The Ice Maiden (10 page)

My car radio reported news of war, shadowy enemies far away and among us, and smoke rising like the souls of the lost from still-smoldering wreckage. I tried to focus on the mysteries at hand. What became of the killers' white van sought by police for so long? Probably rusting, I thought, at the bottom of some deep Everglades canal or rock pit. Most mystifying was how such youthful killers had successfully kept
their secret without cracking throughout the long high-profile investigation.

I still had some coffee left when the prison gates loomed before me, a world of concertina wire, steel mesh, and low-slung buildings surrounded by farmland and Everglades swamp.

The population here was adult male, a mix of high-, medium-, and low-risk inmates. Mad Dog spent most of his time in “closed management,” due to disciplinary problems, according to the captain who checked my ID and had me sign the logbook.

The veteran guard who frisked me even checked my shoes to ascertain whether I was smuggling any contraband into the facility. He made no attempt to conceal his disapproval that out of 70,000 inmates in Florida's prisons I had chosen to visit this one.

As we awaited Mad Dog's arrival, the guard loosened up enough to discuss a recent controversy that arose when state officials decided to cut costs by eliminating recreational television in prisons. Inmates were there for punishment, not entertainment, the state said. However, the decision was swiftly reversed when it became clear how many more corrections officers would have to be hired. Prison officials use twenty-one-inch ceiling-mounted sets the same way many parents use the tube—as a baby-sitter. TV keeps their charges occupied and out of mischief. The most-watched shows here, the guard said, were
Cops
and
America's Most Wanted
.

The sounds of automatic locks and the clanging of steel doors heralded Mad Dog's arrival. Two keepers accompanied him. I hadn't seen the shackle shuffle
done with a swagger before. With his thick neck, broad chest, and bulging biceps, his muscles had muscles. He looked as though he worked out daily with his own personal trainer. Perhaps he did.

Several cigarettes and a Snickers bar, prison currency, were casually displayed in his shirt pocket, the way a player on the street would flash a roll of cash. Something behind the surface of his oil-slick eyes made me grateful for the sturdy wooden table between us. I wouldn't have minded bulletproof glass.

Slowly and deliberately casual, he eased himself down into the chair facing me, cocking his head first to check out my legs.

“Whu's up, mama?” He showed off a few decorated gold teeth with his grin.

I refrained from explaining that I was not his mama.

“A man was killed the other day,” I said. “An old friend of yours.”

Mildly interested, he nodded casually.

“Yeah.” He rocked back in his chair, as though he found it humorous. “Heard ol' Andre bought it. Dude got hisself fried. Always warned him 'bout those nickel-and-dime burglaries. Dude never listened.”

“Lots of things get people in trouble.” I smiled sweetly. “Look at you.”

“A-live,” he said, relishing the word. “I'll be walking free, outa here one day. Never shoulda been here to start with. Police framed me. You looking at an innocent man.”

“Interesting,” I said, “but I understand you were caught at the scene and they had DNA evidence against you.”

“DNA don't mean nothing,” he crowed. “Look at O.J.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Well, I'm not here about that. I'm interested in something that happened on a Christmas Eve—”

“Right, right.” He sounded impatient, nodding like one of those little doggies in the back window of a car. “You don't have to 'splain it to me, mama. I know all about it. When they tol' me 'bout the reporter, they didn't say you looked so sweet.”

“So you remember the case?” My heart thudded.

“Sure.” His eyes fixed on mine. “Some blond bitch and her boyfriend. Everybody knew about it. People talk.”

“I heard it was you there that night, with Cubby Wells, Andre, Parvin, and some other guy.”

Something sparked in his eyes, as though about to ignite, but then it was extinguished, as quickly as it had appeared. He wagged his head, curling his lips in a beatific smile.

“Other guy? You think you know something, but you don't know shit. Tell me a name.”

“You tell me.”

He clapped his palms together, a sharp retort that startled his guards and made me blink. His laugh was a rude high-pitched bray. An officer shifted uneasily on his feet. “Hear that?” Mad Dog said, turning to him. “Woman thinks she knows it all but don't know shit.”

“Four out of five is a good start,” I said serenely. “It's just a matter of time. Murder has no statute of limitations. And this will probably be a death-penalty case, a minimum of life without parole. So I thought, if
you really want to walk away from here one day, you might like to talk about it. Somebody will tell the truth, and the one who does first might catch a break.”

He laughed again, an unpleasant sound, too loud and long, his smug glee conveying that he knew much more than I did.

