Shadows

by Edna Buchanan

  “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.

  “What happened to your family?” she asked.

  “I came to Miami alone on a Pedro Pan flight when I was six. My parents planned to follow, but Castro canceled the flights. I never saw them again. My father was arrested. He died behind bars, a political prisoner. My mother died not long after.”

  “Six? Who took care of you?”

  “I grew up all ove
r the country, in and out of orphanages, Catholic children’s homes and foster homes.”

  “That must have been so difficult.”

  He shrugged, enjoying a mouthful of rice. “I missed the food and the language. I spoke no English and they never sent me to a place where Spanish was spoken. But the same thing happened to thousands of kids; we did fine.”

  “I grew up in a big, noisy family.” She put her fork down. “I can’t imagine what it would have been like without them.”

  “It was okay,” he assured her, “especially after I made my way back to Miami and joined the department.”

  “You don’t regret not choosing another profession?”

  “I’d do it again, en un segundo,” he said without hesitation. “In a heartbeat. It is a rare job. You learn about people from all walks of life: big-shot politicians, people who want to fire you, people who love you and want to take you home, people who want to kill you, people who want to bake you cakes and want their kids to grow up to be like you, and people who want your job. It is like nothing else. Cold cases are the best. A real challenge.”

  She sipped her wine, watching him.

  “Sometimes we have to work harder to find a witness than a killer. People die, move away, they are hard to find. Many homicide witnesses live on the dark side themselves and don’t want to be found.

  “In a fresh murder, time works against you. A case still unsolved after the first forty-eight hours most probably will remain that way. But after a certain point, time turns and it begins to work for you. Compadres who once covered for each other are no longer friends. Sweethearts and married couples break up. People outside the law need to negotiate a deal. Eventually, time works for us.”

  “I see how easy it is to be consumed by it,” she said. “When I researched my thesis, I became hooked on those who came before us. Julia Tuttle, Carl Fisher, John Collins, Major Francis Langhorn Dade, and so many other unnamed heroes, pioneers, visionaries, and villains. I love to research and write articles for historical magazines. That’s how I became interested in Captain Nolan and his son’s murder years later, all linked to the Shadows. It sounds strange, but I know the stories of many dead people better than those who knew them when they were alive.”

  “Me, too,” he said quietly.

  “In a way I guess we both do the same thing.”

  “But our goals are different. Lo hago por la justicia.” Mine is justice.

  “History is important, too,” she said, “because those who forget the past have no future.”

  She was stunned to hear about multiple dead infants. Nazario swore her to secrecy. No press release had been issued and the detectives hoped to interview more witnesses before the story leaked out. Most shocking to Kiki was the suggestion that Pierce Nolan may not have been a clean-cut family man and civic-minded citizen.

  “He hasn’t been gone all that long. Many of his contemporaries are still alive. There’s never been a hint, a rumor of anything negative, much less scandalous.

  “Everything I’ve learned,” she said earnestly, “everything said by people who knew him indicated that he was above reproach, that his death was a true tragedy for the community. The man might have gone on to become governor, might have changed the history of our city and state.”

  “How likely is it that some stranger planted those infants in his secret cellar? Some men do lead double lives, mi amor.”

  “True.” She took his big hand in her small one. “I’ll get the nail polish remover.”

  Despite the odor, he enjoyed her daubing at his fingertips with a cotton pad.

  They toasted the past, justice, and Miami until the La Crema Chardonnay was gone. Then they took a walk.

  “Here, you take Fergie.” Kiki handed him the leash. “She’s the alpha dog. Di is the princess; she hates to step on damp grass or get her feet wet.”

  Their leashes were purple, befitting royalty.

  “I never had a dog.” The detective grinned as they all strolled together.

  “You still don’t. You can’t keep her.”

  “I don’t believe it’s nearly two A.M.,” he said at her door.

  “Thanks for bringing me home.”

  He turned to go.

  “You can call me, you know.”

  He nodded. “There something I have to tell you,” he said uneasily.

  She waited.

  “You know that little towel? The one with the butterflies?”

  Pete Nazario drove home. Actually, to another man’s home. The stately mansion, Casa de Luna, was the residence of multimillionaire W. P. Adair.

  But Adair was almost never there. He and other wealthy Miami Beach residents often offer free lodging in servants’ quarters, a guest cottage, or garage apartment to police officers, in exchange for security and peace of mind. Craig Burch had lived there when he and Connie were separated and once captured a pair of armed burglars in the act of looting the mansion. When he and Connie reconciled, Burch had recommended Nazario for the job.

