Cold Case Squad (5 page)

The first victim, Tessie Bollinger, age seventy-four, died in
Paterson. So did the most recent, Margery DeWitt, age eighty-seven.

He killed Gertrude Revere, ninety-one, in Cleveland. Jean Abramson,
of Chicago, was ninety-three. He strangled Estelle Rudolph, age
seventy-seven, in Detroit, and Patrida Lenoy, age seventy-two, in
Boston. Erna Dunn, in Philadelphia, was seventy-nine. Delia Golden died
in Memphis at seventy-two.

Their homes had not been ransacked. Nothing seemed to be missing.
All the killer took was their lives. A sick son of a bitch, Stone
thought, but so clever that it took all these years before anyone
became aware that the cases were linked and the work of a single serial
killer. He was unique. Few serial killers successfully continue their
deadly odysseys for so long. Time will mellow a murderous rage. But
this man was still killing. If he began in his teens he'd be in his
forties by now. He could be older. He could be anybody.

Geographic profiling didn't work. The man was a shadow. He covered
the map, his victims separated by many miles, jurisdictions, and years.
There wasn't even proof he was a man. But female serial killers are
most often black widows or baby killers.

Stone opened his notebook to read again his list of what the victims
shared in common. Alone, they were lonely. Trusting and too friendly to
strangers. The task force had discovered little else. There seemed to
be a breakthrough when they learned that the late husbands of two of
the women were retired military. But no others had military ties except
for one who had lost her only son in Vietnam.

Bollinger, in Paterson, was first, Meadows in Miami was second.
Number nine, the most recent, was again in Paterson. What if the killer
was retracing his steps, repeating his pattern? Miami would be his next
stop. He could be here now, Stone thought.

Energized by a sense of urgency, the detective paced back and forth
in front of the pictures, studying them.

He finally took them down and posted the next set.

He liked working alone, or with Pete Nazario. He had never felt
comfortable with the FBI. And they dearly weren't comfortable with him.
He'd been given the courtesy because he had linked the cases. But the
agents mistrusted Miami Police, disliked sharing information, and
showed little respect for him because he was only twenty-six and lacked
experience.

The lack of respect was mutual. He'd been skeptical of their famous
profiling techniques. Of course the murderer was a loner. Serial
killers don't operate in crowds, not successful ones anyway. Of course
he had problems with women. He was killing them.

What do you expect, he thought, from bureau profilers who had
described the Beltway Sniper as a lone white man, when the shooters
proved instead to be two blacks?

Stone found a coffeemaker on a corner table. Bitter dregs in the
bottom. He discovered cups and supplies in a cabinet, brewed a fresh
pot, and filled a flowered mug with
JANICE
painted on
it. He restudied
the pictures and reread the reports as he drank.

He'd even researched the phases of the moon in search of a
ritualistic link. Nothing. The timing seemed random. He had killed on
every day of the week but Saturday.

Head aching after his third cup of coffee, Stone felt a nagging yet
elusive hunch, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

He switched photographs again, to long shots from across the
victims' bedrooms. He walked by them, paused to look back at the
Paterson picture on his right, then at the Detroit photo to his left.
He set the coffee cup down harder than intended. A wave of the scalding
brew slopped over the edge and onto the counter. He didn't notice. He
was checking the bedroom shots in Cleveland, Boston, and Miami.

"Damn. Why didn't I see that?" He reached for the telephone. "Hey,
Naz, it's me. I need you to come down here and look at something."

"What time is it?" Nazario sounded fuzzy, as though he'd been asleep.

"I don't know." Stone glanced impatiently at his watch. "Three
o'clock?" He sounded surprised.

"Oh, Jesus. Where're you at?"

"The photo lab at the station."

"Did you go home? You still there? Up early? Out late? What the hell
are you do—"

"How quick can you get here?"

"That's me behind you, walking in the door."

Nazario was wearing khakis and a rumpled white guayabera.

Stone looked startled. "How'd you get here so fast?"

"Not much traffic at this hour, and I floored it."

"No doubt something chasing you again. You find the sarge's car?"

