The Ice Maiden (20 page)

I found him at an inner-city church where clothes are collected for the poor and the homeless fed. Pleased to see me, he was ready, as always, to pontificate for print.

“You never mentioned that you grew up with Andre Coney,” I said.

The Reverend Earl Wright removed the cigar from his mouth, licked his lips, and frowned. He wore a clerical collar and highly polished shoes with his well-cut suit.

“It wasn't relevant.” His eyes darted to a trio of elderly volunteers sorting bags of donated clothing nearby. “I would speak out as strongly against the unjust death of any brother.”

“You and Coney, Mad Dog, his cousin Stony, and Cubby Wells—you were running mates in those days.”

“We were all young once. Hadn't seen Andre in years. Wish he'd come to me for help,” he said piously. “I could have set him right with God Almighty and with himself.”

“You remember the Christmas Eve rape and murder,” I said quietly.

A dangerous light flickered in his eyes. He consulted his gold watch.

“If there's nothing else I can help you with, the Lord's work is always waiting to be done.”

“Why not set things right for yourself with God by confessing the truth?”

He reacted, as though slapped. “You are wrong! I hope you are only misguided,” he said softly, “but I warn you, you're treading on dangerous ground.”

“Is that a threat?” I asked. “Here, of all places?”

“Take it for what it is and find something else to write about. I can point you to dozens of stories about poverty, prejudice, and people without hope. You're barking up the wrong tree with this one.”

“The police are putting it all together,” I said. “Wouldn't it be better for you to step forward and tell the truth at last? You're the one who could persuade the others to do the same.”

He leaned close enough for me to inhale his stale cigar breath.

“Be very, very cautious,” he whispered, malice in his voice.

He turned to the church ladies, his features instantly transformed like one of those kewpie dolls that change expression when you twist the knobs on the tops of their heads.

“Good day, sisters,” he boomed, “and God bless! I want to see your beautiful smiles and hear your angel voices in church on Sunday.”

They tittered, smiled, and waved fondly.

“And goodbye to you,” he muttered in passing.

 

I drove to Banyan Elementary but couldn't spot Shelby's car among the traffic jam of SUVs, vans, and buses.

Perhaps her little girl was sick and out of school today, I thought. But then I was sure I saw her in a little red plaid shirt and navy skirt, waiting alone, eyes searching the street for her mother's car. I scanned oncoming traffic but didn't see her Hyundai.

Then a red Chevy pulled to the curb and a man behind the wheel waved. Startled for a moment, the child skipped to the car and climbed in. He helped her with her seat belt and they drove off. I couldn't see him clearly but assumed it was her father. Nonetheless, I jotted down the tag number and followed, keeping the car in sight as I called her home number.

She answered. “Shelby?”

“Who's this?”

“You know, we talked the other day. Did you just send someone to pick your daughter up at school?”

“Yes, my husband.” She sounded as though she'd been asleep or crying.

“Are you all right?” I stopped following the Chevy and pulled to the curb.

“Remember,” she whispered, “when you asked me to talk to a detective? I think I'd like to do that.”

“Good for you.”

“Is one of them named Sam Stone?”

“How'd you know?”

“They said he's been asking questions. I know the name. He helped my auntie once when her car was stolen, and he kept a man in Overtown from going out of business when kids kept stealing from his store. People say he's good.”

“He is.”

“When can I talk to him?”

“I'm sure he'll make himself available whenever it's convenient for you,” I said.

“I can't go to the station house,” she whispered. “Somebody might see me.”

“Decide when and where you're comfortable. I'm sure he'll be there.”

“You too?”

“Sure. I'll bring doughnuts.”

“Gotta go,” she said, as though startled. “Call you later.”

 

With Riley guarding the gates at Homicide, I rendezvoused with Burch and Stone at the statue of the virgin in Little Havana. “Surprise,” I said. “Guess who suspect number five is?”

They exchanged knowing glances.

“You already knew?” I accused.

