Shadows (13 page)

Stone stared at the image of the man he'd expected to break bread and share talk with tonight. Why hadn't he come sooner?

Katie took the picture from him and gazed at it for a long moment.

“He's kilt.” A tear skidded down one freckled cheek. “They kilt him. Left him to die like an animal in the road.”

“Who?”

She shrugged. “They never caught 'em. Nobody knows. But Ray knew. He knew and I never listened.”

A hit-and-run, she said. Ray had gone out jogging, as usual, at eight
A
.
M
. He never came back. They found him in the roadway near the jogging path he used most mornings.

“I never believed him,” she said. “He wanted to move again. I didn't wanna go this time. He said it was too dangerous to stay here.”

“What danger? Was he threatened?”

She nodded. “Something hanging over him. He never said what. From back when he was the law, I think.”

They had met in Orlando. She was from Medlin, Georgia, a twenty-year-old cocktail waitress with a drug problem. He helped her kick cocaine, saw her through rehab. When he left town, she went with him. Again and again. They never married. He said it wouldn't be fair to her until he cleared something up. He never explained what that something was.

He was killed fourteen years ago, three years after leaving Miami. Dead at twenty-seven, a year older than Stone was now.

“I can't believe he's been gone all this time,” he said miserably, the box of frozen peas still melting on his hand.

“Did you know him?”

“I met him,” Stone said bleakly. “He made a big impression. He's the reason I'm a policeman.”

Her fingers curled together on the tabletop. “He'da been pleased to hear that,” she said softly. “I didn't know him when he was a law officer, but that was his happiest time. Then something happened—something went wrong.”

“What did he tell you about it?” Stone said urgently.

She shook her head. “Not much. Ray was ambitious, wanted to get ahead. He was trying to investigate something and it all backfired on 'im. That's all I know. Was a lady used to write 'im sometimes. They'd talk on the telephone from time to time. But that was years ago.”

Stone glanced at the boy, engrossed in the TV.

“Mine,” she said. “Born a couple years after Ray got kilt. His daddy's not in the picture. I made some mistakes. But I'm blessed to have him. He's all I got. He came three months early and had to stay in the hospital a long time. He's a sweet boy. Slow, but a real sweet nature.”

Stone recalled the boy's shrieks, his crooked teeth gritted as he swung the bat.

“He's very protective of his mom,” she said. “I'm so lucky. I've got him, and I had Ray.”

Katie said she now waitressed at the IHOP just off the highway nearby. “You hungry? We was just making burgers.”

The burgers sat congealed in grease, in the now-cold frying pan.

“No,” Stone said. “I want to take you and your son out to the best restaurant in town, but I have to work tonight and then get back to Miami. I'm not sure when, but I'll be back.”

She walked him to the door, the TV blaring in the background. The boy never looked up.

She picked up the business card Stone had slid under the door. Squinting, she scrutinized it.

“Look at that,” she said in her small, soft voice, when he was halfway out the door. “You have the same last name as that lady, the one Ray used to talk to on the phone, the one who wrote him letters.”

HOUSE OF HORRORS
, the headline screamed. Under it, the slightly more restrained subhead in the afternoon paper read:
Seven Dead Infants Found.

“I like it.” Corso displayed the front page proudly. “Didn't I tell ya? That place would a made a perfect haunted house. It says we made ‘a grisly discovery.'”

“How'd they get the story?” Nazario demanded. “Had to be Edelman.”

“A reporter called PIO a couple hours ago, said the paper was gonna go with the story and needed a quote from the department,” Burch said. “The chief told Riley to speak for us. She gave Padron bare bones, no pun intended, for a press release but asked him to try to persuade them to hold the story one more day. They didn't.”

“Bet that brightened her day,” Corso said. “You know how she feels about the press.”

Lieutenant Riley's quoted comments were terse.

Cold Case Squad detectives were investigating both the 1961 murder of Pierce Nolan and the discovery of the dead infants. Whether the two were related had not yet been determined.

“Pick up your phone,” Emma, Riley's secretary, called to Burch. “It's PIO.”

Burch gritted his teeth and answered. Padron told him that Edelman had already called the police three times since the paper hit the street to report trespassers, reporters, television news crews, and sightseers with shovels all invading the Shadows.

“That's still a goddamn crime scene,” Burch barked irritably. “Notify the uniformed lieutenant in that sector. If the crime scene tape has been taken down, put it back up. Arrest anybody who violates the scene, including that son of a bitch Edelman.”

“Wonder how he likes having his exciting new condo project renamed the ‘House of Horrors.' How ya think it'll affect pre-construction sales?” Corso chortled.

