Cold Case Squad (3 page)

She raised her voice and her right hand slightly, as though to
recapture his attention. "You know what I mean. Like at the bank
yesterday… I saw another customer, his back was to me. He looked so
much like Charles that for a moment I forgot he was dead and almost
called out his name. The man turned around later and, of course, he
didn't look like Charles at all." She shrugged. "You know how it is.
You catch a glimpse of someone familiar but it turns out not to be
them. It's happening to me more and more. He's in my dreams almost
every night now."

"When did this start?" Nazario asked, his face solemn.

"Last year. I keep asking myself why, after all this time? Why?" She
leaned forward, speaking clearly, voice persuasive. "The only
explanation is that Charles is trying to tell me something."

Her shoulders squared, head high in a regal pose, reacting to
something in their eyes. She shot me a quick glance, suddenly aware
that I was listening, too.

"I'm not crazy," she said quickly. "Please don't think that. It's
just that it's made me realize that I never felt right about what
happened to him. I think I always suspected, but I had two little
children to raise alone, a boy and a girl."

"Did you seek grief counseling at the time?" Nazario asked softly.

The blond waves bounced as she tossed her head. "Who had time for
that?" She opened her hands in a helpless gesture, pale palms exposed.
"I had to take care of business and get on with life because of the
children. How could I allow myself the time to obsess, to cave in to
anger, bitterness—or grief? You've heard people say, 'If I only had the
time, I'd have a nervous breakdown'? Our children worshiped their dad.
The divorce was tough enough on them, on all of us. He and his new wife
had a baby. Their dad's death was the final crushing blow. They'd never
see him again, call him on the telephone, or spend another weekend or
vacation together. Now that they're older and asking questions, I
realize there are no answers. The whole thing didn't make sense…"

"Sometimes," Nazario gently interjected, "when you suppress a
traumatic incident and don't deal with it, it comes back to trouble you
later, when you least expect it."

She shook her head forlornly, staring down at her naked fingers for
a moment. She wore no rings.

"Can you at least look into it?" she said, raising those blue eyes.

"Into what?" Stone's brow furrowed.

Lieutenant K.C. Riley, our boss, suddenly appeared, slamming an
office door, lean and mean, a folder in hand, expression impatient.

"He burned to death." April Terrell's voice rose, quavering
slightly. "In a flash fire. It was horrible. They had to have a closed
casket. There wasn't enough…"

Talk about timing.

K.C. Riley reacted as though slapped.

This can't be good, I thought.

"My ex-husband, the father of my children," April told the
lieutenant without introductions. "His death was no accident. I'm sure
he was murdered."

"When did this happen?" Riley's pale lips were tight, arms crossed.

"Twelve years ago, May 23, 1992. It happened on a Saturday." Charles
had confided the last time he'd dropped off their children that he and
their new stepmother of just a year were not getting along. The brief
marriage, a bumpy ride, was already off track. Natasha, wife number
two, spent extravagantly. And there was, of course, a big life
insurance policy.

She had since lost track of the widow, she said.

"That sort of accident was totally out of character for Charles. He
was skilled and competent, precise and careful about everything he did."

Riley lapped it up, never missed a beat. "Thanks for coming in, Ms…
?"

"Terrell, April Terrell."

"I'm K.C. Riley."

The two women shook hands.

"It's certainly worth looking into," Riley said. "My detectives will
get right on it. Right, Sergeant?"

Three jaws dropped as one: mine, Stone's, and Nazario's.

"Charles Terrell is no candidate for us!" Stone fumed. "Riley knows
that. We don't investigate accidents. We solve murders."

"We've got enough ghosts to deal with," Burch said.

"Bad timing," Nazario said.

"The lieutenant should have stayed in her office, red-eyed and
brooding with the door closed, as usual. You know the reason she dumped
this on us," Stone said. "No doubt about it."

"She's got her own ghost, and she's taking it out on us," Nazario
said.

"I'll try to talk to her," Burch said.

Stone and Nazario beat it out of the office. Stone viciously jabbed
the elevator button as Nazario gave Burch a soulful glance back over
his shoulder.

