The case consumed me. So did a woman. Her name was Maureen, a major wreck on my highway to happiness.
Maureen Hartley, the wounded girl’s mother, isn’t even my type. Tall and blond with classic features, she dresses and moves like the top model she once was. She is as cool as Connie is hot. But something about her touched my soul.
I cared.
Her daughter’s pain hurt her. So did her marriage to a rich and manipulative man. I wanted to save her. At the very least I wanted to solve the case, to give her and her daughter peace of mind. I couldn’t even do that. I tried to drink away the frustration of my failure.
I didn’t find the killers, didn’t get the girl, and nearly lost my marriage.
She and the case haunted me, until a twist of fate fourteen years later. I was assigned to the Cold Case Squad, living a normal family life for the first time in years, when a reporter’s tip reignited the old investigation. This time, against all odds, we solved it. When I saw Maureen again, the feelings were still there. She left her husband for a time. I didn’t know where it was all going but never had the chance to find out. Like so many abused wives, she went back to the son of a bitch. Maybe he brainwashed her, or maybe she likes the lifestyle and the big bucks.
Connie went ballistic, totally haywire, imagining far more than ever happened.
A year ago we had talked about act two, anticipating our lives when the kids were grown up and out.
Now I’m the one who’s out. Without my job, I’d have no reason to wake up in the morning. My job matters, it’s important, it makes a difference. Or does it? Is it seeking justice for others and saving my sanity or is it ruining my family?
I rewind history as I toss and turn.
Connie is different these days. I’m beginning to suspect menopause is an aggravating factor. She’s only in her forties, but her mother went through the change early. I’ve heard them discuss it enough. Witnessed a few of her mother’s outbursts and hysterical tantrums. If that isn’t it, I must have caused my wife a helluva lot more pain than I realized all those years. Or is it Miami madness?
I never used to think it affected us natives, but there could be exceptions. People come to Miami and bizarre things happen. The temperature soars, the barometric pressure drops, the full moon rises, and people who are normal and otherwise rational start to use poor judgment, really poor judgment. They suddenly conclude that outrageous, dangerous, and deadly schemes are excellent plans.
Take the student helicopter pilot who made his first solo flight into a high-security prison to rescue a notorious murder suspect. Or the guys who tried to smuggle drugs into Miami in a surplus Russian submarine. Sure. Or the Cuban exiles who believed they were sending Fidel Castro an important message by firing a bazooka at a Polish freighter docked at the Port of Miami.
The chopper crashed, breaking the pilot’s ankle and the escaping convict’s front teeth. The Russian sub was seized. So were the exiles when a taxi driver ruined their getaway by refusing to allow a bazooka in his cab.
I lie wide awake in the dark, checking off a mental list of other cases of Miami madness. None I can remember affected natives. Eventually it occurs to me that this is not putting me to sleep, which I desperately need. I pad out to the kitchen for another beer as a lonely wail shatters the night.
He runs inside when I open the door, jumps right onto the bed, and curls up, purring. I resign myself to his company. Then I must have dropped off because the next thing I know, the feathery branches of the wild tamarind tree outside the window are drenched with sunshine, occupied by screeching birds, and I am late for work.
Chapter Four
Nazario sipped a cortadito from a tiny paper cup as Stone accessed the Miami–Dade County marriage license database.
“Damn waste of time,” Stone muttered.
“Hey, we got to keep the boss happy.”
“Impossible with that woman.”
“Women always complain more,” Detective Joe Corso said from an adjacent desk. “Why do you think they call it bitching?”
“Lie low, Corso,” Stone warned him, punching computer keys. “Don’t let her drag you into this one. She in yet?”
“Don’t see her.” Nazario craned his neck. Riley’s office looked empty and the civilian secretary, at her own desk, was happily chatting on the phone. “Nah, Emma looks too relaxed.”
“Got a hit.” Stone chortled. “Here’s the widow. Whoa. Once, twice, three times.”
