Cold Case Squad (17 page)

"Why would he take the drawer?" Nazario said.

"Probably looking for his wallet and ID." Callahan shrugged. "We
found 'em later, in the bouncer's locker."

Burch frowned. "He leave prints at the scene?"

"Nah. Probably wore gloves. Jury only took twenty minutes to convict
'im."

"Where's he at now?" Burch asked.

"Excellent question." Callahan's wide grin exposed a crooked row of
tobacco-stained teeth.

"We might want to talk to him," Burch said.

"Good luck. Punk got two death sentences—too bad they could only
kill him once. They shot him fulla the juice last year."

As they trudged silently across hot sand to the car, Nazario paused
for another look at the puny craft on the beach.

"Things must be pretty bad where he came from," Burch said. "Think
they'll ever identify him?"

Nazario shook his head. "I hope he knows he made it."

"How do I look, Kath?"

Jo Salazar peered over her shoulder for a rear view of her navy blue
suit in the restroom mirror. "I bought these new pantyhose. They
flatten your tummy but padding in the back gives you a rounder, higher,
curvier butt. What do you think?"

She did an exaggerated model's spin as Riley stepped back for a
better look.

"You sure you didn't put them on backward?"

"Bitch! I'll wash your mouth out!" Jo squirted liquid soap from a
dispenser onto a paper towel and took a menacing step forward.

"Drop it, Salazar, or I'll handcuff you to the plumbing!"

Still laughing, they burst out of the restroom into the crowded
lobby and the path of Craig Burch.

"Glad you're enjoying this." He wondered how long it had been since
he'd seen her laugh. "I'm worried about Stone. The kid blows it and we
all look like shit."

Riley tossed her head in that feisty way she always had. "Have
faith, Sergeant. He's your detective, he won't let us down."

Sam Stone stared numbly through the glass window of Joe Padron's
office.

"We got CNN, we got Fox News, we got Court TV, we got the NBC, CBS,
ABC affiliates, and we got Telemundo," Padron crowed. "The
Herald
,
the
News
, and the
Sun Sentinel
are all sending
reporters and photographers."

Stone saw Burch and Nazario and breathed a sigh of relief. "Where
the hell have you two been?"

"Trust me. You don't wanna know right now. We'll bring you up to
speed later," Burch said.

"You think you're bummed, shoulda been with us." Nazario sighed.

"Think the lieutenant will change her mind?" Stone said.

Camera crews were positioning their lights. "Too late now," Burch
said. "It would be like trying to call back a bullet after you pull the
trigger."

They huddled in the small office as Padron stepped out to meet and
greet the working press.

"You have the right to remain silent," Burch warned Stone. "Anything
you say will be misquoted and used against you."

"Look at the bright side," Nazario said. "The FBI didn't catch Ted
Kaczynski, the Unabomber, for years. Didn't have a clue. They finally
go public, publish his writing in the newspaper, and his own brother
recognizes his wacky shit and drops a dime. Maybe this guy has a
brother who'll blow the whistle."

"Yeah. Sometimes the press can work in your favor,"

Burch said. " 'Member how it helped us in the Ricky Lee Chance case?
Ya just have to be smart about it."

"Is that reporter here?" Stone hoped for a friendly face.

"Nah, haven't seen her since McDonald."

"She took it hard," Nazario said.

"Not the only one," Burch said.

"He had a way with the ladies," Nazario said.

"Beats me," Burch said. "Personally, I liked McDonald. He was one
helluva cop. But the guy would screw a snake. All these women carrying
on like it's the end of the world? I don't get it."

"Who knows what women want? But wait till they get a load of you on
the tube." Nazario nudged Stone's shoulder. "You'll be answering fan
mail."

Padron came back and hustled the other two out.

"Looking good," he told Stone, brushing an invisible speck off his
lapel. "We got a full house. Remember, the average schmo can't get a
letter to the editor published. And forget TV But that crowd out there
wants to hear every word you say and repeat it to the world. The power
of the press. It's all yours. A politician would kill for this. Just
remember, be yourself, address each individual who has a question,
except the guy in the green shirt from the
New Times
. They're
always busting our balls."

