Shadows (22 page)

“How many people inside?”

“Couldn't tell. Had real dark-tinted windows.”

“Is it still there?”

“No, it left. After the taxicab did—one a those Beach taxis stopped at your granny's. That good-looking gal, dressed to go to business, went in, came right out.”

Ash? he wondered.

“Ever see her before?”

“Yeah, I think she was out here this mornin' with you.”

“Thanks, Will. Call me if you see anything else.”

He issued a BOLO to uniform patrol that the suspect vehicle might have been spotted, then called Ash's cell phone from his unmarked.

No answer.

Ash stepped out of the bathroom, lipstick in hand.

“Something's ringin', but I can't see where it is,” Gran said.

“My cell phone, in my jacket pocket.” Ash went to the closet as it stopped ringing. “Darn.” She frowned. “The battery's low. Ready?”

They stepped out into the hallway to board the elevator.

Stone called the hotel; their room didn't answer. He was already crossing the causeway, Miami Beach spread out before him, a fairy-tale kingdom of pastel towers and swirling clouds against an unforgivingly bright backdrop of brittle blue sky.

 

“Sure you wouldn't rather take a cab?” Ashton said as they stepped out of the mirrored elevator into the hotel lobby.

“No, I like walkin'. Exercise is good for me and I like to smell that ocean breeze. Used to bring Sonny over here to the beach when he was jus a little boy—taught him to swim myself. Had to learn it first. Did it by watching old Esther Williams and Johnny Weissmuller movies on TV. Most Overtown children never do learn to swim. Can't tell you how many little ones we lost, drowned in canals and pools over the years. Sonny learned real fast.”

The afternoon sun was radiant. “How beautiful those big palm trees look silhouetted against the sky,” Ash said. “Their trunks look like poured concrete, too perfect to be real.”

“Royal palms,” Gran said. “Have to be careful what you plant under 'em. When those big, heavy fronds drop off, they flatten everything underneath—people, too. Did you see that live oak in my backyard? Couldn't keep Sonny out of it when he was a boy. Used to be his favorite spot. Sittin' up in those branches was like flying, he said. The branches would sway in the wind and he could hear the birds and the leaves. Thought he might grow up to be a pilot.”

“What was he like as a little boy, Gran? And growing up, did he play sports in high school? Who did he take to the prom?”

“Where should I start?” Gran said. “Is that your phone?”

Ash answered.

“Yes, hello? Hello?” She sighed. “Darn, it cut out. This worthless piece of junk.”

“Never liked 'em myself,” Gran said.

“I think that was Sonny,” Ash said.

“I'm the only one who calls him that,” Gran said.

“Whoops. Would it make him mad if I did?”

“He might like it.”

“Would it make you mad?”

“I like it.”

Arms linked, they walked across the street, headed south.

 

Stone pulled into the hotel's porte cochere.

“You can't leave your car there, sir,” a uniformed valet barked.

“Police business.” Stone flashed his badge, strode into the lobby, and picked up the house phone. No answer in the room. He went up there anyway and banged on the door. Nothing. He took the stairs back down.

“I don't know, sir,” the front-desk clerk said. “I just came on duty. Maybe the doorman…”

“Yeah.” A big grin creased the doorman's weathered face. “The pretty girl with the elderly lady—her grandmother, I think.”

“Did they take a taxi?”

“No, they were walking.”

He drove south, toward the restaurant, scanning the street. To his relief, he spotted them on the far side of Collins Avenue. Ashton in her dark suit, Gran in her white dress, strolling amid sunburned tourists, tattooed locals, and conventioneers wearing name tags. Arm in arm, they were chatting as though they'd known each other forever. He smiled, enjoying the sight, and drove on, planning to intercept them at the next corner.

That's when he saw it, a big white pickup, headed north. It slowed down, changed lanes, moved closer to them. A dark-tinted window rolled down. He saw the gun barrel protrude.

Stone hit the brakes and leaned on the horn.

He saw Ashton's graceful neck as she turned, eyes wide, taking in the scenario instantly. She pushed Gran to the sidewalk just as the first shots were fired. Ash covered her with her own body, shouting for everyone to get down. People scattered and screamed.

Stone bailed out of the car, gun in hand, and sprinted across four lanes of traffic. Cars swerved and brakes squealed. He scaled a hedge in the landscaped median as two vehicles collided with the grinding sound of metal on metal.

A final shot was fired from the pickup as it roared north with the familiar high-pitched whine of its powerful engine.

