Cold Case Squad (22 page)

Big Red's real name was Linda Pickett, aka Desiree. Last seen in
South Florida headlining the show at the Place Montmartre.

When the club shuttered after owner Chris Martelli and a young
dancer
were murdered, Linda Pickett had apparently packed up her python and
left town.

Most people assumed she'd married the boyfriend she'd been involved
with and retired from the business. Nobody had heard from her since. A
local relative, an aunt, lived in North Bay Village. Linda had often
stayed with the woman while performing at Beach clubs.

The aunt's name, also Pickett. "First name maybe Sara or Saundra,
something with an S."

"Hope she's still around," Burch said. "Good work."

"But that ain't the half of it, Sarge."

Desiree, Big Red, was more than an employee. She'd known Chris for
years. "She was a former squeeze who apparently stayed friendly with
the guy even after he moved on to younger girls."

The murdered club owner had been the dark prince of Miami Beach
nightlife. Into more than just booze and strippers, he was deeply
involved in drug trafficking, loan sharking, prostitution, and all the
other shady businesses that thrive in South Beach.

Some had believed that Chris kept the bank for all those operations
stashed in a bookcase safe at the club. Big bucks. The money had
reportedly vanished with the killer.

Burch and Nazario locked eyes.

"A night's receipts were small change compared to what was in that
safe. Word on the street at the time was that nobody was sure if the
killer stole the big cash, or if the cops who showed up took it, or
even if the cops killed him for it."

"What about Scheck, the guy they busted?"

"My CI says that the Miami Beach cops were happy as hell to close
the
case in a hurry. Some were on the take, some worked for the dead guy.
The last thing the department wanted was outsiders looking at their
high-profile investigation."

"Shit," Burch whispered. "Scheck is dead. What the hell are we into
here?"

"
Dios mio!"
Nazario said. "The State of Florida executed
the wrong man."

Nazario was on the telephone when Burch's cell rang again.

This time Burch sent it sailing through the air. It clattered to the
floor, skittering between their desks.

"Hey, hey," Nazario protested. "Bet it's busted now."

"You heard it," Burch said. "Damn piece of crap's been ringing
nonstop all day. Wrong numbers, every one of 'em weird guys, sickos,
perverts. This some kind of joke? What the hell's going on?"

"Let's see the thing. Hope you didn't kill it," Stone said. "I'll
answer it next time it rings."

"You're not in for a long wait," Burch warned. "I'm telling you, you
don't want to talk to these guys. There it is again."

Stone reached under the desk, retrieved the phone, and answered it.

"No, he's not here right now, but I can take a message."

Burch tried not to listen to the conversation, which went on for
some time.

"You wanna do what?"

Burch nodded grimly, his expression saying
I told you so
.

"Yeah, I see, and what would the date on that be? Sure thing, I'll
check it out. It's a mistake. Do me a favor and don't call this one
again. No. Not me either. You're wasting your time. Okay, if you
insist." He jotted down a number. "Thanks."

"Be right back, Sarge. I gotta go get a copy of the South
Beach
Times
. Padron must have one down in PIO with all the others."

He returned a few minutes later with the tabloid open to a back page.

"Okay, Sarge, solved your mystery." Stone looked pleased. "Just
remember, lay off my problems with Padron, PIO, and the press. They're
not my fault. And I presume—I hope—that your present problem is not
your fault. At least directly."

"What're you talking about? Spit it out, Sam."

"You're in the classifieds, Sarge. The personals to be exact. Under
'Men Seeking Men.' "

"Let me see that." Burch snatched the paper. "Which one?"

"The one that says 'Boy Toy' Listen to this." He read the ad aloud.
"'I have a smooth, toned body, a tight butt, and strong hands. Seeking
an older male to help bring out the feminine side of me for fun, games,
and a possible LTR.'"

"What the hell is an LTR?" Nazario asked.

"Long-term relationship, something you ain't familiar with," Stone
said.

Nazario picked up the paper. "Look at these. Whoa! You see the ones
under 'Women Seeking Women'?"

