Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (18 page)

 
          
Dade
County
Sheriff’s Department Headquarters

 
          
Hardcastle
had been waiting for a half-hour when a detective walked in. “Admiral
Hardcastle? Detective Sergeant Lewis.” Lewis laid two fingerprint cards on the table
in front of him and motioned for the admiral to look at them.

 
          
Hardcastle
was no forensics expert, but even the most casual glance between the two told
the obvious—the prints matched. Hardcastle looked back at Lewis, who looked
back at Hardcastle to be sure that he understood the obvious.

 
          
“Are
you the boy’s guardian?”

 
          
“No,
he lives with his mother.”

 
          
“Visitation
rights?”

 
          
“Weekends,”
Hardcastle said, his throat dry and raspy.

 
          
“How
are relations between you and the boy’s mother?”

 
          
“Fair
to poor. She doesn’t approve of my choice of career, and especially doesn’t
think it would be a wise choice for Daniel—” “I’ve heard that one before. How
about between the boy and his mother?”

 
          
“Good,
so far as I know.”

 
          
Lewis
wondered if Hardcastle really knew. “Well, he seems to think highly of you. Was
more afraid of disappointing you than going to jail.” Hardcastle fought a
shudder of dread at the word “jail.” The detective picked up the fingerprint
cards, folded them in half and stuck them in a pocket. Hardcastle looked at him
in surprise.

 
          
“You’re
lucky, Admiral. When the owner heard that Daniel’s father was the Coast Guard
district commander he dropped charges. He has his bike back.”

 
          
“I’m
grateful,” Hardcastle said.

 
          
Lewis
nodded. “Besides,” he said, “the prints don’t quite match the boy.”

 
          
“I
don’t understand . . .”

 
          
“Well,
I got one set of prints of a motorcycle thief,” Lewis said, “and I got another
set of a pretty decent high-school student, a flying nut, good grades, accepted
at the University of Miami, maybe a baseball scholarship. They don’t exactly
match. What I need to know, Admiral, is this kind of thing going to happen
again?”

 
          
“I’ll
do my damndest—”

 
          
Lewis
held up his hand. “I see this every spring, Admiral. The script is pretty much
the same. But when I dig a little deeper, what I find are parents that see
their son or daughter as a grown-up, someone they don’t have to deal with
anymore because soon they’ll be out of the house and on their own. They slack
off. What happens is that the happiest time of their kid’s life becomes the
saddest. I blame the parents most of the time ... I can do that because I’m a
parent and I see it happening to me too. But it’s no excuse.” Hardcastle stared
at the tabletop. He was being lectured at by a cop at least ten, fifteen years
his junior—but he also knew he was right.

 
          
“Do
you hear me, Admiral?” Hardcastle nodded.

 
          
“All
right, I can’t release Daniel to your custody so I’ve called his mother. She’ll
be down shortly and I’ll have a word with her too. Then Daniel is free to
leave. This time.”

           
“Can I see him?”

 
          
“I’ll
bring him in. Admiral, I’d be real disappointed if I saw either of you in here
again. It would mean I was wrong about you . . . and him.”

 
          
“I
understand ...”

 
          
“I
hope so,” Lewis said as he left the room.

 
          
His
son, arrested for stealing a motorcycle. The kid had always followed his own
way, not afraid to take a chance or do something off-beat, but he’d never
broken the law. This was a whole different side—

 
          
The
door swung open and Daniel entered. His eyes were puffy and dark. He looked at
his father and swallowed.

 
          
“Sit
down, Daniel,” Hardcastle said, motioning to a chair across from him. He wanted
to take him in his arms, he wanted to give him a shot. Anger, love, all mixed
up . . .

 
          
“Dad,
I’m sorry about this, I didn’t mean to embarrass you—”

 
          
“I’m
not embarrassed,” Hardcastle said. “I’m angry, upset . . .”

 
          
“I
know the guy who owns that bike,” Daniel said. “I know he leaves the keys in a
holder under the seat—”

 
          
“Bullshit.
That doesn’t make any difference.”

 
          
“I
know, I know, it was stupid. I wanted to see you, I was told you were working
late, mom wouldn’t let me borrow the car and I didn’t want to hitch. The guy’s
had that bike stolen a half dozen times. I wasn’t going to wreck it or ditch
it, I left it in a safe place in that parking garage—”

 
          
“Still
bullshit, Danny. You’re trying to rationalize this? You stole a motorcycle, you
could be in juvenile detention for six years. Let’s talk about the future.
You’re still my son, now I’ve got to learn to trust you all over again—”

 
          
At
that moment the door opened and Jennifer Leslie Wagner- Hardcastle came into
the room. Dressed in a light blue dress with matching shoes, a light silk
jacket, and carrying a white handbag, she was a striking woman in her late
forties, with dark hair touched with silver-gray highlights, a trim body, and
deep dark eyes. By now it was after
eleven o’clock
at night, she was coming to get her son who
had been arrested and she looked as if she was ready for a business conference.