The phones continued to ring nonstop. “Take that file into the conference room,” Burch told Nazario, “and study it till you know chapter and verse. We're gonna have to hit the road, go talk to members of that family eye to eye.”

 

Pierce and Diana Nolan sat in elegant straight-back chairs. The girls, in billowy white dresses, posed gracefully around them. The boy, Sky, sat on the floor at their feet. Nazario tried to read the faces in the formal family portrait, circa 1960.

Summer had big, dark fringed eyes, lush hair down her back, and a tiny Scarlett O'Hara waist. The detective's eyes lingered on her as he wondered. The other girls were as slim. Diana, also serene in white, was slender and nicely proportioned, despite being the mother of four.

Summer, alone in her room, music playing, heard the shotgun blasts, first one, then another, shatter the night, according to her statement.

In their shared bedroom, Brooke was occupied by homework left by her math tutor, while Spring chatted on the telephone with a classmate.

The housekeeper, Sandra Martin, forty-seven, had gone home at six
P
.
M
. after preparing dinner. Housekeepers always know a family's secrets. Nazario did a computer check, trying to locate her. He found her death certificate, dated 1979, natural causes.

Sky, who was supposed to be doing his chores, was hiding instead, playing explorer in the tunnel.

Diana Nolan was writing a letter at the dining room table, classical music playing on the stereo, when she thought she heard her husband's car. She went to the front window, she said, then went to look for Sky.

Investigators noted that blood droplets and smears had been found on and in the shrubbery on both the west and south sides of the house. The blood was human, A-positive, and was believed to have come from the killer. The evidence, small traces on leaves and grass, was now unavailable for DNA testing. It had been lost or discarded, possibly in the move to the new station years earlier.

Nazario closed the file and took the elevator down to Missing Persons. No unresolved missing-baby cases reported in Miami that summer of '61. His phone rang as he returned to his desk.

“Hi, it's me,” Kiki said. “Edelman was just on Channel Four, absolutely apoplectic. I thought something was wrong with my TV, his face was so red. Accused you of trying to delay his project.”

“Me?”

“The whole police department. Claims I put you up to it.”

“Thanks, I'll let the lieutenant know.”

“Okay, but before you go, would you like to have dinner at my place tonight?”

“No, thanks.”

“You can wear my nail polish,” she coaxed.

“Cut that out.” He grinned.

“Tomorrow night?”

“Nope.”

“Okay,” she whispered, shot down.

“No way. Not when it's my turn to take you out.”

“Oh! Okay.”

“But first thing in the morning I have to go outta town and I'm stuck reading statements tonight. I'll give you a jingle as soon as I get back.”

He thought about her as he drove home to Casa de Luna. He parked in the shadowy driveway then trotted upstairs to his empty apartment.

But the place looked far from empty. The door stood ajar. A dim light shone from inside. He'd left no lights on.

He drew his gun and nudged the door open with his foot. A chill rippled along his spine.

The light came from the bathroom. It was enough to see that the bed he'd made that morning was disturbed. More than disturbed. Occupied. A naked woman lay facedown, tangled in the sheets, her soft brown hair spilled across his pillow.

What the hell was this? He'd seen no strange car in the driveway.

Was she alive? Was she alone?

He approached cautiously, gun still in his hand.

She was breathing, snoring gently. Relieved, he checked the bathroom. She'd used it, had scattered his toiletries about. He pulled the shower curtain back, checked the closet. No sign of anyone else. He walked lightly to the staircase leading down into the main house.

A light had also been left on in the futuristic stainless-steel kitchen. Cautiously, he descended the stairs. He found the kitchen in disarray, but not as though a thief had been stacking appliances to steal; it was as though someone had simply made a mess trying to find something to eat.

He checked the entire house. Nothing seemed missing, all the other windows and doors secure.

He stole back up the stairs half expecting her to be gone, a mirage, a fantasy, a figment of his imagination.

But she still snored gently in his bed.

This could be trouble. Serious trouble. He was alone with a naked intruder who could say anything. To protect himself, he should call the Miami Beach police. This was their jurisdiction.

Instead, he turned on the bedroom light. She did not react. Her underwear, a T-shirt, and a pair of blue jeans lay on the floor. He looked for her handbag but couldn't find it.

What if she started screaming?

It was easy to see she wasn't armed. The thought struck him that this was every man's fantasy: arrive home after a hard day on the job and find a beautiful, naked woman in your bed.

So why did he have such a bad feeling? Because, he thought, fantasies never happen in real life. Not to him, anyway.

