A Dark and Lonely Place (23 page)

He didn’t see it, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t there. However, if she was trashing his apartment, it was unlike her to do it in the dark. Stealth was not her style. She’d throw his things off the balcony with every light blazing.

The intruder was most likely from the department. Why? What they might find or steal was not as worrisome as what they might plant.

Or perhaps he or she was waiting for him there in the dark. While he pondered the thought, he called the medical examiner’s office, identified himself, reported a fatal police-related shooting and asked for a medical examiner at the hotel scene. He did the same with the crime scene techs. No one had been notified, just as he’d suspected. He called Jeff Burnside, a reporter at Channel Six News, the NBC-TV affiliate. Burnside answered, awake and alert, said he’d call a cameraman and head up there.

Then he called Robby. “Hey,” he said. “Did you take Laura to my apartment?”

“Hell no, John. You wanted her safe. Your apartment, or wherever you are, is probably the hottest spot in town right now.”

“You can say that again, bro.” He told Robby everything. “I’m relieved of duty, have to go in at eleven tomorrow.”

“Be careful, John. Don’t go without a lawyer.”

“I’ve got a more pressing problem. Somebody’s in my apartment with a flashlight.”

“If they had a legit search warrant,” Robby said, “the lights would be on while they tore the place up, and you’d see their vehicles downstairs.”

“Don’t see ’em, and I doubt they could get a search warrant this quick, even if they thought they had probable cause.”

“You still armed, bro?”

“Yeah, though the way things are going, I probably need to invest in a few new weapons.”

“I’ve got a couple, unregistered, serial numbers filed off, if you need ’em.”

“Robby, Robby, we need to talk about what they’re teaching you at the county. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Whatcha gonna do?”

“What any citizen should. Call nine-one-one and report a burglary in progress.”

He did but didn’t stay to watch the fun. He distanced himself instead, drove to Bayfront Park, and roamed the dark on foot until he spotted Leon and three other homeless people sharing a pizza. John made eye contact, circled back toward the Boulevard, and waited at the bronze statute of pioneer Julia Tuttle, the mother of Miami. Recently dedicated, more than a hundred years late, the city had, at long last, honored the woman who persuaded Henry Flagler to extend his railroad to the small, swampy settlement by sending him fresh orange blossoms during a bitter northern winter freeze. The rest was history. It usually takes a long time for Miami politicians to do the right thing. Most often they never do it at all, John thought. He studied Julia Tuttle’s strong, expressive face until Leon strolled up alone ten minutes later.

“Whatta ya know, pal?” John said. “See any familiar faces when you looked at the police ID photos?”

“Thought I saw ’em both, Johnny. But nobody wanted to hear it . . . Didn’t take me seriously. Could be how I was dressed or that I don’t have a permanent address or phone.”

“What did you see?”

“The female shooter from the lobby, picture looked maybe six, seven
years old. Had less mileage on ’er, less weight, different hairstyle. But it was her. Man who showed ’em to me said, ‘Oh, can’t be her. She’s an Officer Friendly, assigned to a Kendall middle school.’ Then I saw two who coulda been her partner. Saw one I was pretty sure was him, till I saw the other. They got to be brothers, twins, or first cousins. Must have the same last name, a common one, ’cuz there was only three, four pictures between ’em. Couldn’t nearly tell ’em apart, ’cept one had a little different hairline in front. When I started flipping back and forth trying to see the difference between ’em, they like to close the book on it, copped the attitude that if I wasn’t absolutely one hundred percent positive, it couldn’t be neither one. Hada be one of the two, Johnny.”

“Lots of families have uncles, brothers, fathers, and cousins in the same department,” John said.

“Didn’t have no names or badge numbers on the pictures, but they do have an ID number acrost the bottom,” Leon said. “I got all three.” He winked and focused his crooked smile on John.

“Where?” John took his notebook from his pocket.

Leon’s grin grew larger. “Right here,” he said, and tapped his temple three times with a gnarled right index finger. “Safest hiding place in the world.”

“Shoot,” John said hopefully.

Leon rattled off three six-digit numbers without hesitation.

“You’re sure?” John asked, as he wrote them down.

Leon nodded.

“Their faces? On a scale of one to ten.”

“Her? Nine and three-quarters.”

“Him?”

“That it’s one of the two? Nine point nine nine nine.”

