Picture Me Dead (12 page)

“I took Sunday off.”

“To read files all day?”

“I went to see my dad.”

“Good. All right. I've seen the forensic reports on the girl that jogger found Friday. And yes, it's similar to the murders five years ago. And yes, we'll reinvigorate the task force. And if you can swear you'll keep a level head and unproven
speculations
to yourself, you'll head it again, Detective.”

“I can keep a level head.” He hesitated. “Thanks.”

“No one knew what was going on back then the way you did. It's always been your case, and it only makes sense to keep it that way. Of course, this whole thing could be some kind of a—”

“Copycat killing? Yes, sir, we all know that.”

“And you're not the Lone Ranger, Jake. We solve things by being a team.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, then. Meeting at ten-thirty, my office.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Franklin will be in from the FBI. You have a problem with that?”

“No, sir.” He did, but he wasn't about to tell that to Blake. And he was damned determined that he wasn't going to tell Franklin, either.

“Belk, Rosario, MacDonald and Rizzo will round out the group. You can always call in whatever uniformed personnel you need.”

“Sounds like we've got a good team and good backup.”

“Ten-thirty,” Captain Blake repeated.

“Yes, sir, we'll be there.”

He hung up, staring thoughtfully at the receiver.

“Well?” Marty said.

Jake shrugged. Marty was a big fan of Sir Conan Doyle.

“As your Victorian super sleuth liked to say, Marty, the game is afoot.” He added, “Ten-thirty, Captain Blake's office. He's called in the other shifts for a meeting. We're reinvigorating the old task force, using the same crew. We've got Belk and Rosario, MacDonald and Rizzo. Oh, and Franklin from the FBI.”

“Franklin?” Marty said with dismay.

“You got a problem with that?” Jake said.

“Problem? Me? Hell, no,” Marty said, starting around from Jake's desk to take a seat at his own.

“Yep, hell no, no problem,” Jake said.

“Fuck,” Marty moaned.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Fuck,” Marty repeated. He shook his head. “Franklin,” he said. He looked bleakly at Jake. “We got a problem.”

“We'll get past it.”

“Yeah, sure,” Marty said. He punched information into his computer, ready to search the available records. He was still shaking his head.

“Fuck.
Franklin,
” he repeated.

“I hear you, Marty,” Jake assured him.

“We'll get past it,” Marty aped.

“We'll get past it, because nothing,
nothing,
is going to take us off this case. Nothing—and no one.”

“Right. Nothing and no one,” Marty agreed.

Later, after they'd both spent the early morning reviewing reports and researching the records, Jake rose to tell Marty it was time for the task force meeting.

He was still shaking his head. And when he rose, reached for his jacket, and joined Jake for the walk to the captain's office, he said again, “Fuck. Franklin.”

Jake stared at him.

“Last time. That was it,” Marty swore.

“You sure? 'Cause if not, get it out—now.”

“Fucking
Franklin?
” he said vehemently. Then he grinned. “All right. I got it out.” He shrugged. “The guy is efficient. He's just such a…prick. He even walks like he's got a broom up his ass. But he is good with a computer.”

“Right. Ten-twenty-eight. Let's get in there.”

“Fucking Franklin.”

“B
asics,” Sergeant Brennan announced firmly to his class. “Basics. Why do we harp so much on the basics?” It was a rhetorical question. “Because you forget those basics, and every bit of hard work done by a score of cops and technical support personnel is down the damned drain. We're law enforcement officers. We're not the law. And nothing works without the law. You people have all passed your tests to get into this class. You've made it through your background checks, and you're months along now. Hell, we've given you real bullets. In another few months, you'll graduate, and you'll be looking to make your careers as police officers. You've all come into this with different dreams, different goals. None of it will amount to crap if you ever forget the basics. First, what the hell are we here for? Jacoby, that question is for you.”

Brennan pointed to Arne Jacoby, in the seat next to Ashley. Jacoby had a look that could make him appear to be the best protector in the world—or the meanest son of a bitch. He was six foot four and pushing three hundred pounds of pure muscle. He was a handsome guy, not just black, but ebony, with a shaven head and great features. Against the almost shimmering dark beauty of his skin color, he had startling green eyes.

Jacoby grinned. Although each academy class learned from a variety of experts in different fields, Brennan was their sergeant, their main instructor for their journey through training. He was a good guy; the class liked him. He could be tough, he didn't tolerate much, and he spoke often about the morality expected from a police officer. He believed passionately in everything he said. But despite his propensity for waxing on at length about tenets, ethics and morals, Jacoby had been paying close attention.

He stood.

The class, in their chairs, looked up by rote.