“Nazario thought he saw the good reverend in one of Sunny's sculptures,” Burch said.

“So did I,” I said.

“Seems preacher boy grew up in the same projects, had himself quite a bad rep before he found Jesus,” Stone said.

“Well, here's something you don't know. The witness's name is Shelby Fountain. She's Mad Dog's kid sister.”

The detectives exchanged glances. “We figured as much,” Burch said.

“Sam, you're the only one she'll trust. She says you have a good reputation in the community. She wants to talk to you.”

“Obviously an intelligent woman.” He gave me his beeper number. “Anytime, anywhere.”

 

All we needed was her call.

But it didn't come. At one point that afternoon, I scooped up the phone, hoping it was Shelby, but it was Security in the lobby, instead. A visitor named Burch wanted to see me.

“Sure, fine.” Odd, I thought, that he didn't call first.

I closed the file I was working on, profiles of the detectives for the magazine project, and went to meet him at the elevator bank. The doors slid open and people spilled out. Burch wasn't among them, or aboard the next one. Headed back to my desk to recheck with security, I overheard a middle-aged woman with short sleek brown hair and big dark sunglasses ask the receptionist where to find me.

“I'm Britt Montero,” I said. “But I'm sort of busy right now. Is there something I can help you with?”

“I'm Connie Burch.”

“Oh. Sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“You probably expected my husband.” Her crisp words had an unfriendly edge.

“Sergeant Craig Burch's wife?”

“For twenty-one long years,” she said. “Can we talk?”

“Sure.” I showed her into the newsroom and rolled Ryan's chair over, next to my desk.

“My husband doesn't know I'm here,” she began, lips tight. “But I'm not going to sit by this time.”

I heeded the warning bells. “Is something wrong?” I am always up front with police wives when pursuing their husbands for information. Their lives are stressful enough without suspicious calls from a strange woman. Had she misunderstood, misread something? Did she spot my name in his address book, my card in his wallet, or hear messages I left on his cell phone or beeper? Was she jealous?

“Yes, there is,” she said emphatically. “After three children and twenty-one years of marriage. I'm not about to kiss it all goodbye without a fight.”

“Mrs. Burch, I cover the police beat for the paper,” I explained carefully. “I'm working on a Sunday magazine piece about the Cold Case Squad. Your husband, his team, and their work will be featured. My relationship with him and the other detectives on the squad is strictly professional. I would never, ever—”

“You?” Her hand flew to her mouth, her expression one of startled amusement. “You thought—oh, that's rich! I've heard all about you, from my husband and from the other wives at SOLO meetings. You know, Spouses of Law Officers?
You're
no problem. It's her.”

“Who?”

Connie Burch removed her sunglasses. Her eyes, dry and angry, burned with a resolve beyond tears; it was as though rage had taken over. She practically spit
out the words. “Don't try to tell me you don't know. That Hartley bitch.”

“Sunny?” I said, dumbstruck. “But she's—”

“No!” she burst out, furious. “Maureen. The mother!”

“Sunny's
mother?
” Way too bizarre, I thought, then recalled his comments, his wistful eyes when he spoke of her. Oh, shit. Sunny's mother.

“This time I'm not going to take it.”

“She's the mother of a victim in a big case years ago,” I said lamely.

“Tell me about it. The Chance case almost cost me my marriage. It would have, if she'd left her husband. My kids were little; it was the hardest time of my life. Now—when he's finally got decent hours so we can spend time together, with the kids just about grown, the house nearly paid off—now, he's started all over again. And I,” she said, tapping her index finger on my desk to emphasize each word, “will not sit still this time.”

“Are you positive?” I asked gently. “He worked so hard on that investigation, spent so many hours. I've seen the files, they're huge. It was a really high-profile high-pressure case.”

“He's not coming home,” she said, voice rising. A few heads turned our way. “He's drinking. It's the same pattern. He's back on the goddamn case and he's seeing her again. I can tell. I'm not stupid. Everything was fine between us, better than in years. And now it's all started up again.”