"That woman and our lieutenant are both nuts." Stone continued to
vent, striding toward their unmarked Plymouth deep in the dimly lit
police parking garage. Brilliant shafts of sunlight pierced the gloom,
descending wandlike through ornamental cut-outs high in the concrete
walls.

Nazario rolled his eyes. "The lady wasn't lying."

"You're right," Stone agreed. "She obviously believed every damn
thing she said, just like all the others who hobnob with apparitions
and hear voices we can't. They are absofuckinglutely true believers."

"She's no lunatic," Nazario said mildly. "Her story should be easy
to check out. Gimme the keys."

"No way, my turn to drive,
amigo
."

"Like hell," Nazario said. "You're the one who's nuts."

"Maybe, but insane or not, drunk or sober, I drive better."

"What the shit you talking about?"

"Admit it, Naz. If you weren't wearing a badge, they'da yanked your
license like a bad back tooth years ago. You always drive like
something is chasing you."

"Maybe something is."

"Cubans are lousy drivers." Stone shook his head and slid smoothly
behind the wheel.

He put on his Foster Grants as Nazario settled reluctantly into the
passenger seat. Squinting in the glare, they rolled out onto
sun-blasted North Miami Avenue. Nazario called their sergeant, hoping
they'd caught a break.

Fat chance. Burch said he'd tried to reason with Riley. No luck.
Charles Terrell's fire death was top priority. Burch had checked for
the police file but found only a case number. The paperwork on
accidental deaths is purged after seven years.

With a grunt of disgust, Stone wrenched the wheel into a sharp
U-turn.

"Meadows is your problem." Nazario was glum. "That case has you so
wound up that it pisses you off to take five minutes to go to the
bathroom. Meadows can move to a back burner for a day. Her case is
already twenty-four years old."

"My point precisely." Stone jabbed an index finger in emphasis.
"That's exactly why it shouldn't get any older. The son of a bitch is
still out there, stalking somebody else's grandmother."

"You
know
why Riley's doing this," he said again, as they
left the unmarked outside the Miami River front building that houses
fire headquarters.

"Si." Nazario was stoic.

Riverside Center sprawls in the stark shadow of an expressway
overpass. Dark-tinted windows stare down at the river like blind eyes.

"She was always hard to work for," Stone said. "And that temper
doesn't help."

"She's hurting."

"Not our fault. Why does that shit always run downhill in our
direction? I like her better locked in her office nursing her hangover."

"I don't remember her drinking before it happened."

"Right. What we need is a shrink and a support group for her and
that Terrell woman." Stone flashed his badge at lobby security.

Arson investigator Jack Olson's tenth-floor office overlooked the
slick, silver ribbon that snaked below. The Miami River is a working
waterway, alive with pleasure boaters, foreign freighters, illicit
cargos and smuggled immigrants. Beneath its surface lie sunken secrets
and the constant cross currents of international intrigue.

Olson drew a blank on the name, but seeing the file sparked a memory
rush.

"Oh, yeah." His bushy eyebrows lifted and he licked his lips. "I
remember that one. Was out there that day. Nice neighborhood.
Relatively young guy, tinkering with his Thunderbird. The primo,
'fifty-seven hardtop, you know, with the portholes. Super V-8, double
acting shocks, Fordomatic drive. Classic. Love a set of those wheels
myself. Though nobody 'ud recognize it by the time we saw it. What a
waste. But I digress."

He scanned the original report. "Here we go. Yeah. Couple hours
before it happens, the victim borrows a line wrench from his neighbor
across the street. Repairing a faulty fuel line, he says. Those
T-babies are prone to that. Flakes of rust off the gas tank clogging
the fuel lines. My brother-in-law restored one of 'em. Paid ten g's for
it, spends a couple years on the project, and sells it for fifty."

He thumbed through supplements to the final report. "Here's how we
figure it goes down. He's under the car using a portable trouble light
when Bingo! The car slips off the jack and pins 'im to the garage
floor. Bad news. Worse, when the car drops on 'im, the jack stand
punctures the gas tank. Poor bastard's hurting, busted ribs. Probably
conscious, but even if he sucks up enough breath to yell, nobody's home
to hear 'im."

