Shadows (21 page)

“Do you want us to come in?” Burch said.

“No, go work the time machine.” There was nothing they could do for Stone at the moment, Riley said. He was uninjured and the gunman had vanished like a puff of smoke.

“Christ. Think it's related to his case?”

“Wouldn't surprise me,” she said. “Something's not kosher in Mississippi. I hate it when other agencies get involved. You don't know who to trust.”

 

Onnie in the
News
library set Burch and Nazario up to view old newspapers on microfilm and showed them how to access stories in the system.

“Fleur didn't come back before I left this morning, a good sign,” Nazario hopefully assured Burch. “She must be out looking for a place or hooking up with a new roommate.”

The two plunged into old news on microfilm. Miami Beach was still a sleepy Southern resort city when Pierce Nolan was murdered. South Beach was populated almost entirely by senior citizens. Arthur Godfrey was broadcasting his radio show from the Kenilworth Hotel in Bal Harbour. The times, though about to change, seemed so innocent. JFK was president and many believed that RFK might succeed him one day. Martin Luther King Jr. was still alive and preaching. The future seemed limitless. Yuri Gagarin had kicked off the traces of gravity and become the first man to venture into space, followed closely by Alan Shepard, the first American, in his
Freedom 7
spacecraft.

Shadows of war hovered on the horizon. Young men were being drafted and sent to Vietnam. The Bay of Pigs invasion had failed that spring and the captured invaders remained Castro's prisoners in Cuba.

Miami housing was cheap, traffic was nil, and the land west of 57th Avenue and north of Flagler Street was sparsely populated and considered to be the swampy fringe of the Everglades.

“Man,” Nazario said. “Look at these ads! In 1961 you could buy a house on the water for thirty thousand bucks.”

During a break for a cup of coffee, Craig Burch used two fingers to idly type the key words
Miami
and
babies
into a computer terminal in the
News
library. The system held stories dating back only as far as 1980, the year the newspaper began using computers. But the response was instantaneous. More than six hundred stories contained the words
Miami
and
babies.

He disregarded those involving medical breakthroughs, then began to scroll through the long list containing the first line or two of each story. Many mentioned an Elizabeth Wentworth.

He leaned back in his chair, sipped his lukewarm coffee, and frowned.

“Elizabeth Wentworth,” he muttered, thinking aloud. “Why do I know her name?”

Without looking up from his viewfinder, Nazario, who was reading a forty-four-year-old newspaper on microfilm, replied: “Homicide victim, that August. The day before Pierce Nolan. Beaten to death, I think. Why?”

“Holy shit,” Burch said.

 

Elizabeth Wentworth, N.D., a licensed naturopath, had had
everything
to do with babies. Early in her career she illegally aborted them. Later she delivered them and arranged their black-market adoptions.

The full scope and breadth of what she did had not become fully known or widely investigated until the early eighties, decades after her death. The story began to surface when young adults who had been born in her clinic and adopted as infants began the trek to Miami, one by one, in search of their birth mothers. Unlike other adoptees, able to legally access their birth and adoption records, they had no luck.

No such records existed. Elizabeth Wentworth had erased their pasts by simply listing the adoptive parents' names on their birth certificates as the natural parents. That left no paper trail, no written history to trace.

Her guarantee of privacy to unwed mothers and adoptive parents was the key to her success. Young unwed mothers didn't want the world to know what was a shameful secret in the fifties and sixties.

Adoptive parents appreciated knowing that there would be no interference from pesky social workers or mothers who might change their minds and demand their babies back.

Word spread like wildfire and Wentworth's practice grew into one of the largest illegal adoption operations in the nation.

Parents from all over the country sent their pregnant teenagers on “vacations” to Miami. The girls later reappeared, suntanned and slim. Childless couples returned home from Miami “vacations” as families, their own names listed on their new babies' birth certificates.

Decades later, a trickle of adoptees in search of their birth parents eventually become a flood. Wentworth, it was learned, had arranged hundreds of black-market, backdoor adoptions.

Frustrated adoptees had even formed a loose-knit support group seeking clues to their origins, but never succeeded despite their relentless search for Dr. Wentworth's records.

Apparently, she kept none.

