Cold Case Squad (29 page)

"Unless the charge was homicide."

"I didn't kill anybody." She returned to her chair and drained her
drink. "Sure you boys don't want to join me?"

"No thanks, but you go ahead," Burch said. "Enjoy it while you can."

They joined her at a small bar in a far corner and watched her fix a
drink, light on the ice, heavy on the scotch.

"We know the Place Montmartre murders are connected," Burch said.

She paused. "I wasn't there that night. I didn't know anybody would
get hurt."

"But you were at Terrell's house just before the garage went up."

"Like hell."

"See, Desiree, that's what's going to make things difficult between
us," Burch said. "Nobody ever got a sweetheart deal by lying to us."

Nazario nodded. "We've got you on tape."

Her eyes widened. "Tape? You're bullshitting me."

"Remember the kid's birthday party across the street?" Burch said.
"Somebody videotaped it. We got the tape and, what do you know, there
you are, plain as day, across the street behind the wheel of that van."

"Lie to me one more time, Linda, and you sleep in the local lockup
tonight and every night until you're extradited to Florida. And I make
a phone call that says Aunt Sylvia sleeps in the Dade County Jail
tonight."

Tears flashed in her eyes. She jerked off her glasses and dabbed at
them with a paper bar napkin, smearing her mascara.

"It's not fair." She sniffed. "I was almost glad to see you. I want
to go home to Florida."

"If you don't like it here," Nazario said, "how come you never
packed up and left?"

"It's not that easy. Buddy's a control freak. Always has to be in
charge. I gave up my career for him. Don't smirk, Sergeant. I made damn
good money. Then, when I'm past my prime, he finds somebody younger.
What kind of work could I get now? This apartment, my car, everything,
it's all in Buddy's name. He doles out the money."

"So you do know where he is."

"No. Enough cash to support me and pay Sylvia's bills is wired to my
checking account once a month. The deal is, if I leave town or take off
on my own, the money stops. I can't sell this place or even take out a
loan on it. For his protection, he said. He was afraid I'd go back to
Florida and blow his cover."

"The man likes being legally dead."

"So your bank records would track back to him?"

She shook her head. "A third party, a lawyer I think, wires the
money. Buddy's a very careful person. I don't have a dime
that he doesn't know about and he could cut off in a heartbeat. Even if
I landed a job that could support me, which ain't easy at my age, what
about Sylvia? That place she lives in costs a bundle. Her income from
Social Security is only about five hundred a month. She'd be out on the
street. So would I."

Burch frowned. He thought he'd been clever, using Aunt Sylvia to
pressure Desiree. But Charles Terrell had thought of it first.

"Look, Desiree. You're not our prime target. Nobody wants to see you
in prison for the rest of your life. He's the one we want. We'd need
your cooperation for a successful prosecution. You have strong cards
you haven't even played. Tell us what you can offer. We'll pass it
along to the prosecutor."

"The way I see it, you'd be happier back in Florida instead of alone
up here," Nazario said.

"I'd love to see Sylvia and my old friends," she said earnestly. "I
thought it would be different with Buddy. He was the one. I was crazy
about him. He wasn't happy, in a dead-end situation. Paying child
support, in a bad marriage, in over his head financially."

"Chris, who owned the Montmartre, introduced me to Buddy. They went
way back together, to high school. I'd known Chris for years. He
trusted me. I'd been in his office after hours lots of times. I knew he
kept a major stash up there. Money he couldn't deposit in banks for
obvious reasons. He was a player, trafficking drugs, into extortion,
robbery, and everything else you can do to make a dirty buck. Buddy had
pharmaceutical connections and supplied him with pills—Quaaludes and
methamphetamines. He and I used to joke about the big bucks Chris kept
in the safe. Next thing you know, Buddy wasn't joking. He came up with
a scheme. It meant the two of us could start a new life together, far
away."

"I didn't think anybody'd get hurt at the Montmartre. Buddy set up a
deal to deliver some 'ludes. Instead, he was gonna rob Chris, fake his
own death a few hours later, and we'd be out of there. All our troubles
behind us. It was foolproof." She shrugged. "Even if Chris sent his
goons to the widow to look for his money, she didn't know anything."

