The Ice Maiden (15 page)

I called Burch about Cubby Wells and Parvin Stokes, street name Stony, first thing in the morning.

“Wells is the weakest link,” I said. “Not a stone-cold con like Mad Dog or Coney, never was. He reformed, got an education, and tried to atone. Too late, unfortunately. Squeeze him. I bet he'll crack.

“Also, I think Mad Dog's sister might spill something. I'll try to talk to her at the funeral today. How did Nazario and Sunny hit it off?”

“So far so good. Says he has to talk to her again,” Burch said. “Didn't wanna push it till he had both feet in the door. I think he'd like to get more than that in the door. You should hear 'im. ‘She's so talented, so smart, so noble.' Like he never saw a broad before.

“Said he never woulda recognized 'er from your de
scription. Guess it's all in the eye of the beholder. But so far, Pete said he's taking it slow.”

 

One eye on the clock, I transcribed notes into my laptop while nibbling
tostada
and sipping coffee. Funeral services were at ten. I quit at nine-fifteen, donned a suitably subdued navy blazer, then scooped up my ringing phone as I fed Bitsy.

“Hey, sweets.”

Fitzgerald's voice startled me.

“Heads up,” he said cheerfully. “The depo was rescheduled. I'm at the Golden Glades Interchange, 'bout twenty minutes away.”

Panic washed over me. Was this Tuesday? It was. Oh, no! I'd totally forgotten.

“You there?”

“Sure,” I said weakly. “You made good time.”

“Hit the road before daylight. Should be rolling up to your place shortly.”

“Okay.” I said. “Don't rush. Drive safely.”

Stifling the urge to make a run for it, I scrambled around my apartment instead, straightening up, stashing files and stacks of newspapers under the bed, and trying to remember. Had I promised to cook the man a gourmet dinner? It all seemed so long ago. The few food items in my freezer were unrecognizable, wearing frost beards. My mind raced.

The
News
food editor insists that anyone can whip up a quick gourmet meal using only the basic staples found in any kitchen. My only staples were cat food, dog chow, and half a bottle of Jack Daniel's Black. I
suddenly wanted a quick swig. It was nine twenty-five in the morning, for God's sake.

The doorbell rang as I brushed on blusher. The man must have driven like Dale Earnhardt.

There was Dennis Fitzgerald, on my doorstep. Light-haired and muscular, clear gray eyes, and an all-American smile. Warm, intelligent, a sexy man, a good man, but not the man I wanted.

We hugged, but I neatly evaded the big smooch.

He noticed my jacket. “What's on the agenda?” he asked. “A surprise?”

“Well,” I said. “There
is
something I thought we could do together, unless you had other plans.”

“I was hoping we'd lock the door, take the phone off the hook, and pull up the drawbridge. But,” he said, strong arms encircling my waist, “I'm up for anything you've got in mind. God knows, Britt, you're never boring. I just like to be with you.”

“Good,” I said.

 

“I must admit, I've had more romantic dates,” Fitzgerald confided, as we joined the slow-moving procession to the cemetery.

“Sorry,” I said. “I tried to talk them into keeping him on ice, but the family was hellbent on burying this guy.”

My last trip to that particular cemetery had been to cover the latest grave robbery. Miami members of the Santería cult use human skulls and leg bones in their rituals. Guess where some go to find them? Willie Sutton, the legendary Babe Ruth of bank robbers, report
edly said that he robbed banks “because that's where the money is.” Same premise.

Santería's magic number is seven, for the seven African deities. The woman who lost her skull on that occasion had not a prayer of resting in peace. Her not-so-final resting place was the seventh gravesite in the cemetery's seventh row, beneath a headstone with an inscription stating she died at age seventy in 1977.

“Even the dead aren't safe in Miami!” her horrified granddaughter had wailed.

Cemetery security appeared to have been beefed up since then, however. There was not a decapitated chicken, disturbed grave, or dead goat in sight.

