Shadows (8 page)

Burch's walkie crackled to life.

“Three thirty-two to four forty-one.”

“Four forty-one, stand by.” Burch turned to her as he got to his feet. “And you just happened to call a cab after you knew we'd found it? What was your big hurry?”

“Fergie and Di are home alone, since early this morning.”

“Sure. I'm Prince Charles and you're the Queen Mother. I've had it with you, Kiki.”

He stepped out and slammed the door.

“Leave it open!” she wailed.

“Four forty-one,” he said into the radio. “Whatcha got, Naz?”

“Seven,” Nazario said. “Cause unknown so far. Could have been live births. Circa 1961.”

“Crap. Where you at?”

“Pulling into the station garage now.”

“Good, I want you to take a crack at Kiki. She seemed to like you.”

 

Nazario reported to the others in the lieutenant's office.

Salazar whistled and ran her manicured fingers through her curly brown hair. “Edelman won't be a happy camper.”

“You're right,” Riley said. “We have to go over that place inch by inch, maybe even dig around the back of the house. God knows what else we'll find out there.”

“I'll get a temporary restraining order against any action by the builder,” Salazar said. “How's thirty days?”

“We can extend it if necessary, right?” Riley said.

“Right. Edelman's gonna hate it.”

“I know I do,” Burch said. “Jesus.
Babies.
Little babies. You know what the time frame means.”

“Nolan had three teenage daughters, didn't he?” Riley asked, face taut.

“Summer, the oldest, was sixteen when her father was murdered.” Burch consulted his notebook. “Spring was fourteen, and Brooke, thirteen.

“Nolan was the only man in the house, right?”

Burch nodded. “The son, Sky, was nine at the time.”

“Looks like our victim might have been a bad dad, a very bad dad,” Riley said.

“Nobody ever looked seriously at the wife or the kids as suspects,” Stone said. “Never found a motive, either.”

Riley, pale under her tan, toyed with the hand grenade on her desk. “Incest is a motive.”

“Think those babies are his?” Salazar said.

“Sick, but not unheard of,” Riley said. “Similar cases have surfaced around the country, mostly in rural areas.”

“The products of incest buried in backyards or locked in a trunk in the attic.” Salazar shuddered.

“Or the cellar,” Burch said. “Why hide them if they were legitimate? That son of a bitch.”

“According to the background investigations and news clips in the file, Nolan and his wife were always out and about, attending charitable functions, their pictures on the society pages. In the years before his murder, she sure wasn't home pregnant all the time,” Stone said.

“Somebody was,” Riley said. “Incest sounds like a good motive to me.”

“Might explain why the widow and kids split right after the murder,” Corso said.

“And hung on to the property,” Salazar said.

“Kept it in the family like everything else,” Corso said.

“The wife knew,” Riley said, thinking out loud. “No way she didn't. Three girls, seven babies?”

“Guy was having himself a field day,” Corso said.

“Is the widow still alive?” Salazar asked.

Burch nodded.

“Wonder why she'd sell the place now?” Riley frowned.

“Forty million good reasons,” Burch said. “That's what Edelman paid her.”

“She's gotta be, what, in her seventies by now. Maybe she's senile and forgot what they left behind in the cellar,” Corso said.

“I don't care how old you are, you don't forget something like that,” Riley said. “She knew Edelman's intentions, that he'd demolish the Shadows. Figured nobody would remember the cellar all these years later. The high-rise would go up and the babies would be buried forever under thousands of tons of concrete. Nobody in the outside world would know they were ever born.

“We need to move fast,” she told Burch. “Reporters from Channel Four and the
Miami News
are pushing PIO. Word leaked out that we found human remains at the Shadows. They want the story. I'm trying to stall a press release. When it gets out, the story will probably get a lot of coverage.”

“In this case it might do some good,” Burch said. “Might bring in some leads. Somebody had to know something about those girls being pregnant.”

“Or it could put us in the middle of a media frenzy. You need to talk to the widow and the daughters before that happens.”

“One of them probably killed him,” Burch said. “Or maybe it was a family project. Hell of a thing. Imagine what those females went through for years. Looks like Pierce Nolan was a goddamn monster.”

Nazario closed the door to the small interview room. Within seconds, it inched back open. No one came out.

“See, the broad don't like being alone with any guy,” Corso said. “Has to tell you something.”

Nazario emerged forty-five minutes later.

“Talk to me.” Burch looked up from the Nolan file spread out across the conference room table.

“She's telling the truth,” Nazario said. “She had no idea what we'd find down there.”

“I knew his shit detector didn't work on good-looking women,” Corso crowed. “I knew it.”

Nazario ignored him. “Kiki's claustrophobic, Sarge. Barely tolerates elevators, doesn't like planes, hates small rooms with no windows.” He rolled his sad spaniel eyes toward the interview room. “That's why she didn't go down the cellar stairs with us.”

“Makes sense,” Riley acknowledged.

“She explain her little rap sheet?” Burch asked.

“She was arrested twice. Edelman was clearing property for a shopping center in the Grove when protesters formed a human chain around a huge, hundred-year-old banyan tree his crew was about to cut down. They were all arrested. She was one of them.”

