Shadows (12 page)

He sighed. “Do you remember the limestone cellar under the Shadows?”

He heard her quick intake of breath. “Cellar?”

“That's right. Where your grandfather, the rumrunner, stashed his booze.”

“Ask my mother, but she'll lie, of course. She always does.”

“Why?”

“She needs no reason. The woman has a fertile imagination and an evil mind. Even when she has no reason to lie, she will. Don't believe a word she tells you.”

“You in touch with your brother, Sky? Exchange Christmas cards or anything?”

“Not that I remember.”

 

Brooke operated a small high-end boutique in San Francisco.

“My mother said you called her.” Her voice was a shaky whisper. “You have to talk to her lawyer. I can't say anything. I was only thirteen.”

“You're not thirteen anymore,” Burch said. “Your mother still tell you what to do?”

“I can't—”

He heard a rush of breath just before she hung up. He didn't know if her gasp was the prelude to a sob or a laugh.

 

“I can't believe we're all talking about the same people. Everybody describes them as the all-American family,” Burch told his lieutenant during a team meeting. “In reality they're the most evasive, secretive, fucked up bunch of dysfunctional suspects I ever talked to. They're all covering up something.”

“Go see some of these people in person,” Riley said. “Start with the daughter who lives in Florida. Take Nazario with you, and do it in a hurry. The press is pushing for the story.”

“Just talked to the medical examiner's office,” Nazario said. “The babies all appear to be healthy live births. Four girls, three boys.”

“Christ,” Burch said. “Live full-term babies.”

“The umbilical cords were all healed or nearly healed. They had dried milk in their stomachs,” Nazario said. “Causes of death still under investigation. No trauma or obvious birth defects. They're pushing the lab for speedy DNA results.”

“Good,” Riley said. “We'll need samples from members of the Nolan family. What else have you got?”

“The infants were wrapped in cloth and newspaper. The newspapers were local, the cloths were dish towels and thin cotton baby blankets,” Nazario said. “The lab deciphered the labels on the towels. The manufacturer's still in business and keeps good records. Sears stocked and sold that pattern between 1959 and 1973, when it was phased out. We had two Sears stores back then, as opposed to six now. There was the old downtown store on Biscayne Boulevard and the one that's still on Coral Way.

“I've got some info on Stone's case, too,” he added. “The armed robbers, the initial suspects, had ironclad alibis. Two nights before the murders at Stone's Barbecue, they got into a running gun battle—with each other. They were free-basing cocaine and got into an argument over who was gonna drive the car to their next stickup. The argument escalated into a gunfight. Twenty-four hours before Stone's folks were killed, one of them was dead in the morgue and the other was in jail, held without bond on homicide charges.”

“Darwin was right,” Burch said.

As the detectives left her office, Riley called Burch aside. “Have you heard from Stone?”

“He's tracking down Glover, the first cop at the scene in his case. I'll probably hear from him any time now.”

“I tried to raise him on the radio,” she said. “No answer. Keep him on a shorter leash. This case is way too personal for the kid. He needs backup and supervision. His worst trait and his best is that he's like a runaway freight train.”

“Hey,” he said. “What the hell's going on? Look at that.”

Every phone in Homicide was ringing. Every line lit.

One of the old-timers told Stone that Ray Glover had been close to a onetime partner in patrol, now retired and living in Steinhatchee, near the Gulf.

“Haven't heard his name in years,” the retired cop said when Stone called. “Didn't stay in touch. I rode with Glover, can't say anything bad about him. Not a bad guy. Maybe that was his trouble, a little too idealistic. Most rookies lose that in six months. Not him. He was one a those do-gooders, saw everything in black and white, couldn't make adjustments, you know. Why you looking for him after all this time?”

“Some questions about an old case of his,” Stone said.

“Not surprised. Ray left under some kind a cloud. Heard scuttlebutt he was a troublemaker. No paper on it. Nothing official. Heard he moved up somewhere around Orlando. That's the last I know.”

Stone felt a surge of energy. He could drive to Orlando in four hours.

No Orlando phone listing for Raymond H. Glover. Stone found a 1989 address and phone number in a database of old city directories. The number wasn't good anymore, but he called three neighbors. One remembered him. “An ex-cop. Miami, I think. Young fella, friendly enough. Stayed around here for just ten, eleven months, worked security at Mouse World, then moved on. A little paranoid. Said not to tell anybody where he was going. But you're official, right? He asked me to make sure his mail was forwarded to a post office box over in Mount Dora.”

Stone tracked Glover from Mount Dora to Kissimmee and from there to Sarasota, on to Cedar Key, up to Ocala, and then west to Immokalee.

A woman answered at the last number listed for Glover in Immokalee.

“Is this the Glover residence?”

