“It’s in reference to a news story I’m working on,” I said.
“What story?” she demanded, children playing noisily in the background.
Simply curious or jealous? I wondered. Unsure how much she knew about the old case, or how she might react, I said I preferred to tell him.
“What story?” she repeated.
“A follow-up on something from years ago,” I said lightly.
A child shrieked, then began to howl.
“Sean! Sean!” the woman shouted. “Sean! Are you deaf? Why in hell is Danny crying again? Pick him up! Now! Can’t you see I’m on the phone? Would it kill you to lift a finger for a change?”
Maybe raising a young trophy wife along with a second family isn’t such a barrel of fun after all, I thought.
“Now,” she snapped irritably, “just what is it you want to talk to my husband about?”
I gave up. “His son’s murder,” I said crisply.
She put him on.
He took the news in stride, as though Ricky’s murder were a remote if sad historic event from some distant lifetime. “It’s a shock to have it come up again after all this time,” he said softly. The noted architect added that he hoped justice would at long last be served.
I had heard the unmistakable click of an extension gently lifted as we spoke, so I mentioned that I’d already met the boy’s mother.
“How is Heather?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said maliciously. “Absolutely wonderful, and so happy to hear the news.”
I called Cubby Wells next, but he didn’t pick up his phone.
“Just wanted to let you know,” I told his answering machine, “that you might be interested in a story running in tomorrow’s paper.” I left my number.
I also called the Reverend Earl Wright for comment on the judge’s refusal to reduce Gomez’s bond.
“I applaud his just decision,” he boomed. “An eye for an eye. That man took a life.”
“Would that apply to Mr. Coney too,” I asked, “since he’s now identified as a murder suspect?”
“I don’t believe corrupt lies designed to deliberately malign the dead, who are unable to defend themselves or their reputations.”
At least the man was consistently inconsistent.
I turned in the story, then swung by the hospital to see Ryan. His face lit up when I walked in. He put down the black-and-white composition book he’d been scribbling in and happily reported that he had a Saturday-night date with nurse Nancy.
“So you know when you’re going home?”
“Not yet”—he shrugged—“but I’ll surely be released by then. I feel a lot better,” he said, eyes alight. “I’ve been working on my poetry. You know how I always complain that I don’t have time.”
With his curly chestnut-colored hair and those big soft brown eyes with lashes any woman would kill for, Ryan did look like the young Lord Byron.
I called Sunny’s number on the way home to tell her about the story in the morning paper. No answer. I detoured to North Beach, muttering under my breath. My knocking must have disturbed the musician upstairs. Barefoot and wearing baggy shorts, he padded halfway down, leaned over the banister to check me out, and then retreated without a word. What was that all about? I wondered.
Sunny eventually heard me, eyeballed me through the peephole, and opened the door. The process took longer and involved a lot more hardware than I remembered.
“Have you beefed up security?”
She nodded.
Did that explain the hammer in her hand, or was I interrupting her work again? She scrutinized the lobby, then locked up behind me.
“There was a prowler,” she said casually.
“What do you mean?” I said, alarmed. “What happened?”
She shrugged. “Someone tried to break in the other night.”
“Are you sure?” I said.
She appeared calm, but she left the formidable hammer on a table near the door before leading me back through her high-ceilinged studio into the kitchen-living area of her suddenly shadowy and cavernous apartment.
“They picked the dead bolt,” she said, “at two A.M. I had just finished work, happened to be in the room stretching, and saw the door inch open. The security chain caught it. It was weird. I called out, and when no one answered I rushed to slam it and then pushed a chair in front of it.”
“Did you see who it was?”
She shook her head. “But next morning I found a half dozen burnt-out matches and cigarette butts in the lobby, as though someone had been waiting or watching. Maybe they thought nobody was home.”
“Why didn’t you call Sergeant Burch or me?”
“Why should I?” She looked puzzled.
“Did you tell Detective Nazario?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Did you call the Miami Beach police?”
