Shadows (9 page)

“What happened to your family?” she asked.

“I came to Miami alone on a Pedro Pan flight when I was six. My parents planned to follow, but Castro canceled the flights. I never saw them again. My father was arrested. He died behind bars, a political prisoner. My mother died not long after.”

“Six? Who took care of you?”

“I grew up all over the country, in and out of orphanages, Catholic children's homes and foster homes.”

“That must have been so difficult.”

He shrugged, enjoying a mouthful of rice. “I missed the food and the language. I spoke no English and they never sent me to a place where Spanish was spoken. But the same thing happened to thousands of kids; we did fine.”

“I grew up in a big, noisy family.” She put her fork down. “I can't imagine what it would have been like without them.”

“It was okay,” he assured her, “especially after I made my way back to Miami and joined the department.”

“You don't regret not choosing another profession?”

“I'd do it again,
en un segundo,”
he said without hesitation. “In a heartbeat. It is a rare job. You learn about people from all walks of life: big-shot politicians, people who want to fire you, people who love you and want to take you home, people who want to kill you, people who want to bake you cakes and want their kids to grow up to be like you, and people who want your job. It is like nothing else. Cold cases are the best. A real challenge.”

She sipped her wine, watching him.

“Sometimes we have to work harder to find a witness than a killer. People die, move away, they are hard to find. Many homicide witnesses live on the dark side themselves and don't want to be found.

“In a fresh murder, time works against you. A case still unsolved after the first forty-eight hours most probably will remain that way. But after a certain point, time turns and it begins to work for you. Compadres who once covered for each other are no longer friends. Sweethearts and married couples break up. People outside the law need to negotiate a deal. Eventually, time works for us.”

“I see how easy it is to be consumed by it,” she said. “When I researched my thesis, I became hooked on those who came before us. Julia Tuttle, Carl Fisher, John Collins, Major Francis Langhorn Dade, and so many other unnamed heroes, pioneers, visionaries, and villains. I love to research and write articles for historical magazines. That's how I became interested in Captain Nolan and his son's murder years later, all linked to the Shadows. It sounds strange, but I know the stories of many dead people better than those who knew them when they were alive.”

“Me, too,” he said quietly.

“In a way I guess we both do the same thing.”

“But our goals are different.
Lo hago por la justicia.”
Mine is justice.

“History is important, too,” she said, “because those who forget the past have no future.”

She was stunned to hear about multiple dead infants. Nazario swore her to secrecy. No press release had been issued and the detectives hoped to interview more witnesses before the story leaked out. Most shocking to Kiki was the suggestion that Pierce Nolan may not have been a clean-cut family man and civic-minded citizen.

“He hasn't been gone all that long. Many of his contemporaries are still alive. There's never been a hint, a rumor of anything negative, much less scandalous.

“Everything I've learned,” she said earnestly, “everything said by people who knew him indicated that he was above reproach, that his death was a true tragedy for the community. The man might have gone on to become governor, might have changed the history of our city and state.”

“How likely is it that some stranger planted those infants in his secret cellar? Some men do lead double lives,
mi amor.”

“True.” She took his big hand in her small one. “I'll get the nail polish remover.”

Despite the odor, he enjoyed her daubing at his fingertips with a cotton pad.

They toasted the past, justice, and Miami until the La Crema Chardonnay was gone. Then they took a walk.

“Here, you take Fergie.” Kiki handed him the leash. “She's the alpha dog. Di is the princess; she hates to step on damp grass or get her feet wet.”

Their leashes were purple, befitting royalty.

“I never had a dog.” The detective grinned as they all strolled together.

“You still don't. You can't keep her.”

 

“I don't believe it's nearly two
A
.
M
.,” he said at her door.

“Thanks for bringing me home.”

He turned to go.

“You can call me, you know.”

He nodded. “There something I have to tell you,” he said uneasily.

She waited.

“You know that little towel? The one with the butterflies?”

 

Pete Nazario drove home. Actually, to another man's home. The stately mansion, Casa de Luna, was the residence of multimillionaire W. P. Adair.

But Adair was almost never there. He and other wealthy Miami Beach residents often offer free lodging in servants' quarters, a guest cottage, or garage apartment to police officers, in exchange for security and peace of mind. Craig Burch had lived there when he and Connie were separated and once captured a pair of armed burglars in the act of looting the mansion. When he and Connie reconciled, Burch had recommended Nazario for the job.

Adair, rich, robust, and full of life for a man in his sixties, was touring Europe with his third or fourth wife, a knockout named Shelly, about one third his age. Nice work if you can get it.

