The Ice Maiden (3 page)

I heard Nazario's sigh—or was it mine?

“Sonsabitches,” Stone rumbled.

“Sunny regains consciousness in that South Dade tomato field a couple of hours before dawn. Naked, drenched in blood, she crawls and staggers more than half a mile to the nearest farmhouse.” He frowned. “Everything goes against us from the start. Rain starts to pound, soaks the scene, washing away any evidence we mighta found. Meanwhile, the farmer's wife gets outa bed to close the windows, hears the girl's moans, and calls 911.

“She stays with Sunny while the farmer hauls ass out through the rain into the fields in his truck with a searchlight. He finds Ricky dead. Kid took a bullet in the right eye. Went through the orbital plate at the top part of the eye socket and lodged deep in his brain. The M.E. said he was probably alive for hours, leaking blood and brain matter.”

The waitress interrupted with our coffee. Eyes downcast, she practically ran back into the kitchen.

“Sarge, you're spooking the help,” Nazario said, as she disappeared.

Burch shrugged. “Had no business eavesdropping. She knows we're cops, and this ain't no tea party.”

He stirred sugar into his café con leche until it had to be equal parts coffee and sugar, tasted it, frowned at Stone's iced tea, and took a deep breath.

“With all her injuries, it's a miracle Sunny ever reached that farmhouse. Had to be a strong-willed kid. She's mumbling, talking a little. The first responder, a rookie cop, rides with her in the ambulance, asking questions, taking notes. Guy did a good job. She talked about the white van, the scars one-a them had on his body. We're lucky that rookie did what he did, cuz by the time she hits the hospital she's out of it, comatose.

“And that's where I find myself Christmas morning, much to the dismay of my wife and kids, breaking the news to two sets of parents. Merry Christmas: Ricky is dead, and a priest is saying Godspeed to Sunny's soul.”

Burch sipped his coffee, grimacing as though the taste was bitter, despite all the sugar. “Some holiday. For weeks I only went home to shower and change clothes. Had to reintroduce myself to Connie and the kids a couple months later. Lucky I got back in the house at all. Damn case drove me to drink. Closest I ever came to getting divorced.

“The manhunt was giganto. Fifty thousand dollars in reward money offered, all the manpower, all the resources, all the OT we asked for. The entire recruit class spent days walking roadsides, searching for the girl's clothes and any of Ricky's belongings that mighta been tossed outa the van. Fifty-man teams worked around the clock, thousands-a hours of overtime.”

“Think they lived in the immediate area?” Stone asked.

Burch shook his head. “We talked to the occupants of more than three hundred homes, listed names, ages, everybody who lived there, checked 'em all out.”

“Murder weapon ever found?” Stone said.

“Nope. Small caliber, a twenty-two, fairly low-powered. Went through the sales records of every gun dealer in the county, checked out everybody who legally bought that-caliber weapon. Nothing.”

“Even though they were young, you think they might have been military or dependents from the air force base down there?” Nazario asked.

Burch shook his head again. “We got help from the military. All personnel and vehicles were checked out. Even had the criminal-court judges release a buncha defendants from the South End without bond, gave 'em promises of leniency if they came up with anything useful. Interviewed more than thirty-five hundred people, all the way from Florida to California and Canada. Fifty or so passed polygraphs.”

“Think it was racial?” Stone asked, tight-lipped.

“Nah, black residents were as sick and outraged as anybody. As far as we could tell, the victims just caught the eyes of the wrong people.” He pushed his cup away. “I worked that case so hard that when I did sleep I dreamed about it. Still do.” He gazed at the two younger detectives. “I don't get it. Never did. Somewhere along the line it should have turned for us. It made no sense that we couldn't solve it.”

“Yeah.” Nazario stroked his mustache, puzzled. “With that many bad guys involved, you always catch a break.”

“Right,” Stone said. “There's always a weak link who cuts himself a deal by ratting out his buddies when he gets busted for something else.”

“Or they fight among themselves, or drink and run their mouths,” Nazario said.

“Or confide in girlfriends who drop a dime on them,” I offered.

“You got it,” Burch said. “Brothers even fall out and turn on each other. In this kinda case, mothers surrender their own sons. But nothing. It was eerie. Unnatural. Against all the laws of homicide and human nature. It's like they vaporized, fell off the face of the planet. All these years, until today, when this asshole shows up, crawling like a rodent through a hole in a roof.

