Cold Case Squad (13 page)

Couldn't they make him look good? Just once?

So far his prospects for a lucrative career as a consultant and
expert witness, in demand as a talking head on Greta Van Susteren, CNN,
and MSNBC, were looking less and less likely.

He sighed. If only it wasn't for the damn police impersonators, home
invasion robbers wearing uniforms, handcuffs, and police paraphernalia
bought from the same businesses that supplied the department. Some even
bought surplus patrol cars. Distinguishing the real police officers
from those who were not was impossible, except that the impersonators
seemed better organized.

He knew what would make him feel better, at least for a few hours.
He missed Bunny. The last time his mistress had flown into town for a
weekend, she had left furious after spending most of their long-planned
tryst alone at their Miami Beach hideaway. Something Fidel said on
Havana radio had set off impromptu civil disturbances in Miami, and the
chief had spent the entire weekend pounding steamy pavement trying to
placate the mayor, the city manager, the press, irate residents stuck
in traffic, and rabid city commissioners who further agitated the
demonstrators.

Why blockade expressway toll booths and Miami intersections to
protest something said in Havana? Why couldn't police apply a little
attitude adjustment, then lock them up? Instead the offenders were
considered patriots whose arrests would be politically incorrect.

"I never promised to live in a foreign country." His wife's words
echoed through his throbbing skull. None of their neighbors spoke
English, and the social functions they attended were all with Hispanic
city officials and politicians.

Not easy for her, but what about him? He thought he'd seen it all,
but crime was different here.

The latest trend was "the unlicensed practitioner." Unlicensed
lawyers, contractors, doctors, dentists, and plastic surgeons all
practicing chosen professions in which they were untrained.
Self-described gynecologists conducting examinations on kitchen tables,
plastic surgeons operating in cheap motel rooms. Why in God's name did
patients go to a dentist who performed root canals in his garage?

In a raid last weekend his officers had arrested dozens of
"dentists" caught taking dental impressions in the backseats of cars
outside flea markets.

He blew his nose and wondered if Cuban coffee was a hallucinogen.

He shivered. The worst case was that of a woman who wanted a firmer,
rounder butt. Her "plastic surgeon" injected her with silicone in a
motel room. Unfortunately, it was the sort of silicone used to caulk
bathtubs. She died and the prosecution called it murder.

"They're here," José announced.

The chief stepped into his private bathroom, splashed cold water on
his face, dried it, and adjusted his cuffs. He preferred a business
suit to a uniform, unlike one predecessor who had designed his own,
heavy on the gold braid, with triple rows of medals, topped off by a
tri-cornered Napoleon-like hat.

Chief Granados strode confidently into the conference room, pleased
to see Padron present, his pen and yellow legal pad in front of him on
the polished conference table.

There were several assistant chiefs and a dozen older men and women
in uniform already seated. So was State Attorney Alex Rodriguez. He
looked absolutely Kennedy-esque, with his classic profile, prematurely
silver hair, custom-made suit, and red silk tie.

Riley, the Cold Case lieutenant, arrived a moment after he did. She
looked fit, tanned, and as sleek as a Thoroughbred, with not an extra
ounce of weight on her athletic frame. Best-looking woman in the room,
the chief thought, but always all business.

What would these people think, he wondered, if they knew he was
wearing pink briefs? It would be all over for him in this macho,
testosterone-fueled department. He would never live it down. What if a
sniper chose today to pick him off? Another good reason not to wear a
uniform. It was like wearing a target. What if he stumbled in the lobby
and smashed a kneecap? Paramedics would cut away his trousers in front
of the troops. With his bad luck, he'd survive.

He greeted the upturned faces, thinking he'd call and ask Mildred to
pick up a dozen pair of the silky jockey shorts he liked. Remembering
her last words that morning, he decided to buy them himself on the way
home. He simply had to make it through the day without a major injury.
Murphy's law worried him. What were his odds? Why were his briefs pink?
Had Mildred done it deliberately? Did she suspect he was cheating?

