A Dark and Lonely Place (15 page)

Jo Salazar, an assistant state attorney he’d consulted, spoke to a counterpart in the US attorney’s office and Miami-Dade’s legal adviser. “There doesn’t appear to be any long-term investigation that involves your witness,” she told John. She arranged for the wounded rookie and the witnesses to view more than three thousand photos of Miami-Dade deputies. Chances of an ID were slim. Witnesses grow weary and confused
after seeing as few as fifty photos. John had little faith in the New Yorkers, who’d announced plans to hire their own lawyer. But maybe, just maybe, Leon might come up with something.

Laura spent the rest of the night at the upscale and historic Biltmore Hotel, too pricey for the city and too public to hide a witness. John left her in the protection of his brother Ed, the hotel’s security chief, then whisked her out a side exit shortly before dawn.

Her new digs were secure, clean, and quiet. A new facade and structure fronted the street. Her room, in the original complex, hadn’t been updated or renovated in decades. Burglar bars, installed after the riots, protected the room’s few windows. Door hinges were secure, locks adequate but old. The room had twin beds, a big-screen TV, a small desk, and a tiny kitchenette with a mini fridge, small microwave, and a coffeemaker. Logistics were good. The old lobby, small and unmanned, was only a few steps from her door. Inside were tourist brochures, ice machines, and an armchair where he could pretend to read a newspaper while watching her room.

Warm rain spattered the car as they arrived. Steam rose like a thick fog off the parking lot pavement. They darted through the rain with their packages. He positioned her behind the door and checked the interior. “All clear,” he said. The air was hot and sticky, but the cool and comfortable room welcomed them. She twisted the cap off a cold water bottle for him. Their fingers brushed and it felt like fire. Rain pounded outside but they were alone in a small space so quiet he could hear his heart beat. He reached for her. She kissed him back.

What was he doing? Sexually harassing a witness in his protection, he realized, let her go, and stepped back.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to take advantage . . .”

She looked tender, vulnerable, as though she hadn’t heard him. “I knew you, John, when we met.”

“That’s how I—”

His cell phone rang and would not stop. Lucy. Is she psychic? he wondered. How could he talk to her now? What could he say?

“Nothing important,” he told Laura, and let it go to message. Nothing was as important as they were now.

Lucy called again in thirty seconds, then in forty-five. Then again and again.

He finally answered in self-defense. “Yeah?”

“
Hola.
Remember? You. Me. Dinner with your folks tonight?”

“No.” He closed his eyes. “I forgot.”

“You need a secretary. How would you manage without me?”

“Can’t make it.”

“See. How lucky are you?”

“No, I meant tonight.”

Laura flashed a secret smile as she unpacked the groceries he’d brought, and he forgot what he was saying.

“Can’tcha take a time-out from the case for a couple hours? Even an hour?” Lucy pleaded. “Your victims aren’t going anywhere.” She giggled. “I want to hang out in your mom’s kitchen.”

He frowned and tried not to look at Laura. Lucy had asked for copies of his mother’s recipes, but she had none in writing, so Lucy had insisted on taking notes and photos in her kitchen.

“I can’t be there,” he said, “but you can go.”

“Alone?” Her voice quivered.

When did this aggressive, kick-ass woman, who wielded a gun, Taser, billy club, and a flashlight heavy enough to smash a man’s skull, become a shrinking violet? “They’d love to see you.”

“No,” she said, coldly. “Should have told me sooner,
mi amor.
But I know you’re busy. How’s your witness? Still alive?”

She wanted him to capitulate, sweet-talk, and tease. He wanted to avoid it all. He knew what he had to do, but not this way, not on the phone. “Have to go,” he said, and hung up.

“Did I ruin your plans for the evening?” Laura asked softly.

“Don’t worry about it, I’m not.”

“John, are you married?” she asked wistfully.

“No.”

“Ever?”

“Never.”

She smiled.

“You?”

“No way.” She shoved her hair behind her ear. “When I was a little
girl, I used to sit down by the river and miss someone terribly, didn’t know who, but it was somebody who was supposed to be there. Later I realized it had to be my soul mate out there in the world and that someday we’d meet and recognize each other instantly. Sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

“No,” he said. “Not now.”

She nodded at his cell phone. “Was that the policewoman I saw you with at the station?”