“To protect and serve,” Jacoby told Brennan.

“There you have it. Thank you, Jacoby. That's our main function. Not to harass the law-abiding, not to seek out crimes where they don't exist. To protect and serve. However, we all know that there are criminals out there, people who set no value whatsoever on human life. You've seen the tapes. You know the statistics. You know that cops have pulled people over on traffic violations and been shot in the face because they've happened to pull over a perp guilty of another crime or just a plain old psycho. But say you know you've got someone ahead of you in a car with an APB out on them. There's a warrant out for this person's arrest. What's the most important thing to remember?”

“Not to get yourself shot in the face?” Jacoby asked.

Brennan grinned, allowing Jacoby the pure logic of that one.

“And after that?”

“Reading the guy—or the woman—their rights.”

“Hallelujah!” Brennan said. “In the past weeks, you've listened to specialists on many aspects of crime scene investigation. You'll hear from more. Anthropologists, entomologists, dactyloscopists, botanists, chemists, ballistics experts, mathematicians, profilers, serologists, psychologists and linguists. In today's law enforcement, the work of all these people is incredibly important. But all their work means nothing if police work is shoddy at the ground level. That's when your basics come in. Someone tell me about Miranda warnings. Montague, you're up.”

Ashley stood as Arne Jacoby sat and began to go through the cautions delivered to every suspect—and familiar to anyone who'd ever been to the movies or watched a crime drama on TV.

“Very good, Montague. What about ‘the fruit of the poisonous tree'?”

“Say an officer failed to give a suspect in a murder case a Miranda warning. In talking to the suspect, the officer found out where the murder weapon was hidden and discovered the weapon. A judge could bar the weapon from being admitted as evidence, because it was located from information gained before the suspect had been informed of his rights.”

Brennan nodded, indicating that Ashley should sit again. “You all know these things. I know you all know them. You've come a long way. You've taken polygraphs, you had to study to pass your tests to get into the academy. My point this morning isn't to teach you new things. My point is that you must never forget the basics of good police work. Maybe you'll never join the vice squad, maybe the last thing you ever want to be is a homicide detective. But what's important is this simple fact—you never know when you're going to be the first officer called to a crime scene. What you do in those first moments can make or break a case. Whatever details you may learn in the future, whatever expertise you gain, remember that the most carefully gleaned information can be thrown right out of court if the basics of law enforcement are forgotten or neglected. All right, ladies and gentlemen, that's it for now. Lunch break. This afternoon, we'll be listening to a serologist and blood spatter specialist. Get out of here. Go eat hot dogs or
arroz con pollo
and think about what I've said.”

The class began to rise and filter out. “Hey, Montague, you want the hot dog or the
arroz con pollo?
” Jacoby called to her. “Whoops, what was Brennan thinking? They don't even have
arroz con pollo
at the roach coach. What'll it be, hot dog or mystery meat sandwich?”

“Hot dog,” she said to him. “Except I have to check my messages, make a few phone calls.”

“Hey, you know what? I'll splurge and buy the hot dog for you. We'll be out at the tables. Want a Coke?”

“Sounds good. I'll get you next time.”

“Buy me a beer one Sunday at your uncle's place.”

“It's a deal.”

Jacoby went off to procure their food. Ashley stood to one side as she checked her cell phone for her messages.

True to his word, Nick had called the hospital. Stuart was still in intensive care. Only family members were allowed to visit.

He was, however, hanging in. Nick apologized at the end of the message, telling her he was sorry he hadn't been able to glean more information.

It was not much, but Stuart was still hanging in. He was alive. And while he was alive…

There was hope.

And still…

She felt no better. It was wrong, simply wrong. People changed, yes. It was a tough world, drugs were rife. But…Stuart? She whispered a quick prayer that he would continue to hang on, that he would live, that he would awaken and explain what had happened. Clear himself, his name, his reputation.

But what if he didn't wake up?

 

“Well?” Jake said.

Marty had just hung up. After the meeting, they had spent hours on the phone.

Marty nodded at him. “We're not going to get anywhere chasing after John Mast, Bordon's old office manager.”

“No? He got out of prison six months ago. He was working at a halfway house in Delray.”

Marty looked surprised. “How did you know that? Sorry, stupid me. You never let it go, did you, Jake?”

“I knew where he was, yeah. I've made it my business to at least know where people were. That's why I had you checking on him.”

“Well, don't go thinking we can get anything on him.”

“Why not?”

“He'd been out of prison less than two months when the plane he was on went down just north of Haiti.”

So he was dead. Jake was irritated with himself. He'd been following people, but he hadn't followed John Mast closely enough.

“We really need an I.D. on the new victim.”

