Shadows (25 page)

“Of course!” The chief medical examiner's face lit up with sudden recall. “We had two cases that summer, when Miami converted from coal gas to natural gas. Before the natural gas lines were brought in, Dade County used coal gas, which burns differently. So the gas company had to change the burners and nipples in all gas-operated appliances as part of the conversion.

“I remember the first case. The police called our office to report a dead baby in an apartment. The parents were drunk and drugged, they said, and had somehow killed their child.

“When I got there, the windows were closed and a small air conditioner was operating. The parents looked and acted drunk. They staggered and their speech was slurred. She had put her dress on backwards. He kept trying to light a cigarette but couldn't quite manage it.

“Their baby boy lay dead in his crib. The police were about to arrest the parents. When I tried to interview them they could barely respond. That's when I started opening windows.

“They had a Servel gas-operated refrigerator that had been generating carbon monoxide into the apartment since the gas company crew had converted it the day before.”

“How could that happen?” Nazario asked.

“There was a little brass fitting with a hole in it where the gas pipe feeds into the appliance. That fitting, that little nipple, had to be precisely the right size with a properly adjusted air intake. But the ones the crew used were not properly adjusted for the airflow. As a result, colorless, odorless, deadly carbon monoxide began to be discharged into the room from behind the refrigerator.

“Within hours, before we could get word out to the public, we had the second case. A woman found sitting dead in her chair, her husband dead in bed, and their dog dead on the floor.”

“This may be a third case, never reported,” Burch said.

“That will be a challenge to confirm in the lab,” said the chief, a man who thrived on challenges.

“When you test for carbon monoxide poisoning,” he explained, “you test the victim's blood. But in this case we have no blood. All we have is hard, dry, mummified flesh. There is no lab set up to handle solid, dried material. We'll have to be creative enough to devise a whole new procedure, a way to reconstruct a liquid medium we can analyze from that hard, dried material.”

The detectives could almost feel the energy of his mind at work.

“We'll have to invent a whole new method of analysis.” He sounded enthusiastic. “Let me hit the books, read some literature, look up some articles, and contact a few colleagues. But first, let me check those dates.” He tapped into his computerized statistics dating back to 1956. “Bingo! Here we have it.”

The two cases he remembered had occurred three days before the savage murder of Elizabeth Wentworth.

“It all fits,” Burch said.

“The tragedy,” the chief said, “is that prior to that time there had been several deaths in New York City due to the same-model refrigerators. When the health department outlawed their use in New York, a great many of those gas-operated refrigerators were shipped down to Florida.”

 

Lorraine Plummer couldn't speak to them at her daughter's home, she said, and arranged to meet the detectives at the Children's Museum on Watson Island.

She arrived with her three grandchildren in tow, a boy about ten and two little girls, four and seven. The year-old waterfront museum was alive with the babble and excited cries of children.

The detectives and Lorraine Plummer, now a sweet-faced, plumpish matron, and her youngest granddaughter, Courtney, climbed the spiral staircase inside the Castle of Dreams, a colorful two-story tower covered with mosaic-tile images of mermaids, leaping fish, and seashells.

From benches inside the castle's upper level they were able to see the other two children below. Brandon cast for fish in a huge water tank. He had the edge. His magnetized fishing pole lured darting plastic fish with magnets in their noses.

Steffi, age seven, pushed a miniature shopping cart through a childsized replica of a Publix supermarket, selecting fish, cabbages, and carrots.

A curving slide at the top of the castle spilled a constant stream of children down into the lobby. Moments later they'd scramble back up the stairs to do it again.

Lorraine Plummer encouraged the little one to join them. “Go for it, Courtney. You can do it, sweetheart.”

The child scampered toward the slide, then hesitated and hung back at the top. “I can't,” she said.

Lorraine got to her feet.

“Pete, go help the little girl so I can talk to her grandmother,” Burch said.

“Sure.”

They watched the detective engage Courtney in conversation, then take her hand.

“I couldn't talk to you at my daughter's home,” Lorraine Plummer said, clearly nervous. “My children are very loyal to their dad. They tell him everything.