He nodded. “Her name’s Lucy. I made a mistake. We were engaged. Technically, still are. I haven’t told her yet.”

Laura frowned. “So, you two have a ring and a date?”

Usually he asked the tough questions. “A ring, no date.”

“So you dodged the bullet.”

“Yes,” he said, “I did.” It was as though they read each other’s minds and communicated more with their eyes than with words.

“Treat her kindly,” Laura murmured. “But tell her soon.”

“I will.”

The rain stopped. The parking lot puddles reflected a rainbow as he took his tool kit from the car to install the new Medeco double-cylinder dead bolt. He reinforced the door with metal stripping, lubricated the latches on the burglar bars, and showed Laura how to operate them from inside.

“I need a gun,” she murmured. “Get me one, John?”

“People who want guns for protection have to be psychologically ready to use them.”

“Think I wouldn’t shoot a robber or rapist? Think again. I sleep with a gun and keep one in my car. When you hear noises in the night, or your car dies in a dark and lonely place, there is nothing like the comfort of cold steel in your hand. Never had to use one, but it’s nice to know it’s there.”

“You won’t need it,” he said. “You have me.”

She rolled her eyes. “What happens when I don’t?”

“A police officer, Mona Stratton, takes over at midnight. I thought you’d be more comfortable with a woman.”

Her eyes said he was wrong. “I can take care of myself,” she said. “But what if you needed help?”

“Then we’d both be in trouble.”

She shook her head and smiled. “Oh, no. That’s when you want me next to you.”

“I want you next to me, period.”

“I’m serious.” Her eyes flashed.

“Think I’m not?”

“You can rely on me, John. I don’t panic, I surprise myself. The universe slows and the world comes into brilliant focus, as sharp and as clear as crystal, as though I’ve done it all before. I wish life could always be so clear. We’re alike,” she said, as though she always knew it was true.

He recognized it too. “The key is to have a plan,” he said. “As a kid, I’d visualize the worst possible thing that could happen and what I’d do if it did. In the Marines, I’d wonder, What if I saw a sniper in that tree? How would I react? As a rookie cop, I’d wonder, What if the next driver I stop pulls a gun or goes for mine? What if those two men walking briskly out of the bank just robbed it? Keeps you on your toes.”

“Visualization?” A shaft of sunlight from a window reflected in her eyes. “My gram believes in second sight. She says I have it.”

He nodded. “Use everything you’ve got, all five senses—and the sixth. That’s the one,” he said, “that puts you in the right place at the right time. I once drove down an exit ramp as the dispatcher radioed the tag number of fleeing bank robbers. The car was right in front of me. I handled it. All the older cops said nothing like that had ever happened to them. Once you visualize what you’d do in any given scenario, your subconscious takes over. It’s instinctive. You’re ready.”

“I know, I pulled a little girl out of the Caloosahatchee River once.” She sipped her tea. “All us neighborhood kids swam like fish, but I’d wonder,
What if
one of them ever got in trouble, then decided what to do when it happened. I was eleven. At home. It was summertime and they were all down at the river, and suddenly I knew something was wrong. It felt too powerful to ignore. I wanted to run, but was afraid I’d look silly, so I walked fast, down toward the river until a little girl came racing up the path. I saw her face and ran in the direction she’d come from. They’d been diving for old bottles, and her seven-year-old sister hadn’t surfaced. Her ankle was caught in a tangle of underwater weeds. She was unconscious.”

“What happened?”

She shrugged and bit into a granola bar. “It went just as I visualized it. She’s in high school now. Bright and beautiful, a cheerleader. I see her all the time when I’m home.”

“You would have made a good first responder, lifeguard, firefighter, or cop.”

She shuddered. “Never liked cops. As a little girl, I’d see sheriff’s deputies on the street, stare at their guns, and just cry and cry, then have bad dreams. But I
always
loved to pose for pictures.” She struck an exaggerated cover girl pose. “It’s fun! As though I’ve done it forever. I’m so lucky. I fell into the profession. A
St. Pete Times
photographer came to shoot a photo essay on the river. Shot pictures of me wading, standing on the bank, in a rowboat. Two of them appeared in the Sunday newspaper, half a million circulation. An agent saw it and called me. I was sixteen. How cool is that? Some girls try for years to break into modeling, and I owe it all to that gorgeous, green river. I love it.”

