By the time he finished his shopping at Home Depot and arrived at his grandmother’s cottage, it was nearly noon.
She was drying her hands on a dish towel, music playing on a small radio in the kitchen.
“Thought you were comin’ for breakfast.” She hugged him. “It’s a little late for that now.”
“I’d still love some eggs and grits.” He carried his heavy yellow toolbox into the kitchen. He’d bought a brand-new inch-and-a-half dead bolt for her back door and some bolts to secure a shaky porch railing.
“A lightbulb in the bedroom ceilin’ needs changin’, if you got time, Sonny.”
He grinned at her. “I got time.”
As he went through the living room to check the bulb, he noticed something missing.
The frame that had always held his parents’ smiling photo stood empty. The frame next to it, which held the childhood picture of him in front of the TV in his little blue suit, lay facedown on the shelf. He stood it up. It, too, was empty.
“Gran, where are the pictures?”
“Oh, Sonny, the girl took them.”
“What girl?”
“You know, Nell.”
“Nell Hunter?”
His grandmother smiled. “Nice girl. I think she likes you.”
He stared at her, speechless for a moment, still holding the empty frame.
“Nell was here?”
“All afternoon on Thursday. Talkin’ ’bout you, askin’ questions. Borrowed the pictures to put in the newspaper.” His grandmother saw his eyes and grew serious. “She promised she’d bring ’em back. Said it was all right, she talked to you first.”
“Oh no,” he muttered. “She can’t do this. Gran, you never should have let her have those pictures. You shouldn’t have let her in the house. Never should have talked to her. You should have asked me first.”
“I did call you,” she said in a small voice. “I left a message.”
“Damn.” He sat in the armchair and tried to think. He’d seen her message and hadn’t answered. He’d assumed she just wanted to ask what time he’d be there. This was all his fault.
“How would she know to come out here, Sonny, if you didn’t tell her where I’m at? Said she’s writin’ your profile. What’s wrong? She’s from the newspaper. Isn’t she? The one that put your picture on the front page?”
“What did she ask you about, Gran? Did you say anything about what happened to Mama and Daddy?”
“She knew all about it. Was askin’ me questions.”
This was too personal. Way too personal.
“Sonny?” His grandmother sat down on the sofa across from him. “The photographer came with her. A man with a lotta cameras. They took my picture, too. Is that bad?”
“Oh, Jesus,” he said. “Where?”
“Here. In the backyard. Out on the front porch.”
Stone sprang to his feet and began to pace.
“Did I do something wrong, Sonny?”
“No. It was me, Gran. My fault,” he said. “But I’ll fix it. I’ll stop her.”
“I was gonna fuss at you for not tellin’ me she was comin’. I coulda fixed my hair up and put on my Sunday dress. I didn’t want you to be ashamed of me.”
He swallowed hard. “I could never be ashamed of you, Gran.” He sat down next to her, put his arm around her shoulders. “I just don’t like you being exposed, or put in any danger because of my job.”
“Oh, she wouldn’t do that, Sonny. Seems like a real nice girl, really friendly.”
“Gran, remember when I was little and you took me to the petting zoo? Remember the llama?”
Stone was furious. Nell wasn’t at the paper. He’d left messages on her voice mail. There was probably plenty of time to clarify what she would and would not include in her story. But he had to be sure. He kept calling.
No one seemed to be in the whole damn place. Didn’t newspapers operate twenty-four hours a day, like police departments? He hated voice mail. Finally he reached a human on the city desk and said it was urgent.
They would not divulge Nell’s number but said they’d have her call him. She didn’t.
He worked furiously, more angry at himself than anyone else. He should have known better. He’d seen how reporters can access information. She had simply typed his name into the system. What was he thinking? She had taken advantage. He wanted those pictures back. He wanted them now.
He called the city desk every half hour.
At five-thirty he was mowing the yard, shirtless, sweaty, and out of breath, when his cell phone rang.
“Hey, Sam Spade,” she said lightly. “You rang?”
“Nell.” He tried to sound calm. He just wanted the pictures back. He just wanted her to cooperate. He’d bargain if he had to. He carried the cell phone onto the shade of the porch, where his half-empty glass of iced tea stood.
“Nell, I have to say I’m upset because you came out to see my grandmother without telling me.”
“Silly, that’s what reporters do. Good reporters. You don’t write a decent profile without talking to a lot of people familiar with your subject. That’s the difference between an interview and a profile. I spoke to your boss, your high school coach, and your homeroom teacher, too. You upset about that?”
“I’m not happy about it,” he said. “But I’m downright alarmed about my grandmother. You saw her. She lives alone. And I’m involved in a high-profile hunt for a serial killer who preys on elderly women. You can’t put Gran’s name, her picture, or her address in the newspaper. That would be dangerous. It could compromise her safety. I don’t want strangers to even know I have a grandmother.”
Nell was silent for a long moment, then came back feisty. “You mean you actually think that this killer, who could be, God knows, anywhere, might really stalk your grandmother? Now, that’s pretty paranoid. Plus, he’s only killed white women.”