Scandalous investigative news stories broke in the eighties after the adoptees sought help from the press. Dr. Wentworth had paid Miami police to protect her illegal adoption industry—and even more. Should a new mother at her clinic waver when it came time to give up her baby, police would put her on a bus out of town.

The state license board later decreed that no new naturopaths would be licensed in Florida.

Dr. Wentworth's spotty history of arrests and investigations for performing illegal abortions came years before
Roe versus Wade.
She later converted the second floor of her large home into a shelter for pregnant girls about to give birth. The first floor was her office and clinic.

That was where she was found brutally beaten to death at age thirty-nine. Her secrets died with her.

“This could be it,” Burch said, “if there's a link between her and Nolan.”

“They were about the same age,” Nazario said. “Miami was a small town. They must have known each other.”

Wentworth's obituary said she'd been divorced, that her maiden name was Rahming. She was a Miami High graduate.

So was Pierce Nolan. The
News
library kept a collection of old year-books.

“!Aquí está!”
Nazario said. “Here it is!”

Elizabeth Rahming and Pierce Nolan were two of four hundred students in the same senior class.

Nolan, rugged and handsome, played football. Elizabeth Rahming was a majorette, a baton held high in one photo.

In a page of prom photos, one shot had captured them together amid balloons, streamers, and other dancers.

Pierce Nolan later went off to college and to war, met a beautiful New York socialite, brought her back to Miami as his bride, and raised a family.

Elizabeth Rahming became a naturopath, opened a practice, married, and later divorced, a man named Donald Wentworth.

And in Miami, in August 1961, the boy and girl who danced at the prom together twenty-two years earlier were murdered, just a day apart.

“Did you go out to play after you dropped me off?” Ashton Banks looked puzzled.

“Not exactly,” Stone rubbed reddened eyes. “I stayed here late writing reports.”

She had rented a car, stopped by the U.S. Attorney's office, and conferred again with Miami-Dade prosecutor Jo Salazar.

“I've found a court reporter, somebody really good, to take your grandmother's statement,” she said.

Ash returned to confront him at his desk after being briefed by Riley. The lieutenant, pale and grim, had come in after the shooting and remained the rest of the night, throughout the fruitless search for the gunman.

“Excuse me,” Ash said. “You neglected to mention you were shot at last night.”

“You didn't ask,” Stone said. “No big deal. Nobody got hurt.”

“Does this mean that every day for the rest of our lives I have to ask if you were shot at last night? You complained that Gran is close-mouthed. No mystery who you take after. What do you think?” she asked gravely.

“Could be anything. Gang initiation, mistaken identity, somebody I once arrested paroled and pissed off, or just some wacko with a new high-powered toy and a dislike for cops.”

“You weren't in uniform.” Her big eyes were serious.

“This is Miami.” He shrugged. “The media got a hold of it, but since nobody was hit and it happened after the morning paper went to press, it won't be much of a story and PIO promised not to release my name. Don't mention it to Gran. Okay?”

“'Kay.” She frowned, her voice hesitant. “Your lieutenant thinks it might be related to our investigation. You don't think…”

“You tell me.”

They stared at each other.

“Can your grandmother give her statement today? I planned to take it at the U.S. Attorney's office downtown. But if she'd be more comfortable at home, we can arrange to do it there.”

“I'll ask 'er.” He reached for his phone, which rang before he could pick it up.

He answered and winked at Ashton Brooks.

“It's your buddy Asa Anderson.”

Stone's smile faded as he listened. He motioned for her to pick up an extension.

“Glad I got you both,” Anderson said urgently. “Wanted to give you a heads-up. For safety's sake I assigned a loose surveillance on the suspects. They're gone. All three. Ron John Cooper, Ernest Lee Evans, and his son, Wesley Evans, a police sergeant up here.”

Ashton Banks's eyes widened. “Since when?”

“They were last seen shortly before you took off for Miami. Wes Evans took a vacation week. His dad and Cooper disappeared from home and all their usual haunts about the same time.

“We're trying to track their credit card use. But these guys are cops. The only charge we have so far was when Wes gassed up his vehicle more than forty-eight hours ago. His dad was with him. Told the gas station attendant he was going hunting.

“Watch yourself. They could be on your turf by now.”

