Cold Case Squad (11 page)

They had once investigated a murder here. A pair of lovers had
sipped wine and reclined on a blanket beneath the towering silver-blue
Australian pines, lulled by the sounds of the surf, within sight of the
historic lighthouse.

The tryst ended badly, as so many do in Miami.

When he drowsed, she removed the piece de resistance from her picnic
basket: a .38 revolver. She shot him in the head at close range, then
turned the gun on herself.

McDonald was then a homicide sergeant and Riley a rookie detective.
She stood at that dreamy, seaside death scene, listened to an eerie
wind whistle through the dark shadows of the pines, and thought that
this was not a bad place to die.

"It's the first homicide we've had out here," a veteran, no-nonsense
crime scene technician announced, glancing up from his clipboard.

In sync, as always, she and McDonald had exchanged knowing smiles.
Wrong, McDonald told the tech, then explained a much older case.

Irate Indians had attacked the lighthouse 160 years earlier, at the
outbreak of the second Seminole War. The lighthouse keeper and his
assistant scrambled up into the tower, sawed away the wooden stairs,
and barricaded themselves inside. The Indians tried to burn them out.
Their fire ignited oil barrels stored in the tower's base. The heat of
the flames forced the trapped men out onto a high narrow ledge that
ringed the tower.

Indian sharpshooters killed the assistant. The lighthouse keeper was
wounded twice. Believing it to be his final act on earth, he hurled a
keg of gunpowder down into the fiery shaft, hoping to take a few
Indians with him.

To his surprise, he survived. Many of the Indians didn't. The
gigantic explosion generated outward, extinguishing the flames. The
surviving Indians fled, some on fire and screaming.

The crew of a passing schooner miles out at sea heard the explosion
and rescued the lighthouse keeper a day later.

Like the other doomed lovers, K.C. Riley. and McDonald would often
lie on the soft needle beds beneath the silver-tipped pines. They
talked about the lighthouse keeper, swearing his spirit still survived
on Miami's steamy and unpredictable streets. Residents made that clear
during the record-breaking crime wave of the eighties. Miamians, always
an unruly bunch, fought back with axes, knives, baseball bats, guns,
and machetes. Furious and fed up with crime, they took no prisoners.
They killed more criminals than the police.

Sometimes street justice is the only true justice.

K.C. Riley's small craft bobbed in the surf as she gazed at the
lighthouse, the beach, and the state park beyond. The huge pines were
gone, all fallen like jackstraws to Hurricane Andrew in '92. Apartment
and office towers rise, trees and presidents fall; only the lighthouse
had withstood time, angry seas, hungry tides, and half a hundred
hurricanes since 1900. The lone constant, she thought, a nail holding
past and future together in an ever-changing city that forgets people
and its own history too quickly. Daydreams of the past are a comfort
when the present is painful and there is no future.

The wind freshened. Lightning pirouetted like a drunken ballerina
across purpling clouds and a sky the color of regret. The sun sank as
though controlled by a dimmer switch, and she knew she'd lingered too
long.

"Did you know you made me stronger and better?" she cried. He had to
hear her. But her only answer was the rumble of thunder and a series of
wild, threatening lightning strikes. She clipped her safety light to
her vest and pushed the button. The small red flasher pulsated like a
heartbeat as she turned back, paddling against the changing current as
the wind grew stronger. At home in flatwater canoes and Whitewater
kayaks, she felt no fear. Gritting her teeth and grunting, she dug deep
with the paddle, barely able to maintain forward motion for the first
hundred yards. The wind showed no signs of switching direction.

Dark anvil-shaped clouds roiled toward her. Paddling furiously, she
winced at a blinding lightning strike nearby. Cracks of thunder like
rifle shots split the sky. The heavens rumbled and crashed in deafening
crescendos as though the gods were scoring simultaneous strikes in a
giant bowling alley.

"I dare you," she screamed into the wind. "Do it! I don't care. Take
me!"

The wind shrieked back, but she couldn't make out the words.

Rain pelted her face, mingling with tears as the boat ramp came into
sight.

She struggled hand-over-hand up the ladder against a drenching
downpour. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, dragged the
forty-five-pound kayak up onto the dock, then wrestled it onto the car
rack. She secured it and collapsed, breathless, in the front seat.
Soaked and shivering, she wished she had a drink.