This time she nodded. “I filed a report.”
“Did you tell them about the old case?”
“No. This had nothing to do with that.”
“But, Sunny, what if it did?”
“That wouldn’t make sense. I’ve done nothing to provoke it. I’m not working with the police. Nobody from the past has any reason to stalk me.”
She chose a Golden Delicious apple from a fruit bowl and offered it to me. Stomach churning, I declined.
She sat at her little dining table and took a bite.
“Stalk?” I took the stool across from her. “Has anything else been going on?”
She chewed, then swallowed. “I thought somebody was following me the other night.”
“Oh, swell,” I said. “Did the Beach cops take the matches and cigarette butts as evidence?”
She blinked. The idea never seemed to have occurred either to her, or to them.
“They didn’t seem that interested,” she said.
“Where are they?”
“I swept them up and threw them out.”
“Not a good move, Sunny.” I threw my hands up in exasperation.
She put the apple down and leaned across the table. “It was probably just some crackhead, or drunk, or homeless person looking for a place to crash.” Was this to reassure me or herself? “This town is crawling with spaced-out weirdos, partygoers, and tourists on the make. Maybe one followed me home from the beach the other night. Sometimes after working long hours, I go for an ocean swim, just to stretch out in that warm salt water. It’s wonderful for knotted muscles.”
“At night? Sunny, don’t tell me you do that at night with no lifeguards on duty.”
“No chance of sun damage,” she said lightheartedly. “My mother would be so proud.”
I was not amused.
“Look,” she acknowledged, “this did rattle me a bit. Had I been in the freezer, or asleep, I wouldn’t have seen the door opening and they might have gotten in. But it’s okay now.” She smiled. “I kickbox, I stay alert. Jimmy, my upstairs neighbor, is keeping an eye on things. And now that the police know, I’m sure they’re watching the building.”
Like hell, I thought. I filled her in on the Gomez-Coney story in the morning paper.
“No more night swimming in the ocean, please,” I said. “At least not until we know what’s going on.”
“This sort of thing, a burglar, a peeping Tom, happens to every woman,” she said. “I’m lucky they didn’t get in, and now they won’t because I’ve taken extra precautions.” Her eyes caught on mine. “I’m not paranoid, Britt. I was. After Ricky was killed I thought I’d never feel secure again. When your trust in human beings is destroyed, you’re afraid of everything, even being in an elevator with a stranger or alone at a bus stop. You’re afraid to pass an ordinary-looking guy on the street. I fought those fears. I took self-defense courses. I stay in shape. Fear will never rule my life again. I’m fine now. Although,” she said, averting her eyes, “you never get completely over some things.”
“Are you seeing Pete Nazario?”
She turned her deaf e
ar to me.
I touched her hand, forcing her to look at me.
“Look,” I said, “I don’t mean to invade your privacy, but—”
“I’m still trying to work through some things,” she whispered. “I don’t date a lot.”
“Why?”
“Well, the first one certainly didn’t end well, did it?”
“Look, Pete’s a good person. I think he’s interested in you, and I’m sure he’d want to know about this—”
“He is interested,” she said flatly, “but is it a prurient interest because he knows I was a rape victim, or is it me he’s attracted to?”
“In his line of work, victims are a dime a dozen. If he had a thing for them, he’d be a very busy boy. He strikes me as a pretty decent guy.”
She sighed. “It would probably be best for me to tell every man I meet up front that I had a bad experience and can’t deal with aggressive men. But I’m not comfortable doing that. My problem in a relationship is that the man has to be very, very gentle, you know what I mean?
“Physically,” she said shyly. “I have to come on to them. It’s awkward. So I usually find it easier not to start anything.” She buried her face in her hands, clearly uncomfortable. “It would help if he knew that.”
Oh, hell, I thought. Who am I now, Ann Landers?