“And now,” he said, teeth showing in an anticipatory smile, “it's time. It's finally time.”

“Damn straight,” Stone said vigorously. “I say we take a real hard run at this one, sarge.”

“I agree.” Nazario gave a curt nod. “The Meadows case can wait.”

“But,” I asked, “how can you ever really know for sure that the man in the morgue was one of them?”

“Hell.” Burch rose from his chair and snatched up the check. “We've got us a witness. The girl, Sunny: She beat the odds. She's alive.”

I blew into the newsroom in a hurry. My editors were impatient to hear more about Gomez and my story for tomorrow's paper.

“They charged the poor guy with second-degree murder,” I said.

“As well they should,” Tubbs said righteously. He and Gretchen Platt, the assistant city editor from hell, exchanged glances across the city desk. “Take the law into your own hands and you face the consequences.”

Gretchen pursed her cotton-candy-pink lips, nodding so vigorously that her perfectly cut shiny-blond hair bounced in agreement.

To them the story was simple black and white. But unlike so many who commute to this fortresslike tower high above the city's steamy streets and siren sounds and drive off at day's end in their air-conditioned co
coons to gated suburban communities a thousand light-years away, I see shades of gray every day.

I went back to my desk, unable to forget the hopeless look on Gomez's weary face. Sometimes you know at once when a victim will stay with you.

I wondered about the dead man. Medics say that someone who's electrocuted remains conscious for at least fifteen seconds. Enough time to contemplate one's life.

Whatever his past, it would be sad. They always are. The world is full of sadness. Life, like history, is just one damn thing after another. But no childhood hardship could mitigate the evil of what had happened to Ricky Chance and Sunny Hartley.

What a great story it would be if Miami Detective Sergeant Craig Burch solved the crime at long last, suddenly positioned by fate to achieve justice in a case that had haunted him for years. Seek and ye shall find, I thought, tapping out the Gomez piece at my terminal—if you can just live long enough.

Miami's mayor was “unavailable” for comment on Gomez's pleas for help. His Honor was mired in his own soap-opera hell at the moment. Most couples war over sex, money, or in-laws, but when the mayor and his wife skirmished at breakfast over the proper way to brew a cup of tea, the press and the police had reacted as though he were O.J. on a rampage. SWAT sped to the scene, the house was cordoned off, cameramen and reporters ringed the house, news vans blocked the streets, and TV news choppers circled overhead. He blamed his political enemies, among them the police, with whom he had feuded over little Elián.

Elián and Fidel are no longer the chief topics debated over Cuban coffee. Many Miamians who have blamed Fidel for all things
malas
in the world and flown only the Cuban flag for more than thirty years have become fiercely patriotic. Most men and women who crowded recruitment centers to enlist after the attacks on America were not born in this country. Many were in their fifties and sixties, willing but ineligible. The tiny flags they wave from Little Havana street corners are a heartening sight, despite the fact that upon closer inspection they are stamped
MADE IN TAIWAN
. It is a giant step forward. Sometimes only great tragedy creates unity.

The mayor's secretary fished the shopkeeper's most recent plea from a file labeled
NON-URGENT
. Police record keepers also found a history of Gomez's complaints. I reported them in my story for the street edition, along with the fact that, if convicted, he faced a possible sentence of life in prison.

I combed my hair and dabbed on fresh lipstick after deadline, then hurried down the long gray hall, past photo and the wire room, to pitch my Cold Case Squad idea to Spencer Morganstern, the editor of the paper's recently revamped Sunday magazine
Hot Topics
.

Morganstern, a small dapper man who favors vests and bow ties, is famous for his creativity and his short attention span. He waved me to a seat amid haphazard stacks of books, files, and newspapers on the leather couch in his glass cage, leaned back in his creaky leather chair, and studied me quizzically through owlish spectacles too big for his face. His unruly Einstein-like hair bristled in every direction, as though
electrified by the highly charged ideas, pictures, and possibilities that pervaded his mind, his office, and even the air around him.

“The Cold Case Squad has a terrific cast of characters,” I said, launching my pitch. “Good detectives, hand-picked self-starters. They have to be, because they don't get to experience the screams, the blood, or the sense of outrage cops feel at fresh murder scenes.”

