Shadows Page 3

  “Memaw become an elementary-school principal and then a school board member. Stayed sharp as a tack till the day she died. Did you ever meet her?”

  “Sure, she taught my Sunday school class when I was little. I remember how sad she was when your uncle was killed in Vietnam.”

  “Do you have time for a cup of coffee, Ms. Courtelis?”

  “Sure, Katherine. Please call me Kiki.”

  The two women went off to the coffee room chatting animatedly.

  “Who’da thought Riley even had a grandmother?” Corso said.

  This can’t be good, Burch thought.

  The women returned a short time later, laughing and talking.

  “I’ve explained to Ms. Courtelis,” Riley told them, “that we can’t officially intervene in a legal demolition, but since the scene is about to be lost, you can go out there, shoot photos and video, do some diagrams, and see if you find anything that might have been missed. There’s a good possibility since, according to Kiki, the place hasn’t been occupied since the shooting. It’s smart to augment the file, in the event anything ever comes up. Take a metal detector. See what you find.”

  Riley arranged for Kiki to join the investigators at the Shadows the next day and then Kiki receded like a wave gliding back out to sea.

  “She just sold you a used car,” Burch told Riley.

  “Do it anyway.” Riley shrugged. “Why not? It’s an open case.”

  “The shooter is doing the big dirt sleep or drooling in his soup at some nursing home by now.”

  “But how good would it look if we closed it? It might even persuade the chief to keep this unit in next year’s budget.”

  “It’ll take less than a day,” Burch reassured his detectives. “No muss, no fuss.”

  “I have a bad feeling about it.” Nazario shook his head.

  “Did your built-in shit detector kick in?” Stone asked. “Did little Kiki lie to us?”

  Nazario’s talent, inadmissible in court but priceless to a detective, was that he could unfailingly sense a lie when he heard one.

  “She didn’t lie. It’s more what she didn’t say.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The man had thrown his right arm across the woman at the last moment, as though trying to protect her. Her left palm was extended as though in supplication, a plea for mercy not granted. Her open eyes reflected her terror. His were orbless blood-filled craters.

  The crime scene photographs were the most devastating he had ever seen. Sam Stone stared at them for a long time.

  He barely recognized his mother. That was the way he’d felt the last time he’d seen his parents. They had looked like strangers then, too, lying side by side in matching caskets. His mother had always been warm, animated, and laughing. The hair of the cold-looking stranger occupying her casket was arranged in a stiff, elaborate style she had never worn in real life, and the new dress she wore was one he had never seen. The Bible in her hands was small and white, not the big, well-worn family Bible his mother always read at home. He reacted with relief. This was all a mistake. These people were strangers. He had tugged at his grandmother’s arm.

  “That’s not them, Gran. Where’s Momma? Where’s my daddy?”

  Women wept. His great-aunt Marva lifted him up, held him over the casket, and insisted he kiss his mother good-bye. Eight years old and obedient, he complied, surprised at how soft the cheek of this mannequin-like stranger felt against his lips. He never forgot it.

  Stone felt numb, as he had then.

  He had never seen the case file before. Thoughts of it had consumed him for years. Afire to examine it, he had forced himself to stay patient, to wait for the right time. He might have only one chance. He had to learn all he could first, then prove himself on the street. Then he applied again and again for assignment to the Cold Case Squad. When he finally succeeded out of sheer persistence, talent, and creativity, he had to learn all he could again, earn the respect of his teammates, then persuade them to take on the case.

  He confided in no one. His fellow detectives were taken aback when a reporter wrote a story and, against his wishes, prematurely revealed the secret tragedy in his past. Sergeant Burch immediately suggested taking on the old case. Then Burch was shot and Stone himself put the investigation on hold until his return. He wanted everything done right, by only the best. Now, at last, it was time.

  Eyes wet, his lips dry, Stone studied each eight-by-ten photo. Both victims wore their plain gold wedding bands. He recognized the familiar white apron, the white shirt and red-checkered scarf his father always wore on the job. The scarf was to stop the sweat as he worked the fire, barbecuing juicy ribs, pork chops, chicken, and shrimp. He paused at one photo, staring at the puffy white baker’s hat, blood-spattered and askew.