“A tree hugger, too!” Corso said.

“Hardly a public menace,” Stone said.

“They call that ecoterrorism,” Corso protested.

“Her other arrest was during a protest over on the Beach,” Nazario explained. “An art deco hotel was being knocked down so the late Gianni Versace, who owned the building next door, could dig himself a private pool. Both peaceful protests.”

“Sometimes that's the only way to change the law or send a message,” Stone said, drawing a sharp look from Riley.

“When you said we'd found a body, she thought you meant the old rumrunner. Remember, he disappeared, lost at sea or something, in the mid-thirties, after Prohibition.”

“Okay, okay,” Burch said. He realized he'd never had lunch. It was nine
P
.
M
. No wonder he felt irritable. “One more thing. Did she mention a Fergie and Di?”

“Dogs. Fergie is her Yorkie,” Nazario said, his expression serious. “Di is a papillon.”

“A what?”

“Some kind a fancy little dog.”

“You mean like that one that wears bathing suits with rhinestones—you know, Tinkerbell, Paris Hilton's little dog?” Corso said.

“Nah.” Stone frowned. “Tinkerbell's a Chihuahua.”

“Somebody from PETA ought to launch a mission to rescue that poor creature,” Riley said.

“Right,” Salazar said. “The woman wears that dog as an accessory. Saw it on her lap during a TV interview once. The poor thing couldn't stop trembling.”

“Tinkerbell makes a run for it every chance she gets,” Riley said, “trying to escape. Saw on the news last week that she got away again on South Beach. But the reward is always so big that people keep bringing the poor thing back.”

“Whadaya mean ‘poor thing'?” Corso demanded. “I'd trade places with that lucky little pooch anytime.”

“Puleeze.” Salazar grimaced. “Can you imagine where that dog's been? What it's seen?”

“Exactly. Anytime.”

“Guys? Lieutenant?” Kiki Courtelis peered timidly around the door to the interview room.

“You won't forget about me, go home, and leave me in here, will you?”

“No way to forget you,” Burch said. “Much as we'd like to. Somebody will be right with you.”

“Getting back to Fergie and Di.” Nazario lowered his voice. “Apparently, the smaller the dog, the smaller the bladder. And Kiki just got a new carpet. So she was in a hurry.”

“Cut her loose. Take her home,” Riley said, disgusted. “Pick her brain. Find out what else she knows about the house, its history, and the people who lived there.”

 

Nazario's red Mustang convertible burned rubber, screeching out of the police parking garage.

His passenger clung to the door handle. “Is this how you always drive?”

“Sorry.” His foot eased off the gas for a moment. “Want me to put the top down? So the space is not so small?”

“Yes.” She sighed and leaned back as the convertible top slowly receded, exposing Miami's big, wide sky awash in Technicolor shades of star-studded midnight blue, streaked by purple, pink, and gold.

“I've traveled a lot,” Kiki said softly. “This is the only place you see clouds these colors at night. And see how the crescent moon is upended? Like a bowl upside down. This is the only place in the country where you can see it like that.”

She took a deep breath, turned to him, and grinned. “It feels soooo good to get out of your office. How do you work there every day?” She'd returned to her usual feisty, self-confident demeanor. “You need to go green in your cubicles, Pete. Live plants will minimize the effects of electromagnetic frequencies from phones, fluorescent lights, and computers. They'll reduce that geopathic stress. In other words, you don't feel as tired, fuzzy, and depressed with green plants around you. And everyone knows that fluorescent lights cause eye strain, headaches, and an overwhelming sense of stress and disorder.”

“A lot of that's been going around.” He raised an eyebrow. “I thought it was from working with Corso.”

She had a girlish giggle. “That institutional gray in your office is way too depressing. Bring in some throw rugs and bright colors.”

Horns blared and she closed her eyes as the Mustang careened through a yellow caution light on Northwest Second Avenue.

“We do have a few potted plants around the station,” he said. “Personally I could live with more, but forget the throw rugs and bright colors—no way. The gray is working out fine, better than orange. When they built the new station, they made all our cubicles a bright international orange. Hurt your eyes to look at it. Witnesses would get all hyper and agitated after sitting in there for a while. Detectives were taking swings at each other. Two a the secretaries wound up in a cat fight. That last one was a real bad scene.”

She frowned. “Maybe some soothing shades of—”

“Look,” he interrupted, slowing down as they passed La Esquina de Tejas. “I didn't eat breakfast. We both missed lunch. Want to stop for some Cuban food?”

“No,” she said.

“Pizza?” he offered hopefully.

She shook her head.

“Okay.” Shot down, he sighed.

“So what's with your alias, Lisa Court?” he asked after an awkward pause.

She laughed unself-consciously. “People on the telephone always mistook my name, no matter how clearly I spoke. I'd arrive at a restaurant, elegantly dressed, trying to look refined and dignified, and the maître d' would shout out, ‘Kinky! Your table is ready!' So I started using Lisa, my middle name, and shortening my last name to Court when I made reservations.”

“That's it?”