“I think they are.” Ash made eye contact with Stone.

“They're here,” Stone said flatly. “Somebody showed up at the station last night, asked for me, then disappeared. A short while later I was shot at from ambush. The desk sergeant is working with a police sketch artist right now.”

 

“I want the suspects' pictures down here now,” Riley said. “Betcha diamonds to doughnuts that one of 'em's a good match for the police sketch we come up with.

“Look, lady,” she told Ash. “There's no doubt in my mind that you people have a serious leak in your office. It's already been responsible for several deaths. Now it's compromised the safety of one of my detectives. If you want us to continue to cooperate with you and your agency, stop sharing information with anyone in your office. And I mean anyone, until the leak is identified and arrested along with the suspects.

“You'd be stupid to go back to your hotel. Check in someplace else, over on the Beach. Blend in with the tourists. Don't tell your office where you're staying.”

She turned to Stone. “Put on a vest, take Corso and a uniform backup with you, and go get your grandmother out of that house.”

“I was just about to suggest that,” Ashton Brooks said.

 

“Jesus, these guys are old men now,” Corso said in the car.

“That doesn't make them any less dangerous,” Ash said, her expression grim. “Men that age don't last long behind bars, especially former cops. Any sentence of significance is a death sentence. They know that.”

“Yeah, but what are the chances they'd really come here? They wouldn't dare come after a cop.”

“What about Glover?” Stone asked.

“What about last night?” Ash said.

“That shooter knew what he was doing. That first round missed me by inches.”

“Shit, now you're spooking me,” Corso said, reluctantly putting on his Kevlar vest.

“Of course, cops know that high-powered, armor-piercing bullets will cut through our vests like butter,” Stone said. “Only cops have legal access to that ammo, and ballistics confirmed an hour ago that that's what the shooter used last night.”

“Thanks for sharing,” Corso said. “Times like this I realize I could a been a fireman, or sold insurance.”

“Or used cars,” Stone said.

“Or time shares,” Ashton Banks said.

Stone did a double take and grinned at her. She'd pegged Corso pretty fast.

“Gran will never leave her house,” he warned. “She's really stubborn. I've been through this with her before.”

“We'll see,” Ash said.

“She's small,” Corso said. “She don't wanna go, we just pick 'er up and carry 'er out. What's she gonna do?”

 

Gran looked perky when she opened the door. It wasn't Sunday but she wore her Sunday best, a white dress with navy blue trim.

“Cold Case Girl!” She beamed. “I thought you'd come by today.”

“Hi, Gran,” Ash said. “We're arranging for a court stenographer to take your statement, but right now we think it's best to relocate you. For everyone's safety, until we pick up the suspects.”

“Relocate?” Gran put down the dish towel she was holding.

“Yes.” Ash flashed her megawatt smile. “Isn't it great? To a nice, comfortable Miami Beach hotel, with a big pool, room service, and a minibar. You won't have to cook, clean, make your own bed, or pick up a thing. It'll be a vacation.”

“But I volunteer at the outreach center every Saturday,” she said. “Somebody has to be there, to stand up to the people who try to stampede into the food bank and grab everything. You have to stop 'em, or there's not enough to go round.”

“They'll appreciate you more when you come back. Besides, we'll have fun. I'm coming with you. In fact, I'll help you pack.”

“Whatever you say,” Gran said docilely.

“Come on, sweetheart.” Ashton put her arm around Gran and they headed for the bedroom. “Where's your bathing suit? You have to bring a bathing suit.” She flashed a sweet smile over her shoulder at Stone, who stood stunned.

“Never think you can understand a woman, no matter how old they are,” Corso said.

 

Ash and Gran sat in the back, Stone and Corso in the front with a shotgun. A marked patrol car trailed behind them.

“I don't think I'll need the minibar,” Gran said as they drove to the Barcelona Hotel on Miami Beach's Collins Avenue. “I don't drink much, just a little glass of cherry cordial at Christmas.”

“You don't have to drink to love a minibar,” Ash said. “They've got juice, bottled water, cheese, chips, cookies, chocolate, every kind of snack. Once, in Portland, Oregon, I stayed at a hotel that had a whole smoked fish in the minibar. Had to be a foot and a half long.”

