Cold Case Squad (30 page)

The caller had begun to both interest and irritate Stone. "You call
yourself a detective?"

"So why don't you solve your own case? Chase your parents' killer.
You know nothing." It was the same damn guy.

"Sir, do you have some information to offer? If not, you shouldn't
be tying up this line."

"Who would tell you anything? You—"

"Yeah, I heard. I know nothing. Don't be too sure. How will you
prepare for Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement? How can you call the
people you have wronged and ask for forgiveness,
mechila
? The
dead can't forgive." The caller gasped and hung up. A sick puppy, or
maybe the killer.

Stone stared at the telephone.

It rang two minutes later. "You know nothing. Nothing. What would
make you say something like that?"

"It's true," the detective said quietly. "Isn't it?"

The man hung up again.

The phone rang.

No one spoke but he could hear the man's raspy breathing.

"Why don't we meet and talk in person?" Stone said. "
Kayn
aynhoreh
. Do you know what that means?"

"Of course," Stone said. "The evil eye."

"You have brought a
kayn aynhoreh
on yourself. And your
grandmother."

Downstairs, in PIO, Milo Ross, perspiring and shaky, implored anyone
with a clue to his wife's whereabouts to come forward. Flyers bearing
Natasha's photograph, her description, and the offer of a $100,000
reward were being distributed to the media and throughout the city.

The former CEO had already hired a small army of private
investigators.

"I don't mean to imply that you're not doing enough," Ross explained
to K.C. Riley. "But I have to use every possible resource. Time is
crucial. She could be in danger. You're still a young woman,
Lieutenant. You have no idea what it's like to think you've lost
someone you love."

She had no answer.

"The poor guy is throwing dollars at anybody he thinks might bring
her back," Riley said to Agent Conrad Douglas, who stood off to one
side as the press conference broke up.

"You here on official business?" she asked.

"If I say no, does that mean I can take you to dinner?"

"No," she said.

"What's wrong with me?" he demanded.

"Not a thing. You're terrific."

"Right. Great guys like me don't come along every day."

"I know. That's probably a good thing. I couldn't handle another
one."

Leads poured in for the next twenty-four hours as the search for
Natasha went nationwide.
America's Most Wanted
offered to
feature the hunt for the missing woman. And Milo Ross increased the
reward to $250,000 for her safe return.

Tips came in, fast and furious. Natasha was "seen" on a yacht on the
Intracoastal Waterway, gambling in Vegas, cheering the Fish from the
bleachers at a Marlins game, and driving a school bus in Opa-Locka. One
of Ross's private detectives immediately jetted to Mexico to
investigate a rumor that Nelson was a procurer who kidnapped women for
a white slavery ring.

Another caught a transatlantic flight to follow up on reports she'd
been seen at Monte Carlo in the company of an elusive international
fugitive.

Strangers scheduled a candlelight vigil. Natasha's smoldery eyes and
pouting smile were everywhere, on television, in the newspapers, on
every pole, and in every storefront.

Natasha was not on a yacht, in Monte Carlo, or in Vegas.

While her husband's private detectives trotted the globe, it was
business as usual at the county dump. Trucks waited in line to empty
the Dumpsters picked up from construction sites.

As one did, a bulldozer driver, assigned to flatten and redistribute
the load, spotted a tangled wave of dark hair and long legs amid the
falling debris.

The trucker who had delivered an empty container to the San Souci
Towers and removed the full one had noticed a foul odor, but people
will sometimes leave a dead animal in a Dumpster.

Natasha had been there all along.

When police first searched the San Souci site, an officer had lifted
a corner of the lid. All he saw was a clutter of Styrofoam, plastic,
and cardboard. They were hoping to find a live woman at the time.

K.C. Riley and the chief medical examiner pieced together what
happened.

Nelson took Natasha to the building to talk, hoping for an
assignation, or to show off his work on the penthouse gardens. They
quarreled, she eluded him and fled.