“What’s her story? She a serial bride?” Nazario peered over his shoulder.
“Must keep trying till she gets it right.” Data flashed across the computer screen. “Here we go. Marriage license issued to Natasha Tucker, twenty, and Charles Vincent Terrell, thirty-four, almost fourteen months before his flame-out in May of ’ninety-two. The widow Terrell, now twenty-two, and a Martin Asher, age forty-one, apply for a marriage license on November twenty-seventh, 1992.”
“Six months a widow. That’s all?” Nazario wiped a fleck of coffee foam from his mustache and leaned over Stone’s shoulder. “Thought that arson investigator said she took it hard.”
“Must have bounced back. Maybe she doesn’t like living alone. Look at this one. Natasha Tucker Terrell Asher, twenty-five, and Daniel P. Streeter, fifty-four, issued a marriage license on January fourth, of ’ninety-five.”
“She digs older guys. This broad ever get a divorce? Or do they all spontaneously combust?”
“We’ll see in a sec.” Stone’s fingers flew.
“Wouldn’t that be something?” Nazario said. “The lieutenant keeps yapping for results. How cool would it be to give her a black widow?”
“No such luck.” Stone scrolled through new data. “Husbands two and three must have safer hobbies than tinkering with old cars. Two divorces on record. Nada in the marriage department since ’ninety-nine. She must be footloose and single these days. Let’s check property records. Whoa, the Streeter house was assessed at two point six mill. Looks like she kept it, then sold it for three point one. Shows a Gables by the Sea address now. Same as her current driver’s license.
“No wants, no warrants,” he said, accessing records. “Some traffic. Speeding tickets galore. Likes the fast lane. Hmmm. Busted. Twice. Both retail theft, shoplifting. Saks and Neiman Marcus. The little lady’s got sticky fingers.”
“Sells a house for more than three mill and she’s boosting from stores?”
“Fast lane, what can I say? Risk taker, klepto, or just a thief. I’ll get copies of the reports.”
“Hey,” Nazario said. “Look who finally showed up. Where you been, Sarge?”
“Call your wife,” the tiny middle-age secretary sang out.
Craig Burch looked pained. “Yeah, right away,” he said.
“What’s that smell?” Stone asked.
Nazario’s nose wrinkled, his eyes narrowed.
“Jeez, you smell it, too?” Burch said. “My effing Blazer stinks. Made my eyes water driving in. Started last night, but it’s worse now. Like something died in there.”
“You check under the hood?” Nazario said.
“Nah, but I pulled the seats out, checked the floorboards. Thought I musta spilled something from the fast-food joint. Don’t know what the hell it is.”
Nazario rolled his eyes. “Uh-oh, you think…”
“Wait till you hear what we’ve got on Meadows.” Stone tore himself away from the computer monitor. “Crime scene photos from all the cases…”
“Meadows?” Burch lowered his voice. “I thought you two are supposed to be busy on Terrell, so we can get Riley off our asses.”
“We’re on it, Sarge,” Nazario said.
“Uh-oh,” Stone muttered.
Riley stood over her secretary, outside her office door. She wore a crisp tailored shirt, fitted beige slacks, a matching jacket, and a frown. “Would you call public works and find out what the hell is going on in my neighborhood? Ask if there’s a boil water order.”
“Tap water brown again?”
Emma pursed her lips and reached for her city phone directory.
“No, pink this time.” Riley sighed. “Ran a load of wash this morning and my sheets and underwear all came out pink.”
“What color were they before?” Burch grinned.
“Pale pink or flamingo?” Nazario winked. “Inquiring minds want to know.”
Riley didn’t smile back. “Step into my office, and bring the Terrell file. Is that it? Is this all?” She plucked the folder off Nazario’s desk. “Never mind. I’ll look at it myself.”
She took it into her office, hung her jacket on the back of her chair, and settled behind her desk flipping slowly through the contents.