“I don't know why I went back to him after giving up the baby.” She turned to Burch, eyes sad. “Do you really think one of those dead infants is our son?”

“Your ex-husband has agreed to a DNA test. We should know soon.”

“I always believed he was growing up somewhere safe and secure with parents who loved him. I prayed his father would never find him. He searched, you know. For years.”

Burch nodded. “Are you afraid of him?”

“R.J. has a bad temper, a very bad temper. He always has. The man's obsessive. Do you know that every day since I've known him he's eaten the same breakfast, lunch, and dinner?”

“You're kidding me.”

“I wish.” She smiled ruefully. “Every morning it's six strawberries, a slice of cantaloupe, a half cup of oatmeal, half a banana, two slices of whole-wheat toast, and two cups of Lipton tea.

“For lunch, it's three slices of roast beef, a quarter-pound of sliced turkey, three slices of American cheese, an apple, six walnuts, a handful of grapes, and a cup of Folgers coffee.”

“I don't think I want to hear about dinner.”

“His meals must never vary, never change. God forbid if we ran out of bananas, or strawberries weren't available, or that the coffee wasn't his brand. And he counts.” She shivered. “He's always counting. If what he wants doesn't happen before he reaches ten, twenty, one hundred, or whatever, he explodes.”

“In other words, you're saying he isn't flexible.”

“To put it mildly. For example, the first sheet of bathroom tissue on the roll must always be folded into a little V, the way you see it in hotel rooms. He flies into a rage if he finds it any other way. Living with him was like living with a ticking time bomb. I was afraid of him. I still am.”

“How afraid?”

“I had to leave because I thought he was going to kill me. Then I had to take out restraining orders against him. He'd follow me, accost me on the street, at my job. I lost several jobs because of him. He broke three of my ribs once. I had long hair when I was young. He used to drag me by the hair, down the stairs, out of bed, or out of the car. It was painful, mentally and physically. Had it not been for the children, I would have run, moved to a place far away where he could never find me.”

“If he abused you, Lorraine, why are your children loyal to him?”

She smiled sadly. “R.J. can be a very persuasive man. He would always say things about me. When they were little he kept telling them how I gave away their brother. He always warned them to be careful, or I'd give them away. But the main reason they're close to him, I guess, is that he has the money and he's generous with them. I have nothing. When I had him arrested they were so furious with me that I dropped the charges. I'm lucky I even get to see my grandchildren,” she whispered. “I come down to stay overnight at my daughter's once a month. I'm driving back to Boca tomorrow.”

“You know that we're investigating the murders of Dr. Wentworth and Pierce Nolan.”

She looked at the floor. “Yes,” she whispered.

The happy cries of children echoed all around them. Nazario still encouraged Courtney at the top of the slide. Despite his pep talk, she was still reluctant.

“Come on, honey,” he coaxed, “I'll go with you.” He picked her up, settled into place, and they both vanished, down the slide.

Moments later, they started back up the stairs. “Hold on to the railing, honey.”

“Are you my grandma's friend?”

“Yes.”

“What's your name?”

“Pete.”

“What do you do?”

“I make sure that little girls like you stay safe.”

She smiled shyly. “How?”

“By putting bad people in jail.”

“Who's he?” she asked, pointing at Burch.

“He's my sergeant, my boss. He does the same thing.”

Courtney ran to the top of the slide alone this time. She sat down, shouted, “Look at me!” and disappeared.

Nazario rejoined Burch and Lorraine Plummer.

“Looks like she's got the hang of it now. Wish I was a kid again. It's fun,” Nazario said.

“We were just discussing Dr. Wentworth and Pierce Nolan,” Burch told him.

“What I can tell you,” Lorraine Plummer said cautiously, “is that whenever R.J. got angry, he'd say he'd done things. Throw it in my face. In the beginning he'd say, ‘You don't know what I did because of you.' Later it became, ‘You know what you made me do. People died because of you. It's all your fault, I hope you're happy.' Through the years, whenever something appeared in the press about the Nolan murder, he'd say, ‘Did you see the news? I hope you're proud of yourself. I hope you can sleep at night.' He'd drive me past what used to be her clinic and ask if I wanted to go inside, to see where it happened. He never went into specifics, and I was afraid to ask. But I always believed he was responsible. He's capable of anything.

