Cold Case Squad (25 page)

"We'll have patrol put a watch order on her place," Burch said. "The
zone cars can keep tabs on her. Damn it. Didn't I warn you about
reporters?"

At Nazario's request, police in Portland, Maine, discreetly checked
and found that Big Red, Linda Pickett, apparently lived alone at the
Greenway address, a high-rent condominium apartment house, under the
name Linda Ballard. She'd been seen there within the last twenty-four
hours.

"Looks like it's a go," Riley told them.

"Wonder where the hell Terrell is," Burch worried. "How come he
isn't with her?"

"We'll find out soon," Nazario said. "I'm psyched."

They conferred with Assistant State Attorney Jo Salazar before their
noon flight to Maine.

"Maybe I should go with you," the prosecutor said. "Don't make her
any promises, but obviously, he's the one we want. Find out how much
she knows, what she has to offer. Maybe we can deal her. If you need
me, I'll come up."

They stopped at Bob Hope Road. The chief medical examiner had been
poring over the file.

"Your victim, whoever he was, had a hemoglobin saturation of fifty
percent carbon monoxide. At that time, investigators believed that the
victim's high concentration of carbon monoxide meant he was alive at
the time of the fire and died from smoke inhalation. Such high levels
are common in fatal house fires, but recent studies show that they are
not in gasoline-fueled flash fires. Those victims die so quickly that
the carbon monoxide content remains low."

"He must have been overcome by carbon monoxide in some other
fashion—such as from automobile exhaust. He was dead from carbon
monoxide poisoning before the fire. Then the fire itself was set,
possibly with paper trailers later consumed by the flames. That would
leave no evidence of arson and allow the perpetrator enough time to
escape before the fire was noticed."

"So Terrell must have left him either unconscious or tied up in the
garage with the car engine running," Nazario said. "Not bad. He almost
got away with it."

"He did get away with it, for twelve years," Burch said.

"I wonder if the victim was already dead, or still alive when
Terrell dropped the car on him and took off his finger."

The doctor shrugged. "That would be speculation. If you find him,
maybe he'll tell us."

"We had no luck on dental records for Hastings," Burch said. "But
you've got the photos the daughter sent. And we're leaving you a good
shot of Terrell. Think they might be enough?"

"We should know soon," the chief said. "Dr. Wyatt plans to look at
them today."

They made copies and took pictures of both men with them, picked up
their overnight bags at headquarters, and were about to leave for the
airport when Lieutenant Riley hailed them from her office.

"Uh-oh," Burch said. "Here she comes. Look at her face. Something's
up."

"We shoulda beat it out of here while we had the chance," Nazario
said. "We're cutting it close."

"Guess who's missing in action?" Riley said breathlessly.

"I'm afraid you're about to tell us," Burch said.

"Natasha Ross. She's disappeared."

"What the hell… ?" Burch said.

The detectives stared at each other.

"Can it be related?" Burch said.

"How can it not be? What's going on?" Nazario frowned and checked
his watch.

"When's your flight?" Riley said.

"Noon." Burch sighed in frustration, eyes uncertain.

"Hell. You don't have much time. Go! Go!" She hustled them in the
direction of the elevator. "I'll head out to the Ross place. Stay in
touch. Now go!"

Nelson leaped into his truck, slammed the door, and burned rubber as
he raced away from the towering high-rise building. He did not look
back. The tall green van swayed, the lawn equipment inside shifting, as
he swerved through traffic, took corners too fast, and raced onto
Southwest Eighth Street, Calle Ocho.

Heartsick and furious, his pride wounded, he pounded his steering
wheel in frustration. To threaten his manhood! To laugh at his love!
How could Natasha treat him so? How could she turn on him? After all
they had been to each other. Did she not see the sacrifices he had made
for her? He tried to calm himself. Women do such things and later they
are sorry, he thought.

Spirited and passionate. Her fiery nature was so like his own. They
were more alike than she realized. Soul mates. When they were next
together, he would take control. He would become a strong man who
dominated her. That's what she wants, he told himself. Women love a
strong, virile man who can give them many children. Not an old man with
white hair, shriveled
cojones
, and a limp, lifeless penis.
She must be dominated.