She hesitated, as though uncertain. “Yes.”

“Can I talk to Ray?”

“No.” She sounded flustered. “He, he's not here.” Her voice faded.

“When do you expect him?”

“I—I'm not sure. I don't know.” She spoke quickly, in a Southern accent, the words so soft he could barely hear them.

“Is this his wife?”

“I have to go now.” She hung up.

Despite her reticence, Stone was elated. Immokalee was about 115 miles from Miami, a little more than two hours away. He checked an unmarked out of the motor pool, made sure the gas tank was full, and hit the road.

He considered stopping to tell Gran but decided against it. He'd tell her after he'd made progress, so she would see he was serious. Besides, he was in a hurry.

He took the turnpike north, then Alligator Alley due west, flying low, glad to be alone. He'd waited a long time for this day. He tried to picture Ray Glover's face almost twenty years older.

However he had aged, he knew he would recognize the man any time, any place. He would ask for his help, but more than that he wanted to tell Glover what he had meant to him, to let him know that he had changed one life forever. It was important, he felt, to express how in life's vast tapestry, a small kindness or a few words can resonate through the years.

He stopped for a cup of coffee and took it with him, checking the time all the way.

He'd sit across from Glover, seek information, and pour out his heart. The man might not remember him. If so, he'd say, “But I remember you, Officer Glover. That's what counts.”

Visualizing their meeting, anticipating their conversation, Stone raced toward the sun. If he made good time, he might even arrive early enough to buy the man dinner. Even if he wasn't home, finding Glover in a small town like Immokalee should be no problem.

He made good time until a tanker truck jackknifed, rolled over, and spilled diesel fuel onto I-75 near the Big Cypress Indian Reservation. Trapped in gridlock with countless other hot and frustrated motorists, Stone despaired. Twenty minutes after traffic finally began to move, an Everglades brushfire again slowed motorists to a crawl through dense, eye-stinging, foglike smoke.

Closer to Naples, he hit rush-hour traffic. It was nearly sunset when he rolled into Immokalee; then he had trouble finding Glover's address.

He was surprised that it was a trailer park. He drove slowly through the narrow lanes, watching out for speed bumps, loose dogs, and small children. A few residents, drinking beer as they barbecued outside, stared suspiciously. All were white. Some of their trailers were in good condition, with small, neat flower beds; others were in states of disrepair, rusted, with sagging awnings.

One of those belonged to Glover.

The day had wound down, the curtain of darkness had fallen. Street-lamps had bloomed. Stone parked, stepped over a bicycle chained to the trailer, and approached the door. There were lights inside and voices. He thought he smelled hamburgers frying and frowned regretfully, remembering his hopes for dinner.

He thought of his grandmother, imagined telling her every detail when he got back to Miami.

She'd be impressed by his persistence, his progress. She'd help him.

His heart beat faster as he knocked at the narrow door.

The voices stopped. The lights blacked out inside. Startled, he knocked again. Only silence.

“Hello?” He rapped sharply on the glass portion of the door. “Ray Glover?”

He knew they were in there. He'd heard them. He'd waited so long. He'd driven so far.

“Mrs. Glover?”

“Go 'way. I'm calling the police.” It was the woman, the same thin, small voice as on the telephone.

“Mrs. Glover, I
am
the police. Detective Sam Stone, Miami P.D. Here, I'll slide my business card under the door.”

He did so, then reached for his badge case. He hopped up to the top step to display it at the window when a bloodcurdling, high-pitched shriek came from behind him.

A skinny wraith burst out of the darkness, wildly swinging a baseball bat. Shocked, thrown off-balance, Stone nearly fell off the narrow steps. The first swing narrowly missed his midsection. He felt the rush of air as the second just missed his head. He stopped the next swing with his left hand, winced, then grasped the bat with both hands.

“Police! Drop it!” he shouted. They scuffled for a moment, until Stone tripped his attacker, wrenched away the weapon, and knocked him to the ground. Panting, the bat in one hand, Stone planted the other on the bony chest of a scrawny boy of about twelve and held him down. The barefoot kid had a runny nose and tears in his eyes, but kept kicking and flailing.

The trailer door flew open and a woman scrambled out screaming, “Don't hurt him! Don't you hurt him!”

“I don't plan to,” Stone said, perplexed. “What's wrong with you people?”

She was a skinny redhead with lank hair and pale skin.

“Calm down, ma'am, I'm here to see Ray Glover. All I want is five minutes of his time.”

“I called the police.” She stared at him, her gray eyes haunted.

“Fine,” he said. “They'll confirm who I am and set your mind at ease.” He didn't feel as confident as he sounded. This part of Florida was more like the Deep South than Miami.

He took his hand off the boy's chest and reached down to help him to his feet. The boy didn't respond. He'd stopped kicking and just lay there panting.

