He agreed. “Those scumbags probably don’t read the News, and if they do I’m betting it’s not the section on art.”
I hoped he was right.
The uneasiness invaded my sleep. This time the dark cloud billowing behind the woman in the blue sweater was populated by stone figures alive and menacing. Trying to warn her, I could not make her listen. She could not, would not, hear me.
Billy Boots hurtled off the bed when the phone rang. It seemed to be part of my troubled dream. But by the third ring, I was awake and dazed.
“Britt.” The voice sounded terrified. “Sorry to bother you this late, but I’m scared. I don’t know what—”
“It’s all right, Sunny,” I mumbled, legs already off the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor. The glowing numbers on my bedside clock read 3:46 A.M.
“Britt, Britt, wake up! It’s Onnie. Britt?”
“Oh, right. Onnie. I was dreaming. What’s wrong?”
“Edgar. He’s been calling and calling. He’s threatening to take Darryl.”
Edgar, her abusive ex-husband, was in state prison, serving a long term for assaulting a police officer.
“There’s call waiting,” she whispered, at a series of persistent clicks. “It’s him again.”
“They let him make threatening calls from prison in the middle of the night?”
“No, he’s out! Here! In Miami! Why do you think I’m so upset?”
“Did he escape?” I pulled on a cotton robe and licked my dry lips.
“No. They released him.”
“How could they? That’s impossible.”
“I saw him, Britt.” Her voice rang with desperation. “He was here! I called the police. I was so grateful when they came. But they checked him out and let him go! They said he’s legally free. There’s nothing they can do.”
A family court judge had terminated Edgar’s parental rights. Onnie had divorced him, moved, left no forwarding address, and had a new unlisted telephone number. “How the heck did he find you?”
“Had to be his family.” Choked up, she stumbled over the words. “His mother, his sister. They begged to see Darryl, said he shouldn’t be deprived of the grandmother who loved him. She swore on the Bible she’d never tell Edgar where we were. It had to be her.”
“Where is he now? Have you seen him since the police left?”
“No,” she said, “but he’s called three times. Even madder because I called the police. He was already furious about the divorce. He says we’re still married, he wants his son—”
“Damn! Why do these things always happen at night when you can’t call a judge and find out what the hell’s going on?”
“I’m scared, Britt. He’s going to do something terrible.”
“Okay.” I brushed my hair out of my face, beginning to think clearly. “Grab a few things, just toothbrushes and a change of clothes, and come here. You and Darryl can stay with me until we straighten this out. Bring your cell phone and if you even see him anywhere along the way, dial 911.”
“Thanks, Britt, but I don’t know. It’s almost four already. Darryl’s finally asleep. I hate to wake him up to run away like thieves in the night. I can’t let Edgar drive us out of our home.”
“Want me to come there?” I padded into the kitchen and began making coffee. “I can be there in twenty.”
“Seeing you could make Edgar worse,” she said uncertainly. “He blames you for helping me. You know what he’s like.”
“It’ll be okay.” I tried to sound confident. “If he’s threatened you, we’ll talk to his parole officer in the morning. They’ll slam his bad ass back behind bars so fast his teeth will rattle.”
“Think so?”
“Know so. Look, don’t worry. If you feel secure in your apartment, maybe it is better just to batten down the hatches and sit tight instead of driving over here in the dark with him on the loose.”
“I knew my life was too good to last.” She groaned. “It’s been so wonderful without him.”
There was no going back to sleep.
At 7:30 A.M., Mommy-mobiles, school buses, and occasional dads were dropping the kiddies off at Banyan Elementary. Youngsters played and ran, shouted and laughed, lugged school books and lunches. Mothers were rushing after youngsters who’d forgotten their homework, snatching quick kisses on the run.
I watched morosely. Once you share a child with someone, I thought, you are irrevocably tied to that person forever, no matter what, for better or worse.
I spotted Shelby. Her little girl wore a tiny blue scarf and clung obediently to her mother’s hand. She loosened up, tried to let go when she saw her friends. But Shelby walked her right to the door, then watched until the child disappeared into the building.
“Hi,” I said, and smiled.
Startled to see me, she scanned the street to see if anyone was watching. “I can’t talk to you anymore,” she said quietly.
“All I wanted to ask was—”
She unlocked her car door and slid into the driver’s seat.
“Wait a minute,” I said.
Her window half down, she pretended to be giving me directions, pointing somewhere off down the street. She looked scared.
“That night,” I said quickly. “Did you see a wallet or a girl’s purse, anything they might have taken from someone?”
She looked terrified. “No.”
She turned the key in the ignition and the car lurched away from the curb.
And I thought she’d begun to like me.
I picked up a sack of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and went to Onnie’s. She had just returned from taking Darryl to kindergarten and was dressed for the office.
“Think it was safe to send him today?” I asked.
“Routine is important,” she said stubbornly, pouring me a cup of coffee. “Especially to children from broken homes. I spoke to his teacher and the principal.”
I arranged the jelly doughnuts on a plate. She’d also spoken to her lawyer.
He called back as we ate.
She asked questions, took notes, then rejoined me, face drawn.
