Retribution (17 page)

But she had pulled away and he had left and that was it. In his eyes she had first seen the hurt, and then the mix of surprise and confusion on his face at having misread the situation, having misunderstood their relationship and where it might have been headed. So the moment had passed. Maybe forever. She supposed she shouldn’t even be thinking about Dominick now, but here she was anyway. She lit another cigarette and tried hard to force those thoughts right out of her head. Now was not the time for the angst of a relationship. Particularly one with someone as complicated as Dominick Falconetti. And especially with anyone who was even remotely involved in the arrest and prosecution of William Rupert Bantling.

At the palm-tree-lined entrance to her condo complex she gave a half wave in the direction of the security guard who sat reading a book in his air-conditioned cubby. He half-waved back, barely looking up from his book, and opened the gate. For the most part, security guards in gated communities in Florida were like cheap car alarms on a Camry in a crowded Home Depot parking lot: useless. She could have been dressed in a ski mask with a sack of burglar’s tools on the hood, and a shotgun in the backseat next to a map marked ‘Victim’s Home: The Loot Is Here’ and he still would have waved her in.

She pulled into her reserved spot at the Port Royale Towers and took the elevator up to her apartment on the twelfth floor. Tibby II met her at the door with a series of hungry and indignant meows, his big white furry belly sagging beneath him on the tile, tinged brown from the dust balls it collected sweeping up the floor.

‘Okay, Tibs. Give me a minute. Let me get in the door and I’ll get you a little snack.’ ‘Snack’ was a comfort word to Tibby, and his woeful meows were momentarily silenced. He watched with the bored curiosity that only a cat can master as she locked the door behind her and reset the alarm, then he followed her into the kitchen, rubbing little white and black cat hairs on her freshly dry-cleaned pantsuit legs. She dropped the files and her briefcase on to her kitchen table and poured out a cup of Purina Cat Chow into Tibby’s red bowl. The smell immediately awoke Lucy, her ten-year-old deaf basset hound who meandered from her pillow bed in the bedroom and scuffled across the tile floor into the kitchen, all the while sniffing in the air. A short, happy howl later, Lucy crunched on her own bowl of half-mushy kibble next to Tibby, and all was right with the world. At least for them. The next big decision facing each would be where to continue their afternoon naps, the bedroom or the living room?

She put on a fresh pot of coffee to go with the new pack of Marlboros she had picked up on the way home. Then she headed into the guest bedroom.

In the top of the closet, forced in the back behind the rolls of wrapping paper, gift bags, bows, and boxes was the plain cardboard box with the lift-off lid. She threw the wrapping paper and boxes on the daybed
and pulled out the half-empty box. The contents inside shifted. She sat on the floor next to it and, with a deep breath, pulled off the lid.

It had been ten years since she had even looked inside. A musty smell greeted the air. She grabbed the three manila file folders and the fat yellow envelope and headed back to the kitchen. She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, gathered the folders and envelope and her Marlboros, and went outside on her small screened-in balcony that overlooked the blue sparkling waters of the Intercoastal Waterway below.

She stared at the manila folder with the words
POLICE REPORTS
scribbled across it in her handwriting. Stapled to the outside corner was the business card of Detective Amy Harrison of the NYPD. She nibbled on the tip of her pencil and thought for a moment about what she would say, how she would say it. God, she wished she had a script. She lit a fresh Marlboro and dialed the number.

‘Detective Bureau, Queens County.’ There was intense background noise. Rushed, hurried voices in different pitches, telephones ringing, sirens wailing in the far distance.

‘Detective Amy Harrison, please.’

‘Who?’

‘Detective Amy Harrison, Sex Crimes.’ It was hard to get those words out – Sex Crimes – strangely enough, even though she must have called the Sexual Battery Unit of every South Florida police department at least a few hundred times over the course of her career.

‘Hold on.’

Thirty seconds later a gruff voice with a thick New York accent. ‘Special Victims, Detective Sullivan.’

‘Detective Amy Harrison, please.’

‘Who?’

‘Amy Harrison, she works Sex Crimes out of Bayside, the One-Eleven?’

‘There’s no Harrison here. How long ago was that?’

A deep breath. A slow exhale. ‘About twelve years ago.’