"I wasn't a bad person. It's like they say: When you dance with the
devil, you don't change the devil, the devil changes you."

"Who was the man who burned up in the garage?" Nazario said.

"I didn't know his name. Only saw him once. Buddy said he was
perfect, a wanderer who arrived in Miami alone. Somebody who wouldn't
be missed."

"He was a drifter, a drinker, showed up at the drugstore looking for
work or a handout. Buddy befriended the guy, said he'd help him get off
the booze and make some money. He used him for backup at the Montmartre
that night, then set him up in his garage. He was a boozer, no family."

"This the guy?" Burch handed her Michael Hastings's photo.

She squinted at it for a long moment.

"Mighta been." She shrugged. "Not a face you'd remember." She handed
it back.

"That day, when I picked Buddy up at his house, I didn't know that
Chris and the girl were dead. She was only a kid. When I found out, I
was shocked, but I was already in too deep, and I loved him."

"Did you know that another man was convicted of the murders at the
Montmartre?" Burch asked.

"No." Her eyes widened. "Are you sure?"

"You expect me to believe that you never heard that somebody else
took the fall?"

"Who?"

"Some poor schmuck who got thrown out of the club a couple nights
before the murders."

"Jesus. Well, they'll have to let him out now, won't they?"

"A little late for that, Desiree. Regardless of what some people
think, wrongful convictions, especially those that lead to wrongful
executions, are big deals for prosecutors and for us, very big deals.
How is it you never heard the news about the arrest, trial, or
conviction? Was it your terrible judgment or a complete lack of morals
that stopped you from saving him?"

"I swear to God! I didn't know. The first year we traveled and
partied a lot. Buddy knew I hated leaving Miami. He kept saying we had
to make it a clean break, put it behind us. He didn't want me to
subscribe to a Florida newspaper or listen to the news. I swear I
didn't know."

"I guess ignorance was bliss. I thought we had a future. For a
while, it was great. Me and Buddy, we'da had gorgeous kids. I was at
that age, you know, the old bio clock ticking away. If I was gonna have
children, it was then or never. But Buddy didn't want them. Said he'd
had enough kids. But hell, it wasn't like he was ever gonna see any of
them again. I never understood that."

She sighed.

"You ever see my act?" she asked, fixing herself another drink. "Too
bad. Choreographed it myself. I wasn't just some two-bit stripper. I
was a classically trained dancer. The snake was my gimmick. The theme
was the Garden of Eden. My hair was long, all the way down to my ass.
It was artistic. Those were the days."

"You keep the snake?" Burch glanced around the room.

Her big laugh boomed, hoarse and raspy. "Don't worry. Buddy didn't
want it around. Hated seeing me feed it. We turned it loose in a park."

"Wish I still had it for company." She downed her drink and fixed
another. "It was a great pet. Those were the days," she repeated,
slightly slurring her words. "There's something about getting naked in
the spotlight. Gives a woman a sense of power. You know every man in
the place is fantasizing about you. Chris always said that the power of
a woman is stronger than an atomic bomb."

"With twice the lethal fallout," Burch said.

"What makes you so cynical, Sergeant? Strip clubs are magic places,
full of erotic dreams and fantasies."

"Your partner knows what I'm talking about." She laughed again and
winked at Nazario. "I can see it in his eyes."

"Myself, I always considered them perpetual crime scenes,
twenty-four seven," Burch said.

"Think about how tough dating is on a man," she coaxed. "A
lap dance at a strip club is cheaper. He doesn't have to buy her dinner
or promise to call the next day. And he can lie. So can she. Everybody
lies. Sure, she's working her way through college, or about to land
that big role on Broadway. He can be a movie producer, a dashing
foreign diplomat, or a famous writer. A club is a magic place full of
naked women. One way or the other, all you boys have to pay for a
woman. Spending time at a club is cheaper than dating or marriage.
Buddy still feels that way. Maybe that's why he never married me. He
said he'd had enough wives, too."

"Did Natasha know?" Burch asked.

"No, just me and Buddy, and that ten-foot blonde looking down from
the roof of the Montmartre. She always saw everything, and nothing.
Nobody else knew. Just us, now you."

"You haven't seen Natasha, have you?" Nazario said.