"He's trapped, and leaking gasoline is splashing onto the hot bulb
of his work light. Poof! Damn thing ignites. Instant inferno. He's
ground zero. The fuel feeds the flames until
the tank explodes. Fatal freaking accident."

Olson nodded in recollection.

"We were lucky to save the house. Hadda jack up the car to free
'im—what was left of 'im. Here, see for yourself."

He spilled the eight-by-ten scene photos out of a manila envelope
onto his desk.

Nazario winced.

"Damn." Stone picked one up.

In the gutted garage, beneath the car's blackened shell, were the
charred remains of a man, his fists clenched in a pugilistic position.
Devoid of flesh, muscle, and tendons, the exposed leg bones resembled
broomsticks. His jaws were wide open as though frozen in a silent,
agonal scream.

"His own mother wouldn't have recognized 'im," Olson said. "What's
up? What's your interest in this one now?"

"Somebody thinks it was no accident," Nazario said.

"After all these years?" The arson investigator looked skeptical.
His voice rose in indignation. "How come they didn't speak up sooner?"

Stone ignored the question. "Anything strike you as suspicious at
the time?"

Olson raked his fingers through bristly salt-and-pepper hair, then
shook his head. "Looked cut and dried to me. One a your guys was out
there. Didn't spot no red flags. Homicide detective, medical examiner,
a fire inspector, and me—we all came to the same conclusion."

"You're welcome to a copy a the report." He shuffled papers. "Next
of kin, the wife, said he's in the garage working on his car when she
leaves to go shopping and she's gone a couple of hours. We're already
on the scene when she gets back. A real babe, beautiful girl, shook up
big time. Had an infant in the car."

    "Who called it in?" Stone asked.

    Olson's thick index finger roamed down the fact
sheet. "Dispatch history shows a flurry of nine-one-one calls right
after the garage door blows off. Whole neighborhood musta called in.
But looks like we listed the reporting persons as the neighbors across
the street. The Walkers, 224 Meriposa Lane. Hadda kids birthday party
in progress. Hadda yard full of rugrats saw the whole thing."

    "Nobody seen leaving the garage. No strangers, no
getaway cars. Accidental. This kinda thing'ud be pretty darn hard to
rig." The arson investigator shrugged. "You can't beleive all the crazy
ways people mamage to off themselves."

    "Then again maybe you can. You guys see it all
the time. Rescue Seven caught a doozy yesterday. Guy wants his Hungry
Man TV dinner. His microwave won't work. He tries to fix it and gets
zapped. Missed his last meal, it was the one with the roast beef,
potatoes and  gravy.  Poor guy died hungry."

"Lookit that." Nazario pointed to the river below and a rusting
freighter limping toward open sea while they waited for Olson to copy
the file. The top deck was stacked with hundreds and hundreds of
bicycles.

"So that's where they all go. Been a rash of bicycle thefts in my
neighborhood, off front porches, outta garages, driveways, backyards.
Thieves snipping the locks of bikes chained
outside the gym and the shopping center."

"They're headed for Haiti now," Stone said.

"Told you," Nazario said in the car. "This Terrell caper ain't gonna
take us a whole lot of time."

"From your lips to God's ears." Stone swung into the parking lot at
their next stop.

The imposing three-building complex straddled three acres. With its
raspberry-colored furniture, potted palms, and smiling receptionist,
strangers might mistake the softly lit lobby for that of a resort
hotel—unless they read the mission statement above the front desk at
One Bob Hope Road.

"
To provide accurate, timely, dignified, compassionate and
professional death investigative services for the citizens of
Miami-Dade County
…"

Every year more than three thousand people arrive there too late to
read the words. They're unable to appreciate the photos and paintings
of scenic Florida. Dead eyes can't see the images of golden dawns,
blood-red sunsets, and turquoise blue water displayed throughout a
building that neither looks nor smells like a morgue. Electronic air
scrubbers erase the odors of formaldehyde and decomposing bodies, a
concept borrowed from airports that never smell like jet fuel.

A bronze cannon guards the entrance. The ancient weapon salvaged
from the
Santa Margarita
, a Spanish galleon sunk with all
aboard by a killer hurricane off the Florida coast nearly four hundred
years ago.