She didn't look homeless. Golden highlights streaked her silky hair and her manicure, though chipped, looked professional. Two shiny gold studs sparkled in the ear he could see. A thin gold ring winked from one of her toes and there was a tattoo on her left ankle, a blue half moon. No jailhouse tattoo, he noted on closer examination; it was professionally done.

He sighed and put his gun on the dresser, out of her reach.

He took out his badge case, stood over the bed, and gently tapped her on the shoulder. Her skin was soft. He detected the smell of liquor.

“Excuse me,” he said.

She groaned and rolled over without opening her eyes.

“Hello?” he said.
“Hola.
Ma'am?”

She moved over to make space for him on the bed.

Was this a joke? Was he being set up? He scanned the room for peepholes, cameras, or Alan Funt.

This didn't make a damn bit of sense.

He wondered what Kiki would think.

“Wake up, ma'am. Wake up. I'm a police officer. I need to see some ID.”

Her eyelids fluttered, as though disturbed by the latter.

“Hummmmhhhhff,” she protested, eyes squeezed shut like a child unwilling to get up and go to school.

“Rise! Shine! Show me your identification.”

Her eyes slowly opened. They were hazel, flecked with gold, the pupils dilated.

“Who're you?” she mumbled. Dazed and pale, she propped herself up on one elbow.

“You first,” he said. “I live here.”

“Me, too. Used to.”

“What's your name?”

“Fleur Adair.”

“You know W. P. Adair?” he said.

She nodded numbly.

“This is his place.”

“My father.” She grimaced at the word, as though pained, then squinted sleepily at Nazario. “You Shelly's boyfriend?”

“Shelly?”

“My stepmother.”

“Hell, no. I'm security here, keep an eye on the house when they're out of town. The old man didn't say anything about you coming in.”

“Doesn't know.” She pushed back her hair and tried unsuccessfully to sit up.

“You, uh, want a robe or something?”

“Okay,” she said affably, eyes closing.

He had no robe. Neither did she, so he gave her one of his shirts, a guayabera.

“How'd you get in here without setting off the alarm?”

“Tol' you, I used to live here. He always uses his birthdate, or my brother's, as the code, and he always hides spare house keys in the cabana and under the statue of the sprite by the fountain in the garden.”

Nazario frowned. He had to have a serious talk with Adair about security.

“Is he still married to Shelly?”

“Right, they're in Europe.”

“Crap.” She fell back on his pillow, eyes closed.

“Don't go back to sleep.”

She didn't answer.

“I've got their number if you want to talk to them.”

“No!” Her eyelids fluttered in alarm. “Don't tell 'em I'm here.”

A definite red light. “Why, if you're his daughter?”

“Shelly hates me. I'm not allowed in the house.” She licked her lips. “Got a cigarette?”

“No. They're not good for you.”

There was no humor in her laugh. “I need a drink.”

“I don't have any booze here, either.”

“There's plenty downstairs.”

“You helped yourself, didn't you? Knew where the key to the liquor cabinet was, too?”

“No. Had to bust the lock.”

“Coño,
you shouldn't've done that. I'm responsible. Your ID—where is it?”

She shrugged. “Stolen, in Atlanta.”

“I need proof that you are who you say.”

She shrugged again.

He stood over her, arms folded, waiting.

“I know.” She brightened. “If they're still there.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the sudden movement.

He persuaded her to pull on her blue jeans before they descended the inside staircase into the kitchen. She led the way, padding barefoot, down the long hall to her father's study.

Numerous framed photos of Adair and his wife Shelly adorned his massive mahogany desk. Dressed for skiing, sailing, and for fancy dress balls.

“Oh, shit, that's her.” Fleur picked one up. “Would you believe that Shelly was my roommate at college? I brought her home for Thanksgiving. Now she's in and I'm out.”

She gazed sad-faced at the photo.

“Where's
your
picture?”

“Lessee, unless she threw them all out, should be some in here.” She fumbled with a highly polished cabinet door.

“If that's locked, don't force it!”

“Don't worry.” She pulled out a heavy leather-bound scrapbook.

“Look.” She turned the pages, finally stopping at a family photo. “There I am. I was seventeen. And here I am with my dad on my eighteenth birthday.”

Nazario's eyes went from the photos to her face and back again.

“That's you, all right.”

“My mother moved to Seattle after the divorce. My father suggested I go live with her after Shelly said she didn't want me around. She said I made her uncomfortable. Then Mom married her personal trainer. He's a lot younger than she is, and she felt uncomfortable with me there.”