Pulse (20 page)

The shift changed. Valdez went home. Homicide Detective Thomas arrived a short time later. The man wore a dark suit, a tie and a genial demeanor. He reminded Frank of a funeral director.

“The wife pestered the hell out of us,” Thomas said, lighting up a cigarette. “Called every day for a while. Wanted us to keep investigating. Insisted he couldn’t have done it, that it had to be homicide.”

Why did she badger police when she was lying? Frank wondered.

“Happens a lot. Don’t know if it was denial, guilt or greed in this case.”

“Greed?”

“Sure, the life insurance factor. He had a big policy. She’s the beneficiary. If his death was ruled accidental, or homicide, she’d collect double indemnity. Maybe face value of the policy wasn’t enough for her. The stigma is another factor. She’d get a lot more sympathy from friends, relatives, the world at large, if her husband was murdered or accidentally killed. The insurance company pay off yet?”

“Just recently.”

Thomas was aware of Harrington’s murder. Thought itinteresting but doubted there was a link. He was more than satisfied that Daniel Alexander had committed suicide.

“We did everything. The crime scene tech took swabs for a GSR test, to see if he’d fired the gun. In a case this cut and dried we often don’t even process them. I mean the guy left a note. But because the widow was so insistent, we ran it through the lab.”

“What was the result?”

“Positive, traces of nitrates on his right hand. The man was right-handed, shot in the right side of the head.” He shrugged.

Two down, one to go, nothing new so far. But he knew, something told him, the answer was there, somewhere in that building. The commander of the ID bureau was back in his office.

“I’d be glad to let you talk to ID Tech Watson,” he said, “but she’s not here.”

“When will she be in?”

“She won’t. She’s no longer with the department.”

“Where has she gone? Where does she work now?”

“We’re not permitted to give out that kind of information.”

Watson was not listed in the telephone directory. Frank drove back to the office, trying not to think about Rory, her lies, her smile, or was it someone else’s? Confused, he focused on the task at hand. If Watson owned a house or a condo, he could locate her through property tax records. An urgent inner voice warned him, don’t stop, keep going, keep going. His head ached, he was weary, but if he rested, he would only have more time to think about what he had done tohimself, to Kathleen and their marriage, how stupid he had been.

Sue Ann gave him his messages. “Oh, and somebody’s called four or five times. Wouldn’t leave his name. Wants to talk only to you, said he’d keep trying.”

She stepped into his office with a letter for his signature, looked over his shoulder and saw he had accessed the Dade County Property Tax files on his computer. “See a piece of real estate you’re interested in?”

“Just browsing.”

He scored immediately.

Denise Marie Watson. Owner of a single-family residence at 749 NE Ninety-fourth Street in Miami Shores. Two bedrooms, one and a half baths, 1,478 square feet, built in 1949. Assessed at $94,300. Taxes $2,264. The only real estate in her name in Dade County. He jotted down the address.

The phone rang a short time after Sue Ann left for the day.

“Frank Douglas? Jay Bowden here.”

Frank sighed audibly. “What’s on your mind, Bowden? I’m busy.”

“Yeah, I hear you are. I have a business proposition I think would interest you.”

“I have no interest in anything you’re involved in.” He was about to hang up.

“As a father, I think you’d be very interested.”

“Spit it out.”

“Not on the phone. We need to talk in private, strictly confidential.”

“My secretary leaves at five. Five-thirty tomorrow, here at my office?”

“I’ll be there. Keep this between us. It’s better for all parties concerned that you don’t mention this at home.”

What the hell could the son of a bitch want? How could he stop Bowden if the man wanted to marry his daughter? The possibility revolted him. He didn’t need this now, with all the other pressures he felt. If he insisted that Shandi finish college before making a commitment, could he make it stick? Would Kathleen support him?

Frank made small talk with Shandi at dinner that night, studied her face and saw no clue. She went off afterwards, casually saying she had books to return to the library. The library was considered an exception to her “house arrest.” He watched her slight figure on the TV monitor, walking quickly down the drive to where a car waited. She carried no books, not one.