He tried to control his temper. “Stranger things have happened, Nell. And I can’t risk it. It isn’t just him. As a policeman I’ve arrested a lot of people that I wouldn’t want to have my family’s home address.”
“Her address isn’t in there. Just a description of the house and that it’s in Overtown.”
Dread overwhelmed him. “You mean you already wrote it?”
“Right. It’s a good story. Some of my best work. You’ll like it.”
“I won’t if my gran’s name or picture is in it. And I want my parents’ picture back. Right away. Tonight. I can come pick it up. You didn’t mention in the story what happened to them, did you?”
He knew the answer by her silence. “You can’t use that, Nell. It’s really private. The people I work with don’t even know.”
“But that’s what makes the story.” She sounded exasperated, as though explaining simple logic to a child. “It makes you seem human, vulnerable, and gives the piece a real edge. Small boy whose parents are killed in an unsolved murder grows up to be a detective specializing in unsolved murders. What’s more dramatic or heart-wrenching than that? Great story.”
“Take it out, Nell. You have to. It would mean a lot to me. Please.”
She didn’t answer.
“You’re violating my privacy.”
“What privacy?” she asked coolly. “You gave that up at the press conference. You can’t have it both ways. You can’t ask for publicity on one hand, then try to stop it when you don’t like where it goes. That’s not how it works.”
“This is different. I’m no politician or celebrity, I’m just a cop. It was part of my job, I had to do it. Nell,” he pleaded, “take it out. We can stay friends, I’ll tip you off on other stories. You’ll be the first to know when we close a big case. Just take my grandmother and my parents out of it. Please.”
“It’s too late.”
“Why? You can just tell your editors that—”
“It’s in tomorrow’s newspaper. The early edition is already out on the street.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“
What’s the other guy look like?” Stone asked Monday morning as Burch walked into the office, a Band-Aid over the stitches in his head.
“Two guys. There was two of ’em,” Nazario crowed. “And he captured ’em both with a TV remote. That’s our sarge.”
“Yeah,” Burch said. “Between the two of us, we’re keeping Padron busy. Too busy.”
Stone nodded grimly. The story that ran on the front page of Sunday’s paper had included a photo of his grandmother, age seventy-eight, seated on her front porch, smiling proudly, the house number clearly visible on the wall behind her.
“How the hell did you let that happen?” Burch said.
“I didn’t. That reporter burned me, sneaked behind my back. When I found out she’d been to see my grandmother, I called in time to stop the story. She got my messages, had to know why I was calling, but didn’t get back to me until it was too late. That had to be deliberate.”
He looked sick. “She didn’t care. All they care about is a good story.”
“And why the hell didn’t we know about your folks’ case?” Burch said, his voice lowered. “Why’d we have to read about it in the newspaper along with the rest of the world? Jesus Christ, a double murder, a police officer’s parents. I mighta seen it once when I was rummaging through old files. From what I remember, it didn’t look promising. Nothing new in years. But that ain’t stopping us from taking a run at it. You couldn’t be the lead officially, but we can work it, see what we find.” He shook his head. “You work side by side. You think you know somebody. Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I was gonna bring it up at some point,” Stone said, “but I want to prove myself in this unit first.”
“Hell, Stone. You did that a long time ago.”
“What about your grandmother?” Nazario asked.
“Yeah, is she relocated?” Burch asked.
“No,” Stone said. “I wanted to move her to my place. But she’s stubborn, independent. Always has been. Says that nothing or nobody can make her leave her home. I spent all day yesterday arguing with her and securing the house. Her neighbors said they’d keep an eye on her and I gave her a cell phone, though she didn’t want it.”
“We’ll have patrol put a watch order on her place,” Burch said. “The zone cars can keep tabs on her. Damn it. Didn’t I warn you about reporters?”
At Nazario’s request, police in Portland, Maine, discreetly checked and found that Big Red, Linda Pickett, apparently lived alone at the Greenway address, a high-rent condominium apartment house, under the name Linda Ballard. She’d been seen there within the last twenty-four hours.
“Looks like it’s a go,” Riley told them.
“Wonder where the hell Terrell is,” Burch worried. “How come he isn’t with her?”
“We’ll find out soon,” Nazario said. “I’m psyched.”
They conferred with Assistant State Attorney Jo Salazar before their noon flight to Maine.
“Maybe I should go with you,” the prosecutor said. “Don’t make her any promises, but obviously, he’s the one we want. Find out how much she knows, what she has to offer. Maybe we can deal her. If you need me, I’ll come up.”
They stopped at Bob Hope Road. The chief medical examiner had been poring over the file.
“Your victim, whoever he was, had a hemoglobin saturation of fifty percent carbon monoxide. At that time, investigators believed that the victim’s high concentration of carbon monoxide meant he was alive at the time of the fire and died from smoke inhalation. Such high levels are common in fatal house fires, but recent studies show that they are not in gasoline-fueled flash fires. Those victims die so quickly that the carbon monoxide content remains low.
“He must have been overcome by carbon monoxide in some other fashion—such as from automobile exhaust. He was dead from carbon monoxide poisoning before the fire. Then the fire itself was set, possibly with paper trailers later consumed by the flames. That would leave no evidence of arson and allow the perpetrator enough time to escape before the fire was noticed.”