Breathless, Stone assumed a shooter's stance and fired a single round. The back window shattered, but the Ford never slowed down, weaving and swerving through traffic too dense for him to safely fire again.

He ran toward the bright-red blood that stained Gran's white dress and spilled over onto the sidewalk.

He radioed for backup, for rescue, for an ambulance, and Miami Beach Police, rattling off the suspects' direction and vehicle description. Ashton, her own gun in hand, got to her knees.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said. “Take care of your grandmother….”

“Gran, Gran!” He looked into her frightened eyes as he searched for wounds, the source of all the blood.

“Please, Sonny,” she begged. “Call an ambulance. For her.”

He followed her eyes and looked up as Ash sagged back to the ground. “I'm okay,” she said, and spit up blood.

The crowd pressed in as police and rescue arrived. “We've got a federal officer down!” he told the first medic.

“Don't let her die, Sonny.” Gran's voice was shaky.

“They killed her!” wailed a voice from the crowd.

“It was him!” a woman screamed, and pointed at Stone. “He had a gun. He was running through traffic, shooting.”

“Don't move!” a pudgy Miami Beach policeman told him. “Put your hands on the car.”

“You're wasting time!” Stone shouted. “I'm a Miami police officer, that's my city car over there. The shooters are northbound on Collins, in a white 2003 Ford pickup with Mississippi tags! I can give you the license number.”

“Take it easy,” the cop said slowly. “Hand over your gun and let's sort all this out.”

“You've got to cover the causeways. Stop them before they make it back to I-95!”

“Hold your horses,” the cop said placidly. “What did you say your name was?”

“You stupid son of a bitch! Where's your supervisor!”

 

Miami Beach police officers sighted the fleeing pickup speeding westbound on the 79th Street Causeway. When they tried to stop it, the two pursuing squad cars collided. One spun off the other and slammed into a fully loaded North Bay Village garbage truck. Both patrol cars were totaled.

Ash was airlifted to the trauma center.

Stone drove there with Gran.

“Every cop in the county is looking for them,” Riley assured him by radio. “You'll be the first to know when we spot them.”

Ash was unconscious, suffering from a chest wound, en route to surgery by the time they arrived.

Full of grief and rage, Stone punched the wall. They had killed his parents, Ray Glover, and a young civil rights worker. They shot Ashton and tried to kill him and his grandmother. And they were still out on the street.

“She's in good hands, Sonny.” Gran tried to comfort him. “She's a strong girl, with youth on her side. We have to pray.”

“You were right,” he said, eyes wet. “I should have stayed out of it.

“Oh shit,” he said, looking up. “Just what I need.”

Corso was striding down the hall toward them.

“Stone! Stone!” He panted, puffing and out of breath. “You won't believe this!” He lowered his voice. “They're here.”

“Who?” Stone felt numb and weary.

“The fucking suspects!” he said under his breath. “The lieutenant sent me over in case you need anything. I come up to the ER, and there's the white Ford, Mississippi plates, your bullet hole in the back window.”

“Where?” Stone got to his feet.

“Outside the goddamn ER. One a the suspects either stroked out or had a fucking heart attack. His son hauled his ass in here.”

“They're in custody?”

“Hell, no,” Corso said, sotto voce. “Wanted to tip you first, ya know, in case you want to get your licks in.”

“Are you crazy? What if they walk out!”

“Ain't going nowhere. Old guy's white as a sheet, flat on his back, gasping like a fish outta water.”

“Put it on the air and let's get down there. Wait here,” he told Gran.

“Okay.” Corso shrugged. “The collar is mine.”

 

Former Bigby, Mississippi, sheriff's deputy Ron John Cooper, sixty-one, was apprehended outside the ER as he walked toward the Ford pickup. Ernest Lee Evans, sixty-four, went to cardiac intensive care, where he was handcuffed to his bed.

His son, Wesley, forty, a belligerent, overweight deputy sergeant, identified by witnesses as the man who shot Ashton Banks, was handcuffed and jailed.

“You'da done the same thing if it was your father,” he muttered sullenly as Stone handcuffed him.

“It
was
my father,” Stone said. He had thought he would want to kill them. Instead, the sight of them made him sick.

“Tonight is just for us,” Nazario promised Kiki when he picked her up. “I won't mention work or any member of the Nolan family, not even a distant cousin. It's just me and you, getting to know each other.”

“A real date!” she said as Fergie and Di scampered around her feet. “Sounds good to me.”