He must be stronger. Take charge and claim what is his.

He nearly turned to rush back to the San Souci Towers to take what
was his. To transform her into a more docile and understanding mate.

But what if she continued to hide and elude him? He would appear
foolish and weak in her eyes. No, she must now come to him. This was a
good lesson after what she had done. She must make her own way home.
But he had her dress. He wrinkled his brow.

Uncertain, he lifted his foot from the accelerator, then floored it
again at the memory of how she had menaced his very manhood with his
own razor-sharp pruning shears. He had missed disaster by only a
fraction of an inch, then stumbled, struggling to pull on his pants as
she ran away from him.

Miami Police Officer Fermin Santiago clocked the landscape truck at
sixty-five in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone as it rattled by him. He
flipped on his blue flasher.

This was the debut of the new and improved Officer Fermin Santiago,
his first day back on patrol after three weeks in fucking
sensitivity/anger management training. Due to his short fuse and
multiple use-of-force complaints, he'd had little choice. It was either
train or be suspended. His most recent bad luck had been his worst yet.
How could he know that smart-assed motorist, so slow to step out of her
fancy convertible, was a rich lawyer's wife? How could he know that
when he grabbed one of her fancy high-heeled boots to yank her out of
the vehicle that she'd bump her head on the pavement? Twice.

His sergeant said he had worked too long on midnights in the inner
city and had forgotten how to treat civilized people. Santiago was
bitter. He had no anger management problem. Sleep deprivation was his
real problem. If that bitch Andrea would just muzzle the fucking kids
and let him sleep, he'd be fine. The twins had howled all night again
and Andrea, puffy-eyed and sleep deprived herself, had told him just
this morning to fix his own damn breakfast.

In spite of it all, Santiago was in good spirits, back in control,
back on patrol. Sure, it was the day shift, where he would endure close
scrutiny by his supervisors, but they could watch all they liked, he
thought. They would be nothing but impressed. Fresh out of the
classroom, he had spent days learning, absorbing, and practicing verbal
judo. Being accustomed to constant action out on patrol, he had found
it difficult to stay awake. The talky sessions were mind-numbing,
fall-asleep boring, but he had regrouped, applied himself, and had the
drill down pat.

The chief was a believer in verbal judo, so verbal judo it would be.
He'd win the goddamn fucking Olympic gold medal in verbal judo, if such
a thing existed. If that's what it took to stay out of trouble and
boost his ass onto the sergeant's list, he would follow the rules to a
T.

Verbal judo classes would soon be SOP for the whole department, the
chief had said. In Savannah, they had reduced use-of-force reports,
injuries, and civilian lawsuits by 30 percent.

Santiago fell in behind the green landscape truck, blue light
flashing. The driver ignored him and accelerated.

"Pull over. Driver of the green van, pull over to the curb,"
Santiago calmly instructed over the PA. The dispatcher had reported
back that the license tag was valid. The van was not reported stolen.
This guy was acting like an asshole for no good reason.

Motorists in the stream of traffic around them hit their brakes. But
the driver of the green landscape truck pounded his steering wheel.
Then he floored it.

"Goddammit." Santiago switched on his siren. Miami police policy
forbids the high-speed pursuit of traffic violators. Orders are to let
errant motorists escape rather than risk a crash.

They had taken all the fun out of police work, Santiago thought
bitterly.

Luckily, the inevitable traffic jam loomed up ahead. Moments later
the landscape van was pinned in by traffic.

Nelson knew he was in trouble. That woman! Damn Natasha. She had
called the police! Now they would handcuff him, drag him to jail, treat
him like a common criminal, all for love!

Filled with helpless rage, he knew he had done nothing wrong. Every
man knows what it is like to have a woman make you crazy, drive you
insane, and force you to do things you would never otherwise do.

Hands on the steering wheel, he ignored the policeman who approached
his van.

He would not be humiliated again.

His window was halfway down. The policeman asked for his driver's
license and registration. Nelson ignored the request and continued to
stare straight ahead.