He wanted to rush after her, but waited to hear Bowden out. He would not afford an argument or accusations now, he thought, realizing that Kathleen must have sensed his guilt. She avoided his eyes and attempts at small talk about the girls and their friends.

“Is Shandi still seeing Bowden?” he finally asked, as they got ready for bed.

“What?”

He knew she had heard him. He repeated the question and she shrugged, changing the subject, launching into a recitation of some minor calamity concerning a museum zoning matter and people he neither knew nor care about.

“I shouldn’t bore you with all this,” she finally said, voice soothing. “You need some rest.” She brushed his hair back off his forehead, tucked him in like a child, then went into the bathroom to floss her teeth.

He heard the clang of the pedestrian gate at nearly two and stole out of bed. All he saw from an east window was the glow of taillights pulling away, but he was sure it was Bowden. He heard Shandi come in and go directly to her room, no stop-off in the kitchen. He heard her shower.

Shandi was still asleep when he was ready to leave next morning, though it was later than usual. Casey was outside, sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling her feet in the water, when he stepped out, clutching his coffee cup.

She squinted up at him in the bright morning sun. She wore shades, minus the usual plastic nose protector. “You wearing sunscreen, punkin?” He stroked her wet hair, pulled back in a ponytail. “Where’s your nose protector? Don’t wanna scorch that cute little snout.”

“Couldn’t find it.” She shrugged. “Mom says I don’t have to put on sunscreen until ten o’clock.”

“Well, you’re gonna need that nose, it’s the only one you’ve got.” He placed his cup on the patio table, plucked a leaf from the hedge and tucked it up under the nose bridge of her sunglasses. “Voilà,” he said. “The schnozz is saved.”

“Cool.” She grinned up at him, stroking the smooth surface of the leaf with her index finger.

“What is that?” Kathleen had trailed him out, still in her bathrobe and slippers. She padded closer to Casey.

“Mother Nature’s nose protector.”

“What are you doing?” She snatched it off Casey’s face as the girl blinked in surprise. “What if she has a reaction?” Kathleen asked, her voice accusing. “She could be allergic!”

“It’s not poison oak, for God’s sake. Casey’s never had an allergic reaction in her life. It’s from the hedge.”

Kathleen shook her head. “Frank, where on earth do you get these crazy ideas? And you,” she sternly addressed Casey, “you should know better.”

“Me? What did I do?” Casey yelped. “Why is it always me?”

“That’s enough,” Kathleen said sharply.

“Why am I always the one in trouble? Nobody ever yells at Shandi no matter what she does! At least I didn’t get my butt tattooed!”

“Tattooed?” Frank said.

“Young lady!”

“She did! I saw it!” Casey darted inside to examine her nose in the hall mirror.

Frank turned to Kathleen. What are we doing? he wondered. They had never bickered.

She misread the question in his eyes. “It’s some sort of little thing, a rosebud, I think,” she explained offhandedly. “Apparently it’s a current fad among all her friends … Thank God it’s where nobody will see it.”

He didn’t dare say what he thought, instead sat, silent, at the patio table and gazed miserably at the horizon.

Casey opened the French doors. “Daddy, the police department’s on the phone. They said you can come get your gun.”

“Good,” he said. He heard Kathleen’s sharp intake of breath before he turned and went inside to take the call.

No problem finding the small one-story house on Ninety-fourth Street; somehow Frank knew which one it was even before reading the numbers on the mailbox. Painted white, with a white tile roof. No flower beds, no trees, no fence. A “Sold” sign had been planted in the center of the neatly kept lawn. The place looked empty. He called the realtor.

“The buyers closed two months ago,” she said. “They’re planning some renovations, they need to get a variance, something about the setback on the south side. If you’re interested in that neighborhood, I can show you something else. I’ve got several—”

He said he was interested in the former owner.

“I think she was relocating. I have no idea where she is now.”

She had no forwarding address for Denise Watson; neither did the Miami Shores post office. He returned to the house and walked through the backyard. He knew this place somehow. The old hose rolled into a coil, the shallow stoop, the vertical blinds at the window. He felt as though events had taken place behind those blinds, inside those rooms, that he should, but could not, remember.