As they arrived at Caffe Abbracci, a popular Coral Gables restaurant, Nazario's beeper sounded. He had turned off his cell phone.

He called the station as the maître d' checked their reservation.

“No! He okay? She gonna make it?
¡Dios mío!
Glad they got them. You did? Hot damn! Great, Sarge. Things are going our way.
Mañana.”

Lips pressed tightly together, he took Kiki's elbow and suavely steered her toward their table.

“Something you'd like to share?” She placed her napkin in her lap. There were fresh flowers, crystal, and fine china.

His eyes glittered. “The job. I know I said I'd keep it out of our evening, but it's been one of those days. A member of our squad—you know him, Stone—was involved in a shooting over on the Beach. He's okay. They got the suspects, but somebody else was hit and it's touch and go. And it looks like we finally have a
good
lead in the Nolan case. Nothing solid, but one that may take us somewhere.
Me siento
super
bien acerca caso.
I have a good feeling about it.”

“I hope you have a good feeling about tonight.”

They smiled across their menus.

The busboy lit the candles.

“The only time I've seen you this excited and happy,” Kiki said, “is when you're discussing your job. I don't mind. It's stimulating, contagious. I love to be with passionate people who care about what they do. I know just how you feel. I located the casualty list from the battle at the Jarama River. Guess what? Captain Clifford Nolan was on it! It confirms everything Summer told you. I'm so excited, Pete.

“Whoops.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I mentioned a Nolan. That's the last time tonight. I promise.”

They ordered wine and appetizers. Drank a toast, and just as the stuffed mushrooms arrived, his beeper chirped again.

“Sorry, I should a turned it off,” he muttered. He squinted at the number, then dialed it.

“You called me?” he demanded after identifying himself.

His face changed. “When? Give me a description. What hospital? I'll be right there.”

Kiki lifted her eyebrows and put down her breadstick.

“I will make it up to you,
mi amor, te prometo.
I swear,” he told her. “I am so sorry. I have to leave. Here's my credit card. Order anything….”

Her mouth dropped open. “No way. I'm not staying here without you. It can't wait?”

“No.” He signaled the waiter.

“Okay.” She snatched up her purse. “Let's go.”

He looked longingly at the crunchy salads the waiter had just brought, pushed back his chair, and asked for the check.

“Sorry, I'll have to put you in a cab,” he said as they hurried out to the valet.

“What's wrong?” She looked bewildered.

“A friend in trouble.”

She cut her eyes at him. “How serious?”

“Don't know yet.”

Nazario dug in his pocket and came up with some crumpled bills. Some he shoved at the valet who brought the car, the rest he gave to Kiki. “Here, for cab fare.”

“No thank you. You invited me out for the evening.”

“Sí.”

“So we are out for the evening. That means I go where you go. Maybe I can help.” Before he could protest, she opened the passenger-side door and slid into his car.

He didn't want to waste time arguing.

“Where are we going?” she asked as he swung out onto LeJeune Road.

“South Shore Hospital, the ER.”

His attempt to explain sounded lame, even to him.

Kiki was game, and kept up with him, into the ER, still at his elbow as they directed him to the patient.

A young woman, her skin unearthly pale, lay semiconscious on a gurney, body limp, eyes glassy.

“Her name is Fleur Adair.” He spelled it for the nurse.

He took the patient's cold hand.
“¿Qué pasó?
What happened?”

“Pete. I dunno,” she mumbled. “I was working at a party. Las' thing I 'member…” Her voice trailed off.

“How did you get my name?” he asked the head nurse.

“She had your business card on her. She's still very groggy.”

“Who brought her in?” he asked.

“Fire Rescue.” The nurse consulted a chart. “Found unconscious on the beach behind the Regent Hotel. Looks like it may have been a date rape drug, probably Rohypnol.”

“A roofie. Did you do a rape kit?”

“She refused when she came around, didn't want anyone to touch her.”

“Where are her clothes?”

The shimmery dress was there, and one stiletto high heel.

“Where's her other shoe?” Nazario asked.

“Probably in the same place she left her underwear. That didn't come in with her, either.”

He sighed. “Goddammit. I can tell you her next of kin. I don't know her exact DOB, but she's twenty-four.”

“Insurance information?”

He became aware of Kiki's sidelong stare. “ No. I hardly know the girl.”

“The doctor will be in to check her shortly. When she perks up a little more, you can probably take her home, as long as somebody will be with her.”

“She doesn't have a place to go at the moment.”