Ida Sweeting wept inconsolably as church choir members sang “I'll Fly Away” at the graveside. Cubby and Abby Wells were conspicuous by their absence. The Reverend Earl Wright and his black-shirted contingent were a presence but left their protest signs at the gate. As he detailed his outrage in front of the television cameras, I spotted Shelby Fountain along with her cousin Stony and a man I assumed was her husband. She and I exchanged glances but had no opportunity to speak.

 

“Who's your friend?” Fitzgerald murmured, nudging my arm.

Shelby's cousin Stony had focused an angry narrow-eyed glare on me during the minister's reading of the Twenty-third Psalm. He was tall and muscular with short wiry hair, a military bearing, and a gold earring dangling from one ear.

As he and Andre's family members scattered hand
fuls of dirt onto the casket being lowered into the ground, my thoughts were irreverent. One down, I thought. Four to go.

Lottie, shooting pictures from a distance, gave me a thumbs-up when she spotted Fitzgerald. She sidled over to me when he went for the car.

“You didn't tell me you had a date for this shindig,” she said.

“I forgot. He showed up, and I don't know what to do with him.”

“You need instructions? That man is hot.”

“That's why I don't want to be alone with him,” I said. “I just can't.”

“Great guns and little fishes! Have you been smoking loco weed?”

“Thank you for your sisterly support,” I said.

 

Fitzgerald drove while I used my laptop and put together a brief story on the funeral for the city desk.

Lunch was romantic, in an elevated flower-filled gazebo in an oceanside garden at a beachfront hotel. The sounds of the sea, the exotic shadows of palm fronds, and drifting clouds in an azure sky were the perfect backdrop for champagne, cold shrimp, and ripe pears poached in honey and showered with shaved almonds.

He nuzzled my neck while I filled him in about the case, the story, and Sunny herself. As I did, it occurred to me that, like her, I avoided reality by talking only about work. At least Sunny had valid reasons for being screwed up. But Fitzgerald was a good sport.

“What's next on the agenda?” he whispered seduc
tively, as we strolled the beach hand in hand, the surf swelling at the edge of a silver and turquoise sea.

He looked expectant.

“Well,” I said, champagne and honey still on my lips, “you know what a movie buff I am. My heart beats a little faster every time I walk into a theater lobby and smell the popcorn, but I rarely get to movies because of my hours.”

He blinked.

I took him to the Gay and Lesbian Film Festival under way at the Alliance. He quit holding my hand about halfway through. He looked thoughtful as we left, brow furrowed. “You trying to tell me something, Britt?”

“No,” I said innocently, and checked my watch. “I just heard it was a good flick. You know, they're showing
Rebecca,
an old Hitchcock flick, in Little Havana. We can make it if we leave right now.”

After
Rebecca,
I enthused about the new enhanced uncut reissue of
Godfather II
at a nearby multiplex. It was dark by the time we staggered out of that theater.

“What now?” he said quietly. “There must be a midnight screening somewhere of a movie you've only seen three or four times.”

“No,” I said. “In fact, I think we've overdone it. I've got a splitting headache. I'd rather just go home.”

He studied me for a long moment, then drove me back to my apartment. He parked outside and we sat for a moment in the dark.

“What's the deal with all the mixed signals, Britt? You've done everything you could all day to avoid being alone with me. Is this a game? I don't get it.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I really do have a headache.”

“Who wouldn't after a triple feature? Hate to tell you this, but I really couldn't stand the one with the subtitles. And if I smell popcorn one more time, I'll puke.” He paused. “You forgot about us, didn't you?”

The question hung, unanswered, between us. He gave up waiting for a reply. “You call me in the middle of the night and then forget our date. I don't think you're on drugs, you're not a drinker, and you never struck me as a tease. But why encourage me to drive hundreds of miles and then avoid me? What's the story?”

“It's me,” I said, in a guilty whisper. “I just got really wrapped up in what I'm working on….”

“Don't we all?” He sighed and gently ran his thumb along my jawline. “It's that other guy, isn't it?”

“I'm hopeless. Neurotic,” I said.

“Woulda been nice to know that before I drove all the way down here. I better hit the road. It's a long haul back.”

I was surprised he even bothered to walk me to the door. I opened it and he turned to leave, Bitsy bouncing around his feet.