“Another driver cut us off on the road once. R.J. went into a frenzy, drove like a madman, ran the man off the road. Smashed his windshield with a wrench. I thought he would kill him.”

“He had an alibi for the Wentworth murder,” Burch said. “His parents told the detectives he was at home when the doctor was killed.”

“They'd say anything, do anything, to protect him,” Lorraine said. “His mother always catered to him. She was afraid of his temper until the day she died. She used to tell me how, when he was just a little boy, he'd fly into a rage if any part of the lettuce leaf she put on his sandwich was white and not green. He'd become so violent that she used to tie him up and roll him under the bed until he calmed down.

“Don't tell him I told you anything,” she pleaded. “He can't know we ever talked.”

“Why? You think he'd hurt you?” Nazario asked.

“I know he would.”

 

On the way back to headquarters, Burch called Plummer to arrange his appointment to give a DNA sample at ten
A
.
M
. the following day, at the station. He asked him to stop by the homicide office afterward.

“Something wrong?” Plummer asked.

“Just a few routine questions,” Burch said.

“You already know all I know.”

“We still need to tie up a few loose ends.”

“You can ask me now.”

“We're too busy with other witnesses at the moment.”

“Witnesses? Sounds like you're making progress.”

“That we are.”

“All right,” R.J. Plummer said reluctantly. “I'll be there.”

“I didn't break the bad news to you last night,” Nazario said. “I wanted you to get some rest.” He hung his jacket in the closet, took off his gun, and placed it on the dresser, along with his car keys. “I'm sorry.”

She sat in bed, arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes red and questioning.

“I went to see your friend Malek. That greedy little bastard wouldn't listen to reason. I did everything I could. The tape goes to your father if you don't deliver the cash tonight.”

She whimpered aloud.

“I told him you don't have the money and have no way to get it by tonight, next week, or next month. The son of a bitch has got the upper hand. There's nothing we can do but sit tight and see what happens. How your dad reacts.”

“No!”

“It's not the end of the world,
mi amor.
Your dad will get over it. So will you. Chin up.”

“Don't say that, Pete! We have to stop him.”

He shrugged. “You want to file a police report? You want to see that tape played in court, in front of a jury? And the press? If you'll agree to go that route, I'll take you downtown right now. We'll go to the Sex Crimes Unit. It won't be easy, but I'll be right there to support you every step of the way.”

“No, no! You know I can't do that.”

He shrugged. “Then there's nothing to talk about. I've had a rough day. I'm gonna take a shower and turn in early. We may have a major development in our case tomorrow and I need to be sharp.”

“But you promised…”

“I know. I said I would do what I could. And I did. As much as I'd like to, I can't go put a gun to the guy's head. I could lose my badge.”

He turned his back on her, hating himself, and stepped into the bathroom. He peeled off his shirt, stared at himself in the mirror, then turned the hot water in the shower on full blast.

He emerged from the steamy bathroom fifteen minutes later. The apartment was empty.

“Fleur? Fleur!”

She was gone. His gun wasn't on the dresser. Neither were his car keys.

He ran to the window. The driveway below was empty, his Mustang gone.

 

The cab screeched to a stop in front of the apartment house on West Avenue. He tossed money at the driver and jumped out, praying he was in time. He saw his Mustang illegally parked at the curb.

Nazario ran up the stairs. The door to Malek's apartment stood ajar.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard voices.

“Are you crazy?” Malek was pleading. “Don't do it!”

Nazario pushed open the door. Malek cowered in a far corner, his face pale. Fleur stood in the center of the room, the gun in both hands. She was crying.

“You son of a bitch! You thought you'd play that for my father?” Her voice sounded high-pitched and shrill. Her hands shook.

Nazario winced. Her finger was on the trigger.