“No way they can prove we did it, now or ever,” he sang out. His words echoed off the dreary walls as he leaned forward, eyes bold. “Cuz I didn't shoot nobody that night; they didn't shoot nobody; we didn't shoot nobody. I'm an innocent man. We're all innocent men. But thanks for stopping by.” He jerked his head at the guard, as though the man were his personal chauffeur, and stood up.

As he was led away, he turned back to me. “Say hello to the blond girl,” he said. “Tell her she be seeing me again. Look forward to it.” He nodded again, his grin bone-chilling. Then the metal door clanged closed behind him.

 

Burch was surprised and not thrilled to hear where I'd been. “He as much as admitted it,” I told him, via cell phone, as I rode my wave of indignation back to Miami. “But he's so hard-core, he'll never cooperate. Mad Dog still insists the police framed him in his last case.

“I'm telling you, Craig, this guy is the poster boy for capital punishment. Thank God he still has years to serve on his last conviction. You should see the shape he's in. Looks like he's in training.”

“Maybe he is,” Burch said grimly. “Look, don't tell Sunny about this. He thinks he'll see her again? Hell, when we make this case, he'll never see daylight again.”

I hit the road again early the next morning. Sunny's parents, Donald P. Hartley M.D., plastic surgeon to the rich and famous, and his wife, Maureen, now lived in Weston, an affluent southwest Broward County community studded with football and baseball stars. Posh gated neighborhoods where the crimes were low and the property values high.

The couple's sprawling Spanish-style hacienda, nestled among lush gardens and shaded brick terraces on a private cul-de-sac, was in stark contrast to their daughter's dining room digs.

Maureen Hartley greeted me with a serene smile, despite her uncertainty when I called. She wore white, the classic cool blonde type that Alfred Hitchcock loved. Tall and slender, she still dressed and carried herself like the elegant top-flight model she had been.

“I'll fetch Donald,” she said softly. “He's in the shade house.”

I waited in a room with a massive staircase, oil paintings, and a huge stone fireplace until the doctor appeared, silver-haired and imposing, dignified in steel-rimmed glasses, expensive slacks, and a sport shirt.

“Well, now,” he said, smile engaging, as the three of us settled in the library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a mahogany desk, and comfortable overstuffed furniture.

“Maureen said you mentioned the…incident. I believe she explained when you called that there have been no new developments for many years now.”

His wife's smooth brow was furrowed, and her eyes had taken on a look of sadness.

“Frankly,” her husband said, “we'd prefer that nothing more be written. With all that's happening in the world today, there's little point in resurrecting old tragedies.”

I explained about Andre Coney, adding that if he was one of those responsible, the others might still be identified and brought to justice.

“You really think that's possible, after all these years?” He sounded dubious.

“It's never too late in a murder case,” I said. “But the police—Sergeant Burch—would need help from Sunny.”

Both reacted to Burch's name.

“I remember that policeman,” Dr. Hartley said quietly.

“He'd like her to look at some mug shots,” I said.

Maureen Hartley stared without seeing, her thoughts roaming somewhere in the past.

“Sunny doesn't live here. You'd have to take that up with her,” her father said.

“Right. She didn't seem interested when we spoke.”

The parents exchanged glances. “You saw her?”

“Yes.”

“Our daughter is extremely independent,” he said.

“You're not close?” I frowned. Not exactly what I'd hoped for.

Maureen Hartley said nothing.

“Not as close as we'd like to be. We love her dearly,” the doctor said, hands clasped in front of him, “we always have, and we're here if she needs us. But, as I said, she's an extremely independent young woman.”

Maureen's face brightened at footsteps in the hall.

“Here's Tyler.” She sprang to her feet to kiss the cheek of a young man who loomed tall in the doorway.

Sunny's little brother would have been movie-star handsome, except for eyes set a tad too close together.

“Doc,” he said, “I need to borrow the Navigator.”

“What's the matter with your own car?” Hartley said gruffly.

His son had an interesting, slightly dissipated look for one so young, as though he needed the discipline of a tough drill sergeant, basic training, or regular workouts in a gym.

“You know how it is.” He flashed a charmingly sheepish grin.

“Can't say that I do.” His father removed a set of car keys from his desk.

“The convertible got towed last night from South
Beach. You know how they are down there. You go to a club, come out, and your wheels are gone. It's a racket.”

Hartley tossed the keys.