Morganstern, expression bemused, did not react.

“What drives them is that, unlike other crimes, first-degree murder has no statute of limitations. No matter how old the case, a killer can still be brought to justice.”

Morganstern broke eye contact, frowning at a sheet of paper on his desk. My heart sank. Was he already bored?

“I've known Burch since I first covered the beat,” I said, voice rising. “Sam Stone, one of the detectives, is an edgy, really sharp young black guy who grew up here, in Overtown. And Nazario was a Pedro Pan kid, one of thousands spirited out of Cuba at the dawn of Castro's regime. The children were airlifted to freedom in Miami. The parents planned to follow but became trapped on the island when Fidel canceled the flights. Nazario arrived alone in Miami at age five. There are a couple of others: Corso, the guy wounded in that bank robbery a couple of years ago, and Acosta, who went on the cross-country gravedigging trip with that serial killer who confessed a few years ago.

“Their new lieutenant,” I said, rushing on, “is K. C. Riley. She used to command the Rape Squad.”

Morganstern continued to squint at the paper, which
looked suspiciously like an expense account form, then reached for a red grease pencil.

“The team's on a roll,” I said, dropping my voice to a confidential tone. “About to tackle another really high-profile old case.” He was vigorously crossing out and circling items on the paper. “Their work is dramatic, like time travel. They go back in time to apply new high-tech Star Wars technology—lasers, computers, DNA, and blood-spatter analysis—to murders committed long before such forensic techniques were even dreamed of.

“Everybody loves a mystery, and every one of their cases is a fascinating story in itself,” I said, beginning to wind down. “They found the killer in one case but made no arrest. His last address was a cemetery. He'd been there for two years: natural causes.”

Morganstern scowled, crumpled the paper, tossed it into his overflowing wastepaper basket, and looked up, as though puzzled to see me still there.

“Will their bosses cooperate, give you access?”

“Sure,” I said quickly. “The department has had so much bad press that the brass will be thrilled about a piece on something positive.”

The ring of confidence in my words struck an uneasy chord. My pitch for the story made sense, but cops often don't. Police-press relationships are love-hate at best. Lieutenant Riley was notoriously reserved and tight-lipped with reporters. But I babbled on, despite my misgivings, determined to sell Morganstern the idea.

“With so much bad news lately, readers will love the fact that murder victims are not forgotten, even years
later. That maybe a bad guy didn't get away with murder after all, that not only does justice still exist in the world, it may prevail.”

“Better late,” Morganstern said, raising an eyebrow, “than never.” His phone rang, but he ignored it.

“Time changes people and circumstances,” I went on. “Sometimes all it takes to solve an old case is a few phone calls. Somebody afraid to tell the truth years ago feels free to do so now. The detectives dig up dusty evidence, blitz aging witnesses, travel to track them down, consult with forensic…”

“Enough.” Morganstern pointed his red grease pencil at me like a weapon. “Don't push it. I was hooked when you said Cold Case Squad. That's catchy.” He nodded and leaned back, contemplating the ceiling. “I'm thinking that for cover art, we can get these guys—and what's-er-name, that woman lieutenant with the initials—”

“K. C. Riley.”

“Right. Over to the Miami Ice Company. Yeah. Miami Ice Company. Dress 'em all up in business suits, sit them on giant blocks of ice, their jackets open, to expose their guns in shoulder holsters, in front of a sign that says
MIAMI ICE HOUSE
. You know, Cold Case Squad: Miami Ice?” He lurched forward in his chair. “Whaddaya think?”

“Well,” I murmured, appalled at the prospect of personally suggesting such an idea to Riley, “we'll need a really first-rate photographer. Lottie is good with cops.”

Lottie Dane, my best friend, with her honeyed Texas drawl, reckless appeal, and flaming red hair, can per
suade almost anybody to do almost anything in front of her cameras. Would her down-home charm work on the lieutenant?

“You're right about Lottie.” Morganstern stroked his thick mustache. “We'll need photos of victims, perps, crime scenes. A shot of that dead killer's tombstone. We can crop it like a mug shot. Whatever. You know the drill. About time you wrote something for us, Britt,” he said.

I left his office both elated and apprehensive. Now I would have to deliver.

