Shadows

by Edna Buchanan

  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.”

  Fleur took off with a boyfriend, a grunge musician from Seattle, she said. His band worked various gigs around the country, but the jobs ran out and their bus broke down in Atlanta.

  The musician boyfriend asked Fleur to call her mother for money. She refused. They argued, but he apologized later the same evening and fixed her a drink in their motel room. Twenty-four hours later, she woke up bruised and sick, with a splitting headache. He was gone, with whatever money and good jewelry she had.

  “The only thing I feel bad about,” she said mournfully, “was my watch. My dad gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday.”

  “What did the cops do?” Nazario asked indignantly.

  “I didn’t call them.” She shrugged. “I brought it on myself. It’s not like it never happened before.”

  “Dios mío, niña. You got to pull your act together. How’d you get here from Atlanta?”

  “Hitched.”

  “¿Qué? That’s dangerous!”

  “A trucker brought me most of the way. Nice guy.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive! Please don’t ever do that again. You using drugs?”

  “He had some pot.”

  There was little food to speak of in the huge stainless-steel kitchen or in his apartment refrigerator, and she was hungry. He ordered a pizza.

  While Fleur showered, Nazario called Sonya Whitaker, W. P. Adair’s longtime secretary/bookkeeper, at home.

  “Fleur’s there? Is she okay?”

  “A little down on her luck,” Nazario said. “Think the old man would mind if she spent the night?”

  “Do what’s right, Detective. Fleur’s not welcome right now, thanks to Shelly. But blood is thicker, you know. Between you and me, Fleur will still be W. P. Adair’s daughter long after his current wife is gone and, hopefully, long forgotten. I watched Fleur grow up. The poor kid got a raw deal.

  “But don’t mention her to Shelly, or to him, if they call. I’m the sole survivor from his original staff only because I know enough to stay out of that woman’s way.”

  Fleur’s color began to look a little better as they ate, though she insisted on beer with her pizza. He’d ordered salad, too, and a side of eggplant parmigiana.

  “So, your name, it sounds French.”

  “They named me for the place where I was conceived. A town where artists congregate. It’s where Vincent van Gogh cut off his ear.”

  “Nice.” He frowned. “Look, you can stay here tonight. But that’s it, unless you talk to your dad and he tells me different. I have to leave early in the morning. I’ll be back tomorrow night or the next day. By then you gotta be outta here.”

  “Sure.” She put down her fork and bit her lip. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll go to work tomorrow, find myself a place.”

  “What kind a work?”

  “I go to parties.”

  “You mean you—”

  “No. I’m not hooking, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  She explained as he rinsed the dishes in his little sink.

  When he turned, she held his gun in her hands.

  “Cool,” she said. “Is this real?”

  “Hey!” He snatched it from her.

  “I was just looking at it,” she protested. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yeah, a work of art. But it can do ugly things.”

  When he went downstairs to check the property, he took the gun with him, unloaded it, and locked it in the glove compartment of his car.

  “Why’d you come up here to go to sleep when you grew up in the main house?” he asked.

  “I don’t have a room anymore. My dad always kept my old bedroom for me, no matter who he was married to. But when Shelly redecorated, she got rid of my stuff. She made my room into a giant closet for her evening clothes. Has her collection of Judith Lieber evening bags on display, like art, in glass cases. So tacky.

  “Besides, I always liked it up here.” Her expression waiflike, she glanced around the familiar room. “When I was little and my parents were fighting, I’d sneak up here and sleep with Maria, our housekeeper.”

  Nazario gave her a T-shirt to sleep in.

  “Take my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch in the next room.”

  She tumbled into bed, then patted the spot next to her. “There’s room right here.”

  “Look,” he said firmly, “your father trusts me with his property. I can’t take advantage of his daughter.”

  “You’re not taking advantage,” she protested. “I’m not sixteen years old, I’m twenty-four.”

  He shook his head. “You’re making me uncomfortable.”

  “Sorry.” Her voice sounded small. “I always do that to people. I don’t mean to.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. It was my poor choice of words.”

  She didn’t answer, alone in his bed.

  He sighed and said good night.

  He was nearly asleep when she came into the room and curled up next to him.

  “What are you doing?” he grumbled.

  “I don’t wanna be alone. Just hold me.”

  He sighed. “I don’t like being put into this position.”

  She began to whimper.

  He got up, went to find a blanket, covered her, then sat down next to her. “Okay.” He put his arm around her. “Get some rest and together we’ll work things out for you, I promise.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Sorry to trouble you so late, but I have to go back to Miami tonight,” Stone explained.

  “No apology necessary, Detective.” Dr. Peter Jensen, the Collier County medical examiner, fumbled for his ke
y. The building, adjacent to a hospital, was minuscule compared to the Miami–Dade County Medical Examiner’s sprawling complex. “Right now I welcome any reason to return to the office. My mother-in-law and her sister are paying their annual visit. They’ve been with us for the last ten days. Four more till they say adios.”

  Jensen, tall and bookish, with salt-and-pepper hair, tugged at his lower lip. He might remember the case, he said. When he pulled the file, he was sure.

  “Yes, sir. Rang a bell when you mentioned that the victim was a former Miami law enforcement officer. That one struck me as out of the ordinary at first.”

  “How so?”

  “He was the first dead jogger to come in here wearing a gun.”

  “Ray Glover was armed when he was killed?”

  The doctor raised a thoughtful eyebrow and nodded. “A .25 caliber automatic weapon, fully loaded, as I recall. On a sunny spring Sunday, mind you, in this bucolic area with little crime or traffic. He wore it concealed in a cloth body holster. You know, the ones that wrap around the rib cage and fasten with Velcro. Unnoticeable under a baggy T-shirt.

  “Unusual. Thought it might be worth looking into, an indicator of foul play or even suicidal tendencies, psychological problems, or paranoia on the victim’s part.

  “But there was a logical explanation once he was identified. Our dead jogger was a former Miami law enforcement officer, from a city where the violent crime rate had been enormously high.

  “Wearing a gun was obviously his habit, a sign of the times and the environment to which he’d been accustomed. Probably wore a weapon routinely, the way I wear a wristwatch.”

  “Can I see the pictures and the autopsy report?”

  “Certainly.” The doctor shuffled out the eight-by-tens like oversized playing cards.

  “Did you injure your hand, Detective? It looks swollen.”

  “A small mishap. It’s fine.” He picked up one of the photos. “Did you go out to the accident scene, Doctor?”

  “No,” Jensen said. “It was a Sunday. After church we brunch with friends at the country club. I think I got a call but the deputy said he didn’t require my presence.” He peered through his reading glasses at a document from the file.

  “According to the report, the victim remained unidentified until late Sunday afternoon when one Katie Abernathy called the hospital to ask if there had been any accidents. Said her live-in boyfriend had never returned from his morning jog. She was referred to the sheriff’s office, then came in and made the positive ID. I took my first look at the body on Monday.” He leafed through the pages to the autopsy report.