“Good. I’ve got something for you.” He handed Leon one of the cell phones in a brown paper bag.

“I may call, might need you,” John said, as Leon examined it. “Don’t know who I can trust, except my brothers—and you. You’ve never steered me wrong. I could be in a real jackpot this time.” He told him everything.

Leon listened, his grin fading into a grave expression. “What about her, Johnny?” he finally asked. “This Laura. You trust her?”

“With my life,” he said. “I feel as though I’ve known her forever. I left Lucy, my fiancée, right after I met her.”

“Your instincts are good,” Leon said, “but beware the woman scorned, Johnny. Nothin’s meaner. She can be dangerous.”

Sounded good to John. If the intruder at his place was Lucy, he could live with that. She could cut up his clothes, slash his sofa, flood his bathroom. He wouldn’t be happy, but it was better than the alternatives.

“It don’t sound good, Johnny. But I won’t letcha down.”

“There’s a charger in there,” John said. “You’ve got five hundred minutes. You can use it for local and long distance. You might want to use it to reach out to family.”

Leon’s eyes were bright, the whites shot with red lightning bolts, but he didn’t react.

“It needs an overnight charge. Can you do that?”

“Sure, Johnny. Little lady who works at Starbuck’s ’ill help me out. Then I can probably plug it in once in a while over at the Salvation Army.”

“Stay in touch.” John scribbled his new cell number on a scrap of paper.

Leon read the number once, then shoved the paper in his pocket. “You can count on me, Johnny.” Then he wandered off into the night.

John went home. Lights blazed in his apartment. Two empty patrol cars sat out front. The bubble machine atop one splashed eerie red and blue shadows across the building’s facade.

He went to his apartment and feigned surprise at the manager and several patrolmen roaming about inside. He joined them. No sign of vandalism. Damn. It wasn’t Lucy.

The manager, a rotund retiree named Miguel, wore pajama pants and a T-shirt. “Looks like a burglar got in, John,” he said, sweaty and concerned, his brow furrowed. “A neighbor called the police, must be somebody on this floor. Sorry. I called the station, but you weren’t there.”

The two patrolmen looked friendly and engaged.

“Hey, Sarge,” said a veteran named Melnick. “When they said it was your place, we got cars out here fast. Almost got ’im. Was inside when
we pulled up. Saw his flashlight from the street. Came in, ready to boogie, but he was gone. Think he used your balcony to let himself down to the one below, forced the door, walked through an unoccupied apartment and down the stairs to the street, right past our cars. By the time Rivera starts chasing him, he’s already around the corner. Couldn’t find the son of a bitch. Musta had a car waiting.”

“Description?” John said.

“Not much. Latin male, six feet, dark color T-shirt, jeans, sneakers. Nobody got a good look. Streetlight out there’s busted, it’s pretty dark, but a passerby got a quick glimpse as he ran by. Saw a gun in his belt, looked like a large caliber, chrome finish, and he was carrying a dark gym bag. Miguel here says there haven’t been any other break-ins in the building lately. Wanna take a quick inventory? Check to see you’re not missing any weapons? That’s the important thing. Looks like your electronics, flat-screen TV, DVD are all here.” His eyes roved John’s living room.

John wished he’d confronted the SOB himself. Had he done that, the intruder would be dead or he’d be the one leaking into his own carpet, but at least he’d know who shot him. He didn’t believe in coincidence. No random burglar stumbled into his apartment. He came to kill me, John thought. But if he had set up an ambush, in the dark, why would he use a flashlight? If he was looking for Laura, he didn’t need it to see she wasn’t here.

No, he thought, the intruder came to plant something. His gun cabinet was still double-locked. He opened it. Nothing missing, but something had been added. He closed the door, before the two cops caught a glimpse.

“Want us to send out a burglary detective?” Melnick asked helpfully.

“Sure,” John said. “Have one call me tomorrow.”

“If you find anything missing, make a list we can add to the report for insurance purposes,” Melnick said.

They seemed disappointed that he didn’t take his place apart as they watched. Maybe they wanted to be helpful. Maybe he was paranoid. Maybe not.

No sign of forced entry meant the intruder was a pro at picking locks—or had a set of keys. Too late tonight to change the locks.