Rain cascaded like Victoria Falls down the windshield of the Rodeo
as she slowly drove home, the visibility nearly zero. She sprinted to
the front door, slipping and skidding on wet grass and mud. As she
fumbled with the key, a tall, hooded shadow loomed suddenly among the
hanging spider plants on the rain-slick patio and rushed toward her.
Riley wheeled, startled, mind flashing on the gun still beneath her car
seat.

"What the fuck?"

"Hey! It's me. Where the hell have you been? Poor Hooker has been
barking her brains out."

Riley gasped, hand over her heart, heavy rain pelting her face.
"What the hell are you doing out here?"

"Stop answering questions with questions," Jo Salazar yelped. "I
hate it when you do that. Open the damn door. It's wet out here."

The women burst into the living room, dripping water. Hooker,
McDonald's old hound dog, stood hopefully in their path, tail wagging
expectantly, staring beyond them, out into the rainy night.

"No," Riley said bitterly. "He's not coming."

Rain streamed from her hair as she stepped to the liquor cabinet, an
ornate old sideboard inherited from her grandmother, found a half-full
bottle of vodka, and splashed some into a tumbler. She swallowed, eyes
closed.

"What?" she croaked, opening them to Jo's solemn gaze. "This stuff
gets the citizens of Moscow through cold Russian winters."

"This is a hot Miami summer." Jo shook her head, her big eyes shiny.

Riley ignored her and focused on the dog still standing stiff-legged
near the door. "She always does that," she said bleakly.

"It takes a while," Jo said softly. She yanked off the hooded rain
jacket she wore over a halter top and blue jeans. "They were together a
long time."

"Yeah, right."

Silence hung between them, more pained than awkward.

"Let me go hang this in the bathroom," Jo said.

Riley poured another drink before letting the dog out into the
backyard. Hooker plodded stoically into the downpour, which showed no
signs of letting up.

Jo returned, curly brown hair tousled, a bath towel around her neck.
She tossed another towel to Riley.

"Dry yourself off at least. You look like a drowned rat." Tall and
statuesque, with broad shoulders and hips created for childbearing, she
crossed her arms like an angry parent. "Where the hell were you?"

"Took the kayak out on the bay."

"Smart move. I was afraid of that when I didn't see it here. Don't
you check the weather anymore? My NOAA radio was broadcasting
thunderstorm alerts all afternoon."

"It's summer in Miami, Jo. You just said so yourself. Thunderstorms
are forecast every afternoon."

"You're lucky you're not a fried, drowned rat sleeping with the
fishes."

"What are you drinking?" Riley sounded exhausted as she dried her
face and hair.

"The usual," Jo chirped. "You got Earl Grey?" She stepped into the
galley kitchen, put the kettle on the gas stove, opened a cupboard, and
rummaged familiarly for the tea bags.

"I was worried," she said. "I called the station and they said you
weren't working."

"Who'd you talk to?"

"Burch, the sergeant."

"Wonder why he was still there?"

"Didn't ask." Jo took two mugs down from a shelf.

"So what are you doing here? Who's watching the kids?"

"Their dad—it's Ricky's turn for a change. He's making corn dogs.
They were looking forward to it."

"You want some dry clothes?" Riley pulled her drenched T-shirt over
her head. Her bra was soaked, too.

"Your stuff is all too small for big healthy girls like me. By the
way, have you lost weight?"

Riley shrugged, went to her bedroom, stepped out of her soggy shorts
and panties, and donned a short terry-cloth robe.

"Come on, Kath. You okay?"

"Sure, never better. Not."

"You should have taken time off."

"I didn't think it would be this hard." Riley sat barefoot on the
sofa, head in her hands. "I did a really stupid thing. The guys must
think I'm nuts. We had a walk-in, a woman who thinks her ex-husband's
death twelve years ago was no accident, that it was murder."

"So?"

"He died in a flash fire, burned beyond recognition." Riley's words
were barely audible.

Jo winced and took a deep breath.

"I immediately jumped on it, ordered the guys to chase it, top
priority. It's not even a homicide. It's classified as an accident. But
you know who I saw when I looked at the scene pictures. They freaked me
out. The guys are really pissed."

"They'll get over it. It's no big deal to check out."