Without a remote device, the elevator would only take her to the
lobby. Nelson must have been in close pursuit, on the second elevator,
still clutching her dress. She reached the lobby moments before him and
hid inside the Dumpster near the large rear double doors.

She pulled a piece of cardboard over herself, remaining silent as he
searched. He called her name, pleaded for her to come out.

A witness, a boy passing the site on his bicycle, heard Nelson's
shouts. Then saw him storm out to his green truck and speed away.

After everything became quiet, with Nelson gone, Natasha tried to
escape the Dumpster. Too late.

Her hiding place was nearly full of flattened cardboard cartons that
had contained appliances, Styrofoam packing, and plastic wrapping, but
beneath them, at the bottom of the Dumpster, were partially empty cans
of paint solvents and heavily saturated rags.

Panting, breathing heavily in the dark after she dropped the lid
down over herself, she had quickly become disoriented.

Damage to her manicure, broken fingernails, cuts, and abrasions
indicated that in her confusion she had pushed, then clawed at the
hinged side of the lid instead of the side that would have opened
easily.

"Paint solvent is an anesthetic agent," the medical examiner
explained. "She probably thought at first that it was just a funny
smell, but she quickly became groggy, then was overcome."

Toxicological tests confirmed the cause of death: asphyxiation due
to inhalation of petroleum distillate, mineral spirits used to dilute
the high-quality oil-based paint
applied to the luxury building's baseboards and cupboards.

"She was in no pain," the medical examiner assured a brokenhearted
Milo Ross. "She simply went to sleep."

Her death was ruled accidental.

I call April Terrell after we get back to the hotel. I hate to wake
her, but can't wait.

"Sorry to bother you this late, but I have two questions."

"Sure. Whatever I can do to help." She sounds sleepy.

"When did you and the kids go to Mystic Seaport in Connecticut?"

"How did you know?" she asks. "Last summer I took the children to
see the old whaling ships and the historic sites. Mystic has a fully
restored 1850s whaling village and a planetarium."

Nazario was right. I should have known. "That recent, just last
year?"

"Yes, we'd never been there before."

It explained a lot.

"What's your other question?"

"When you first came to us, you said it was because you'd begun to
see Charles wherever you went. How long ago did that start? When was
the first time you thought you saw somebody who looked just like him?"

She pauses. I hear her breathing. "Sometime last summer," she says
slowly. "I don't remember exactly… Oh my God! I think we were on
vacation. I didn't mention it to the children. You think he was there?
That it was actually him that I saw? Is it possible?"

"Looks that way. That sighting must have triggered something in your
subconscious. Soon you thought you were seeing him everywhere. We
haven't found him yet. But we will."

"So it is true," she whispers, stunned.

"I wouldn't tell the kids yet, but I'd start choosing my words."

I know she won't sleep again tonight. I won't, either. I lie in the
dark too elated to sleep. It's as if we're at the end of a giant jigsaw
puzzle, when even the small pieces begin to fit. My mind races. So much
still to do. But it is coming together. Sometimes you can't do anything
right no matter how hard you try and other times, like now, the stars
align themselves in the universe.

I can't wait to tell Connie, but want to do it in person, when she's
lying next to me, in bed.

I want to high-five Nazario, but he's already sleeping like a baby
in the other twin bed.

I become paranoid alone in the wee hours and call the night security
guard to make sure he's awake, alert, and still on the job in Big Red's
lobby. He assures me all is quiet on the western front.

Still wide awake, I turn on the bedside lamp and thumb through a
copy of
USA Today
left outside our door. They print a
one-paragraph story from each state on an inside page. I look for
Florida's highlight of the day.

The U.S. Coast Guard, it says, arrested several Cuban smugglers
attempting to spirit a woman and three children to Miami. They'd been
spotted adrift in the Florida Straits after their engine quit. The
woman told a wild story, claiming she'd been abducted in Miami and was
being taken to Cuba against her will. Inventive minds these Cubans
have. The Coast Guard saw through it, of course. She and the kids were
repatriated to Cuba. The smugglers, who claimed to be fishermen, were
brought back in chains.