 

I left Lottie a heads-up on her answering machine.

Half a dozen Miami police press releases cluttered my e-mail, including a routine two-line PIO yawner on the gunshot victim I'd seen in the morgue. No mention of chicken feathers or glitter. The shooting, it said, was the result of a “prior dispute.”

I beeped Alan Curlette, aka Spiffy, identified as the lead detective. Spiffy, a fastidious and dapper dresser, always stepped gingerly around crime scenes, careful not to get blood, brains, or body fluids on his Guccis. “Hey,” I asked, when he returned my call, “how come you never mentioned what the dead guy was and wasn't wearing?”

“Nobody asked,” he said sullenly. “I'm still trying to get all that damn stupid shit off of me. All I did was roll the guy over. Now I got little sparkles in my cuffs, on my shoes, in my socks. I go to scratch my head, I see sparkles on my elbow. Is it unreasonable for me to be pissed off that there is glitter all over my goddamn car?
What's more, it don't work. Unfortunately, my goddamn sergeant can still see me.”

“Probably because you're dressed,” I said. “I think you're supposed to be naked for the full effect.”

“How would you know what I happen to be wearing or not wearing?” he asked slyly.

“Somehow, I have a feeling that you're not sitting at your desk in the homicide bureau with no pants on,” I said. “Don't ask me why. It's just some sort of sixth sense. Maybe I'm psychic.”

“Or psycho. You Cubans are nuts.”

“That too.”

“Somebody should sue this guy's
santero
for malpractice.”

He said witnesses told him the victim never even tried to escape his killer. Instead, convinced he was invisible, he flaunted his naked body, grinning and making rude gestures at the gunman. Imagine his surprise.

Resolving always to ask how all parties to fatal confrontations were dressed—or not—I wrote the story, turned it in, and then called the M.E. office. The scarred man had been fingerprinted. We should know his identity soon.

“A Cold Case Squad detective came by, had quite an interest in this fellow,” the chief said mildly. “By the way, I've been thinking about his scars. His burns may have been caused by potash.”

“Potash?”

“Haven't seen a case in years, but potash burns used to be quite common in poorer communities, back before guns became so cheap and readily available.”

“What is it?”

“Folks used to mix lye, cooking grease, and hot water to make soap. Potash is an old term for the alkaline material used in soap. People buy guns for defense today, but back then lye was the weapon of choice in domestic and neighborhood brawls. Anybody who expected trouble would keep a can of lye behind the door or next to the bed. We'll find out when we learn more about his medical history.”

“So you think he might be older than he looks?”

“No, but he may have come from a rural area where people still clung to the old ways.”

 

I began to put notes together on the Cold Case Squad and asked Onnie, who works in the
News
library, for our photo files on Richard Chance and Sunny Hartley.

She brought them out herself a short time later. No longer stick-thin, Onnie is simply slim, even shapely, having gained enough weight to soften the structure of her angular bones. Her simple white blouse contrasted dramatically with her coffee-color skin and short curly hair. In no way did she resemble the desperate, battered young mother I first met. Her son, Darryl, now six, is a survivor like his mom. She is divorced now, her violent ex-husband serving a long prison sentence for an attack on a police officer, among other things.

“Plenty here on the boy.” Onnie perched on the corner of my desk, opened a manila folder, and studied a photo. “But nothing,” she added, bright black eyes meeting mine, “on the girl you mentioned.”

Of course, I realized. The names and photos of rape
victims go unpublished. Sunny's name and face had never appeared in news accounts of the tragedy.

Onnie handed me the folder. Fair hair neatly combed, Richard Lee Chance wore a serious expression in his high school yearbook photo, though his eyes hinted at a subdued mirth. In another picture he knelt on one knee at the forefront of his exuberant varsity basketball team after a winning season.

Snapshots of his short and happy life contrasted starkly with news photos of grim men lifting his covered corpse to load into the morgue wagon. He had been found face up, surrounded by ripening tomato plants that thrived in that fertile farm field. His body had remained on the scene, the caption said, for more than eight hours, as detectives and crime scene technicians painstakingly did their work.

“Unsolved,” Onnie said breezily. “No stories on it for years. Is there something new?”

“Could be.” I tapped into the library's computer files. “Let's hope.”