The cops left, and he got rid of Miguel. Once he was alone, John drew the shades, then rechecked his gun safe. Where he had left two weapons, there were now three. A nine millimeter he had never seen before, recently fired, hadn’t been cleaned. It had surely been used in a crime. The medical examiner had identified the weapon that killed Ron Jon Eagle as a nine millimeter.

He knocked back two shots of Jack Daniel’s Black and began to think more clearly. He shot photos of the gun, close-ups of the serial number, then, careful not to touch it, put it in a FedEx box, addressed it to Robby, and drove out to drop it in a box at four a.m. The next pickup was at nine a.m.

At five a.m. he called Robby for Laura’s new cell number. She answered instantly.

“I knew it was you, John.” She sounded sultry. “It’s about time.”

“What are you wearing?”

She laughed with the easy freedom of a young girl, without a hint of fear after all that had happened. She was comfortable, she said, but sorely needed, missed, and wanted him. He didn’t ask where she was.

They talked for more than an hour. By the time they said goodbye, he felt relaxed enough to catch a few hours’ sleep.

He slept soundly for three-and-a-half hours, then awoke refreshed and ready. He showered, dressed, and headed for the station. He’d committed no crime, he told himself, had never jeopardized a case or betrayed the badge.

What’s the worst they can do to me? he thought.

CHAPTER TWENTY

W
hat’s the worst they could do to me? he thought, again, on the way to the station.

He came up with a number of answers. None pretty.

Emma’s was the first face he saw on the fifth floor. Small and prim, she had pale, lined skin, a tiny scarlet mouth, and big, sad eyes under half-glasses. A civilian secretary, she’d been a fixture in Homicide for as long as he could remember.

“Good morning, John.” She seemed to be fighting tears. A widow, she had a good heart and no surviving children. Her job was her life, her coworkers her family. He liked her, always had. Was she distressed about a personal problem? The job? Or could it be him?

“How’s it going, Emma?”

She looked away quickly and blew her nose loudly. Uh-oh, he thought. She shifted folders on her desk and did not look up.

The blinds in the lieutenant’s glass-enclosed office were drawn. He couldn’t see everyone inside, but it looked crowded. He thought he glimpsed Jo Salazar, his favorite prosecutor. Her presence seemed positive. He’d consulted her on the Eagle case. He considered her a friend, smart and fair, a good woman.

Ten minutes early, he itched to go to his desk to check his mail and messages, as usual. But that might seem inappropriate. So he took a seat, like a visitor, watched the lieutenant’s door, and waited to be summoned.

The door finally opened. Jo Salazar emerged alone, her face red.

“Hey.” He got to his feet and smiled.

For the first time in all the years they had worked together, she didn’t smile back. They were a kick-ass team. He had been to her home for pool parties and barbecues with her husband and kids. She understood
cops. She’d worn the badge herself, back when female recruits had to be as tough as men to survive the academy, before standards were relaxed to the point that, in a city surrounded by water, cops no longer had to know how to swim. Cop by day, she’d studied law at night to fight crime in courtrooms instead of on the streets. They shared a mutual respect. So why did his good friend and colleague look at him now as though he were a dog that just bit her?

“Hello, Sergeant.” Her voice sounded husky. She wore the suit she always wore when asking a jury to deliver a guilty verdict. The suit was dark. Her expression matched.

“What’s with ‘Sergeant’?” he asked. “What happened to John?”

Her warm brown eyes were distant. “I thought I knew you, John,” she said softly. “I can’t talk to you. I’m sorry. The best, and the only, advice I can give you is to hire a lawyer. A damn good defense attorney. Do it now.”

She walked briskly away. Struck by the weight of her words and the gravity in her eyes, he felt his future fade with the departing click of her high heels.

How bad could this be? He had no idea.

“Wait a minute, Jo.” He followed her. “Captain Politano ambushed and tried to kill me and our witness. I fired in self-defense. If you were told anything different, it’s a lie.”

She shook her head, did not look at him, and punched the elevator button. He would have boarded with her, but just then the lieutenant’s office door swung open. Inside, John saw the Internal Affairs captain, the shooting team lieutenant, a court reporter, a major, an assistant chief, and the city attorney.

Lieutenant Myerson beckoned to him. John knew him well enough to recognize his smile as false. He had a liar’s eyes, and despite looking as though he hadn’t slept, he exuded a cocky confidence.