Shadows (5 page)

Burch left the Blazer in the driveway.

The front door was wide open. So was every window in the house. Unusual for summer. The ceiling-fan blades stood motionless, the silence deafening. No radio, music, or TV. The cat ran to greet him, rubbing his face on Burch's shoe. Sprawled on his bed in a corner, the big dog opened one eye but otherwise ignored him. White candles flickered in the foyer. Damn. Power outages had been all too frequent since the last hurricane.

“Connie?”

His wife emerged from the kitchen.

“Hi, babe.” He loosened his tie. “How long has it been out this time?”

She flashed the brilliant smile that knocked him out the first time he ever saw her, in high school, then clapped her hands.

“Okay, kid. Can the applause. So I got quite a reception this morning. Who told you?”

She clapped again, then spun around, tossing her shiny dark hair, hands high above her head.

It reminded him of her cheerleader days.

“Con? Whatcha doing?”

“Clearing our space,” she sang out. “Drawing in positive energy.”

He took off his gun, removed the clip, and placed the unloaded weapon in the lockbox on the closet's top shelf, as usual. “The hell you doing?” He squinted at her.

“Visualizing a pure white light,” she said. “Driving out the negative and filling the house with loving energy.”

 

“Fung who?” Nazario wrinkled his brow the next morning at the office.

“Feng Shui. It's Asian, all about the flow of energy, or something,” Burch said uncertainly. “The power wasn't out. Connie was clearing our space. That's what they call it. You turn everything off, open all the doors and windows so the bad energy can escape. Clapping chases it out.” He shrugged.

“Bottom line is to eliminate negative energy from your environment. Hey, makes her happy, I'm all for it. Helluva lot better than other things she might be up to, as we all know.”

“She wants to eliminate negative energy,” Corso said, “she should just kick your ass ta the curb.”

“Yeah, and we want to eliminate it up here, we could just kick your ass back down to Patrol.” Burch dropped a dusty box onto Corso's desk. “Here, dive into this.”

It was one of half a dozen boxes delivered from the warehouse, the Pierce Nolan file. “Everybody grab one and pitch in,” Burch said. “We're looking for crime scene diagrams, photos, news stories, and original reports.”

“Look who's here! Hey, dawg,” Corso greeted Stone, who ignored him.

“Where you been?” Burch said.

“Bad night. Sorry,” Stone said. “Couldn't sleep. Didn't drop off until five
A
.
M
., then I overslept.”

“Called your crib, no answer,” Corso said.

“What's all this?” Stone asked.

“This,” Corso said, digging into a musty box, “is the Nolan file, believe it or not. Thanks to the lieutenant's new best friend, that little house hugger. Look it all this. Somebody worked the hell out of it.”

He opened an old manila envelope. “Bingo! Got ya the scene photos.”

“Jeez, long time since I saw 'em in black-and-white,” Burch said. “The shooter used double-ought buckshot. The first blast took off part of Nolan's elbow and his arm, according to the reports. He was still on his feet when the kill shot, fired at close range, took him out.”

Corso whistled through his teeth. “Somebody sure didn't like him. What was he into?”

“The follow-ups all state that the victim's character was never in question. Nolan was an Eagle Scout, an athlete, World War II hero, a family man—and an honest politician.”

“Ha! Ain't no such animal,” Corso said. “Not in Miami, anyway.”

“The original investigators dug deep into his background and came up dry. Nolan was pushed to run for senator, according to news clips in that box on my desk. Said he had no plans to get back into politics until his kids were grown.

“A thousand people at his funeral, including the governor,” Burch said. “Never came up with a motive. That's what made it tough. Usually, the more money the victim has, the more suspects.

“We have to meet that Kiki gal and the property owner at the site at eleven. Stone, call your buddies in Forensics, see if we can get some talent down there. We need a metal detector, a photographer, a video camera, whatever.”

Stone reacted, his look exasperated.

“This is nothing but a minor diversion,” Burch assured him. “The lieutenant's hot on it. The sooner we do it, the sooner we get it out of the way.”

“I pulled my case file yesterday,” Stone protested.

“Good. Tomorrow we go through it, brainstorm, and see what we come up with.” Burch checked his watch. “Maybe even today, if we can wrap this in a hurry.”

“Count me in,” Corso said. “Don't mind hanging with that Kiki babe. She's got something going on.”

“Uh-oh,” Nazario said sotto voce. “Speak of the devil. Is that who I think it is in the lieutenant's office?”

“Holy crap, what's she doing here now?” Burch asked.

“Where's her pith helmet?” Corso said. “She takin' a safari?”

Kiki Courtelis gave them a breezy Miss America wave. She wore a gauzy white cotton shirt with sleeves that buttoned at the wrist, khaki trousers with a series of sturdy, zippered pockets in the side seams, and leather boots. The detectives eyed her bulging, ever-present briefcase suspiciously as she and the lieutenant joined them.

“Mind if I hitch a ride with you guys?” Kiki said sweetly.

The lieutenant nodded.

“Sure,” Burch said.

“I can be your navigator,” Kiki offered. “The Shadows isn't easy to find—and my car's in the shop.”

“We could probably manage to locate the crime scene on our own,” Corso said. “That's why they call us detectives.”

 

Even with Kiki Courtelis's help, it was nearly noon before they found the Shadows's hidden gravel driveway. Masked by an overgrowth of dense foliage it was nearly invisible. They had passed it twice. Maidenhair ferns sprouted from fissures in stone gateposts covered by tangled vines and towering bougainvillea that cascaded like a brilliant crimson waterfall across the gravel drive. A wrought-iron gate, rusted off its hinges, had been all but devoured by the relentless semitropical vegetation that had totally enveloped it.

“This climate eats up everything sooner or later,” Burch said.