Hell, Stone thought. I can do this.

"Excuse me a sec," he said, suddenly energized. "I need to make a
quick call."

"Make it brief, the chief just got here." Padron rushed out to greet
his boss.

"Gran," Stone said into the phone, "I'm gonna be on TV You remember
how to use the VCR?"

"Show time." Padron was back, checking his watch. "Here, fasten this
button. I'll get it. Look straight into the camera. Be strong,
forceful. Make us proud. Break a leg."

The cat playfully bats my hand with his paws as I fast-click the
remote from station to station.

Stone appears on every freaking channel, including CNN and MSNBC. He
is flanked by the flags of Florida and the USA, the huge city crest
embossed on the wall behind him.

Jockeying for position on the dais are all the brass and a number of
dignitaries. Even Miami City Commissioner Victor Sanchez. He represents
the district where Virginia Meadows was murdered. She is still one of
his constituents. Never mind that she's been dead for twenty-four years.

His loyalty is not unusual. Given the state of Miami politics,
Virginia Meadows has probably voted in every city election since her
demise.

The cat has abandoned the toys I bought him, his squeaky mouse, his
sparkly ball, and his feathered bird, to watch TV news with me. That's
more than Max the sheepdog ever did.

I bought a sandbox and set it up in a bathroom corner. Better to
keep him safe inside until his owners' return. I don't want to have to
explain how their beloved pet disappeared on my watch. I have enough to
explain—to my wife, my bosses, my detectives, and myself.

"He works for me," I tell the cat, as Stone's face reappears. His
words echo as I surf the channels. Earnest, indignant, and dedicated,
he is the voice of justice closing in on evil.

Intense and clear-eyed, hands gripping the sides of the podium, he
comes on like gangbusters, fielding questions with grace and aplomb. He
does the dance. Revealing few details—God forbid anybody should guess
how few there are—just enough to work the media into a lather.

Even the chief looks impressed.

The best sound bite, replayed over and over, is his response to a
reporter who asks what he has to say to the killer.

"You think you're getting away with it. Well, your worst bad dream
is about to come true. Keep looking over your shoulder," Stone said,
gesturing for emphasis, as if his words needed any. "Because we're
coming for you."

I envision thousands, maybe millions of viewers, all thinking:
I
wouldn't want that guy looking for me
.

"We know more about the killer than he realizes," Stone is saying on
screen. "We're cataloging his travel and his behavior."

I wish to hell it was all true.

A reporter asks how close we are to an arrest.

"Every day brings us another day closer," Stone says confidently.

Where does the Meadows case go from here? And what about Terrell?

If only those charred jawbones in a box at the medical examiner's
office could talk. Who were you? We know who you weren't. In the
morning we start pulling old missing persons reports filed around the
time of the fire.

Somebody's still missing. Somebody with bad teeth and a fatty liver.
What the hell does Natasha know? The faces of Terrell's kids haunt me.
How can he not be dead? How could he be alive all this time and never
contact them? If he really is alive and well, somebody should shoot him.

What about my kids, my wife?

I continue to channel surf, flicking the remote long after the cat
tires of the game. We lie on the bed and listen to this huge old empty
house creak, groan, and settle in the dark.

By the time the press conference ended and we brought Stone up to
speed, it was too late to ran by Downtown Automotive to pick up the
Blazer, so I managed to score a take-home car from the motor pool, a
beige Ford Taurus.

I miss my family and wonder what they're doing right now. Then I
realize that, though the Blazer would be a dead giveaway, nobody would
spot me in a beige Taurus.

So I grab the keys and skulk off under cover of darkness to spy on
my family like a stalker. The familiar drive home to Kendall comforts
me. I crack open another beer from the six-pack beside me on the seat
of the Taurus and start to feel better. Maybe this will soon again be
my daily commute. I am optimistic because Connie hasn't called the
station since noon. She is simmering down, I can feel it in my bones.
Or is that just wishful thinking?

Maybe it's ominous. She may have lost interest, found somebody else.
Even negative attention from her is better than no attention at all. I
miss her rubbing my shoulders and giggling at my jokes as she lies
beside me in our bed.