“There is no parole officer,” she said simply. “He finished his sentence and was simply released.”
“But I thought he still had a minimum of two more years to do.”
“So did I. I counted on it. The lawyer said it’s some sort of new early release program they implemented because of prison overcrowding.”
“This could be a mistake. I’ll look into it,” I said. “Meanwhile, if he shows up and threatens you, call the police. He just got out of prison. I’m sure he doesn’t want to go back.”
“You know what he’s like, Britt.”
“Ask for a restraining order.”
“A piece of paper won’t stop a bullet,” she said grimly.
We both knew she was right. I unclipped a small red leather-covered canister from inside my purse flap and handed it to her. “Here, take this for now. It’s Sabre Red, the pepper spray the police use. Aim straight for the eyes,” I told her, as she gingerly examined it. “It should drop him right there. Then don’t wait around. Later this afternoon we can go out to the Tamiami Range and Gun Shop. Pick out a handgun and I’ll teach you how to use it. I saw a nice airweight Smith and Wesson there last week. Then we’ll start the paperwork for your concealed weapons permit. The process takes several weeks. You’ll have to be fingerprinted—”
“But I’d hate having a gun in the house,” she whispered. “With Darryl.”
“I know, but the cavalry doesn’t always arrive in time. In real life, it almost never does. You know that. You have to protect yourself. We all have to be responsible for our own safety. Especially now. It’s the American way, Onnie.”
I stopped at police headquarters and beat feet up to Homicide, hoping Riley wasn’t in yet. Burch’s expression as I stepped off the elevator told me I’d miscalculated.
He needed a shave and looked terrible, as though he hadn’t slept. “We’ve got a problem,�
� he said.
I didn’t like the direction this day was taking.
“Riley?” I asked.
“Among others.”
My heart sank.
“Start with the state attorney,” he said. “Evidently Wayman Andrews from Channel Seven saw your story this morning and woke him up with an early call to ask when arrests were expected in the Chance case. The state attorney knew nothing. He hates it when that happens. Makes him look like the horse’s ass he is. Then he read your story, spit up his coffee, and called the chief in a snit. Says his office should’ve been briefed and a prosecutor assigned. Which, of course, is SOP. He’s hot to have his major-crimes chief take a statement from Sunny ASAP. He wanted to know who she’s identified in a lineup. The chief, of course, knew nothing. And he hates it when that happens. So he called Riley in early to read her the riot act. Guess who Riley dumped on? Shit rolls downhill. And I hate it when that happens.”
“Damn. It’s all because the state attorney’s running for re-election against real opposition this time.”
“Yep. His office hasn’t won a conviction in any real high-profile case lately. Emotions run high in this one: the Christmas season, innocent kids. We blow it and his opponent can throw it right back at him.”
I caught the faint smell of liquor.
“Craig, are you okay? You make it home last night?”
He sighed. “Shit. I knew I forgot to do something.”
“That’s not funny,” I muttered.
“Montero! Over here.” K. C. Riley had opened her door.
She said nothing until we were inside her office. She sat, rigid, behind her desk, regarding me with contempt.
“I warned you,” she said softly. “I offered my complete cooperation. But you fucked up, as usual.”
She wore no makeup, eyes red-rimmed, as though she hadn’t slept. Did anyone sleep well anymore?
“You must be thrilled,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t pull that Miss Innocent shit with me. What you’re doing to that girl is unconscionable.” She pointed an accusatory finger at me. “And it’s all because you have a beef with me.”
“No, I’ve never had a beef with you, lieutenant. Ever. I think you’re too tough on people at times, but I always thought we were on the same side. We care about the same things.”
She reacted, eyes startled, and I realized what she was thinking.
“Justice is what I was talking about.”
“Thanks for clarifying that point,” she said sarcastically. “But it’s not justice. What you care about is selling newspapers and your own personal interests. You don’t give a shit about these detectives, this city, or the cases we might close. We’re under the gun, facing severe budget cuts and commanders who couldn’t care less about old cases that didn’t go down on their watch. It’s survival. As we speak, there’s a move on to eliminate the squad and reassign these detectives.
“I’m working my ass off,” she said, a tremor in her voice, “to save the squad, to convince the chief it’s worth keeping in the budget. Numbers tell the story. I need stats. We need to close some cases. Fast. To spin our wheels on hopeless causes right now could be fatal. There is the human factor. We have people who beg us to take on a case, people who will do anything. And then there’s the Richard Chance case. One possible perpetrator already dead, another in prison. No physical evidence, and a surviving victim who, even if she was not reluctant, probably can’t remember anything of value anyway. That girl is lucky to be alive and walking and talking. She went through hell. The case would require her total cooperation. Old wounds reopened, old horrors relived. Her life would be interrupted again. All for nothing, if we fail. And should we succeed, Sunny’s participation will be required not at one trial but perhaps three or four. How nice for her.”
Her eyes glittered with anger.
“Look, I didn’t mean to cause any grief to Sunny, the squad, or you.”
Her expression was cynical. “Don’t think for a moment that I don’t know exactly why you did it. Your personal feelings are hurting innocent people. It’s not fair.”
“That isn’t true.”