His son snatched them smartly out of the air. “Thanks. Sorry I interrupted, didn't know you had someone here.” He looked me over curiously as Maureen introduced us.

“A reporter? They printing a story about you, Doc?”

His father shook his head.

“It's about Sunny, sweetheart,” his mother said. “She's looking into what happened to Sunny and Ricky.”

Tyler wheeled and left the room without a word, his face sullen. A door slammed moments later.

Maureen stared after him.

“The whole business was hard on him,” the doctor said. “As it was on all of us.”

“Of course.” I picked up my pen. “Do you keep in touch with Ricky's parents?”

Both looked pained.

“We grieved for one another after it happened,” the doctor said, “but we'd relive the…event every time we saw Sean and Heather. I'm sure they felt the same way. Our friendship couldn't survive what happened to our children. Lifestyles changed. We sold, moved away from the water. We haven't seen or heard from them for years.

“If you and Sergeant Burch assumed we could persuade Sunny to assist, I'm afraid you're wrong.” He sighed. “Parents seem to be the last people in a position to influence the young these days.

“By the way,” he asked, in an afterthought, “why isn't Sergeant Burch here himself?”

I explained that I was researching a story on Burch's squad and that he was tied up. I left out the office politics.

“Frankly, as much as I'd like to see justice done, as much as I'd give anything for just five minutes alone with those men,” the doctor said softly, “it seems unfair to ask our girl to go through it all again now. Sunny tried so hard to work with the police then. If you knew….” He sighed, then consulted his gold watch. “If you'll excuse me, I have office hours.”

I lingered in the hallway, trying to strike up a conversation with a pair of brightly plumed African parrots perched in an elaborate cage, and then asked to use the bathroom.

Maureen showed me the way. When I stepped out, I heard fleeting voices in the foyer, then caught a glimpse of Hartley's black Mercedes as it rolled down the driveway.

“How is Sunny?” Maureen murmured, as she showed me to the door. “We haven't talked in months; she's always too busy. How did she look?”

“She seemed fine, too busy to spend much time with me either. She seems dedicated to her work.”

“I hope she's eating right.” She looked troubled. “Sunny became a vegetarian years ago. I thought it was a passing fad but she kept it up. I worry about her. Is she getting enough protein in her diet? Is she taking care of her skin? She's as fair as I am. Is she still spending time on the beach?” She scrutinized my tan and did an excellent imitation of my own mother.
“Women your age have no idea how damaging the sun can be. You must use a good sunscreen, at least SPF twenty, every day. Take care of your skin now, and it will take care of you later.”

Sunny was more likely to suffer freezer burn than sun damage, I thought. But I was reassuring.

“Sorry,” she said. “I must sound like your typical neurotic mother.”

“How did you know I have one?”

We smiled at each other. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked.

“I'd love it,” I said.

 

Their cheerful breakfast nook looked out on flowering trees and tropical plants. Water burbled from the mouth of a huge stone dolphin into a manmade pond. Beneath its surface, tropical fish darted, flashes of bright orange, gold, and silver in the dappled water.

“It's by design,” she said, when I admired the soothing effect. “Donald's job is very stressful, so I worked hard to make this house an oasis of serenity in a hectic world.”

She poured richly brewed coffee and served a plate of fresh-baked scones gracefully while carrying on our conversation, a woman accustomed to being the perfect hostess.

Not only was her husband a surgeon with his own outpatient facility, she said, he owned several converted luxury motels where patients recuperated after face-lifts, tummy tucks, and breast augmentations.

“It upsets him that Sunny refuses our help,” Maureen said. “She did accept some money her grand
mother left her. Her grandmother never knew what really happened. She lived in New York and was in poor health, so we never burdened her with the terrible details. We let her believe that Sunny had been seriously injured in an auto accident.”

“Did Sunny always plan to be a sculptor?”

Maureen laughed. “No, not at all. Donald's youngest brother owned a well-known restaurant in Chicago. When Sunny's doctors suggested that a change of scenery might do her good, we sent her out there for a while. She liked to spend time behind the scenes at the restaurant, of all things. Her uncle taught her how to make ice carvings for special events. We thought it was good therapy for her. She'd always liked art, and it just escalated from there. Later, she went off to Italy to study. Her father didn't approve, but she had the money from her grandmother and used it.”

“You must be so proud of her,” I said.

She didn't look proud; the blue eyes clouded.

“We had her in therapy for years,” she said, “but all it ever accomplished was to make her more distant, more eager to be alone, on her own.”

She averted her eyes.