“In the next few days, they'll start doing a facial reconstruction. There's no way we can use a picture, but a good artist's rendering may get us a few bites.”

Jake picked up the telephone again, telling Marty, “I'm talking to the guys at the paper. We'll make sure we've got them ready to help in every way. We'll get the picture out there in print,
big,
and we'll get it to the news stations, as well. Someone had to have seen her down here.”

As he dialed, one of the other lines rang. Marty picked it up, covered the receiver quickly and said, “I'll take the newspaper. You probably want to deal with this.”

Jake frowned, hit the line button and said, “Dilessio.”

“Jake?”

Inwardly, he winced. “Yeah, Brian.”

“I saw the story in the paper. There's a new murder victim.”

“I know that, Brian.”

“Maybe Nancy did know something she shouldn't have known.”

“You know I've worked that angle damned hard.”

“Yeah, but now you've got another dead woman on your hands.”

“I'm aware of that.”

“Yeah, I know…just thought I should check in with you. And…I'm sorry about the other night.”

“It's all right.”

“If you ever need me to help out on this, in any way…”

“I'll call you. I really will,” he added.

“I know how to do research, how to dig.”

“Brian, trust me, I'm hitting some major dead ends. I'd call for help in a second.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

Brian hung up.

“You two getting to be buddy-buddy now?” Marty asked, frowning.

“No—he showed up drunk on my boat the other night, ready to beat me up.”

“Ah. So he still believes…”

“Well, there is one thing we both believe. Nancy would never have killed herself. And she wasn't prone to accidents.”

“Yeah, well,” Marty murmured, looking down at one of the old files. “Man, this drawing really sucked. We have to get someone better than Dankins.”

Jake glanced at the drawing done before they'd been able to identify their first victim. It must have been a hell of an assignment for the forensic artist, with so little of the face left, but there didn't seem to have been much effort put into the likeness.

“Dankins was let go about two months ago,” he told Marty.

“I hadn't heard.”

“That
is
a lousy likeness. Could be anyone.”

“Yeah, it looks like my aunt Betty—and drunk on Halloween at that.”

Jake stood and reached for his jacket. “You ready? We'll start today with Mary Simmons.”

“Housemother for the old cult?”

“Yep, I found her. She's joined with the Hare Krishnas, and she's agreed to speak with us this afternoon.”

“You found her?” Marty asked quietly. “Or you've known where she's been all along?”

“Does it make any difference?” Jake asked.

“Hell, no. I just love that music and visiting people in robes and Mohawks. Sounds like a great afternoon,” Marty said. “Can't wait. Let's get to some legwork.”

 

Finished with her messages, Ashley went to join a number of her classmates at the picnic tables. Arne had gotten her a hot dog and an array of little condiment packets. She thanked him as she sat. Besides Arne, Gwyn Mendoza, Dale Halloran and Izzy Rodriquez were also seated at the table.

As she sat, she was surprised to see Len Green striding toward them. He waved to the group as he came up to join them, smoothing back his hair. Despite the fact that he kept it fairly short, unruly dark blond strands were flying away. He had a good face, though, lean and aesthetic. He was an excellent subject for a drawing.

“Hey, Len,” Izzy called.

As he joined them, Ashley wondered if he and Karen might not make a good match. Len was dedicated to his job, and so was Karen. They both believed in what they were doing. Karen had gone directly for her goal, once she had decided she wanted to teach young children. Len had told her he'd joined the academy after acquiring a business degree and spending a few years traveling for work. Business, he said, hadn't suited him, despite the fact that he'd stuck out the four years for his degree. He was working now in a patrol car with a senior partner and loved it.

“Don't look, it's a real cop,” Gwyn teased. “What brings you here? Aren't you supposed to be solving crime down in south Dade?”

He made a face. “Paperwork. I wonder if the public knows how much paperwork we have to do? A guy sneezes at the wrong time during an arrest and it turns into twenty pages of paperwork. No, no, don't go quitting the academy. I'm exaggerating.”

Ashley laughed with the others. Len had never been one of the regulars at Nick's, but that was where she had met him. He wasn't actually a boater or fisherman. He'd been out with a friend for a day, and when they'd come into Nick's after long hot hours on the boat, he'd noticed her studying the requirements for entry into the academy. They'd started talking, and then he'd come back a few weeks later, and that time, he'd asked her out.

By then she'd been scheduled to take the test for the academy, and she'd been able to tell him that she didn't want to date anyone until she'd completed her training. He'd asked her if they could have a meal together now and then, and maybe take in a movie. They'd done so, and she'd valued the friendship. And now it would be great if he and Karen did hit it off.