He glanced over the fence as a car backed into the driveway next door. A chubby middle-aged blonde in baggy slacks waved and began to unload groceries. She was disappointed to learn he was not her new neighbor.

“Denise worked for the police department,” she said, opening her hatchback. “She wasn’t the most friendly, but it was nice having somebody with a badge on the block, made you feel more secure. Worked odd hours, kept to herself. Sometimes she worked nights and slept days. Got mad as hell at my kids for making too much noise. They were
only
playing. Didn’t like the dog across the street either, he barks a lot. Nick, her boyfriend, lived with her for two, three years, but they split up. Guess she took it hard and decided to move on to greener pastures. He took off, then so did she. Never even said good-bye. Maybe if she knew you were gonna show up, she wouldn’t have left.” The woman smiled and balanced a grocery sack overflowing with bags of snacks, Cheez Doodles, chips and cookies. She accepted his offer to help lug the bags into the house. The floor was cluttered with toys and the refrigerator papered with cartoons and messages from family members.

“Don’t know where she went. Probably another police department. Her life revolved around that work. Not that shedidn’t take care of herself. Went to aerobics classes every day, wore those cute little tights and outfits. And liked having her nails done. Had designer manicures. Sculptured acrylic nails with artwork on ‘em, little stars and moons and things. Wore ‘em real long. Don’t know how she ever washed a dish. Guess she didn’t. Hope the new people next door have kids.”

She promised to look for pictures taken at a neighborhood barbecue and gave him Denise Watson’s old unpublished phone number. “Don’t see how it will do you any good.”

She was right. Dialing it from his car led to no new number, only a message that it had been “disconnected at the customer’s request.”

He called a media lawyer he knew, to ask a question, then returned to police headquarters, through the metal detectors, back into the bureaucracy. Eventually referred to personnel, he requested that they forward a message to Denise Watson, asking her to contact him.

“Can’t do it.” The man behind the desk didn’t try to conceal how much he enjoyed saying no. “We have no forwarding address ourselves. If we should hear from her”—he shrugged—“which I doubt, we’ll be glad to pass along your request.”

What kind of police department can’t even find their own employees? he wondered. “Then I’d like to see her personnel file. That’s public record.”

His request created confusion and a referral to the legal department where he cited the state’s public records law.

“Usually only members of the media file these requests,” the department’s legal advisor told him.

“The media represents the public. I’m a member of the public. No reason I can’t see a public employee’s file.”

The lawyer agreed. “But we’ll have to review it first to delete anything that could violate the employee’s privacy.”

Frank waited thirty minutes while someone in another office dabbed Wite-Out over private information such as the old phone number and old address that he already had. Finally the file, his last hope, his only hope, was surrendered to him.

He opened it, alone in a small conference room off the legal office. Denise Marie Watson, born January 7, 1970. Joined the department May 11, 1991. Title: Miami Police Department Crime Scene Technician II. Her job was to examine crime scenes, to collect fingerprints and other evidence to assist police and prosecutors.

Her picture staggered him. He held it in both hands, staring at the fresh-faced young woman in the official ID photo. Her hair was thick, curly—and dark. So were her deep-set eyes. The delicate rosebud mouth, her expression grave, yet knowing, triggered an unexpected sense of longing that made him want to weep. He tried to distance himself, to examine his emotions in businesslike fashion. Perhaps it was the knowledge that someone who appeared so young and innocent was a foot soldier in the hopeless war on crime. Perhaps it was because he had missed lunch and was hungry. His heart told him it was something else. Hand shaking, he turned the page.

According to her routine evaluations by supervisors, Denise Marie Watson excelled in report writing, the collection of firearms evidence and ricochet examination. Her ratings in crime-scene sketching, photo techniques, initiative and attitude fluctuated between good and satisfactory. Obviously ambitious, she had attended seminars and advanced courses in fingerprint collection, the handling of trace evidence, death scenes, bloodstains and bullet holes. She had even completed a course on the reconstruction of decomposed bodies from skeletal remains.

She had been injured on the job only once. A severe ankle sprain suffered when rotted floorboards collapsed as she photographed and processed a homicide scene, the case of a homeless derelict slain in a crumbling, condemned building.