"Connie," Burch said grimly. "She thinks this is funny. Well, it
ain't. Enough is enough."

"The guy insisted on leaving his number," Stone said. "In case you
change your mind and want to give him a call."

The cell phone rang again.

"Let me get it." Nazario answered. His expectant grin faded. "Hold
on a minute. He's here."

Burch shook his head, frantically signaling no.

"Sarge. She says it's Maureen Hartley."

Burch took the phone back to his desk.

"Uh-oh. You know who that was," Nazario told Stone.

"The other woman. The mother of the girl, the surviving victim in
the Chance case," Stone said.

"Right. When she surfaces, it's trouble for the sarge."

"When are he and Connie gonna stop the games and realize they're
meant for each other?"

"Maureen, what's wrong?" Burch was saying into the phone. "Calm
down. Okay. Okay."

His stomach churned. She was weeping. "What the hell's going on?"

"I'm sorry, Craig, I'm so sorry. I don't have anybody else to turn
to. Donald and I quarreled. He pushed me against the wall. I'm leaving.
But I have nowhere to go."

"Maureen, Maureen," he said helplessly, running his hand through his
hair.

"Look, I can come and take you to a shelter for battered women, or
to your daughter's place. But, hon, I'm in a world of trouble at home
myself right now. There's no way I can—"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She sounded on the verge of hysteria. "I
tried to reach you at your office an hour or so ago. You weren't there.
Your cell phone was busy every time I tried to call. So I called your
home number…"

He felt suddenly deflated as though something had just sucked the
air out of his lungs.

"Oh, jeez. You didn't…"

"Your wife answered. She was very rude. I told her it was an
emergency. But you wouldn't believe the things she said to me…"

"From the look on the sarge's face," Nazario told Stone, "the news
ain't good."

"Want me to call your daughter?" Burch asked.

"You said you'd always be there for me."

He sighed. "I'll be right there."

"I gotta go out for about an hour," Burch told the detectives.

Emma, the secretary, called after him as he left.

"Sergeant Burch, your wife is on line four."

Burch kept walking.

He still looked grim when he returned ninety minutes later.

"Good news and bad news," Nazario greeted him. "I got a line on Big
Red. Never arrested. But the Beach used to require city ID cards on all
nightclub employees. Showed her date of birth as January fourteenth of
'fifty-five, and a name and address for next of kin. Sylvia Pickett,
the aunt in North Bay Village. I'm heading up there now."

"What's the bad news?"

"Connie's been calling every five minutes. She's really steamed. Had
Emma in tears, and even Riley can't do that."

"Christ. Let's get out of here and go find the aunt."

They drove north on the boulevard, then east on the Seventy-ninth
Street Causeway to North Bay Village, three man-made islands dredged
out of Biscayne Bay in the 1940s.

The quaint waterfront village, only two miles long, was a sin city
from the sixties to the early eighties. All-night bars, strip joints,
and restaurants, known havens for hoodlums, hookers, and assorted shady
characters, including the local politicians, lined the causeway strip.

The area had since settled into a tranquil residential community but
was about to explode in a major upheaval. A dozen new high-rise tower
projects were under construction or in the planning. The once-quaint
village was about to double its population and blossom into a towering
urban skyline on the causeway between Miami and Miami Beach.

"I hate to pry, Sarge. But your thing with the little woman—"

"Look, I took Maureen to stay with a friend, another former model,
in Bal Harbour," Burch said, as they crawled through traffic behind a
slow-moving cement mixer. "I don't know what I'm gonna do."

"Connie's really on your case. You shoulda heard her on the phone."

"Maureen's timing sucks. She called my house today and Connie
apparently blew a gasket."

"That explains a lot." Nazario whistled. "If you want to make things
right with your wife, you've got to do some serious work. You're gonna
need more than a couple a Hail Marys and Our Fathers. More than candy
and flowers. You're gonna need a priest, a rabbi, and an exorcist. Your
wife is hunting your ass down, and you're about to become road pizza."

Sylvia Pickett didn't live in the small apartment house on Treasure
Island anymore. The manager of the building, a new hire, wasn't
familiar with her name. He said he'd check with someone else in the
office.