Occasionally she raised her eyes to the framed photo atop the bookcase next to the door. Two people aboard a boat. Blue sky above, liquid sky below. She was wearing cut-off shorts, a bathing suit top, and sunshine in her hair. Laughing as she held up a puny grouper. Kendall McDonald grinned beside her. He wore a Florida Marlins cap. His right hand rested on her shoulder. Had she ever really been that happy?
“What?” she snapped, as Emma cracked the door open.
“Public works,” she said. “Red dye. They used it in routine tests, but somehow it seeped into one of the water plants. Three-quarters of a million households south of Okeechobee Road affected. Not harmful, according to them.”
Riley looked pale beneath her tan as she waved the detectives into her office. Burch, with the most rank, took the only chair. Stone and Nazario slouched against the wall near the door, arms crossed.
“We’ll talk to Terrell’s widow, the second wife, today and check the neighborhood for witnesses who still live there,” Stone said.
“Good.” Riley toyed with a paperweight, a metal replica of a hand grenade. Her eyes looked red.
“The guys are also making progress in Meadows.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Stone’s been all over the crime scene photos.” Burch cocked his head at the lanky black detective.
“Right,” Stone said. “The victims were all found in their beds. Sheets stretched tight at the bottom, precisely folded over. All were identically made up. The way they teach the military or hospital workers to make beds.”
Burch shrugged. “Maybe the vics were all good housekeepers following Martha Stewart’s rules.”
“Stewart wasn’t a household word when he started killing, Sarge. And no senior citizen makes their bed like that. It’s damn uncomfortable, especially for the elderly. Too tight, it cramps up their feet. I used to visit my grandfather in the hospital. He and his roommate were always asking me to loosen up the sheets.
“It’s also obvious that the guy hung around, felt at home, cleaned up.”
“You mean he washed up, took showers after the murders?” Riley frowned.
“Maybe that, too. But I mean the scenes, the victims’ bedrooms. Spit and polish, just like the beds. The photos show the rest of the rooms, except for the kitchens, cluttered, a little messy. Typical of older folks. They accumulate things over the years, hate to throw anything out, and no longer have the strength and stamina for heavy-duty housework.”
“And the kitchens?” Riley asked.
“Spotless. You could eat off the floor. Most seniors, especially the women, focus more on the living room once they’re frail. They like to keep that nice, in case company comes.”
“True.” Nazario nodded. “You see that on so many DOA scenes.”
“He might even have cooked a meal. In the last several cases, where the garbage hadn’t been collected yet, there were fresh eggshells.”
Riley looked impressed. “So, in addition to wiping down whatever he touches, he may cook and clean house?”
“Looks possible.”
“When you find him, bring him over to my place before you book him,” she said. “My terrazzo floors are a bitch to polish.”
“Sure,” Burch said, “but the deal is, he has to kill you first.”
“Nice try, but I’m not his type. Not on Medicare yet. Good work. But make Terrell top priority,” she added, “until we know what we have there.”
“But if this guy is repeating his pattern,” Stone protested, “he might be back. He could be in Miami now.”
“Pure speculation on your part. Humor me,” Riley said.
Nazario left with Stone, still smoldering but silent.
Burch remained seated.
“How’s it going on the home front?” Riley asked.
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “It’s not, at the moment.”
“Too bad. Guess it’s an occupational hazard.” She tried to muster up an encouraging smile but failed. “Hope you work it out.”
“Me, too. You okay?”
“Sure.”
“Through with that?”
She gave him the Terrell file without meeting his eyes.
The temperature was ninety-six degrees as Nazario gingerly lifted the hood of Burch’s Chevy Blazer. “Well, there’s your problem, Sarge.”
“What the hell is that shit?”
The aroma from a gooey, molten mass atop the engine made them step back.
“I’d say Limburger.” Nazario crossed his arms. “Sarge,” he said after a long pause, “it’s none of my business, but you gotta make things right with the little woman.”
The new city directory listed the Walkers, who first called 911 in the Terrell case, still at the same address on Mariposa Lane. A surprise in Miami, where the wandering population moves on the average of once every three years.