"When?"

"She recently came up missing."

"No, but funny you should ask. A while back, Buddy thought he saw
his ex-wife. Not Natasha. The first one, April. He was into sailing.
Took his boat down to Mystic Seaport in Connecticut. On the street,
doing a little sightseeing, he thought he saw her and the kids. Freaked
him out. When he looked back, she was staring, like she was seeing a
ghost. He was gonna track her down, do something about it, but changed
his mind, I guess, or lost her in the crowd. Instead, he just got out
of Dodge. That was a close one."

"When was that?" Burch asked thoughtfully.

She shrugged. "A while back."

"You're sure you don't know how to reach him?"

"Look, I'm spilling my guts here. You know I'd tell you if I did.
Listen, I'll go back to Miami with you right now. I'll cooperate, make
a statement, tell everything I know. But I want the best deal I can
get. And you have to keep Sylvia out of it."

"We can probably arrange something. Like I said, you're not the one
they want."

"Yeah. I didn't have any, what do they call it? Criminal intent.
That's it. I didn't intend to do anything wrong. I just fell in love.
There's nobody like Buddy." Her voice dropped to a whisper and she
looked teary-eyed. "Never will be."

Burch used his cell to fill in Assistant State Attorney Jo Salazar.
"Terrell did the two at the Montmartre," he told her.

"Christ," she said, in her kitchen, a child crying in the
background. "This is big. This is bad. I knew I should have gone up
there with you." She tentatively agreed to offer Desiree a plea to
reduced charges, or even full immunity, depending on her honesty and
level of cooperation.

Desiree spoke to her briefly, agreed to submit to a polygraph test
and to return to Miami with the detectives.

"I know it sounds crazy," Desiree told them after hanging up. "But
I'm looking forward to it. I may regret it, but I want to see that big
sky over Miami again, feel the sun on my shoulders. I even loved the
humidity. Does wonders for your skin. When I lived in Miami I never
even had to use a moisturizer."

"I have to pack," she said enthusiastically, "settle up a few
things. In Miami I bet I can land myself a job. People will remember
me. Hell, Gypsy Rose Lee still made appearances at my age. So did Lili
St. Cyr. I just need to drop a few pounds, get in shape. If me and
Sylvia got a little place together, we could make it."

They agreed to fly back the following afternoon.

"Okay," Burch said as they left. "I'm warning you, Desiree. Don't
screw with us. We're your new best friends. We're looking out for your
interests. Don't try to run, don't take a walk and forget to come back,
because if you do, Sylvia goes to jail and we issue murder warrants for
your arrest. We've got the Portland Police keeping an eye on this
place, and you. Got that?"

"I can't believe you're so paranoid." She grinned, eyes alight with
relief. "The only place I'm going is Miami."

It was late. The night security guard now manning the desk promised
to notify them if Desiree left the building or had visitors.

"Think I should camp outside her door tonight?" Nazario asked, in
the rental car. "When she said she doesn't know where Terrell is, she
lied."

"You sure?"

"The woman knows."

"Makes no sense," Burch said. "The guy's a cold stone killer. Has
her dump her act, her pet snake, her friends and family, life as she
knows it, such as it was, then dumps her for somebody else and she's
still loyal?"

"She loves him."

"You see how she wrote off the guy killed in the garage?"

"And the execution of an innocent man?"

"Yeah, just starts talking about her act. Terrell sure knew how to
pick 'em."

"God makes 'em and God matches 'em," Nazario said. "You hungry?"

They hadn't eaten all day.

"My stomach thinks my throat's been cut."

They found a Denny's restaurant.

"Salazar can have her testify before the grand jury and get three
first-degree murder indictments against Terrell," Burch said between
forks full of salad. "We can get that artist, the really good one that
Stone talks about, to age-enhance his pictures and plaster his mug all
over the country, all over the world. Sooner than later, the man is
ours."

"She's the next best thing to bringing him back," Nazario agreed,
buttering a roll. "When she first opened the door, did you believe it
was her?"

"She looked used up," Burch said, as his steak arrived. "But did you
see her when we left? She looked ten years younger. Like a weight's
been lifted. There is something to be said for coming clean and going
home at last. She'll do all right."