"It's not fair to them. They have more important, real cases to
work. They always thought I was a bitch. Now they think I'm a crazy
bitch."

"So just be up-front. Say you reread the file, rethought it, and
they can drop it. You're the boss, remember?"

"Maybe you're right. Stone would appreciate it. He's hot on an
important case."

The teakettle whistled.

"None for me," she said, as Jo poured. Riley reached for the vodka.

"Did you eat today?" Jo deliberately poured a second cup. "Want me
to fix you something?"

"No, I couldn't. I had a big lunch," Riley lied, and sipped her
drink.

"Jesus, Kathy, you never used to drink alone."

"I'm not alone. You're here."

"Take some vacation time. Go away for a while."

Riley snorted. "There wouldn't be a Cold Case Squad when I came
back. With all the budget cuts they're looking at, we're expendable. I
have to fight for our survival every day."

"Same thing in our office," Jo said. "Sometimes I wish I was still a
cop. Remember the fun we had in the academy?"

"What are you talking about, girlfriend? We were miserable, bruised,
banged up, and exhausted. Remember how you almost drowned during the
underwater swimming test?"

"Yeah, but it was exciting, and we made it." Jo's eyes sparkled. "We
kicked ass, kid. We showed 'em all."

"Who'da thought they'd turn out to be the good old days?"

"Well, I ain't having much fun now. We've got a hiring freeze, no
raises, no support from Alexander the not-so-great, and you wouldn't
believe my caseload."

"How is your boss, the state attorney, these days?"

"Still an ignoranus, both stupid and an asshole."

"He keeps fucking with my detectives. He hates cold cases."

"And he's not exactly crazy about you. The man takes rejection
poorly."

"He can't still hold it against me, not after all these years. He
just wants every case on a silver platter, tied up in red ribbon, with
a smoking gun and a signed confession. It's too risky for his record to
take on old cases with witnesses who have died or forgotten and
outmoded evidence-gathering methods the defense can target. The man's
got no
cojones
."

"What do you expect from a damn politician? He's hung up on his
conviction rate and the next election. He has his eye on higher office.
And the public doesn't give a rat's ass. We're not important anymore
because the crime rate has dipped," Jo said. "Sociologists do studies
trying to figure out why. Politicians brag and hog the credit, when
we're the ones who really helped make it happen."

"You arrest them. I prosecute them and they ship out to the Graybar
Motel. That's why the crime rate is down, because we've got more than a
million scumbags behind bars, the biggest prison population in U.S.
history. Ten percent of the people commit ninety percent of the crime;
lock up that ten percent or close to it and voila, the crime rate
declines. Duh. No mystery there." She reached into the refrigerator,
sniffed a bottle, then wheeled, her expression accusatory.

"Yuck! Kathy, the milk is sour. Damn. Can't I come over here and
drink tea with milk and sugar like a civilized person?"

Riley put down her drink, leaned forward, and covered her eyes.

"Okay, okay, Kath. I'll rough it, go commando, do without. You don't
have to cry about it."

She knelt next to her friend and put her arm around her shoulder.
Riley leaned on her and wept.

"It's my fault." Her voice trembled. "He's dead, and it's my fault."

"You
are
a crazy bitch. You had nothing to do with it,
sweetheart."

"That's the point, I did nothing. I didn't fight for him. When he
told me he was in love with that reporter, I was so sure it wouldn't
work that I told him to go for it if he felt that way. And he did. I
was so stupid," she said miserably. "I took the high road, thought it
was best, that we'd be closer when he came back. See, I was in it for
the long haul. Worst-case scenario, I'd still be his friend, which was
better than nothing."

"But I was so sure he'd come to his senses, that he'd be back, I let
him go. I was so stupid."

"But, honey, you had no choice. You can't make somebody love you.
All the stalkers in jail can attest to that."

"You can try. I should have raised holy hell, tried talking him out
of it, told him all the reasons why it wouldn't work. I could have
thrown myself at him, plied him with sex till he was too exhausted to
even remember her name. Jo, it works for some people. I mighta pulled
it off. Instead, I caved to my pride, didn't want to embarrass myself,
told myself that we were meant to be, sooner or later it would happen.
I counted on it. Who knew there'd be no later because the damn reporter
had a friend with a crazy ex-husband?"