"Yeah. Just in time. He's embarrassed, so don't broadcast it. Looks
like Connie took the FOP symbol off the tag and parked it in a loading
zone. So they were about to tow it. Hope you didn't wake me up to ask
that." He squinted at Stone. "What the hell are we doing here?"

"Look. Look at these." Stone motioned to the photos. "Tell me if you
see what I see."

The nine enlargements were shot from across the rooms toward the
foot of each victim's bed.

Arms folded, Nazario studied each in turn, thick brows furrowed.

His eyes narrowed on the third pass. "I'll be damned. I see it!
Dios
mio
!"

The shadows of the long driveway are cool and fragrant and I am
grateful to be home, even if it is temporary. The quiet only seems
lonely because I'm accustomed to domestic chaos, Connie, the kids,
their friends, even Max, the big, dumb sheepdog. I welcome this
solitude and time to think.

Thank God for Nazario. Connie would not have answered a question
from me. So he called to politely inquire if she had "borrowed" my
Blazer. She said she didn't know what he was talking about. He thanked
her, said goodbye, and turned to me, his spaniel eyes sad.

"She took it," he said.

He then called the private number of Jennifer, the drama queen, and
only other family member old enough to drive. My daughter answered the
same question the same way. He said goodbye, and turned to me.

"She had nothing to do with it."

So, we deduce that unless one of Connie's girlfriends is an
accomplice with enough chutzpah to snatch a car out of the police
parking garage, my wife is most likely the lone perpetrator. She would
have driven her own car downtown. It's not easy for one person to
jockey two automobiles around. That involves some legwork, and Connie
is an unlikely pedestrian in Miami's summer heat. We might get lucky.
Maybe the Blazer isn't all that far away.

Hotshot ace detectives like us are trained to seek justice, scoop
dangerous killers off the streets, and otherwise preserve the peace.
Instead, we are on the trail of my wacko wife.

We check dead-end streets within a half-mile radius of the station.
On the third or fourth try, there it is, backed into a loading zone, a
ticket on the windshield and a tow truck driver about to hook it up.

Nazario is a good man who won't blab this around the station. I owe
him.

My new address is this stately Miami Beach mansion, Casa de Luna.
Old Spanish-style architecture, elegant and graceful, built in the
twenties. Renovated, updated, restored, and refurbished, inside and
out, no expense spared.

Wealthy residents inclined to travel and concerned about home
security sometimes offer a policeman free lodging in servants'
quarters, a guest cottage, or garage apartment. As the old mansions
give way to high-rises, hotels, and loft apartments, such deals are
hard to find and much coveted by cops who are separated, single, or
about to be. The homeowner enjoys peace of mind and the policeman
enjoys a free pad, the key word being free because cops in my situation
are usually stone broke or about to be.

Bullets, bribes, and brutality allegations are not the only
occupational hazards in police work. Booze, broads, and busted
marriages are just as common. I teetered at the brink a time or two but
never thought I'd fall, or that if I did I'd have the luck to land in
one of these cushy deals.

The Blazer is emitting a peculiar odor, so I leave the windows open
a crack when I park. Probably the submarine sandwich I picked up on the
way home.

I take a deep breath and stand in the driveway drinking in the soft
air, enjoying the salty breeze off the sea just across the Intracoastal
Waterway and Collins Avenue, and wonder what it's like to be the man of
this house.

The owner of this multimillion-dollar chunk of real estate is W. P.
Adair. He's Wall Street rich, robust and full of life for a man in his
sixties. He stays on the go, skiing, mountain climbing, and sport
fishing. His young wife is his third or fourth, and a knockout.

I met them the first time I came here, to ask some questions about
the murder, now solved, of an old business associate. As we talked,
Adair's tall, tanned young wife, Shelly, sauntered by in a white thong
bikini, headed for the Olympic-size pool.

"My kids give me hell," he said, offering me a drink, "but can you
picture me with a woman my own age? I can't. They're old ladies, for
Christ's sake! They don't want to ski, sail, or go deep-sea fishing. I
don't feel a day over forty. I need somebody to raise hell with."

We drank to that. The man likes to play. He can afford to pay. More
power to him. They left two days ago to spend the summer in Italy.