“Then she'll have to stay here for a day or two. Here's the doctor now,” she said. “You two can wait outside.”

They sat in the waiting room in silence.

“She looks terrible,” Kiki finally said. “The poor thing. You think somebody slipped drugs into her drink?”

“Probably,” he said.

“Do you have to be involved?”

He nodded.

“But why, if you hardly know her?”

“She doesn't have anybody.”

“It's so sordid.” She shuddered. “Why not walk away, Pete? You're better than this.”

“You don't understand.”

“Try me.”

He shook his head.

“Pete, tell me about your most recent relationships with women.”

He turned to look at her, puzzled. “Who are you? My shrink?”

“I'm curious.” She toyed absently with the gold bracelet on her slim wrist. “I might understand you better.”

“Relationships.” He thought about it for a long moment, then sighed. “There was one that was real. Pretty serious, I thought. An artist. She'll be famous someday. The girl is driven. A huge talent. She's wonderful.”

“How did you meet?”

He wasn't sure how much to reveal, but it was certainly better than talking about Fleur. He definitely did not want to explain how they had met.

“Work related,” he said vaguely.

“How?”

Somebody had told him—was it Corso?—to never,
ever
discuss other women with a female you had designs on. The best course of action is to pretend that you never knew another woman before she walked into your life. Otherwise, it always comes back to bite you and will forever be used against you, and you are screwed.

“How did you meet her?” Kiki persisted.

“She was a victim when she was sixteen. Raped on her first date, shot in the head, and left for dead. The boy she was with was shot, too. He died.”

“Oh my God.” Kiki shuddered.

“It stayed unsolved until Craig Burch, the original detective, stumbled onto something at the morgue twelve years later. We took it on and that's how I met her. After a lot of twists and turns, we solved the case.”

“You still see her?”

“No. I think after it was over, she didn't want to see somebody who'd remind her of what happened every time she looked at him.
Naturaleza humana.”
Human nature. He shrugged wistfully. “Makes sense.”

She nodded. “Who else?”

“What, are you writing a book?”

“I just like to know what I'm up against.”

“Kiki, the only thing I want you up against is me. I'm single, solo,
sin problemas.”

“Who else?”

He caved. “There was a girl I met working undercover. A dancer, a stripper. Sweet, beautiful,
tremenda mujer,
but she's got some bad habits she won't break. I didn't want to hang around and watch her self-destruct.”

“Did you ever date a normal person?”

He thought for a moment. “How do you define normal? My sergeant,
es un buen hombre,
a good man, even though you two maybe got off on the wrong foot, he always says, ‘Everybody looks normal, till you get to know them.'”

“True, I guess.”

“Maybe I don't meet many of what you might call normal people on the job. But the job is my life. I don't meet many people any other way. But that's how I met you and that was a good thing.

“Maybe”—he dragged his palm through his hair to the nape of his neck—“maybe I just don't know how to act around normal people.”

She took his hand.

 

The doctor said Fleur would be all right, would probably sleep for some time, but shouldn't be home alone. She had again refused a rape exam. Nazario tried to talk her into it.

“No, I don't wanna be examined. I don't wanna police report. It's not like it never happened before,” she said, slurring her words. She refused to stay in the hospital.

Nazario called Sonya Whitaker, Adair's secretary.

“The poor kid,” she said.

“I can't stay home with her, I'm working on a case. What should we do?”

“I'll go ahead and authorize payment for a nurse to stay there with her for a few days. My God, the kid's in the hospital. If Shelly has me canned for this, so be it.”

“Thanks, Sonya. I'll take her back to the house.”

He and Kiki took Fleur back to Casa de Luna.

“You both live here?” Kiki asked, wide-eyed, as the Mustang swept into the huge circular driveway.

“Actually neither of us do, technically. I stay in the apartment over the garage, in exchange for security.”

They helped Fleur, still groggy and wearing paper hospital scuffs, up the stairs. “Who are you?” she mumbled, halfway up, noticing Kiki for the first time.

She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

“Are you always this way?” Kiki asked as they waited for the nurse.

“What way?”

“The knight on the white horse, compelled to rescue women in distress.”

“I don't think that's me.”

“It's sad, if it is,” she said.

He was almost afraid to ask why, but he did.

“Because I don't need rescuing.”

She left him waiting for the nurse and took a cab home.

“Do I get another chance?” he asked as the cabbie honked the horn downstairs.

“I don't know,” she said sadly, kissed his cheek, and left.