“You should have a cup of coffee before you go,” I said. “I'll make some.”

He hesitated, eyes suspicious. “Sure.”

He sat at my table watching me savagely grind the coffee beans at high speed.

“I didn't mean to jerk you around,” I said miserably. “I've always been lousy at relationships.” I dumped in the water, steam rising. “Everybody has emotional conflicts at times.”

“That's the problem with women,” he said, “especially you Catholic girls. You think too much. Make everything too complicated. With all that's happened lately, Britt, you must realize that so much of what used to be important really isn't. Life is too short. The world is a dangerous and complicated place. Sex should be simple. This is not about relationships or emotional decisions. It's about biology, two healthy hot-blooded people who are attracted to each other. You, me, raw sex.”

“That's supposed to make me feel better?” I couldn't help laughing.

He shrugged and opened his arms, expression hopeful. Still laughing, I straddled his chair, sat on his thighs, and hugged him. Only a hug, I thought. Then a kiss. Only one, then another, and several more. Then he was unbuttoning my blouse, I was unbuckling his belt, and soon there was no room in the chair.

 

“Thanks,” I murmured later as we drowsed in my bed, the hypnotic blades of the ceiling fan cooling our overheated bodies from above.

“For what?” He nuzzled the hollow of my throat.

“My headache's gone.”

“Just call me Doc. I wonder if it was the oral medication or the physical therapy?”

“You know, Doc, I think I feel another twinge, right here.” I pointed to the spot.

He worked warm lips against my skin. “Hmmmm,” he murmured. “Looks like time for more therapy, but first I'll have to perform another physical examination. Hmmmm. What have we here?”

 

We sent out for food at 4
A.M.
There is something to be said for a city that never sleeps. Our order arrived in twenty minutes, smelling heavenly, pasta drenched in tangy meat sauce and warm crispy garlic rolls oozing olive oil.

We ate in bed, fed each other, then got frisky with a cardboard shaker of fresh grated parmesan and romano cheeses.

My expectations were exceeded.

 

I tossed the bedclothes into the washer and drove off to see the parents of murder victim Ricky Chance. Fitzgerald was gone, back to Daytona for an afternoon court hearing in an old case. I hated seeing him go; I was relieved to see him go. I had so much to do.

The Chances' number, from an old phone message in Burch's files, was still good, listed at the same address in Heather Chance's name.

I could have called first, but people tend to resist revisiting old tragedies, reopening old wounds. Sometimes it's easier simply to show up. The address was a garden apartment in Aventura, a North Dade municipality of relatively new water-view high-rise condos and apartments.

Heather Chance answered the door. An attractive well-tailored brunette, she had a crisp polished veener. The set of her shoulders, the angle of her chin, her confident smile, all projected an image, someone who gets things done, a professional, a woman who has kicked her way through the glass ceiling. A teacher, as I recalled. A leather briefcase sat on a gilt-edged Louis
XIV table in the foyer. Perhaps I'd caught them both at home.

“I'd like to talk to you about your son, Richard,” I said, introducing myself. “I'm writing a story about the Cold Case Squad, detectives who have taken on the investigation.”

Her hands flew to her throat, eyes flooding. She had morphed instantly from polished professional into heartbroken mother.

“Ricky's case? You want to know about Ricky?”

“Do you have a moment?”

“Of course.” She swung open the door. “Please, come in.”

Something about the apartment's warm and inviting decor seemed oddly off-key, but I couldn't place what it was. Ricky's framed photo was prominent on the mantel, and one wall was adorned with an artist's montage of pastel drawings of him in sports scenes, apparently sketched from photos. No sign or sound of Sean Chance, who'd probably already left for his office.

Motioning me to a cushiony indigo sofa, Heather perched on the edge of a floral-patterned armchair, her pose almost girlish, eager and expectant. She had to be in her early fifties and, though immaculately groomed, she looked every day of it. “It's such good news to hear they're working on it again. Do you think they might actually make some headway this time? It's been so long.”

“It's possible,” I said cautiously. “They're following some new leads. Sergeant Burch is still in charge.”