The gruff New York voice let out a long whistle under his breath. ‘Twelve years, Jesus Christ. No one here now by that name. Hold on a sec.’ She could hear him hold his hand over the phone and yell out, ‘Anyone here heard of a Detective Harrison, Amy Harrison? Used to work Special Victims twelve years ago?’

A voice in the back. ‘Yeah – I knew Harrison. She retired. Left the department maybe three, four years ago. Went to the Michigan State Police, I think. Who’s looking for her?’

The gruff voice began to repeat the information, but C.J. cut him off. ‘I heard. Okay, how about Detective Benny Sears? He was her partner.’

‘Sears. Benny Sears,’ the gruff voice yelled. ‘She wants to know about a Benny Sears.’

‘Jesus,’ said the voice in the background. ‘Benny’s been dead maybe seven years now. Dropped of a heart attack on the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge in rush hour. Who wants to know all this shit?’

‘Did ya get that? Detective Sears died a few years ago. Is there something I can help you with?’

Retired. Dead. For some reason she had not anticipated that. Her silence was met with a sigh of impatience on the other end. ‘Hello? Can I maybe help you with something?’

Who would handle their old cases then? I need some assistance on a, a… case that they handled together back in eighty-eight.’

‘Do you have a case number? Was there an arrest?’

She opened the folder and began to shuffle quickly through the yellowed papers for a case number. ‘Yeah, somewhere here, I have a number. Hold on, just give me a sec … No, there was no arrest, though, as far as I know. Oh, here’s what looks like the numb –’

‘No arrest? Then you need the Cold Case Squad. Let me transfer you. Hold on.’ The line went silent.

‘Detective Bureau. Detective Marty.’

‘Hello, Detective. I need some help on an unsolved sexual assault case from 1988. I was transferred to the Cold Case Squad by Special Victims.’

‘John McMillan works cold sex crimes. He’s off today, though. Can I have him call you, or you want to call back tomorrow?’

‘I’ll call him back tomorrow.’ She hung up. That had been totally unproductive.

She picked the phone back up again and dialed.

‘Queens County District Attorney’s Office.’

‘Extraditions, please.’

The line went silent, and classical music filled the phone.

‘Investigations Bureau, Michelle speaking. Can I help you?’

‘Hello. Extraditions, please.’

‘Extraditions are handled out of this bureau. How can I help you?’

‘I need to speak with the attorney who would handle felony extraditions back to the State of New York.’

‘That would be Bob Schurr. He handles all extraditions for our office. But, I’m afraid he’s not in at the moment.’

Doesn’t anybody actually
work
in the city that never sleeps? ‘Okay. When do you expect him?’

‘He went to lunch, and then I think he has a meeting after that. He’ll probably be back in the late afternoon.’

She left the name Townsend and her home phone number. She hung up the phone and stared out at the water. The sunlight danced off the lapping waves, creating reflections that sparkled like diamonds. A beautiful light breeze blew through her balcony from the east, making her wind chimes tinkle. More than a few boats were out today, in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon, their bikini-clad passengers tanning themselves on small towels spread across the bows, while the proud captains in their bathing briefs, with beer in hand, steered their course. Even better were the bathing beauties slathered in tanning oil lying in lazy lounge chairs off a stern that could easily fit ten lazy lounge chairs. Those, however, were no longer called boats, but rather, yachts. On the yachts, both the bikinis and the briefs tanned together on the stern, martinis in hand, while the crew handled the steerage. And the cooking. And the cleaning. The waves left in their wake splashed the beach-towel bow bikinis and caused the otherwise-proud captains to spill their beers. C.J. watched the rich natives with their healthy, relaxed tans and cool martinis, and the flashy tourists with their Speedos and piña coladas and burned skin, float by without a care in the world. A familiar tinge of envy at the easiness of their lives rose like a lump in her throat, and she fought it back down where it belonged. If life as a prosecutor had taught her any lessons at thirty-
six, it was that things were not always what they seemed. And as her dad used to say:
Just be sure to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes before buying ‘em, Chloe. Chances are you wouldn’t make the purchase.