He came back shaking his head. "She hasn't been here for more than
three years. Apparently had a fall, broke a hip—"

"Please don't tell us she's dead," Burch said.

"I won't. She moved out to Winslow Park, that assisted-living center
that the Methodist Church runs for the elderly. Hear it's a pretty nice
place. A couple of friends here still stay in touch with her."

They drove west on the Palmetto Expressway.

"I hate visiting old-age homes," Burch muttered. "They're too
depressing, smell like urine and bleach. The forecast of things to
come, the place your kids are gonna dump you someday."

They turned into the complex.

"This is not your typical old-age home," Nazario said. "Look at this
place. God bless America."

Charming vine-covered town houses were lined up like spokes
radiating out from a large circular community center. There was a pool,
deck chairs, a gymnasium, a recreation hall, a library, and a craft
center.

On the south side was the golf course and to the north, tennis
courts. Bright flower beds bloomed everywhere.

Residents drove golf carts along paved pathways.

"I want to live here when I grow up," Nazario said. "Think my
pension will cover it?"

They circled the community center, then stopped an elderly man for
directions. He was driving a golf cart with two women passengers. "Tell
Sylvia that her boyfriend Bob said hello." He adjusted his jaunty cap
and pointed the way. "She'll know who I am."

Sylvia Pickett answered the door. Her short silver hair was stiff
and freshly sprayed as though she'd just left the beauty parlor. She
appeared to be in her seventies. An ornate cane stood unused near the
door. Her linen slacks and matching silk blouse were the same shade of
pastel blue.

Inside, the furniture was mostly antique, with a blue velvet settee
and two china cabinets displaying Hummel figurines. Her kitchen looked
as though it had never been used. Meals were available in the community
center dining room or could be delivered, she told them.

Bob was right. She knew who he was. "The man's in his second
childhood," she sniffed. "Absolutely girl crazy."

"He did have two of them with him," Nazario said.

Sylvia asked questions. She wanted to know what his companions
looked like. Which way their cart had been headed.

The woman appeared sprightly, talkative and active, her eyes bright
and birdlike, until they mentioned her niece Linda.

Sylvia Pickett slumped a bit in her chair, suddenly less animated.

"We need her current address."

The woman shook her head slowly as though trying to remember.
"Linda? I have no idea. Haven't seen that girl for years and years."

"She used to dance, right?" Burch said.

"Beautiful, a beautiful little girl," Sylvia said slowly. "Started
when she was five years old, or maybe it was six. Classically trained.
Would have been a ballerina but she grew too tall. Ballet dancers have
to be petite so they can be lifted and carried."

"You should have seen her in
Nutcracker
when she was just
seven or eight. I think it might have been 1962, or was it '63?
Prettiest, daintiest little thing you ever saw."

"You have pictures?" Burch asked.

She shifted in her comfortable chair, shoulders drooping into a
hunch. Sylvia Pickett seemed to be aging rapidly before their very
eyes. "Must have lost them when I moved, I guess."

"Where does she live now?"

She closed her eyes. "Who knows?" She sounded lost and forlorn.

"When did you last hear from her?"

"So many years ago…" Her voice trailed off. "Ten? Twenty? Who can
remember?"

"Where did she tell you she was going when she left town?"

"At my age, my memory is not what it used to be. Could you hand me
my cane, please?" She pointed to it with a shaky finger.

"Going somewhere?" Burch said.

"No." Her voice trembled. "I'm just lost without it."

Nazario fetched the walking stick from beside the door.

Sylvia Pickett held it across her lap, hands resting on it, as
though for support.

"Is she married now, or still single with the same last name?"

"Who?" The bird eyes widened, as though bewildered.

"Your niece. Desiree, Linda, Big Red," Burch said impatiently.

"Linda." She smiled dreamily. "I used to take her to dance class.
She'd wear these cute little tutus. Adorable, just adorable."

"Where'd you say she lives now?" Nazario asked.

The woman shrank, as though trying to make herself smaller, like a
tiny animal surrounded by predators.