  His mother had always teased his father about it, calling it his “cup-cake hat.” But Sam Stone Sr. insisted they maintain a consistent professional image at their tiny takeout restaurant.

  He barbecued, she waited on customers and prepared the salads. They worked hard. Side by side, thirteen hours a day, seven days a week.

  He had complained once and his mother had explained to him that all their hard work was to insure the future. It would not be forever, she promised. She was right.

  He swallowed hard.

  “Hey,” he whispered to the people in the pictures. “It’s me. Sam. Your son. Momma, I grew up. I have so much to tell you. I’m a policeman now, a detective. Wish you could a been here. I did good in school, Momma, like you always wanted. Did real good in the academy. The police academy.

  “Solved a big FBI case a few months ago. Was even on TV. In the newspapers. Wish you could a seen it. I did good. Gran is fine. I’m taking care of her now, like she took care of me. She misses you, too.

  “You’re gonna like my friends, the detectives I work with. They’re good. We’ll find out who did this. I promise. Talk to me, Daddy. Momma? What happened? Talk to me, please. Who did this to us?”

  He wanted to put his head down on his desk and cry like a baby. Like the day in third grade when the other kids teased him, called him an orphan, and he suddenly realized it was true; he would never see them again. His mother and father were never coming home.

  He blinked back tears, squared his jaw, took out his small black notebook, and began to match the crime scene diagrams to the pictures. He sighed at the quality of the photos. Primitive by today’s standards, relics from a time when police technicians only used .35 millimeter cameras. Today’s digital cameras often provide sharper, clearer pictures with better detail. Photographers can instantly review their shots and shoot them again if dissatisfied.

  Back then no one knew how good the photos were until they were processed. Anything missed was lost forever.

  He noted that a step stool had been overturned and a wooden knife block knocked off a work table. No knives appeared to be missing. The bullet-scarred menu was still legible on a wall behind the counter.

  A heavy cast-iron pot steamed on the stove. Potatoes, boiling for the next day’s salad. In a flood of sensory images, he remembered the smell of meat smoke and the rib racks sizzling in their own juice as they turned golden brown.

  A grainy shot of the street outside revealed a wet, rain-slick sidewalk, eddying swirls of water, and the small Overtown storefront with the sign

  STONE’S BARBECUE. He hadn’t seen that since the murders. The place had never reopened.

  This look was preliminary, only the beginning. He didn’t want his first look at the photos to be in front of other people, even his fellow detectives.

  He paged through the reports, searching for names, appalled at times at the skimpiness of the follow-up. Where were the transcripts of witnesses’ statements? The evidence inventories? There had to be more than this.

  He did find the name he wanted most—a man he had thought about for years. He printed it in his notebook, underlined it twice, then locked the case file in his desk.

  Sam Stone, named for his father, w
alked out of Miami Police Headquarters into the late-summer dusk a different person, he thought, than the one who had walked in that morning.

  The afternoon heat still rose off the pavement. Though somber, he was full of hope about the task ahead. He loved this season and its spectacular sky still bright with deepening hues of pink, blue, and gold until nearly nine P.M. By contrast, winter’s early darkness had always reminded him of death.

  He drove to the tiny shotgun cottage where he grew up in Overtown. He found her in the kitchen, as usual. At the sink, a dish towel in her hand.

  “Here’s my girl!”

  “I thought I heard your car, Sonny.” Her head barely reached his shoulder, her gray hair brushed his chin, and she felt more frail than ever inside his hug. She weighed less than a hundred pounds.

  “Hungry, Sonny? I’ll fix you a plate.”

  “I was hoping to take my best girl out to dinner. We can drive down to Shorty’s. Or someplace nice over on the Beach.”

  “I had a bite at four o’clock. And don’t you be trying to spend your money on me. You have better things to do with it.”