Her thoughts ran then to both her parents, still living in quiet northern California, still afraid for their Chloe, all alone in yet another metropolitan, unforgiving city, full of strangers, full of madmen. Worse yet, now she works with them, among them, every day of her life, the absolute scum of the earth – murderers, rapists, pedophiles – trying her hardest to win in a system where no one really can. Because by the time the horrible cases reached her, everyone had already lost. C.J. had not heeded their advice, their warnings, and it was painful and tiring for them to keep worrying about her, placing herself like a suicidal fool directly in harm’s way. As far as C.J. was concerned, it was really better, this emotional distance that had grown between them since
the incident.
She had enough memories of her own to drag around; she certainly didn’t need to share anyone else’s. The same was true for all her old relationships from once-upon-a-lifetime ago, no matter how solid they had been at one time. She had not spoken to Marie in years.

She sipped the last of the coffee and opened the thick manila file marked POLICE REPORTS. The corners of the thin white triplicate paper were yellowing, the typewriter ink slightly faded. The date on the first report read Thursday, June 30, 1988, the time 9:02 A.M. Time rushed back, as if yesterday, and the hot tears spilled from her eyes. C.J. wiped them away with the back of her hand as they fell, as she began to read all about the night she was raped, twelve years ago.

23

‘Falconetti, you there? Dom?’

Dominick’s two-way radio sounded at his side. The screen on the Nextel read ‘Special Agent James Fulton’.

‘Yeah, I’m here, Jimbo. Go ahead.’ His eyes searched the bathroom for an evidence bag, and he walked out into the master bedroom. ‘Hey, Chris, where are the evidence bags?’

Chris handed him a stack of clear plastic bags, red evidence tape, and white inventory receipts, and he headed back into the bathroom.

‘We’ve got something’ real interesting happenin’ here in the shed out back side of the house. Where you at?’ Jimmy Fulton’s southern accent made understanding words normally found in the English dictionary interesting. He was an older guy, a seasoned investigator who had been with FDLE for twenty-six years and was currently the Special Agent Supervisor of the Narcotics Squad. His prior experience in violent crime and search warrants made him a valuable asset.

‘I’m upstairs in the master bath. I just found something real interesting myself. Bantling has a whole bottle of haloperidol in his drawer, otherwise known as Haldol’

‘Haldol? Ain’’t that for nutty folk?’ Dominick could just picture him right now pulling down on his full gray beard, dark sunglasses covering his eyes from sight even inside a dark shed.

‘Yee-haw, Jimbo. That it is. And our friend has a prescription for it from a doc in New York.’ Dominick dropped the prescription bottle into the clear bag and sealed it with the red evidence tape.

‘Goddamn! But I think I’m about to top you.’

‘Oh, yeah? How’s that?’ He marked his initials, DF, on the outside across the seal of tape in black pen.

‘Well, first things first. It looks like our friends from the Bureau have stopped by to pay us a friendly sort of visit. They’re out front right now shaking hands and kissing babies and of course giving free interviews to the press about the status of
their
investigation.’

Dominick felt his jaw clench tight. ‘You’re kidding me. Please, Jimbo, tell me you are.’

‘’Fraid not, my friend. ‘Fraid not.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Well let me see. The Beach Boy standing guard at the door damn asked them Fibbies for a business card, if you can believe it. He wouldn’t let them in at first, so they’re out making a ruckus now on the lawn. Remind me to call Chief Jordan over at the Beach and get that boy a raise.’

Dominick moved back to the master bedroom and looked out the side of the window. Sure enough, the same two dark suits from the causeway were standing around in their dark sunglasses looking important next to the bougainvillea on the manicured front lawn. Talking on cell phones and writing notes. Why, it looked like Mulder – and Scully in drag. Another feeder band of instant news across MSNBC and CNN viewers’ television screens:
FBI Investigators Take Over Investigation from State Authorities.
Or even better:
State Agents Get Fucked Again by the Feds.
It looked like they had even
commandeered the best parking spots in front of the house, blocking in the Crime Scene vans in the driveway.

‘Well, Dom, I’m looking at the cards here, and I’ve got an Agent Carl Stevens and an Agent Floyd Carmedy. You know these boys?’

‘Yeah, I know ‘em, Jimbo. They were all over my scene last night on the causeway. I’ll go down and talk to them. Last I checked, the feds weren’t named in our search warrant invitation. If they’re not on the guest list, then they’re not coming in. Tell Chief Jordan I second that raise and to have him make sure his boys keep the riffraff out.’