I can deal well with chaos on the job when my personal life is good,
and vice versa. It's hard to handle when both turn to shit at the same
time. Nirvana is when both are in sync. That's heaven. I didn't
appreciate it enough the few, rare times I was that lucky. I'll know
better next time. If there is one.

I slow down to turn onto our street, watching stealthily for
neighbors and family members. Our house is all lit up. I roll by
slowly. The grass needs cutting and the ficus hedge looks out of
control. Damn. If it isn't kept trimmed its invasive roots will
infiltrate the septic tank's drain field for sure.

Through the kitchen window, I see Connie's silhouette at the kitchen
sink. My heart flipflops. Since when did seeing her rinse dishes make
me sentimental? The light is on in Craig Junior's room. He's probably
listening to music or accessing who knows what crap on the Internet.
Hopefully he's cracked one of the books on his summer reading list.

A dancing pixie figure hops and spins past the living room picture
window. Annie, the youngest, who always rests her little head on my
shoulder when we watch TV together. Shouldn't she be in bed by now?

Where is Jennifer? She must be driving Connie's Saturn, which is
missing from the driveway. Or out on a date with some adolescent,
pimply-faced, sex-crazed teenage pervert who probably smirked when he
didn't have to shake hands and hear rules laid down by her father.

Down the street, I pull over to call her cell phone number and am
relieved when she answers on the first ring.

"Hi, honey."

"Daddy?"

"Wanted to say I miss you, honey."

"Miss you, too, Daddy. But Mom is, like, really unglued."

"Still?"

"Daddy, Melissa's having a coed sleepover at her house Friday night,
but Mom won't let me go. Is it okay with you if I do?"

"Coed?" What are parents thinking? "No way."

"Melissa's mother and stepdad will be there."

"If Mom said no, it's no."

"You never let me do anything!"

I tell myself that at least she hasn't hung up on me.

"What you doing now, honey?"

"I'm at work" She pouted.

"What work? Did you get a summer job?"

"The volunteer job, Daddy. Remember? I told you about it. Helping
out at the homeless shelter, folding donated clothes, unpacking and
sorting food donations."

"But you didn't say it meant night work. It's after ten o'clock."

"That's only once a week and then Father Jeffries takes us all out
for pizza. We're almost ready to go now. I'll be home by eleven-thirty."

"Be careful driving, honey. Don't forget to fasten your seat belt."
The thought of her driving home alone late at night makes me sick. What
is Connie thinking?

"I love you, Daddy. Miss you."

"Same here, sweetheart. See you soon."

I hang up, feeling empty, wishing we had talked more. The homeless
shelter is down near St. Luke's Church, not the best neighborhood.
She's so young. Driving alone.

I pull out from the curb, roll slowly by the house again, and turn
north, back to my temporary home. But a little detour and I find myself
near St. Luke's. The closest pizzeria is only a few blocks away. I see
them inside through the plate-glass windows, half a dozen girls and two
skinny boys along with Father Jeffries. Who the hell is he really?

I take his tag number when he leaves and make a mental note to check
on whether he has a rap sheet. I hold my breath as Jenny and three
other noisy kids pile into Connie's car. Teens with teen passengers are
among the highest-risk drivers. I am glad to see Jenny fasten her seat
belt. I trail them as she drives the other kids home.

I spot her on her cell phone as she's driving. She knows that's
forbidden. She rolls through a stop sign, head turned, talking to the
kids in the backseat, and I cringe.

I'm about to slap the blue light on the dash and pull her over
myself but can't risk blowing my cover.

I follow her from house to house as she drops off her friends, then
home. I watch from half a block away as she locks the car and darts
inside. She disappears so quickly that I wonder if the front door was
even locked. Maybe Connie heard the car in the driveway and opened it.
Max never did bark. He's worthless, useless, no protection.

I watch the house for more than an hour until, one by one, the
lights go out and it's dark. I drive away thinking of Joy Terrell's
sad, sweet smile. Death was Charles Terrell's perfect excuse for not
being a good dad. What, I wonder, is my excuse?