Was he being tested? Santiago wondered. Was this a setup? Was the
green van a plant arranged by Internal Affairs detectives who were out
to get him? He'd show them.

This was his first opportunity to apply his newly acquired expertise
in verbal judo in real life, on the street.

He had already taken the first of the five steps.
Just ask
them what you want them to do
.

Santiago smoothly segued into Step Two:
Explain why
you
have asked them to do it
.

"Sir, I need to see your driver's license and registration just to
check and make sure that they are, indeed, valid and up-to-date."

Nelson stared at him contemptuously.

The old Fermin Santiago would have had this mope facedown on the
pavement by now, handcuffed and bleeding.

The reformed Officer Santiago refused to take this motorist's
recalcitrance personally.

Step Three:
Give the citizen positive and negative
reinforcement. Make them think it is their idea to cooperate. Allow
them to surrender with dignity. Give them a choice
.

"It will be beneficial for you and good for me if you decide to
cooperate," Santiago said carefully, wondering if Internal Affairs had
this mope wired. "We're both working men and you are probably having a
bad day. We all do from time to time. You'll be on your way shortly if
you show me your driver's license and registration. Otherwise, I might
have to tow away your nice green truck. I'd hate all that paperwork.
I'm sure you don't need the hassle either. How about it?"

"She lied," Nelson said, with a sneer.

Shit, Santiago thought, woman trouble. He knew how that was. He put
on his most sincere face and launched into Step Four. "Sir, is there
anything I can say that will persuade you to cooperate with what I've
asked you to do? If so, can you share it with me now?"

Nelson glared.

"Anything at all?" Santiago sighed. He had done the best he could,
by the book. Time for Step Five: Get
reaaaady to
rumble
.

He radioed for backup. The van door burst open. Nelson leaped out,
his .45 caliber Walther in his hand. Santiago launched himself headlong
to the ground behind his patrol car. He took cover as Nelson fired
wildly.

Cars screeched around him as Nelson shot the patrol car's radiator,
windshield, and right front tire. Then he dove back into his van and
hurtled west.

"Fuck!" The old Santiago radioed that he was under fire, leaned over
his car, closed one eye, and emptied his eighteen-shot semiautomatic
Glock at the fleeing van. One slug shattered the plate-glass front of
the Chevrolet dealership across four lanes of traffic. Another bullet
ricocheted off an airport shuttle loaded with tourists bound for South
Beach, then hit a passing pedestrian in the ankle. The shuttle careened
wildly across two lanes, causing a Ford Explorer and a Toyota to
collide. The Explorer slammed into a royal palm and rolled over. The
huge tree toppled onto Florida Power and Light wires, knocking out the
power to the traffic signals.

As brakes squealed, tourists screamed, and cars collided all around
him, Santiago's sole, small consolation was that most of his eighteen
full-metal-jacket, hollowpoint rounds had found their mark. He'd
riddled the back of the now-vanished landscape truck His euphoria
lasted only a split second before the urgent voice of the dispatcher
called out his unit number.

"Hold your fire, Three thirty-three. I repeat, do
not
fire
at the van. The subject driver may have a white female kidnap victim
restrained inside. Do you read me, Three thirty-three? Repeat. Do
not
fire at the van."

Stone sighed in frustration. He'd cross-checked all the names the
new tips had generated with the names of witnesses, suspects, and
neighbors interviewed twenty-four years ago after Virginia Meadows was
murdered. None matched.

He decided to look at the total picture. All the cases took place in
cities with thriving Orthodox congregations, synagogues, Jewish
cemeteries, kosher markets and restaurants, and what else?

He spoke again to Mordechai Waldman, who suggested religious
bookstores,
mikvehs
, the ritual baths, and Judaica shops.

Stone's phone never stopped ringing. Callers were eager to chat
about Sunday's newspaper story; some had lost loved ones to murder,
others were friends or acquaintances. Nell Hunter had left two
messages. Stone tossed hers. A courier from her newspaper had returned
the borrowed photographs to his grandmother. He had no reason to talk
to Nell again.