Of course, there is no free lunch. The devil is in the details.
Strings are attached. I ride herd on the landscapes the twice-a-week
maid, the car washer, and the man in charge of keeping the
infinity-edge pool pristine. And, should a hurricane threaten, God
forbid, my job is to secure the place. All a small price to pay for
secret sanctuary from a wife gone wild.

I climb the tiled stairs, use my key, and punch in the alarm code.
Originally built for a live-in housekeeper, my apartment is above the
four-car garage. A rear staircase connects it to the kitchen of the
main house.

I take off my gun, stash it in the top of the closet, set the paper
bag containing my meatball sub on the table, grab a beer from the
fridge, and carry it back downstairs to give the grounds the once-over.
This place, on nearly two acres, is one of the biggest private
residences in Miami Beach, where real estate prices are in the
stratosphere. My plan is to walk Casa de Luna's north forty morning and
night to be sure nothing is amiss.

I circle the house first. Doors and windows all secure. Night birds
sing, fountains bubble, and the pool gurgles as I walk past the
night-blooming jasmine to check out the garden. Suddenly I am startled
by a furtive move. I am not alone. Glowing eyes in the dark watch my
every move.

"Hey. Who the hell are you?" I ask. "What are you doing here?"

He leaps gracefully down from the latticework, runs toward me, and
presses his face to my shoe.

"Get outta here." I shake my foot free.

Instead of retreating, he coils himself around my ankle. "Cut that
out!" I'm annoyed, until I realize he's obviously at home.

He murmurs, trying to get my attention.

"Holy shit, they didn't tell me about you."

Damn. Adair and his bride neglected to mention this member of the
household.

I continue on my rounds. He leads the way, tail straight up, busily
skirting the pool, past the fountain, along the north wall, through the
garden, down the driveway, then back to the house. He scampers ahead
and bounds up the stairs ahead of me.

"You must be hungry."

I frown as he springs onto the table to investigate the bag
containing my sandwich.

"Come on." He follows me across the hall and we descend the back
stairs to the high-tech granite and stainless-steel kitchen of the main
house. My search of cupboards, pantries, and cabinets yields nothing.

"Some detective I am," I tell my companion. "How's about you showing
me where they keep the cat food. Fetch! Go on, fetch." Instead, he
watches me and waits, tail twitching.

He sits on the table eating his half of my meatball sandwich from a
saucer while I sit in a chair at the other end with mine and the
Miami
News
. He's not crazy about the tomato sauce but tears into the
meatballs and cheese.

I watch him eat and wonder how he lost the tip of his left ear,
hoping he hasn't been maimed on my watch. This could be a valuable,
pedigree show cat, an exotic breed worth big bucks.

"What happened?" I ask. "Trouble with a broad? I know how that is."
On closer inspection the injury appears old and well healed.

He drinks water daintily from a cereal bowl, then jumps down to
start the figure eights around my ankle again.

I never liked his kind. Me, I'm a dog person, at least I was until
we got Max. Connie and the kids always wanted an English sheepdog. He's
got pedigree papers and everything. But he's not like a real dog. The
big, worthless shaggy monster has a face so full of hair he can't see
in front of him. He costs a bundle to feed and is too damn dumb to even
raise his head when you call him. Only thing he ever barks at is a cat.
He wouldn't bark at a burglar unless the son of a bitch brought a cat
with him.

I sigh, let this cat out, and get ready for bed.

I put my wallet on the nightstand and remove the latest picture of
the kids. Jennifer is sixteen, her brother, Craig, Jr., thirteen, and
their sister, Annie, just turned eleven. I made it to the delivery room
for the first two but missed the last one. Caught a triple homicide
that night and was tied up until the next morning. I prop the snapshot
against the lamp. Jenny is wearing her red-and-white cheerleading
uniform, her smile bright and confident. Just like her mother's when we
met.

Alone in the double bed, I wonder again how it came to this. Did the
job destroy my family life? Or did I? Were we always doomed? Is Connie
alone in our bed right now, thinking in the dark, asking herself the
same questions? Is there a way to make it up to her? Or is it already
too late?