nell."

"Nell Hunter?"

His grandmother smiled. "Nice girl. I think she likes you."

He stared at her, speechless for a moment, still holding the empty
frame.

"Nell was here?"

"All afternoon on Thursday. Talkin' 'bout you, askin' questions.
Borrowed the pictures to put in the newspaper." His grandmother saw his
eyes and grew serious. "She promised she'd bring 'em back. Said it was
all right, she talked to you first."

"Oh no," he muttered. "She can't do this. Gran, you never should
have let her have those pictures. You shouldn't have let her in the
house. Never should have talked to her. You should have asked me first."

"I did call you," she said in a small voice. "I left a message."

"Damn." He sat in the armchair and tried to think. He'd seen her
message and hadn't answered. He'd assumed she just wanted to ask what
time he'd be there. This was all his fault.

"How would she know to come out here, Sonny, if you didn't tell her
where I'm at? Said she's writin' your profile. What's wrong? She's from
the newspaper. Isn't she? The one that put your picture on the front
page?"

"What did she ask you about, Gran? Did you say anything about what
happened to Mama and Daddy?"

"She knew all about it. Was askin' me questions."

This was too personal. Way too personal.

"Sonny?" His grandmother sat down on the sofa across from him. "The
photographer came with her. A man with a lotta cameras. They took my
picture, too. Is that bad?"

"Oh, Jesus," he said. "Where?"

"Here. In the backyard. Out on the front porch."

Stone sprang to his feet and began to pace.

"Did I do something wrong, Sonny?"

"No. It was me, Gran. My fault," he said. "But I'll fix it. I'll
stop her."

"I was gonna fuss at you for not tellin' me she was comin'. I coulda
fixed my hair up and put on my Sunday dress. I didn't want you to be
ashamed of me."

He swallowed hard. "I could never be ashamed of you, Gran." He sat
down next to her, put his arm around her shoulders. "I just don't like
you being exposed, or put in any danger because of my job."

"Oh, she wouldn't do that, Sonny. Seems like a real nice girl,
really friendly."

"Gran, remember when I was little and you took me to the petting
zoo? Remember the llama?"

Stone was furious. Nell wasn't at the paper. He'd left messages on
her voice mail. There was probably plenty of time to clarify what she
would and would not include in her story. But he had to be sure. He
kept calling.

No one seemed to be in the whole damn place. Didn't newspapers
operate twenty-four hours a day, like police departments? He hated
voice mail. Finally he reached a human on the city desk and said it was
urgent.

They would not divulge Nell's number but said they'd have her call
him. She didn't.

He worked furiously, more angry at himself than anyone else. He
should have known better. He'd seen how reporters can access
information. She had simply typed his name into the system. What was he
thinking? She had taken advantage. He wanted those pictures back He
wanted them now.

He called the city desk every half hour.

At five-thirty he was mowing the yard, shirtless, sweaty, and out of
breath, when his cell phone rang.

"Hey, Sam Spade," she said lightly. "You rang?"

"Nell." He tried to sound calm. He just wanted the pictures back. He
just wanted her to cooperate. He'd bargain if he had to. He carried the
cell phone onto the shade of the porch, where his half-empty glass of
iced tea stood.

"Nell, I have to say I'm upset because you came out to see my
grandmother without telling me."

"Silly, that's what reporters do.
Good
reporters. You
don't write a decent profile without talking to a lot of people
familiar with your subject. That's the difference between an interview
and a profile. I spoke to your boss, your high school coach, and your
homeroom teacher, too. You upset about that?"

"I'm not happy about it," he said. "But I'm downright alarmed about
my grandmother. You saw her. She lives alone. And I'm involved in a
high-profile hunt for a serial killer who preys on elderly women. You
can't put Gran's name, her picture, or her address in the newspaper.
That would be dangerous. It could compromise her safety. I don't want
strangers to even know I have a grandmother."

Nell was silent for a long moment, then came back feisty. "You mean
you actually think that this killer, who could be, God knows, anywhere,
might really stalk your grandmother? Now, that's pretty paranoid. Plus,
he's only killed white women."

He tried to control his temper. "Stranger things have happened,
Nell. And I can't risk it. It isn't just him. As a policeman I've
arrested a lot of people that I wouldn't want to have my family's home
address."

"Her address isn't in there. Just a description of the house and
that it's in Overtown."

Dread overwhelmed him. "You mean you already wrote it?"

"Right. It's a good story. Some of my best work. You'll like it."

"I won't if my gran's name or picture is in it. And I want my
parents' picture back. Right away. Tonight. I can come pick it up. You
didn't mention in the story what happened to them, did you?"

He knew the answer by her silence. "You can't use that, Nell. It's
really private. The people I work with don't even know."

"But that's what makes the story." She sounded exasperated, as
though explaining simple logic to a child. "It makes you seem human,
vulnerable, and gives the piece a real edge. Small boy whose parents
are killed in an unsolved murder grows up to be a detective
specializing in unsolved murders. What's more dramatic or
heart-wrenching than that? Great story."

"Take it out, Nell. You have to. It would mean a lot to me. Please."

She didn't answer.

"You're violating my privacy."

"What privacy?" she asked coolly. "You gave that up at the press
conference. You can't have it both ways. You can't ask for publicity on
one hand, then try to stop it when you don't like where it goes. That's
not how it works."

"This is different. I'm no politician or celebrity, I'm just a cop.
It was part of my job, I had to do it. Nell," he pleaded, "take it out.
We can stay friends, I'll tip you off on other stories. You'll be the
first to know when we close a big case. Just take my grandmother and my
parents out of it. Please."

"It's too late."

"Why? You can just tell your editors that—"

"It's in tomorrow's newspaper. The early edition is already out on
the street."

"What's the other guy look like?" Stone asked Monday morning as
Burch walked into the office, a Band-Aid over the stitches in his head.

"Two guys. There was two of 'em," Nazario crowed. "And he captured
'em both with a TV remote. That's our sarge."

"Yeah," Burch said. "Between the two of us, we're keeping Padron
busy.
Too
busy."

Stone nodded grimly. The story that ran on the front page of
Sunday's paper had included a photo of his grandmother, age
seventy-eight, seated on her front porch, smiling proudly, the house
number clearly visible on the wall behind her.

"How the hell did you let that happen?" Burch said.

"I didn't. That reporter burned me, sneaked behind my back. When I
found out she'd been to see my grandmother, I called in time to stop
the story. She got my messages, had to know why I was calling, but
didn't get back to me until it was too late. That had to be deliberate."

He looked sick. "She didn't care. All they care about is a good
story."

"And why the hell didn't we know about your folks' case?" Burch
said, his voice lowered. "Why'd we have to read about it in the
newspaper along with the rest of the world? Jesus Christ, a double
murder, a police officer's parents. I mighta seen it once when I was
rummaging through old files. From what I remember, it didn't look
promising. Nothing new in years. But that ain't stopping us from taking
a run at it. You couldn't be the lead officially, but we can work it,
see what we find." He shook his head. "You work side by side. You think
you know somebody. Why didn't you tell us?"

"I was gonna bring it up at some point," Stone said, "but I want to
prove myself in this unit first."

"Hell, Stone. You did that a long time ago."

"What about your grandmother?" Nazario asked.

"Yeah, is she relocated?" Burch asked.

"No," Stone said. "I wanted to move her to my place. But she's
stubborn, independent. Always has been. Says that nothing or nobody can
make her leave her home. I spent all day yesterday arguing with her and
securing the house. Her neighbors said they'd keep an eye on her and I
gave her a cell phone, though she didn't want it."