 
          
Hardcastle
rose but said nothing as she squinted with seeming distaste at his thin frame,
the deeply etched lines around the eyes and short gray hair. She turned to her
son. “Daniel, wait outside for me.” The boy left quickly.

 
          
“I
have just been lectured by a policeman about how to raise my son,” she began.
“I have a son old enough to be his brother, and
he
is lecturing
me
on how
to raise my son.”

           
“He knows what he’s talking about.”

 
          
“Why?
Because he blames this whole thing on me?”

 
          
“I’m
not in the mood for a fight—”

 
          
“Why
didn’t you wait for Vance to come down here?” she asked him. Vance Hargrove was
Jennifer’s attorney, the one who had handled her divorce. “It was wrong to say
anything to the police until an attorney was present—”

 
          
“The
police did the talking, Jennifer. They showed me the fingerprints—”

 
          
“How
do you know they were Daniel’s fingerprints? How do you know that the
fingerprints they
said
they took off
that motorcycle were really—?

 
          
“Daniel
said so. The police got the owner to drop the charges, they kicked Daniel
loose. Stop trying to bury this in legalese. Danny screwed up. He broke the
law. Now what are we going to do about it?”

 
          
Jennifer
seemed to straighten her back. “Well, he must be punished, of course. He’ll be
restricted to the house, except for school. No more use of the car for I don’t
know how long—”

 
          
“You
really don’t get it,” Hardcastle broke in. “He’s so tied down now it won’t
matter if you put a few more temporary little restrictions in place—if he feels
the need to sneak out of the house again he’ll do it. You already restrict him
on weeknights and after ten on Friday and Saturday nights. You won’t let him
have a job. You don’t let him come downtown, he’s not allowed to stay overnight
at my place . . .”

 
          
“When
you decide you have the time to
see him, that is.”

 
          
“I
know, I’ve screwed up too,” Hardcastle said. “It’s
us
that have to change.” He paused, then said, “I want him to spend
the weekends with me at my place in
Pompano Beach
. And I want him to spend the summer with me
before he goes off to school—”

 
          
“Could
we
please
talk about this some other
lime?” she said. “You can’t duck it, Jennifer. We’ve got to—”

 
          
“I
think we’ve all been through enough for one night. At least Daniel and I have.”
She pulled the door open and left without another word.

 
          
A
few moments later the door opened again and Sergeant Lewis came back in the
room.

 
          
“How
did it go?”

 
          
“Bad.”

 
          
“It
usually does,” Lewis said. “But don’t give up, Admiral. Not on either one of
them—”

 
          
The
door was pushed open farther and Commander Becker came in. He motioned to the
door, where Marine Corps Major Pamela Darwin, the District’s legal counsel, was
standing with a folder of papers in her hand. “Major Darwin’s here to help out
but we’ve been told the charges have been dropped.”

 
          
When
Lewis turned to leave, Hardcastle thanked him, “for everything.”

 
          
Major
Darwin entered the room, closed the door and stood in front of Hardcastle as if
making a formal report: “I’ve received statements from security personnel at
Brickell
Plaza
, sir. There was a security deficiency on
their part. We may have a cause of action against them as well as the sheriff s
department for unreasonable search—” “Forget it, major. I’ll file a report with
you and Area Headquarters in the morning. Up-channel your comments to my report
to Area as soon as possible. That’s all.” He turned to Becker. ‘ Mike, if you
wouldn't mind . . .”

 
          
“I’d
be happy to drive you home, sir.”

 
          
Hardcastle
took a sideways glance at
Darwin
as Becker escorted him out of the conference room. She looked back at
him with . . . pity? Was she sorry for an old seahorse because he couldn’t even
keep track of his kid?

 
          
Cut
it out, he ordered himself. The pity is self-inflicted. And you need all your
energy for your
equally
important job
of being a drug- buster. Get on with it.

 
          
Customs
Air Division, Homestead AFB,
Florida

 
          
Sunday Morning

 
          
Sandra
Geffar was standing on the aircraft-parking ramp. It was a cool Sunday morning
in south
Florida
, with huge dark thunderheads surrounding
the entire area.

 
          
Almost
as dark and stormy was the mood of Customs Investigator Curtis Long, a Citation
interceptor pilot at
Homestead
and Geffar’s chief of enforcement. Long also acted as Geffar’s R and D
officer, checking out new weapons and evaluating new tactics for possible use
by the agency. Long was scarcely five feet tall, broad shoulders tapering to a
narrow waist. It was generally acknowledged at
Homestead
that Agent Long’s lack of size was more
than compensated by his intelligence and physical strength. He was also one of
the most mild-mannered of men. There weren’t many things that could wind Curtis
Long up . . .