She raised her hand to stop me. “You have to live with it.”
“If you’re inferring that we have a conflict in our private lives,” I said indignantly, “you’re wrong.”
“Get out of my office. Don’t let me see you in here again,” she said, as though the sight of me was distasteful. “And stay away from my detectives. In the future, get your information through PIO.”
“But I’m still working on the magazine piece—”
“I’ve had calls from members of both victims’ families, some of whom are unhappy about your tactics, although not as unhappy as the state attorney, the chief, and my immediate superiors. You’ve been so very busy,” she said sweetly. “I’m sure you have quite enough material for your story. Now get out.”
She looked pale under her tan.
I rose to leave, knees shaky. Her cold rage was ominous. I would have preferred curses, shouts, and hurled objects. The chief would get over it the next time he liked a story I wrote. Ditto the state attorney—or, hopefully, his successor. But not K. C. Riley.
“By the way, Britt,” she said. “the state attorney has called me twice this morning. He went ballistic when I told him that Sunny Hartley has declined to view a lineup. He said she doesn’t have that option. He plans to issue a subpoena that will force her to cooperate.”
“Would he really do that?”
She regarded me coldly. “And more. He swears that if she continues to refuse, he’ll arrest her for obstruction.”
16
I called Burch from a cubicle in the public information office. “The state attorney has got to be bluffing,” I said. “He’d look so insensitive. Punishing the victim would be a public relations disaster.”
“He’d know how to turn it around,” the detective said. “You’ve heard the man’s Mr. Sincerity shtick a hundred times. He’ll call a press conference to look pained and say that sometimes those of us who serve justice have to do things we don’t like, but it’s our job.”
The same line cops always use when doing unpleasant things to you, I thought.
“He’ll say his job is not only to prosecute but to protect the innocent: your sister, your grandmother, you. That taking four murderers off the street any way he can serves the greater public good. Voters eat it up. That’s how he keeps getting elected. You know the guy. He knows how to tell people to go to hell in a way that makes them look forward to the trip.”
Burch was right. I’d heard the speech before. Boyishly handsome, with Kennedy hair and a silver tongue, our state attorney was a truly devious political animal.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“My own fault,” Burch muttered.
“Do you hate me?”
“Hell, no. I’m a big boy. I can take as much heat as anybody can dish out. Riley may be pissed off, but she’s got no choice. She can’t pull us off the Chance case now.”
As I eased out of the police station parking lot, an unmarked car maneuvered alongside.
“Hey, news lady!” the driver yelled. “I didn’t get my paper this morning. What the hell happened?” It was Nazario.
“Sorry, my bicycle broke down.”
“Where you headed?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Back to the paper.”
“Coffee?”
“Sure.”
“I’m meeting Stone.”
We settled at our back-room table at La Esquina de Tejas.
He seemed congenial, considering the situation. I asked about Sunny.
“The girl’s got it happening,” he said.
Stone groaned as he joined us. “Nothing worse than a julio in love,” he complained. “They never stop talking about it. Bababababah.” His fingers gestured like a constantly moving mouth. “What on God’s green earth makes you think you’ve got a shot at her?” he asked the C
uban detective.
“So far she hasn’t decked me, dialed 911 or pulled a gun,” Nazario said.
“Sounds like you’re making real progress,” Stone said.
“The girl’s talented. Her show is about to open at an art gallery. She’s got guts,” Nazario said. “And she didn’t need affirmative action to make something of herself.” He winked at me. “Unlike some people I work with.”
They’d been out talking to old witnesses in the Meadows case, they said. They knew nothing about a new state prison early-release plan.
Stone’s cell phone rang and he began taking notes during an involved conversation while Nazario and I revisited his favorite topic.
“Sunny really isn’t that much of a loner,” he assured me. “She just feels out of place.”
“So do I,” I said glumly.
“So do a lot of us. I can relate.” He shrugged. “I always felt left out as a kid. Sunny’s gun-shy about men, love, and sex, but the right person could overcome that. Her problem is that she’s uncomfortable with average people who don’t know what brutal and ugly things can happen. She thinks they’d look at her differently if they knew what happened to her. Yet she’s not comfortable among victims either, traumatized or obsessed people. She’s one of a kind. What she needs is somebody who’s also one of a kind. Somebody else who’s sorta out of place, you know, missing something. They could fill each other’s needs and be happy.”
He means himself, I thought. He’s fallen.
Stone snapped his phone shut. “” Good news. Progress on the gun.”
My heart beat faster.
“Okay,” he said, reading from his notes. “Serial number R-009206. Manufactured in Hamden, Connecticut, August 24, 1982. Sent from the factory warehouse to a Knoxville, Tennessee, hardware distributor. Shipped to a retail outlet in North Miami Beach two weeks later. The first owner, the judge in Miami Shores, bought it for his wife on Valentine’s Day, 1983. He had it until Coney stole it just before the murder. Three years after Ricky and Sunny were shot, it surfaced again, seized from a Miami robbery suspect. A jury acquitted him, and his lawyer filed a motion to return the weapon to his client. The judge granted it and the gun was released to the attorney, who kept it as part of his fee.
The Ice Maiden Page 18