"How are the shooting victims, Joe?"

"The kid?" He pointed thumbs-down. "The grandmother?" He waggled his
hand. "Might make it."

"Outrageous." The chief's square jaw jutted in indignation. "I want
all our resources on this. Hopefully our people can effect a quick
arrest and bring the family closure to this tragic situation." He hoped
it would be in time to broadcast the perp walk on the news at eleven.

Rodriguez gave his usual status report on cooperation between the
department and his office and the number of cases pending. He also
named the members of his staff assigned to prosecute the throw-down
cops.

The chief promised his "full support."

The state attorney saluted all and rose to leave. His eyes swept the
room, lingering on K.C. Riley, who ignored him.

"The T word is killing us," said the chief, as he opened their
preliminary budget discussions.

Rodriguez paused at the door. The chief wondered where the state
attorney had his hair cut. The silver fox had to be aiming for higher
office.

"In times like these, Chief, if you don't mind the suggestion. You
have to be brutal. If this was my department, I'd pare down or
eliminate specialized squads that don't produce major results.
Redistributing the manpower will make the most of your resources."

Riley stiffened in her chair.

"I've said that all along," agreed Hector Diaz, the major in charge
of SIS, the strategic information section.

Here it comes, Riley thought. Diaz, you fat pig, you son of a bitch.
Your unit is secure because Miami's politicians need spies to compile
intelligence on their rivals. Jo Salazar was right. Alex still had a
hard-on for her.

She lifted her chin, smiling serenely, glad she'd worn her navy blue
power blazer with the Brooks Brothers pinstriped shirt that cost too
much.

"If you mean my unit," she said pleasantly, "that would be a serious
mistake. The department hasn't had many success stories lately. You may
recall the Sunday
News
magazine piece that featured the Cold
Case Squad. We had nothing but positive reactions. The public
appreciates that no victim is forgotten, that no killer can ever stop
looking over his shoulder. They like knowing that, sooner or later,
justice can and will prevail."

"We're just four detectives and a sergeant, no significant manpower
drain. And they are the best at what they do. Dead files speak to them.
If an old, cold murder case has even a faint pulse, they can detect it.
They get into the minds of people they've never even met and do it
better than anybody. Departments around the country have modeled
similar units after ours. If anything, our team deserves more
recognition and support."

"Maybe I'm missing something," Rodriguez said smoothly. "I'm unaware
of any prosecutable cases brought to my office by your detectives
recently. Is there something I don't know about?"

"Yes," Riley said, eyes cold.

The chief tugged at his chin. Was that stubble? He had just shaved,
for God's sake. What was it those
Queer Eye
guys on TV said:
A clean, close shave makes it look like a man is at least trying. What
was the other thing? Something about ear hair. His right hand moved
involuntarily to check.

"Well put, Lieutenant." The chief tugged thoughtfully on his
earlobe. "But our current budgetary constraints—"

"The department is in woeful need of good press," she said quickly.
"Good
national
press. My detectives are making headway on a
major case."

Every face in the room looked expectant.

"You may remember that Detective Stone was temporarily detached to
work with an FBI task force on murders that he was able to link as the
work of an unidentified serial killer?"

"That task force was abandoned some time ago," Rodriguez said
impatiently, "due to a priority we all face, specifically national
security."

Riley ignored him and spoke directly to the chief.

"Detective Stone has continued to pursue the cases and has uncovered
new leads missed by the FBI. If we nail this case, we'll be closing
homicides in seven other states across the nation."

Padron scribbled notes. "Stone," he said, looking up. "Isn't he the
black guy?"

"Right," Riley said. "An excellent detective who grew up here, just
a few blocks away. Proof that something good can come out of Overtown."

"Great story," Padron crowed. "A minority hometown boy. I can sell
that. Yeah. Ya got a composite of the killer? The press eats that stuff
up. It'll take some of the heat off the arrest stories."

The chief brightened.

Riley backed off. "I don't think we're ready to go public. We don't
want to tip off the suspect."