Nazario squinted across shaded Mariposa Lane at a towering behemoth of a house painted in the latest decorator color, a distressed mustard yellow. “That’s gotta be the Terrell house, but it doesn’t look right.”
Burch agreed. “It’s nothing like the crime scene photos. Where the hell’s the garage? Should be right there, where those two thick columns are. Sure we got the right address?”
“Probably remodeled after the fire,” Stone said.
They rang the Walkers’ bell. A yapping Jack Russell terrier bounced as though on a trampoline around the feet of the fortyish woman who answered the door. Of course she remembered that day.
“Who could forget it?” she said cheerfully, and let them in. She expertly caught the Jack Russell on a particularly high bounce and tucked him under her arm. “I’ll call my husband.”
She pressed a button on a wall-mounted intercom. “I told you I was busy, I have to finish this today,” an edgy voice responded.
“But the police are here, sweetheart. Detectives.”
She flipped off the switch and smiled at the detectives. “Betcha that got his attention.”
It did. Stan Walker bounded into the room moments later. He’d been working on an annual report from his home office at the back of the house, he said.
“Detectives?” He looked concerned. “What’s wrong? Where are the kids?”
“Fine. Vanessa is at Gillian’s. I think Ryan’s in his room.”
Burch explained.
“Is that the Terrell house across the street?” Nazario asked. “It doesn’t look the same.”
“Don’t get us started on that,” Stan said in disgust. “Just look at that eyesore.”
“Natasha had the place repaired after the fire,” Joan said. “But I don’t think she ever spent another night there. Who could blame her? She—”
“—rented it out,” Stan said. “It wasn’t so bad at first. A young couple, good tenants. They took care of the place, but then he got transferred back to—”
“—California, I think,” Joan said. “It was an absolute nightmare after that. She listed it as a short-term rental, and we never had a real neighbor there again. They’d come and go, sometimes every week. European tourists who partied in South Beach all night, then came back to continue the party. Music would blast us right out of our beds at four A.M. Sometimes two dozen people were living there, some—”
“—for only a weekend,” Stan said. “That’s illegal. The
city doesn’t allow short-term rentals in a residential neighborhood. But she was a widow—”
“—with a baby,” Joan said. “Nobody wanted to turn her in. But her tenants were speeding up and down our street where children play. It wasn’t their neighborhood. They didn’t care.”
“She put the place on the market back in 2000, after real estate prices skyrocketed,” Stan said. “We were relieved.”
“We looked forward to real neighbors again,” Joan said.
“But it got worse,” Stan said. “She sold the place for a huge profit to a contractor who builds those damn McMansions on spec. That should be against the law. Look at that monstrosity.” He pulled the drapes back and stared in disgust across the street.
“Dwarfs everything around it. Completely out of scale and out of place. Destroys the character of the neighborhood. More than seven thousand square feet of house on a nine-thousand-square-foot lot! Eight bedrooms, eight baths, plus maids’ quarters. The next-door neighbors feel like bugs under a microscope. All those tall windows looking down at them in their traditional, typical one-story South Florida twenty-two-hundred-square-foot house. The ceilings in that eyesore are so high that—”
“—it must be like living in a post office,” Joan said.
“They build lot line to lot line,” Stan complained. “The politicians sold us out to builders and developers whose sole purpose is to pave over as much green space as possible.”
“I cried when they cut down the shade trees,” Joan said. “Two magnificent live oaks, a kapok tree, and a baobob. You should have seen their gorgeous canopies.”
“Isn’t there an ordinance against that?” Burch peered out at the offending structure. “I thought they were protected.”
“They are,” Stan said. “You need a permit and a good reason to remove them. We reported them to the tree police, you know, DERM, the Department of Environmental Resource Management. They took action, but the penalties are a joke. They bought after-the-fact permits and paid small fines.” He shrugged. “The penalties aren’t stiff enough to be a deterrent. The builders are too rich to care. They consider it the price of doing business.
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