Nazario leaped at the chance to save some money. His job was to maintain security and ride herd on the landscaper, the twice-a-week maid, the car washer, and the pool man.

Nazario's apartment, above the four-car garage, had originally been built for a live-in housekeeper and her caretaker husband. The separate entrance was at the top of an outside staircase. Rear stairs inside led down to the huge kitchen of the main house.

Moving in had taken little effort. Nazario's old apartment, which he'd occupied for years, was a furnished one-bedroom near Little Haiti. He traveled light. As a child, anything important to him had always vanished in the next move to a new place with total strangers. Eventually he'd learned to stop wanting things and, as an adult, never acquired many possessions.

He'd arrived with one bag, shaving gear, and toiletries, and his clothes on wire hangers stacked in his car. No furniture. No stuff. No baggage. If he wanted a book, he went to the library. He had always lived that way.
Un lobo solitario.

Such a lifestyle never seemed lacking, until tonight. After spending time with Kiki Courtelis, he felt like the lost boy he had been. He trotted up the stairs, punched in the code, deactivated the alarm system, and let himself into the small apartment, the nicest place he'd slept in since he was six.

As he peeled off his jacket it occurred to him that he had never had a home. He went downstairs to patrol the grounds, thinking about Kiki as he checked doors and windows. She and her lifestyle were warm and appealing. So why, when he was with her, did he feel like some spaced-out astronaut who had strayed off the planet? He circled the house, walked through the garden and past the pool. Casa de Luna, on nearly two acres, was one of Miami Beach's largest private residences. Satisfied that nothing was amiss, he returned to his room.

Alone.

“O.J. is free, searching Miami golf courses for his ex-wife's killer, but Martha Stewart is behind bars.” Jo Salazar reached for a garlic roll.

“Go figure.” She licked her fingers, eyes rolling in ecstasy. “These are so good! What is it with judges? What ever happened to the concept of creative sentencing?”

“Right,” Riley said. “Instead of jail time, she could've done so much righteous community service.” They were devouring green salad and drinking red wine while waiting for their mushroom pizza at Mario the Baker's.

“I used to tape her TV show,” Riley confessed.

“You, too?”

“How lame are we? Fans of a convicted felon,” Riley said.

“She could have been sentenced to teach child-rearing classes to welfare mothers,” Salazar said. “How much child abuse and neglect might that have prevented? Her classes could have been made into training films. They could've been used for years, could have affected still-unborn generations.”

“You're preaching to the choir, Jo. What about Habitat for Humanity? Part of her sentence could have been community service, teaching recipients how to take care of their new homes. Most never owned or even lived in a house before, don't have a clue about upkeep, what to do with a yard, or how to start a garden. She could've taught them how to decorate on a shoestring, as well. They could have presented the tapes of those classes to the new owners along with the house keys.”

“Exactly,” Salazar said. “And she could've taught people in low-income neighborhoods how to cultivate community vegetable gardens in vacant lots, then how to prepare the produce they grew.”

“No limit on the skills she could've shared with the have-nots. How to knit, sew, crochet, how to make their own clothes. She could have taught inner-city young marrieds how to make a home together. Instead they assign Martha to scrub the floor in the warden's office. They blew a once-in-a-lifetime chance to tap into a treasure trove of talent. Why aren't we judges?” Riley demanded.

“Because somebody has to catch the real bad guys and put them away.” Salazar wolfed down another warm, fresh roll, drenched in olive oil and garlic and sprinkled with parsley.

She caught Riley's expression. “I do watch my calories,” the prosecutor said defensively. “I watch them on my fork as I shovel them into my mouth.”

Riley laughed. “I didn't say a thing. Whoever thought when we were roommates at the police academy a hundred years ago that we would wind up still like this.”

“Look at me now,” Salazar said, “an old married lady with two kids, who I hope to God are in bed. Their father promised me they would be. You can't believe how they can actually manipulate that man into letting them stay up as late as they like. They know how to wrap him around their fingers.”

“I wonder who they learned that from?” Riley said.

“And look at you…”

“Yeah, me,” Riley said quietly. “Spinster with a gun…”

“Spinster?” Salazar nearly spit up a fork full of romaine. “Are you crazy? Did you date that studly FBI agent Conrad Douglas yet?”

Riley looked wistful. “No, he came by my office the other day. He's a nice guy. We had coffee and shot the breeze about some investigations. But I just can't. Not yet.”