“You're joking with me.”

“No way, I swear. Wait till you see what we find in ours. Open the door and it's like Christmas morning,” Ash said, her big dark eyes scanning the street as she spoke.

“How much does it cost?”

“That's the beauty of it,” Ash said lightly. “They just add it to the bill, which the Southern District of Mississippi will pay.”

“'Bout time Mississippi paid for somethin',” Gran said.

Stone got them checked into the hotel and promised to meet them at five for an early dinner at a nearby restaurant.

 

Back at the station, he found Asa Anderson had transmitted the suspects' photos, which he had copied to distribute at roll call. A short time later Anderson called with a description of the vehicle the suspects might be driving.

“It's probably a white 2003 Ford F250 pickup. The two older suspects' vehicles are here, haven't been driven in days. Wesley's got three registered. This is what he was last seen driving, the only one we can't locate. It's got a king cab and a topper on the back, fully loaded. Bucket seats in front, a foldaway bench seat in the back. Where's Ash?”

“At her hotel.”

“The Hyatt?”

“We're not saying.”

“Not even to me?” he bellowed indignantly. “The guy who wants to make this case the most?!” He paused, then sighed. “I understand, Detective. Good thinking. At this point, trust no one.

“We've got us an internal investigation under way, trying to find out how the suspects got so much inside information so fast. By the way, who'd you talk to first in this office?”

“Didn't get a name from the original receptionist. Female, sounded young, said she'd been there a year. Didn't recognize your name and couldn't find it on a personnel roster.”

“That would be Gloria.”

“Asked her to connect me to whoever'd worked there the longest. She transferred me to a woman she said had been there about a hundred years but warned me not to say she'd said that.”

“Yep, that's Gloria all right.”

“The woman's name was Mildred.”

“Mildred Johnson.” He paused. “You say why you were calling?”

“I didn't go into detail but gave her my name and where I'm from. She was talkative at first but wouldn't give me your number. I called back and got it from a guy named Warren in Human Resources. Didn't go into specifics with him, either.”

“He's a relatively new hire,” Anderson said thoughtfully. “We're on it.”

 

“Look at this, Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies!” Ash giggled as they explored the minibar. “Let's eat them now.”

“Before dinner?” Gran looked shocked.

“Somebody has to do it to make room in there for your medication. The minibar is the best place to keep it.”

Gran rummaged in her suitcase, opened her purse, then closed it.

“Have you got it?” Ash asked, smile fading.

Gran shook her head. “I took it out and set it on the kitchen counter. Must a forgot to put it in my bag. But that's all right, I can do without it.”

“When are you supposed to take your pills again?”

Gran shrugged. “'Bout three o'clock, I guess.”

“Well, we'll just call your tall, good-looking grandson. He'll have somebody bring it over. If we're lucky,” she whispered, “he'll bring it himself. I wouldn't mind seeing some more of him.”

“Sorry for the trouble.”

“No problem. At all. It's our fault for rushing you out of there so fast. We should have seen to it that we didn't forget anything.”

Stone was at roll call, the secretary said, distributing the suspects' photos to the troops.

“All right,” Ashton said. “Just give me your front-door key. I'll hop in a cab downstairs and run out to your house to get it for you. Let's order tea from room service now and I'll be back in time to drink it with you.”

She insisted it wasn't too much trouble.

 

Traffic was heavier than she'd hoped, but Ash was back in forty-five minutes. “See?” she said cheerfully. “Told you I'd be back in the blink of an eye.”

“Took a little nap while you were gone.” Gran yawned, her eyes shiny. “Dreamed I was floatin' in warm water. I been dreamin' that a lot lately. Think that's what dying is like?”

“I think that's what swimming in the ocean off Miami Beach in August is like. We'll find out before we leave here, I promise.”

They had just enough time to freshen up for dinner. The restaurant was five blocks away and Gran wanted to walk, so they had to leave early.

 

Stone scooped up the ringing phone on his desk. It was a neighbor he'd asked to keep an eye on Gran's place.

“Sammy? Thought you might wanna know. One of those big ol' pickup trucks, a white one I never seen before with fancy wheels. It drove past your granny's house, two, three times, real slow. Then it parked down the street.”