  “Nope. I don’t, Gran. We need to celebrate.” He felt exuberant. “I’ve got good news.”

  Her eyes lit up, then darted expectantly to the door. “Where is she? Why didn’t you bring her in here?”

  “Why is matchmaking always on your mind? This is something more important.”

  “Must be. Haven’t seen you so worked up since that big football game you won in high school.”

  “The team won, Gran, not me. Should a called you earlier, but I wasn’t sure. I’ll take you to dinner Friday. We’ll go early.”

  “That’s when you should be taking your girl out, not me. Now, what is it? What’s the big news?”

  “Sit down,” he said, drawing her into the small living room, “and I’ll tell you.”

  She insisted on fixing them each a glass of iced tea first. His sweet, the way he liked it.

  Impatient, he sat in the old armchair where she used to read to him. His parents smiled from a silver-framed photograph on a shelf. That was how he had always remembered them. Would it ever be the same after what he’d seen today? His own picture stood near theirs. Age five, posed in front of a vintage television set, wearing a little navy blue suit, saddle shoes, and an uncertain expression. In another, he stood tall in uniform, Gran pinning on his badge at the academy graduation.

  He focused on his parents’ faces. They’d hoped so hard, looked forward to so much. At last he was in a position to make it right—as right as anyone could ever make it.

  She insisted he taste his tea to be sure it was sweet enough, then sat herself down on the little wicker settee facing him. She sipped from her glass and smiled.

  “Okay, Sonny. Tell me now.”

  “It’s really good, Gran. You’re gonna be so happy.”

  She leaned forward, face alight with anticipation. “Stop your teasing and just spit it out.”

  “We’re gonna do it, Gran.” His voice was tight with excitement. “We, me, the Cold Case Squad, we’re gonna investigate Momma and Daddy’s murder.”

  Her lips parted but she didn’t speak.

  He gestured toward his parents’ photo. “It’s gonna be hard, but we’re gonna find the SOBs who did it and send them to jail, or to death row. That’s where they belong.”

  “You watch your mouth, boy.” She tried to stand but dropped her glass, splashing the contents onto her skirt. The tumbler fell to the floor, scattering ice cubes as it rolled across the carpet.

  “Now look at what you went and made me do!” She seemed near tears.

  “Sorry. Sit still, Gran. Sit still. I’ll get it.”

  “You’ll cut yourself!”

  “No, I won’t.”

  He scooped cubes back into the broken glass, took it to the kitchen, and returned with a fistful of paper towels. He placed several on her lap, then blotted the carpet and wiped the floor with the others. Unlike her to fuss about a broken glass, but only natural that she’d be startled.

  He disposed of the wet towels and returned. She scrubbed vigorously at her wet skirt. He couldn’t see her face.

  “Realize what this means, Gran?” He paced the small room, fueled by pent-up energy.

  “Officially, on paper, I can’t be lead investigator. But it will be me, I’ll be the catalyst.”

  She rose abruptly, wavered for a moment, unsteady on her feet, then left the room.

  “Gran?” Frowning, he followed her into the kitchen. “We need to talk about everything you remember from that night. Your take on it all. Everything you heard and thought. All the details. Stuff we never really talked about.”

  She picked up a sponge and began to wipe the stainless-steel sink he had installed for her last spring.

  “You and me. We’ll work on it together.”

  “No point digging up old ghosts,” she muttered, scrubbing harder. The sink gleamed, already clean.

  “I do that every day, Gran.” He grinned. “It’s my job. We’ve always wanted justice—”

  “Not me,” she snapped.

  He stared in disbelief. “Gran, we’re talking about your son, and my mom. Your children. You always said Momma was like a daughter to you.”

  Focused on some invisible blemish on the sink, she refused to meet his eyes.

  He crouched in front of her, took her hand. “What is it? What’s wrong? I need you to help me.”

  Her eyes flooded and he saw something in them, something he had never seen before.

  “No.” Her voice was firm. “The people who did it are still out there. Still evil. The world changes, but they never do, Sonny.”