Only in Miami. I am anxious to return home to my family in the city
that is never boring.

I call Greg Everett at 7:00 a.m. The daytime security guard at the
Silver Briar has arrived on duty. All is cool, he says, trying hard to
sound like a real cop.

"Ten-four here, Sergeant. The subject hasn't left the building since
you left last night, sir."

I call Big Red a half hour later. I worried that when she sobered up
she might change her mind, but she has no regrets about last night.
She's chipper, sounds happy to hear from me, and talks a blue streak
about Miami.

She has to go to the bank, to the post office to have her mail
forwarded to Aunt Sylvia's address, and run a few other errands.

I don't spoil her good mood by bringing up her lies about the last
time she saw Terrell. We can wrest the truth out of her back on our
turf, in Miami.

I say we'll pick her up at two o'clock, to go to the airport.
Nazario has already checked departure times.

Like clockwork, Greg Everett calls breathlessly minutes later. He
sounds excited. "Your subject is leaving the building. Said she was
going to the post office."

"What's she got with her? Is she carrying anything?"

"Just a purse and a manila envelope."

"Okay, stay on it and ring me the minute she comes back."

"Another thing," he said. "It might be important. She said she's
taking a trip, to Miami."

"Excellent. Good work, Greg."

I fight it but can't resist calling Connie.

The answering machine picks up. "Hi, sweetheart," I say. "I'm out of
town on a case, but I'll be back in Miami tonight. I miss you, babe. I
really do. We'll be snowed under by paperwork and meetings tonight, but
let's talk first thing tomorrow. I miss the hell out of you. Can't wait
to tell you all about this case. Kiss the kids for me. Love you, honey."

I realize I haven't thought of Maureen since I left Miami. I think
of Connie and the kids all the time. Nothing like distance to clarify
things. I love my wife. I hope she still loves me.

Full of energy and hope, I shave, shower, and drink coffee.

Greg calls at eleven. Big Red is back. She told him she bought a
bathing suit. You can't say the woman isn't talkative. My life would be
simpler if all witnesses were so talkative.

Women. They never cease to amaze me. Their priorities boggle my
mind. Two cops are about to escort her back to Miami to discuss three
homicides, a wrongful execution, and numerous other little escapades,
including armed robbery and arson. So how does she cope? She buys a
bathing suit.

I call her. She babbles about wanting enough time to have her hair
done. "Lots of hairdressers in Miami," I say. She tells me about the
bathing suit, too. I can't imagine it being a pretty sight, but she
goes on about it being adorable, something about a tank. I don't know
if she's describing the suit or what she looks like in it.

She asks about publicity. Thinks it will enhance her plans for a
show biz comeback. "You saw
Chicago
, didn't you?" she demands.

I say I don't see many movies but she wheedles out of me a promise
that I won't let anybody snap her picture before she sees a good hair
colorist. Jo Salazar, the prosecutor, and my lieutenant, also female, I
say, will understand completely and guide her in that department.

Nazario is taking Terrell's photo to police headquarters to be
copied. I need to buy souvenirs for Connie and the kids, but I can do
that at the airport.

"I'll go baby-sit Big Red until we leave," I say. "I don't want her
having any second thoughts at the last minute."

He drops me off in front of the Silver Briar.

Something is missing from the pink marble lobby.

Greg, the security guard, is not at his post. Goddamn that kid!
AWOL, just when I'm about to write him a to-whom-it-may-concern letter
recommending he be leapfrogged to the head of the academy's waiting
list because of his diligent assistance to out-of-town police officers.

Probably just a bathroom break, but it pisses me off.

I take the slow-moving elevator to floor four.

A loud radio blares from inside Big Red's apartment, but she doesn't
answer, despite my hammering with her lion's-head door knocker. Must be
in the shower. I should've called first.

I try the knob. The door opens.

I call out her name and step inside.