“So Terrell must have left him either unconscious or tied up in the garage with the car engine running,” Nazario said. “Not bad. He almost got away with it.”
“He did get away with it, for twelve years,” Burch said. “I wonder if the victim was already dead, or still alive when Terrell dropped the car on him and took off his finger.”
The doctor shrugged. “That would be speculation. If you find him, maybe he’ll tell us.”
“We had no luck on dental records for Hastings,” Burch said. “But you’ve got the photos the daughter sent. And we’re leaving you a good shot of Terrell. Think they might be enough?”
“We should know soon,” the chief said. “Dr. Wyatt plans to look at them today.”
They made copies and took pictures of both men with them, picked up their overnight bags at headquarters, and were about to leave for the airport when Lieutenant Riley hailed them from her office.
“Uh-oh,” Burch said. “Here she comes. Look at her face. Something’s up.”
“We shoulda beat it out of here while we had the chance,” Nazario said. “We’re cutting it close.”
“Guess who’s missing in action?” Riley said breathlessly.
“I’m afraid you’re about to tell us,” Burch said.
“Natasha Ross. She’s disappeared.”
“What the hell…?” Burch said.
The detectives stared at each other.
“Can it be related?” Burch said.
“How can it not be? What’s going on?” Nazario frowned and checked his watch.
“When’s your flight?” Riley said.
“Noon.” Burch sighed in frustration, eyes uncertain.
“Hell. You don’t have much time. Go! Go!” She hustled them in the direction of the elevator. “I’ll head out to the Ross place. Stay in touch. Now go!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Nelson leaped into his truck, slammed the door, and burned rubber as he raced away from the towering high-rise building. He did not look back. The tall green van swayed, the lawn equipment inside shifting, as he swerved through traffic, took corners too fast, and raced onto Southwest Eighth Street, Calle Ocho.
Heartsick and furious, his pride wounded, he pounded his steering wheel in frustration. To threaten his manhood! To laugh at his love! How could Natasha treat him so? How could she turn on him? After all they had been to each other. Did she not see the sacrifices he had made for her? He tried to calm himself. Women do such things and later they are sorry, he thought.
Spirited and passionate. Her fiery nature was so like his own. They were more alike than she realized. Soul mates. When they were next together, he would take control. He would become a strong man who dominated her. That’s what she wants, he told himself. Women love a strong, virile man who can give them many children. Not an old man with white hair, shriveled cojones, and a limp, lifeless penis. She must be dominated.
He must be stronger. Take charge and claim what is his. He nearly turned to rush back to the San Souci Towers to take what was his. To transform her into a more docile and understanding mate.
But what if she continued to hide and elude him? He would appear foolish and weak in her eyes. No, she must now come to him. This was a good lesson after what she had done. She must make her own way home. But he had her dress. He wrinkled his brow.
Uncertain, he lifted his foot from the accelerator, then floored it again at the memory of how she had menaced his very manhood with his own razor-sharp pruning shears. He had missed disaster by only a fraction of an inch, then stumbled, struggling to pull on his pants as she ran away from him.
Miami Police Officer Fermin Santiago clocked the landscape truck at sixty-five in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone as it rattled by him. He flipped on his blue flasher.
This was the debut of the new and improved Officer Fermin Santiago, his first day back on patrol after three weeks in fucking sensitivity/anger management training. Due to his short fu
se and multiple use-of-force complaints, he’d had little choice. It was either train or be suspended. His most recent bad luck had been his worst yet. How could he know that smart-assed motorist, so slow to step out of her fancy convertible, was a rich lawyer’s wife? How could he know that when he grabbed one of her fancy high-heeled boots to yank her out of the vehicle that she’d bump her head on the pavement? Twice.
His sergeant said he had worked too long on midnights in the inner city and had forgotten how to treat civilized people. Santiago was bitter. He had no anger management problem. Sleep deprivation was his real problem. If that bitch Andrea would just muzzle the fucking kids and let him sleep, he’d be fine. The twins had howled all night again and Andrea, puffy-eyed and sleep deprived herself, had told him just this morning to fix his own damn breakfast.
In spite of it all, Santiago was in good spirits, back in control, back on patrol. Sure, it was the day shift, where he would endure close scrutiny by his supervisors, but they could watch all they liked, he thought. They would be nothing but impressed. Fresh out of the classroom, he had spent days learning, absorbing, and practicing verbal judo. Being accustomed to constant action out on patrol, he had found it difficult to stay awake. The talky sessions were mind-numbing, fall-asleep boring, but he had regrouped, applied himself, and had the drill down pat.
The chief was a believer in verbal judo, so verbal judo it would be. He’d win the goddamn fucking Olympic gold medal in verbal judo, if such a thing existed. If that’s what it took to stay out of trouble and boost his ass onto the sergeant’s list, he would follow the rules to a T.
Verbal judo classes would soon be SOP for the whole department, the chief had said. In Savannah, they had reduced use-of-force reports, injuries, and civilian lawsuits by 30 percent.
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