“Mostly sooner,” Corso muttered. He and Nazario sat in the backseat of the unmarked Chrysler with Kiki Courtelis. “I keep trying to place your perfume,” Corso told her. “What is that scent you're wearin'?”

“Mosquito repellent,” she said, amused. “We'll need it. I've got extra.”

“We're okay,” Burch said.

“Suit yourself,” she said, entertaining them with a brief history of the house while they waited for the developer. “There was nothing else here when Captain Cliff Nolan built this place in the twenties. He had reason to want seclusion. Captain Nolan was a rumrunner, a smuggler. This site, on a limestone ridge with access to the water, was perfect. He brought workers from Jamaica to quarry the oolite out of the ground to build the house and the gateposts.

“Many of the local pioneers used that type of limestone. It comes out of the ground pure white, soft enough to cut with saws. After exposure to the air, it hardens, darkens, and you can see all the little seashells and fossils in it. Those houses are rare now, one reason it should be preserved.

“Another is that it's a historic site. Captain Cliff was an adventurer, one of South Florida's most notorious and colorful pioneers. A marks-man, a deep-sea captain, a born risk taker. He smuggled illegal booze in from the islands during Prohibition, ran it all the way up the coast as far as Rumson, New Jersey.

“On one run, the feds and local police up there were waiting to intercept his boat, the
Sea Wolf.
When Nolan refused to surrender, they opened fire. He dumped the booze over the side and shot back. Two lawmen were killed in a wild, running gun battle. A dozen boats chased the
Sea Wolf
all the way down the coast. Nolan knew every inlet, had friends at every pit stop along the way. He managed to elude capture and make it back here. Shortly after that, under pressure, I guess, the local sheriff raided the Shadows.

“A posse surrounded the house, armed to the teeth and ready for a fight. Captain Cliff had sworn that it was his castle and he'd never let them onto his property.

“But he wasn't home. Must have been tipped off. There were all kinds of characters here then. Al Capone wintered in Miami Beach. The locals loved Scarface. The law didn't. Captain Cliff was considered a local hero, a Robin Hood type.

“Miami was pretty wild then.”

“Nothing's changed,” Corso said.

“The sheriff and his men confiscated five hundred bottles of illegal liquor from the Shadows that day. A photograph of the deputies with the contraband was published in the
Miami Metropolis,
the local paper. I've seen that picture in the archives at the South Florida Historical Museum. But Nolan was never arrested or tried.”

“Where the hell's the developer?” Burch scowled at his watch. “Maybe he's waiting up at the house.” He maneuvered the unmarked around the remnants of the old gate, fallen palm fronds, and wind-blown branches. “What eventually happened to Captain Nolan? He meet a bad end?”

“No one is certain,” Kiki said. “The Nolan family plot is in the old Miami cemetery, but his name isn't there. There was a story that he and the
Sea Wolf
were lost in a storm off the coast of Cuba. His son, Pierce, your murder victim, was still a small boy. He was raised at the Shadows. Went to Miami High, played football, worked hard, was successful, and built a reputation as straight and civic minded as his father was notorious. He raised his own family here. Three daughters, Spring, Summer, and Brooke, and a son, Sky, the youngest.

“He and his wife, Diana, opened the Shadows up to the community with chamber music recitals and parties, made it into a showplace. He served a term as mayor, was well liked and respected. People said he was a man with no enemies.”

Despite the sun, high in the sky, it was as dark as a tunnel as the unmarked crunched slowly along the winding gravel driveway beneath a tangled canopy of black olive, ficus, and royal poinciana trees in brilliant bloom.

A raucous flock of bright green-and-yellow parakeets suddenly swooped out of the trees, shrieking angrily at the intruders.

“Look it 'em. Hundreds of 'em,” Corso said.

“Monk parakeets,” Nazario said. “Smart as hell. Can learn to talk if you capture them young enough. Hand raised, they're great pets. They'll eat mangoes, seeds, and nuts right outta your hand. But ones who grow up in the wild like these aren't people friendly. They bite and scratch.”

Kiki nodded. “Their predators are raccoons, foxes, pet cats—and us.”

“How is that cat you took home from the Beach?” Nazario asked Burch.

“Terrific. Was worried at first 'cause the only thing Max, our big, dopey sheepdog, barks at is cats. But he's so dense, didn't even notice there was a cat in the house for three days. Can't see a thing with all that hair hanging in his face. I always knew that dog had no natural animal instincts.

“On the fourth day, he wanders into the kitchen for a drink, and yikes! A cat's drinking out of his dish! He puts on the brakes, does a double take. The cat keeps drinking, watching 'im out the corner of one eye. They say people worshiped cats a couple a thousand years ago. This one must a never forgot it. The dog's jaw drops, he backs up, then goes berserk, barking like hell, trying to catch him, crashing into walls and furniture.”

“So what happened?” Nazario said.

Burch shrugged. “Forty-eight hours later, he's totally intimidated. You open the door to let him in, and if the cat's anywhere in sight, Max'll circle the entire house to avoid walking past him. Takes no chances. Won't go within six feet of him. Doesn't trust him, thinks cats are too unpredictable.”

“Like women,” Corso said.

The birds' shrill, earsplitting screeches escalated.

“They build multi-room, multi-family nests, like condos,” Kiki said wistfully. “Generation after generation use the same nests. They'll be homeless when these trees are bulldozed.”

“Yeah, if they could talk,” Nazario said, “you know what words they'd be using.”

The birds screamed louder.

Corso shifted uneasily in his seat, scanned the sky, and scowled. “It's like that damn Hitchcock movie.

“Hey! We're getting the message!” he shouted at the noisy protesters.

The car bounced around a final rutted curve and the Shadows stood before them.