“Fleur,” he said gently, trying not to startle her. “Fleur, it's me, Pete. I'm sorry. Don't do this.”

“Thank God!” Malek reacted as though the cavalry had arrived. “You're a cop! Stop her!”

Fleur glanced over her shoulder at him for a moment, then quickly refocused on Malek.

“I won't let him do it, Pete,” she cried hysterically. “I'll see him dead first!”

“Good, the little prick deserves it,” Nazario said. He closed the door. “I don't care if you shoot 'im.”

Larry Malek wet his pants. “No, no,” he whined. “You're a cop.”

“Wait, just don't pull the trigger yet, Fleur. Not yet.” Nazario pulled down a window shade. “You have my gun. Be careful. It has a hair trigger.”

She wobbled on her high heels. Her hands shook more.

“Listen to me for a minute,
mi amor.
You kill this piece of dirt with my on-duty weapon and my life turns to shit.
Me vas a joder la vida.
I lose my job, my certification, my pension. I thought we were friends. You can't do that to me.

“I'll show you where to get another gun. I'll give it to you myself.”

“Take the tapes!” Malek pleaded. “Let's forget the whole thing.”

“Too late for that, pal. Didn't I tell you you can only push people so far?”

Fleur's hair hung in her face. Her cheeks were wet, her knees shook.

“I wanna shoot him, Pete. He's so disgusting.”

“You're right, he deserves it.”

“Please!” Malek cried.

“Just give me enough time to get you another gun—I've got one down in the car.”

“Take the tapes!” Malek howled. “I'm sorry!”

“Where are they?” Nazario said.

“One's in the VCR. The other's in the bedroom, in the briefcase.”

“Where are the rest?”

“That's all there is. I swear.”

Fleur's outstretched arms wavered. Shoulders hunched, she closed one eye and trained the gun on his chest.

“I swear. I swear. One more! Under the mattress. Take 'em all. Take 'em all. I don't care. Just take 'em and go.”

“Don't squeeze that trigger yet,
mi amor.
Let me see if he's telling the truth.”

Nazario found the tapes. The one in the briefcase was inside a FedEx envelope addressed to Adair at a Rome hotel.

“Don't move,” he warned Malek. “She hasn't slept. She's strung out, wired. Don't make her nervous. That gun has a hair trigger.”

He ripped the pillows off the sofa and the bed, checked the kitchen cabinets and bedroom drawers, and tossed the rest of the apartment.

“I think I've got them all,” he told Fleur.

He stared at Malek. “You want to kill him now,
mi amor?”

Malek closed his eyes.

“You sure you got 'em all, Pete?”

“Yeah. You can always kill him later, with the other gun I'll give you. It's got no serial numbers on it.”

“Promise?”

“Sure. Let's go now. The other weapon is a .45 caliber, so powerful that if you just hit him in the arm, the concussion will kill him. He'll go into shock and you can watch him bleed to death.”

“Okay.” She smiled at the thought, lowered the gun, and he gently took it from her hands.

“Let's go,
mi amor.”

She cocked her head at him for a moment, then took his arm, as though they were about to stroll into church.

“You're a lucky man,” Nazario said over his shoulder. “Don't make her come back here. Because I won't even try to stop her next time.”

Nazario closed the door behind them.

Holding hands, they ran down the stairs together.

“You're not really gonna give me another gun, are you?” she asked in the car.

“No. I don't want you to hurt anybody. That's why I unloaded my gun on the way home, before I left it out on the dresser tonight.”

“I knew that.” She snuggled up and rested her head on his shoulder.

“You did not.”

“Did too.”

“How?” he demanded.

“ 'Member the first time I picked it up and you snatched it away from me? It was heavier then, a lot heavier. Tonight it felt light. I knew there were no bullets.”

“Damn! You know what it cost me to have that cab waiting?”

“You sure we got all the tapes?”

“I think so,
mi amor.”
He patted her knee.

“Thanks, Pete,” she said, yawning. She was asleep by the time he pulled into the driveway at the Casa de Luna.