“Yep. When they arrested us at that protest on the Beach, a policeman asked if I ever use another name, so I told him.”

Home was a cottage on Avocado Avenue in Coconut Grove.

“Nice,” he said as she directed him into the drive.

“One of Miami Beach's oldest structures.”

“Miami Beach? This is the Grove.”

“This house was built in 1913, at Nineteenth Street and Collins Avenue in Miami Beach. A judge built it as a fishing retreat. They decided to build a hotel on the site in 1936, and moved the house here for five hundred dollars. It's Dade County pine with insect-resistant cypress shakes.”

She was out of the car, fishing her keys from her purse, before he could open the door.

Nazario followed to see her safely inside, where a duet of high-pitched barks had reached a crescendo. Two little dogs burst out the door as he turned to leave.

He glanced back and saw the yellow-pointed Yorkie leap joyfully around Kiki, while the small, long-haired black-and-white dog spun around dizzyingly, feathery ears flying.

“Good girls,” Kiki cooed as they danced at her feet.

“You're leaving?” she asked the retreating detective. She seemed surprised.

He paused.

“I thought you were hungry—and thirsty.” Hands on her hips, she looked impatient. “Come in.”

Uncertain, he followed her. The interior glowed in shades of amber, red, green, and gold. Vibrant Haitian art on the walls, hardwood floors polished to a high gloss, bright throw rugs and sea-grass mats. Big blue and purple glass bubbles, Japanese fishing floats, filled ceramic bowls on tables. Spider plants hung in every corner, their thriving pups spiraling out of control, reaching for the light.

He stood for a moment, taken aback by the warm and welcoming effect.

“No fun eating alone,” she said with a shrug. “Stay, and I'll throw something together.”

 

He sat on a kitchen stool, listening to music from the stereo, and watched her slim hands, sure and capable, as she worked.

As rice steamed on the stove, she handed him linen napkins, dishes, and silverware. “Here, you can set the table.” She nudged him toward the dining room.

“You can wash up in there.” She pointed a wooden spoon toward the tiny bathroom.

The tiles were pink, the shower curtain lacy, with framed flower prints on the wall. Pretty little things around the sink included fancy soaps in hand-painted dishes, miniature bottles, and a silver powder box. He lifted the lid to check it out. The delicately tinted powder inside was soft, with a subtle fragrance. It really was face powder.

A white terry-cloth robe hung from a hook on the door. A row of bottles—shampoo, conditioner, and body polish—stood inside the tub enclosure. He paused for a moment to ponder the last item. A white wicker clothes hamper held a swirl of towels, face cloths, and bikini underpants. Victoria's Secret.

Without thinking, he turned the water on in the sink to mask the sound and stealthily opened the medicine cabinet.

Lining the glass shelves: Q-Tips, aspirin, and a box of Midol. He squinted at the label, then moved on. Minipads, panty liners, a bottle of apricot face scrub, a tiny pink razor, sunscreen, powder puffs, toothpaste, dental floss, and hand sanitizer. Nothing suspicious.

He picked up a bottle of silver nail polish. Shimmery Moon, according to the name on the label. As he examined it, Kiki called out, her voice surprisingly loud and close to the door.

“Soup's on!”

Startled, he pushed the bottle back onto the shelf so quickly that the similar little bottles lined up beside it began to topple. He tried to right them but made matters worse. Several fell noisily into the sink. They sounded like marbles bouncing off a tile floor. He cringed.

None broke, but now they were wet. He turned off the water and used a fringed guest towel embroidered with butterflies to dry them. But the impact had loosened the cap on one and Hotsy Totsy, a blood red polish, spilled into the sink. Hastily, he mopped it up with the guest towel, staining it crimson.

“Hello?” Kiki said from the other side of the door.

“Be right there.” He ran cold water over the towel to rinse off the polish, which appeared to harden. He crumpled the towel but it was too wet to stuff in his pocket. He looked around frantically. Didn't this woman own a hair dryer? He finally hid the towel in the hamper, covering it up with Victoria's Secret bikinis.

Kiki stood there wearing an apron, arms crossed, when he opened the door.

“Find anything interesting?”

He didn't know what to say.

She stared at his hands.

“Were you trying on my nail polish?” she asked, her expression dismayed.

“No.” He followed her gaze. The telltale crimson polish had stained his fingertips and seeped into his cuticles.

“It fell. I was trying to pick it up,” he said lamely.

“I caught you red-handed. Literally.” She did not smile.

“Sorry,” he said. “Force of habit.”

“You mean you always snoop through people's medicine cabinets?”

He sighed. “I used to work vice and undercover narcotics.”

“I guess you weren't very good at it.”

“I was,” he said. “It becomes second nature. I'm sorry.”

“So am I. How sad, to regard everyone as suspect. You should spend more time with normal people, like your family.”

“I don't have one.” He shrugged helplessly.

“No family? Even sadder. Come sit down,” she said. “It's getting cold.”

Music played. There were carrots, corn, and peas hidden in the rice, along with fat, succulent fresh shrimp. They drank La Crema Chardonnay.

He ate silently, savoring the meal.

“Don't interrupt me,” she finally said.

He smiled.