  “That’s why we have to find them. You’re my link to that night, Gran. I was too little to absorb much. ’Member how we used to read the Sherlock Holmes mysteries together? You always picked up on the clues first, knew the answers right away. We can go over everything together.”

  She said nothing.

  “Want me to stay in my old room tonight?”

  She shook her head, mouth tight.

  “I know it’s sudden, but think about it. I need you.”

  “I need you, too, Sonny.” Her voice sounded thin, about to break.

  He stepped out into the darkening night. Shifting storm clouds swirled and spit lightning across the horizon. The deluge began, pelting him as he sprinted to his car. Rain depressed him. It always had. Violent, wind-driven sheets of torrential rain slammed into the windshield. He had never felt so alone. So bleak.

  His grandmother had raised him. They never kept secrets from each other. He had always believed that. But he was wrong. She knows something, he thought, bewildered. Something she won’t tell me; something she never told anyone.

  CHAPTER 3

  Burch left the Blazer in the driveway.

  The front door was wide open. So was every window in the house. Unusual for summer. The ceiling-fan blades stood motionless, the silence deafening. No radio, music, or TV. The cat ran to greet him, rubbing his face on Burch’s shoe. Sprawled on his bed in a corner, the big dog opened one eye but otherwise ignored him. White candles flickered in the foyer. Damn. Power outages had been all too frequent since the last hurricane.

  “Connie?”

  His wife emerged from the kitchen.

  “Hi, babe.” He loosened his tie. “How long has it been out this time?”

  She flashed the brilliant smile that knocked him out the first time he ever saw her, in high school, then clapped her hands.

  “Okay, kid. Can the applause. So I got quite a reception this morning. Who told you?”

  She clapped again, then spun around, tossing her shiny dark hair, hands high above her head.

  It reminded him of her cheerleader days.

  “Con? Whatcha doing?”

  “Clearing our space,” she sang out. “Drawing in positive energy.”

  He took off his gun, removed the clip, and placed the unloaded weapon in the lockbox on the closet’s t
op shelf, as usual. “The hell you doing?” He squinted at her.

  “Visualizing a pure white light,” she said. “Driving out the negative and filling the house with loving energy.”

  “Fung who?” Nazario wrinkled his brow the next morning at the office.

  “Feng Shui. It’s Asian, all about the flow of energy, or something,” Burch said uncertainly. “The power wasn’t out. Connie was clearing our space. That’s what they call it. You turn everything off, open all the doors and windows so the bad energy can escape. Clapping chases it out.” He shrugged.

  “Bottom line is to eliminate negative energy from your environment. Hey, makes her happy, I’m all for it. Helluva lot better than other things she might be up to, as we all know.”

  “She wants to eliminate negative energy,” Corso said, “she should just kick your ass ta the curb.”

  “Yeah, and we want to eliminate it up here, we could just kick your ass back down to Patrol.” Burch dropped a dusty box onto Corso’s desk. “Here, dive into this.”

  It was one of half a dozen boxes delivered from the warehouse, the Pierce Nolan file. “Everybody grab one and pitch in,” Burch said. “We’re looking for crime scene diagrams, photos, news stories, and original reports.”

  “Look who’s here! Hey, dawg,” Corso greeted Stone, who ignored him.

  “Where you been?” Burch said.

  “Bad night. Sorry,” Stone said. “Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t drop off until five A.M., then I overslept.”

  “Called your crib, no answer,” Corso said.

  “What’s all this?” Stone asked.

  “This,” Corso said, digging into a musty box, “is the Nolan file, believe it or not. Thanks to the lieutenant’s new best friend, that little house hugger. Look it all this. Somebody worked the hell out of it.”

  He opened an old manila envelope. “Bingo! Got ya the scene photos.”

  “Jeez, long time since I saw ’em in black-and-white,” Burch said. “The shooter used double-ought buckshot. The first blast took off part of Nolan’s elbow and his arm, according to the reports. He was still on his feet when the kill shot, fired at close range, took him out.”