“If you find him attractive, Sunny, see him. Have some fun. I thought you two might be hitting it off. With all the creepy stuff going on right now, it can’t hurt to have a cop around. They’re great deterrents. I used to date a cop,” I said wistfully. “They really know how to make a woman feel secure.”
“Because they’re heavily armed?” she asked wryly.
We both laughed.
“You know,” she said, gazing out toward the dining room and the headlights streaming past the big one-way picture windows, “one thing that always bothered me was that Ricky and I had Christmas gifts for each other, just little tokens. He wanted to open them before we went to the boat parade. I insisted we wait until later. I’ll always regret that I never got to give him his present.”
“What was it?”
She shrugged. “A book, Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. It had a bookmark, a note Ricky had sent me in sixth grade. I had it laminated. Silly, isn’t it,” she said, “how little things stay with you?”
“No, not silly at all. I guess the moral is carpe diem, seize the moment. Never let it get away. My friend Lottie, the photographer, always says that. I hear you two have met. The pictures are great, by the way. But now I wonder if you should reconsider having your name and picture in the newspaper.”
“No,” she said quickly. “I thought about it, Britt. The gallery owner says it’s a rare and golden opportunity for my work to be recognized. The opening is this week. I’ve worked so hard for so long. She said it would be professional suicide not to cooperate with an art critic who’s eager to praise my work.”
Made sense to me.
Outside, as I unlocked the T-Bird, a car passed slowly. I turned to look. One taillight was out, but I couldn’t see the tag number, make, or model. Did that same car drive by slowly as I was saying good night to Sunny a few minutes ago? It’s surely not the only car with a burned-out taillight, I thought.
Still, I called the squad as I pulled into traffic.
Nazario answered.
“Just the guy I need to talk to.”
“I’ve been thinking about you too, chica. I know you were being truthful when you first described Sunny to me. What I don’t understand is how you could see her like that.”
“Well, I’ve been wondering about you too, amigo. That manatee story? Was that rescue mission to Jamaica for real or did you make it up?”
“Every word, I swear, is true.” He sounded offended. “Te lo juro por mi madre.”
“You’re impressive, Pete. Now please tell me you’ve been playing bodyguard, protecting Sunny by lurking in her lobby smoking cigarettes and leaving burned-out matches.”
“¿Qué? What are you talking about?”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
His immediate reaction was to want to race right over there.
“Wait,” I said. “She likes you. But you can’t be macho, aggressive, and try to sweep her off her feet. No chest pounding. No Tarzan yells.” I sighed. “There’s something you should know….”
15
I felt numb and powerless when I got home, as though shadowed by a sense of inevitable disaster. Was it Mad Dog’s soulless stare? Sunny alone in that cavernous place with only a flaky upstairs neighbor for protection? Ryan in his hospital bed? Or was I simply overcome by the great depressed, stressed-out, and anxiety-ridden American malaise? Even the wind stirring in the Christmas palms breathed ominous murmurs. The hibiscus bushes, bright by day with their sweet and sunny open-faced blooms, swayed menacingly in the shadows, perfect cover for evildoers.
What if all this was not my imagination? My Aunt Odalys insists that I was born with a gift—or curse—tengo un presentimiento, the sixth sense that leads me into predestined paths. I believe her at times, when something or someone, spiritual or supernatural, perhaps my father, helps guide me through the minefields surrounding the truth. But my rational self knows that truth is a moving target found only through hard work, persistence, and rare strokes of luck.
Even Bitsy appeared overwrought and agitated, and Billy Boots had emptied a high shelf of books, now strewn across the carpet like the work of a mischievous poltergeist. He had also clawed Darryl’s latest finger painting off the magnet mounts on my refrigerator door.
“Why were you fighting?” I demanded, picking up books. “What’s been going on here?”
But dog and cat kept their secrets.
Lacking appetite, I sipped some soup and a glass of wine as I prepared for bed. A question nagged until I put down my toothbrush to call the squad, hoping to catch Nazario again.
Burch answered.