“Son, you can't go around attacking people with baseball bats,” Stone said. “That could land you in a world of hurt and trouble.” He held the bat up. “This thing is for hitting home runs and winning baseball games.”

The boy stared up at him, expression uncomprehending, like a frightened animal.

“Come on, baby.” The woman helped the youngster to his feet and held his hand.

“You the one who called?” she asked Stone.

“Yeah, that was me.”

Fellow trailer park residents, who'd gathered to gawk, began to wander away.

Stone thought it was because the excitement was over, then saw the approaching police cruiser, blue light spinning. He sighed. He should have brought another detective. Even Corso would be better than nobody. Nah, he thought, watching the two cops step out, that would probably end up three against one.

The deputies were young and overweight, in starched uniforms that were too tight and uncomfortably creased. He wondered how they could ever run should the need arise.

“Ha there, Katie,” one said with a smirk. “Whatcha'll got going on heah this time? Who's your friend?”

Stone identified himself.

“Miamuh? Thought all they hired down there was Cubans. Empty your pockets, boy. Right there on the hood a that car.”

Stone was frisked, his gun and badge case confiscated.

“Look, Reggie,” the other one said, “how his hand's all swoll up. Looks like the kid got hisself in a good lick.”

They confirmed that Stone's unmarked was registered to the City of Miami.

Humiliated, Stone stared balefully at the redhead.

“Reggie,” she finally said to one of the deputies. “Ain't nothing wrong here. This fella's an acquaintance. I was half asleep, got scared when there was a knock at the door, and Jimmy went off half-cocked. You know, 'cause of all the burglaries 'round here.” She turned to Stone. “Since the last storm, looters have been breaking in right and left.”

The cops insisted on confirming Stone's identity with his supervisor. Eventually, as neighbors began to wander back to watch, they reached K. C. Riley.

“She”
—the deputy gloated, exchanging glances with his partner as he handed Stone the phone—“wants to talk to you.”

“That you, Stone?”

“Right, Lieutenant.”

“You okay?”

“Sure, fine.” He flexed the fingers of his swollen hand.

“Are you sure? Can they hear me?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Good. I don't know what the hell you think you're doing over there, Detective. But I
will
see you in my office bright and early in the morning. Got that?”

“Sure thing, Lieutenant.”

“Watch your ass. Now let me talk to them.”

Stone handed the phone back.

He heard her voice but couldn't made out the rapid-fire words. The deputy reacted as though his cell phone had suddenly become red-hot and blistered his ear.

“Ooo whee,” he said as he snapped the small phone shut. “You work for that woman?”

Stone nodded.

“You have muh sympathy. No wonder Miamuh's a mess. Anything you need, Detective, let us know.”

He winked at the woman. “And you know that goes for you, too, Katie.”

She shook her head as they drove away.

“Can we talk?” Stone asked.

She nodded. “But ain't nothing to tell. Is your hand hurt bad?”

“It'll be okay,” he said.

He followed them into the trailer, making sure the boy wasn't behind him.

“Where's Glover?” The inside of the trailer was drearier than the exterior. He was surprised that Glover hadn't kept it up better.

“He's not here.” She shook her head. “I kep' the phone number even though it was in his name. I knew I shouldn't a done it, it'ud just bring trouble. But if I wanted to change the name on the account, the phone company 'ud want a new deposit and I couldn't afford it.”

The boy went to the small refrigerator, took out a can of Coke, turned on the TV, and sat down in front of it.

Katie sat at the small table.

“He's not living here?” Stone sat opposite her and flipped open his small notebook. “Where can I find him? Is he still here in town?”

She nodded. “Oak Land Memorial Park,” she said softly. “He's in the second row south a the reflecting pool.”

Stone blinked. His hand suddenly throbbed.

“Dead?” he whispered.

She nodded, eyes pained, and shoved back her dull red hair.

Stone felt the wind knocked out of him, as though he'd been sucker-punched.

She mistook his expression. “I'll get you somethin' for it.” She went to the fridge and returned with a box of frozen peas. “This'll help.” She put the box across the knuckles of his left hand and wrapped a towel around it.

“Thanks.” He swallowed. “When did Ray die? What happened? You sure we're talking about the same man?”

She took a framed five-by-seven photo from a shelf. Stone held his breath, hoped for a moment it was all a mistake, then sighed. Ray Glover and Katie were seated at a table together in the photo. The occasion looked festive, a wedding or a holiday celebration.

Their tilted heads touched each other as they faced the camera, his arm around her. Her face wasn't as thin then, her upswept hair looked shiny, and she smiled shyly. Ray Glover smiled, too, but there was something different about him. Something Stone didn't remember. Despite his smile, the man's eyes looked lost, hunted.