  Adair, rich, robust, and full of life for a man in his sixties, was touring Europe with his third or fourth wife, a knockout named Shelly, about one third his age. Nice work if you can get it.

  Nazario leaped at the chance to save some money. His job was to maintain security and ride herd on the landscaper, the twice-a-week maid, the car washer, and the pool man.

  Nazario’s apartment, above the four-car garage, had originally been built for a live-in housekeeper and her caretaker husband. The separate entrance was at the top of an outside staircase. Rear stairs inside led down to the huge kitchen of the main house.

  Moving in had taken little effort. Nazario’s old apartment, which he’d occupied for years, was a furnished one-bedroom near Little Haiti. He traveled light. As a child, anything important to him had always vanished in the next move to a new place with total strangers. Eventually he’d learned to stop wanting things and, as an adult, never acquired many possessions.

  He’d arrived with one bag, shaving gear, and toiletries, and his clothes on wire hangers stacked in his car. No furniture. No stuff. No baggage. If he wanted a book, he went to the library. He had always lived that way. Un lobo solitario.

  Such a lifestyle never seemed lacking, until tonight. After spending time with Kiki Courtelis, he felt like the lost boy he had been. He trotted up the stairs, punched in the code, deactivated the alarm system, and let himself into the small apartment, the nicest place he’d slept in since he was six.

  As he peeled off his jacket it occurred to him that he had never had a home. He went downstairs to patrol the grounds, thinking about Kiki as he checked doors and windows. She and her lifestyle were warm and appealing. So why, when he was with her, did he feel like some spaced-out astronaut who had strayed off the planet? He circled the house, walked through the garden and past the pool. Casa de Luna, on nearly two acres, was one of Miami Beach’s largest private residences. Satisfied that nothing was amiss, he returned to his room.

  Alone.

  CHAPTER 6

  “O.J. is free, searching Miami golf courses for his ex-wife’s killer, but Martha Stewart is behind bars.” Jo Salazar reached for a garlic roll.

  “Go figure.” She licked her fingers, eyes rolling in ecstasy. “These are so good! What is it with judges? What ever happened to the concept of creative sentencing?”

  “Right,” Riley said. “Instead of jail time, she could’ve done so much righteous community service.” They were devouring green salad and drinking red wine while waiting for their mushroom pizza at Mario the Baker’s.

  “I used to tape her TV show,” Riley confessed.

  “You, too?”

  “How lame are we? Fans of a convicted felon,” Riley said.

  “She could have been sentenced to teach child-rearing classes to welfare mothers,” Salazar said. “How much child abuse and neglect might that have prevented? Her classes could have been made into training films. They could’ve been used for years, could have affected still-unborn ge
nerations.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Jo. What about Habitat for Humanity? Part of her sentence could have been community service, teaching recipients how to take care of their new homes. Most never owned or even lived in a house before, don’t have a clue about upkeep, what to do with a yard, or how to start a garden. She could’ve taught them how to decorate on a shoestring, as well. They could have presented the tapes of those classes to the new owners along with the house keys.”

  “Exactly,” Salazar said. “And she could’ve taught people in low-income neighborhoods how to cultivate community vegetable gardens in vacant lots, then how to prepare the produce they grew.”

  “No limit on the skills she could’ve shared with the have-nots. How to knit, sew, crochet, how to make their own clothes. She could have taught inner-city young marrieds how to make a home together. Instead they assign Martha to scrub the floor in the warden’s office. They blew a once-in-a-lifetime chance to tap into a treasure trove of talent. Why aren’t we judges?” Riley demanded.

  “Because somebody has to catch the real bad guys and put them away.” Salazar wolfed down another warm, fresh roll, drenched in olive oil and garlic and sprinkled with parsley.

  She caught Riley’s expression. “I do watch my calories,” the prosecutor said defensively. “I watch them on my fork as I shovel them into my mouth.”

  Riley laughed. “I didn’t say a thing. Whoever thought when we were roommates at the police academy a hundred years ago that we would wind up still like this.”

  “Look at me now,” Salazar said, “an old married lady with two kids, who I hope to God are in bed. Their father promised me they would be. You can’t believe how they can actually manipulate that man into letting them stay up as late as they like. They know how to wrap him around their fingers.”