"What's to tip? He knows he's been killing people for years," Padron
said. "Could be time to go public. Ask them for tips. Can't hurt. The
victims are elderly, right? The most vulnerable among us. Everybody's
got a mother or a grandmother. It'll give potential victims a heads-up.
It'll make the news in every city where this guy has killed. We'd have
national coverage."

"Joe might have something there," the chief said.

"Reporters love serial killer stories," Padron said. "Our lone,
homegrown detective, hot on the trail. I like it. I like it."

The state attorney checked his watch and frowned. "Odd that I'm
unaware of it. You have been coordinating this case with an ASA,
haven't you, Lieutenant? That is standard operating procedure."

"Of course," Riley said. "Assistant State Attorney Jo Salazar."

Rodriguez spun out of the room without another word.

"Salazar," Major Kelly, the vice commander, said. "She's good." The
others nodded.

"We should schedule a news conference," the chief said.

"The sooner the better," Padron added.

Riley bit her lip. "I'll speak to the detective."

She smiled confidently at the chief and promised to get back to
Padron within the hour.

She kept smiling until the elevator door closed behind her.

"Oh, shit," she muttered. "Shit, shit, shit."

K.C. Riley bolted from the elevator punching the buttons on her
cell phone. Out in the open the cellular signals flew free and
connected. "Come on, come on," she pleaded as it rang. "Answer, answer,
answer!"

As she paced the courtroom of Circuit Court Judge Ellen
Featherstone, indignantly arguing against bond for an HVO, a habitual
violent offender, Jo Salazar felt her belly jiggle.

Before realizing it was her cell phone on vibrate, she assumed the
sensation was bad vibes emanating from the defendant. He leaned
forward, watching her intently, wearing the same weaselly expression as
her seven-year-old daughter's pet ferret. Not fair, she thought. The
ferret was more trustworthy and honest.

As the judge studied a defense motion before her, Jo surreptitiously
checked the tiny phone clipped to her waistband. She recognized the
number. The message: 911.

Almost instantly, it vibrated again. She recognized a second number.
Her boss. Same message.

What new hells were these? Could they be related?

She returned to the prosecution table, undipped the phone, and
slipped it into her open briefcase, unseen.

"I have another point of law here, your honor." She peered into the
yawning briefcase as though in search of a document. Her gold bracelets
jangled as she pretended to rifle through files, while actually
punching in Tom Morgan's beeper number. She prayed that Morgan, like
her, ignored the judge's hard-and-fast rule that during appearances in
her courtroom, all attorneys were to turn off their beepers and cell
phones.

Assistant Public Defender Morgan sat alert and protective at his
client's side. Not too close, however. His client, accused of
kidnapping, assault, and sexual battery, was subject to sudden violent
outbursts, and even his own lawyer, though he would never admit it, was
afraid of him.

Studious and dedicated, Morgan blinked innocently through his owlish
glasses, hands folded in front of him, waiting to object to Salazar's
new point of law—if she ever found it. The ferret smiled at the
prosecutor's obvious disorganization.

Morgan was ready to fight to the death to free his client on bond.
If only he could succeed, he would probably never have to see the man
again. He would surely flee the jurisdiction, probably back to his
native Honduras.

"I'm sorry, your honor," Salazar said, dearly embarrassed. "I seem
to have misplaced that particular document, but in truth it isn't
necessary in order to establish that the defendant is a definite flight
risk and a danger to the community. Under Florida Statute 775.084, he
faces a minimum mandatory of fifteen years." Her hand snaked back into
the briefcase and pushed the send button.

As Salazar approached the bench to continue her argument, a chair
suddenly scraped back. A flurry of movement began behind her.

Morgan, no longer calm and patient, had leaped to his feet. He
approached the bench, eyes wide and anxious behind the thick glass in
his spectacles.

"Your honor, your honor. I beg the court's indulgence. I'd like to
request a brief recess. It's an emergency."

Jo Salazar turned, mouth open in surprise at the interruption.