“If guns made you cry, why aren’t you afraid of them now?”

“My granddaddy taught me to shoot his old muzzle-loader and I just took to it. I’m not afraid of a gun in my hands,” she said. “Just afraid of other people with ’em.”

J. J. called. “Got the witness situated yet?”

“Just about. I upgraded some of the security.”

“Watch yourself, John,” he said. “Don’t forget number six on my top ten rules about sex. Never sleep with a woman who’s got more problems than you do. By the way, the captain thinks Keith Baker is worth another look.”

“What?” John paced the room. “We both know that poor guy is not the type and his alibi is rock solid. Last night’s shooting at the station makes it obvious we’re not gonna find the killer in Eagle’s crank file.”

“The cap still wants us to recheck his alibi. How did you get lucky enough to make it onto Eagle’s enemies list?”

John sighed. “First time I saw him he was doing seventy miles over the speed limit on the boulevard in a black Ferrari with an expired tag. I was a rookie, on midnight patrol. Lit ’im up, but he ran. Finally pulled him over. Had two little blond girls crammed into the bucket seat next to ’im, no license or registration on him.

“He was big and arrogant, with lots of bling and a bad attitude. Had he stopped and been civil, I mighta just warned him. I never liked writing traffic tickets. But he gave me that ‘Do you know who I am?’ crap. I had no idea who he was, didn’t care. His eyes were glassy, he slurred his words, refused a sobriety test, wouldn’t sign the ticket, and became belligerent. I’d called backup, but we were busy and it took a while, so I took a better look at his passengers. Really young, in little shorts and halter tops. They were also under the influence and lied about their ages. One turned out to be a sixteen-year-old runaway, the other a fourteen-year-old missing for a week.

“He got really pissed. Tried to hand me a hundred-dollar bill, then threw it at me, so I added attempted bribery to contributing to their delinquency, DUI, and multiple traffic violations.

“My backup arrives, sees Eagle in cuffs, and says, ‘You know who that guy is?’

“Didn’t care. Inventoried his car before it was towed, found an unregistered gun, crack cocaine, marijuana, and ecstasy, and added those charges. He threatens me the whole time. ‘I’ll have your job. Do you know who I am? You won’t get away with this.’

“As I’m booking him into the jail, my sergeant shows up and asks, ‘Do you know who he is?’ Next thing I know Eagle is unarrested, his ride released, and his contraband returned.”

“Lucky him,” J. J. said.

“He didn’t think so. Wanted me fired. Threatened to sue. Needed to be sure I remembered who he was. Filed an Internal Affairs complaint. Raised hell with the chief, the mayor, and the city manager. With him, everything was personal. Every time I turned around, another cop would say, ‘Ron Jon Eagle sends his regards.’ If I’d seen him speed, drive drunk, or spit on the sidewalk, I’da done it again.”

“With his clout and you a rookie, how come you didn’t get fired?” J. J. asked.

“Luck and good press.”

“I remember now!” J. J. said. “That girl at the bus depot. What was her name?”

“Helen,” John said. “Her name was Helen.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T
ell me about her,” Laura said later.

“Who?” John said.

“Helen.”

“It’s not pretty,” John said.

She insisted.

Helen and her fiancé, college students from Great Britain, explored the US by bus that summer. Shortly after arriving in Miami, as she showered in the downtown bus terminal, she was attacked by three strangers who raped, stomped, and battered her into a near-fatal coma.

Earlier, John had seen the three young men swaggering down Flagler Street, sensed they were trouble, and followed his instincts. But as he watched them from a distance, he was hailed by an elderly couple. They’d lingered to chat too long after a concert, forgotten where they’d parked, and by the time they found their car, downtown was deserted. Then they ran out of gas, at 1:30 a.m. John called a tow truck and stayed with them until it arrived. By the time they were safely on their way, the suspicious trio had disappeared. The street was empty.

He couldn’t shake a bad feeling about them. He circled every block, cruised the area. Nothing. The deserted bus terminal a few blocks away was the only place still open at that hour. He checked it on foot and found a young Englishman asleep on a bench near the front door. He told John that he and his fiancée, Helen, had been turned away from a nearby youth hostel until morning because their bus had arrived too late. She decided to use the ladies’ shower and restroom at the back of the terminal while he stood guard at the front. They were unaware of an unlocked side entrance.