“I had such mixed emotions when you mentioned Sean and Heather Chance. What happened to them was tragic. They went through hell; they lost their son. But no one realizes that we lost a child that night too. It was worse for us, in some ways. Sunny was just beginning to blossom. We sent our darling girl off with their son that night. We got back a total stranger. She returned to us silent, moody, and morbid. She'd look at
us as if we were strangers. She refused to go back to her old high school.

“Ricky's parents, and everyone, kept telling us how lucky we were that she survived. I didn't feel lucky. I wanted my baby back the way she was, full of fun and laughter. I live with our loss every day. Yes, we have a daughter, but not the daughter we knew. I guess that sounds terribly crass and selfish, doesn't it?”

“No,” I said. “The crime changed your lives forever, through no fault of your own. You were innocent victims. Perhaps if the case is solved, you'll feel some relief and a sense of healing.”

“Those monsters are still out there,” she said bitterly. “They should have to pay for what they did. Look at what they've cost us all. Lord knows how much damage they're still doing to others.”

We strolled out into the morning heat together. She slipped behind the wheel of a midnight-blue Jaguar, bound, she said, for a charity board meeting.

She called out, as I turned to leave. “How is Sergeant Burch?”

“Good. Still giving it his best shot.”

“And his family?”

“Thriving. He finally has regular hours and gets to spend a lot more time with them these days.”

She nodded.

The car's automatic window rose, its tinted glass obscuring her face, and she drove off as I ambled on down the drive to my T-Bird. Not until I pulled out onto the street did I realize my left rear tire was flat.

Damn, I thought, looking up and down the shaded
street for help. There was none. I'd have to change it myself, in the suffocating heat. The situation could be worse. At least I was in a safe, shaded place. Better than a high-speed blowout on hot highway pavement. I opened the trunk to remove the spare, one of those damn little rubber doughnuts. The instructions warned not to drive more than fifty miles on it, which wouldn't get me back to the paper. I'd have to stop at a service station anyway, so I called AAA. They said a truck would arrive within an hour.

A bronze Lincoln Navigator slowed to make the turn into the driveway as I waited. Tyler stared from behind the wheel.

He rolled down his window as I approached.

“You still here?” Behind dark shades, he looked as sullen as before, but the cool air escaping his car's interior felt good.

“A flat,” I said. “I'm waiting for Triple-A.”

He looked amused, shut off the engine, and headed for the house.

“Tyler, I know you're pissed because they towed your car, but give me a break,” I said. “Keep me company while I wait for the tow truck?”

He turned to me angrily, lashing out, his rigid body hostile. “Leave us the hell alone! What's the fucking point of stirring up ancient history?”

“Justice is the point,” I said. “They might be able to close the case.”

“Says who?”

“The police. Sergeant Burch.”

“Him.” His eyes squeezed closed, as though he was in pain. “Oh, swell. Goddamn déjà vu all over again.”

“Look,” I said patiently. “Wouldn't you like to see the people who hurt your sister go to jail?”

“As if there is a chance in hell of that happening. Listen—” He took a ragged breath. The anger behind his dark glasses verged on tears.

“I know it was terrible for Sunny,” I said, “but—”

“Yeah-yeah-yeah! Sunny-Sunny-Sunny. What a swell Christmas that was. I was ten years old,
ten fucking years old
. That was the year I lost my sister
and
my parents. From that night forward everything was Sunny: Sunny's doctors, Sunny's therapy, cops coming to see Sunny. I was the little kid in the corner, wondering what the hell had happened.”

“I can imagine how you felt—”

“Guilty! That's how I felt. You can't know how guilty I felt.” His voice shook. “I used to cry. I thought it was all my fault, that if I'd only gone with them, I could have stopped it; I could have saved her somehow.”

He paused to catch his breath. I just stood there. What could I say?

“She looked right through me after she came home from the hospital,” he went on, “like I wasn't there. She'd flinch when I tried to hug her. I hardly ever saw her; strangers, cops were always taking her somewhere. She'd scream at night. ‘Go back to bed,' they'd tell me. ‘It's nothing. Sunny just had a bad dream.' Nobody would talk to me about it. They wouldn't even tell me what happened. Other kids, at school, told me she got gang-raped. I didn't understand what the hell that meant. Nobody even knew I was there anymore. It was all for Sunny who, in a nice little O. Henry twist,
never wanted a damn thing more to do with any of us. Let me tell you, it got old fast.” He took a deep, ragged breath.