“What are you doing there so late?”
“You’re starting to sound like my wife,” he said glumly. “Stone had Miami Shores dig their old burglary reports out of the warehouse. Showed three guns stolen that week. One from a liquor store, two from private homes. One fits the description.
“Belonged to a judge. Bought it for his wife to use for home protection. They took visiting grandkids up to Disney World for a coupla days before Christmas. The house was ransacked while they were gone. Thief took the gun, cash, jewelry, and a VCR. No prints at the scene. The pawn-shop detail recovered a wristwatch. No sign of the gun. Stone’s running the serial number to see if it ever resurfaced.
“I’m rereading the case files now. Trying to match up the cross-references of all the witnesses, suspects, people we interviewed, to see if any name we have now ever appeared then. I don’t want to miss anything this time.”
“I have a question,” I said, curling up in my favorite chair. “Do the killers know Sunny’s name? The News never published it, but did it appear anywhere else in the media, in any court proceedings or public venues? Did the kidnappers take her ID that night? Did she even have one? Sixteen years old, on a family outing, maybe she didn’t even carry ID.”
He cursed when I told him why I asked. “She shoulda called.”
“She reported it to the Beach cops. She’s okay. The prowler incident seems to spook me more than it does her.”
“A tough kid, always was,” he muttered. I heard him shuffling papers. “Her name was never reported anywhere, far as I know. But you know how news travels, same way you always find out things you’re not supposed to know. People at the hospital knew who she was; so did her neighbors, her relatives. The nine hundred kids in their high school hadda know she was the girl with Ricky Lee Chance when he was killed. Her dad’s a prominent doctor; I’m sure his patients, employees, and associates all knew the injured girl in the case was his daughter. Then there’s the boy’s family. People talk.
“Here,” he finally said, “I’ve got it. Asked in my initial inter
view. She was fuzzy then, didn’t remember if her wallet and student ID card were in the little purse she carried that night. Probably were, cuz we didn’t find them when we checked the house, her room, or her school locker.
“Never found her purse or Ricky’s wallet. He had it when he paid for the ice cream.”
“Serial-killer types like souvenirs,” I said, thinking aloud. “But these guys probably just took out the money and tossed them, like most two-bit thieves afraid of being caught with the goods.”
He sighed. “We searched every inch of roadside, every garbage can, every Dumpster.”
“If they threw them in the water somewhere, the rain that night must have swept them away. I’ll try to reach the witness who saw them with the gun later. Maybe she also saw some of the victims’ belongings. I just want some assurance that none of the suspects are looking her up now. God, that would be awful.”
“Damn straight. But guys like them probably didn’t care what her name was as long as they got what they wanted. It’s not like she had checks or credit cards they could use.”
“What about the car Ricky drove?” I said. “It belonged to her dad and probably had papers with the owner’s name in the glove compartment. Were the suspects ever inside it?”
“Not that we know. We processed it, found nothing. ’Course the outside got rained on before we found it. The only interior prints we came up with belonged to Ricky, Sunny, and her family. Nothing missing from the car. No evidence of a struggle.”
“Wonder why they didn’t take it?” I said idly. “Never knew a teenage jitterbug who’d miss the chance to steal a car. What was it?”
“Five-year-old silver Volvo, nothing flashy. It was Maureen’s ride, the mother’s. Her husband took the Sunshine Princess up to the parade staging area earlier, then caught a ride back. They used the Volvo that night because it was roomy. Maybe the killers didn’t see it. They saw what they wanted, and it wasn’t a car.”
Sunny, I thought, with a chill.
“To them she was probably just another victim,” he said. “If they ever knew her name, they probably forgot it.”
“But what if they always knew it and just never had a reason to look her up before now? Her picture, big and in color, will be in Sunday’s paper.” I told him about the story of the gallery opening and how important it was to her. “She can’t hide,” I said. “It wouldn’t be fair to expect her to.”
The Ice Maiden Page 17