“But he speaks so fondly of you, his family, even
your dog. A sheepdog, right?” I said. “I never thought—”

“Craig's no skirt chaser. He never ran around. The first and only time he ever cheated was with her. It was serious. He never got over it. She's always in his head, like some white noise that never stops. I knew it. I was stupid to stay. But we had the kids.”

I shook my head in denial. “I've always thought of him as a good family man.”

“That's the hell of it,” she said, voice brittle. “He was! Then he meets her, a beautiful model who needs comforting, married to a rich, very busy doctor. Craig was never a drinker before her either. He obsessed so about that case because it was her child and he wanted to impress her.”

“I don't know how I can help you,” I said helplessly. “Why come here?”

Her face was dark, flushed. “It was you who got him involved in the case again. Since this somehow started with you, I assumed you knew. Well, this time I'm no naive, heartsick young wife with babies. I'm middle-aged, pissed off, and mad as hell. I'll be damned if he's going to toss me aside like a used-up tissue, not now. I don't care what happens. My life isn't worth shit anyway.”

“You may be overreacting,” I suggested. “His obsession was probably frustration at not solving the case.”

“Or the frustration of waking up with me every morning and not her.”

“I'm sorry. This must be difficult.”

“Damn straight.” She put her sunglasses back on
and stood up abruptly. “But I can and will make life a damn sight more difficult for a lot of people. Count on it. You can take it to the bank.”

She strode out of the newsroom, her squared shoulders and rigid body language radiating her anger.

My immediate reaction was to delete from my story a reference to Burch as a family man. Would he still be married by the time it was published? Would he even be alive? The magazine had a two-week lead time. How awkward if she wasted him with his own weapon the week before the story landed on subscribers' lawns. I thought bleakly of Heather Chance and her lost marriage. How did this happen to people who love each other? Could it happen to McDonald and me?

Not yet anyway, I decided a short time later, when a dozen red roses were delivered to my desk. His card said
I love you. Run away with me
.

 

Burch eventually responded to my beep.

“Where are you?”

“At the crime lab,” he said.

“Go home,” I said. “Now. Take flowers—roses would be good, red ones. Talk nice and leave your gun in the car. Your wife is really pissed off.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She just left here.”

“Connie? Oh, shit. Goddammit. Sorry, Britt. What the hell is it with that woman?”

“Jealousy. Worst of all,” I said, “it's not of me. Nearly laughed in my face when I assumed it was. Does this mean you don't find me attractive?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“What's the story with you and Sunny's mother?”

He sighed. “Tell you about it one of these days, when we have enough time. Right now I got me enough grief without Connie losing it and running her mouth.”

“What's wrong?”

“The gun,” he said. “It's not a match. Ballistics says it's not the murder weapon.”

“Impossible! Has it been altered? The barrel changed?”

“Not that they can see. We were so sure,” he said, voice thin. “There hadda be another gun, or we're barking up the wrong tree.”

Who else had used those words today? The Reverend Wright. I remembered his face in Sunny's nightmarish work of art.

“No way,” I said. “Sunny might have seen the Reverend on TV, or his picture in the newspaper, but she sure as hell never moved in the same circles as Coney or saw his scars close up any other time but that night.”

“We've got no proof,” he said, “and a suspect who's a pillar of the community, with strong support on the street. That ain't gonna sit well with the brass. Wright worked with the mayor and the safe streets team during the last disturbance, cooled it down before the situation blew up into a full-blown riot.”

Stone, he said, was reinvestigating other Miami Shores burglaries that week. A long shot at best.

He hung up. The news was a crushing blow after the triumph of successfully tracing the gun from hand to hand through Miami's byzantine underworld and criminal justice system.

As I sat, still holding the phone in shock and disbelief, a shadow fell across my desk. Morganstern, the
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editor, hair disheveled, his vest rumpled. “How's the story coming?” he asked casually.