“You knocked his socks off.” Salazar reached across the table and squeezed Riley's hand. “Time's a wasting, Kath. You may not find another Kendall McDonald. But you'll find another man just as choice in his own special way.”

“He was
the
one, Jo, since elementary school. I still expect to see him at the station, around the next corner, or on the elevator. I expect to hear his voice when the phone rings. It's so hard to believe he's really gone.”

“Probably that damn closed-casket funeral. They give no sense of closure, you don't really get to say good-bye.”

Riley bit her lip.

“Sorry, Kath. I'm just saying you can't stay off the market forever. Life goes on. Hey, here comes the pizza!”

 

“You're sure they said to paint it red?” Burch squinted at the fire-enginered walls.

Connie nodded. “The Feng Shui consultant, the bagwa, said it's the room best positioned for passion and love.”

“But it's the goddamned laundry room.”

“I know.” She frowned. “Architects are not in tune with the elements. The bagwa used the Tibetan Divination system. I added crystals and live plants in the bedroom and rearranged the furniture, but unless we change rooms with Jennifer…”

“What's Jennifer's room got to do with it?”

“The bagwa said it has the highest sexual energy in the house.”

“Crap.”

He'd been worried about that. “Where are they?” he asked, looking around.

“Jenny went to a movie with Lindsey and Heather. Craig Jr. is at softball practice under the new lights at the park, and Annie is at a sleepover at her new best friend, Tara's, house.”

“We have to start keeping better tabs on them.” He followed his wife into the kitchen. “They're growing up too fast. Man, I hate summer. This is the most dangerous time of year for kids. Do we know Tara's father? Is he a stepfather? Who is this guy?”

“I think you had a beer with him at the block party last year. Did you miss lunch?” she said. “Poor baby, are you hungry?”

He nodded.

She ladled her homemade mushroom gravy onto the meat loaf and popped his plate into the microwave.

“Summer,” he told her, “is when most teenagers have their first sexual experience. No school. Time on their hands. Slam-dancing hormones, and the next thing you know…”

“I think our kids are trustworthy,” Connie said.

“Were we?”

She hugged his neck as he sat at the table. “We turned out okay, didn't we?”

The microwave beeped and she placed the steaming plate in front of him.

“That outfit Annie had on this morning, those little shorts and that top that shows her belly button. We can't let her walk around looking like a prosti-tot. She's only eleven.”

“Why don't you tell me what you really think?” Connie smiled coyly from across the table. “Have you noticed that we're home alone for a change?” She cocked her head, smile fading. “What are you working on? What kept you so late?”

“A case, Con, a cautionary tale of what can happen to little girls, even at home with the parents who should protect them, much less out among total strangers.

“They're so smart,” he agonized, “with cell phones, computers, and electronics, so sophisticated that it's scary—but they're still little kids.” He buttered a roll, sopped up some thick gravy, and savored the taste. “Ahhh, this is great, Con.”

“I know something even better.”

He put his fork down as her bare foot caressed his thigh. He caught her instep and caressed her toes.

“I can't help worrying about the kids,” he confessed, “especially after a day like today. Why do they call them the echo generation? I don't remember anything like it in the past. No surprise that their pop star icon has the initials B.S. I want that poster out of Annie's room.”

“Think inspirational thoughts about a happy, healthy, and fulfilling evening, sweetheart.”

 

“What's this?” Shiny pistils and stamens bristled from planters in every corner of their bedroom.

“Remember?” she said. “I told you I rearranged some things. The kids helped.”

“But where's—”

“Bedrooms should be kept free of clutter, so the chi can flow freely.”

“I don't even want to know what that means. Why is the bathroom door shut? And why'd you move the bed?”

“If a doorway and the head of the bed share the same wall, it can make you restless and disturb your sleep. If there's a door to the bathroom, it should be kept closed.”

“Nothing's disturbed my sleep so far. But walking smack into the bathroom door in the middle of the night just might do it.”

“You're still unenlightened, sweetheart.” She pulled her sunshine-yellow T-shirt off over her head. “From now on we are all about living in harmony with nature. You'll see. Relax and feel the vitality. Would you rather try the utility room?”

“No way.” He watched her unbutton her shorts.

 

Jennifer returned home shortly before midnight and went straight to the refrigerator. Her dad joined her for Oreos and a glass of milk.

“How's your summer been so far, sweetie?”

“Swell, Daddy,” she said.

“Good. Jen,” he said. “Tell me, what kind of things are you thinking about sex these days?”

“Euuuuw, Daddy!” She made a face and fled to her room.