The Ice Maiden (18 page)

“Because they're heavily armed?” she asked wryly.

We both laughed.

“You know,” she said, gazing out toward the dining room and the headlights streaming past the big one-way picture windows, “one thing that always bothered me was that Ricky and I had Christmas gifts for each other, just little tokens. He wanted to open them before we went to the boat parade. I insisted we wait until later. I'll always regret that I never got to give him his present.”

“What was it?”

She shrugged. “A book,
Leaves of Grass
by Walt Whitman. It had a bookmark, a note Ricky had sent me in sixth grade. I had it laminated. Silly, isn't it,” she said, “how little things stay with you?”

“No, not silly at all. I guess the moral is
carpe diem,
seize the moment. Never let it get away. My friend Lottie, the photographer, always says that. I hear you two have met. The pictures are great, by the way. But now I wonder if you should reconsider having your name and picture in the newspaper.”

“No,” she said quickly. “I thought about it, Britt. The gallery owner says it's a rare and golden opportunity for my work to be recognized. The opening is this week. I've worked so hard for so long. She said it would be professional suicide not to cooperate with an art critic who's eager to praise my work.”

Made sense to me.

Outside, as I unlocked the T-Bird, a car passed slowly. I turned to look. One taillight was out, but I couldn't see the tag number, make, or model. Did that same car drive by slowly as I was saying good night to Sunny a few minutes ago? It's surely not the only car with a burned-out taillight, I thought.

Still, I called the squad as I pulled into traffic.

Nazario answered.

“Just the guy I need to talk to.”

“I've been thinking about you too,
chica.
I know you were being truthful when you first described Sunny to me. What I don't understand is how you could see her like that.”

“Well, I've been wondering about you too,
amigo
. That manatee story? Was that rescue mission to Jamaica for real or did you make it up?”

“Every word, I swear, is true.” He sounded offended.
“Te lo juro por mi madre.”

“You're impressive, Pete. Now please tell me you've been playing bodyguard, protecting Sunny by lurking in her lobby smoking cigarettes and leaving burned-out matches.”

“
¿Qué?
What are you talking about?”

“I was afraid you'd say that.”

His immediate reaction was to want to race right over there.

“Wait,” I said. “She likes you. But you can't be macho, aggressive, and try to sweep her off her feet. No chest pounding. No Tarzan yells.” I sighed. “There's something you should know….”

I felt numb and powerless when I got home, as though shadowed by a sense of inevitable disaster. Was it Mad Dog's soulless stare? Sunny alone in that cavernous place with only a flaky upstairs neighbor for protection? Ryan in his hospital bed? Or was I simply overcome by the great depressed, stressed-out, and anxiety-ridden American malaise? Even the wind stirring in the Christmas palms breathed ominous murmurs. The hibiscus bushes, bright by day with their sweet and sunny open-faced blooms, swayed menacingly in the shadows, perfect cover for evildoers.

What if all this was not my imagination? My Aunt Odalys insists that I was born with a gift—or curse—
tengo un presentimiento,
the sixth sense that leads me into predestined paths. I believe her at times, when something or someone, spiritual or supernatural, per
haps my father, helps guide me through the minefields surrounding the truth. But my rational self knows that truth is a moving target found only through hard work, persistence, and rare strokes of luck.

Even Bitsy appeared overwrought and agitated, and Billy Boots had emptied a high shelf of books, now strewn across the carpet like the work of a mischievous poltergeist. He had also clawed Darryl's latest finger painting off the magnet mounts on my refrigerator door.

“Why were you fighting?” I demanded, picking up books. “What's been going on here?”

But dog and cat kept their secrets.

Lacking appetite, I sipped some soup and a glass of wine as I prepared for bed. A question nagged until I put down my toothbrush to call the squad, hoping to catch Nazario again.

Burch answered.

“What are you doing there so late?”

“You're starting to sound like my wife,” he said glumly. “Stone had Miami Shores dig their old burglary reports out of the warehouse. Showed three guns stolen that week. One from a liquor store, two from private homes. One fits the description.

“Belonged to a judge. Bought it for his wife to use for home protection. They took visiting grandkids up to Disney World for a coupla days before Christmas. The house was ransacked while they were gone. Thief took the gun, cash, jewelry, and a VCR. No prints at the scene. The pawn-shop detail recovered a wristwatch. No sign of the gun. Stone's running the serial number to see if it ever resurfaced.

“I'm rereading the case files now. Trying to match up the cross-references of all the witnesses, suspects, people we interviewed, to see if any name we have now ever appeared then. I don't want to miss anything this time.”

“I have a question,” I said, curling up in my favorite chair. “Do the killers know Sunny's name? The
News
never published it, but did it appear anywhere else in the media, in any court proceedings or public venues? Did the kidnappers take her ID that night? Did she even have one? Sixteen years old, on a family outing, maybe she didn't even carry ID.”

He cursed when I told him why I asked. “She shoulda called.”

“She reported it to the Beach cops. She's okay. The prowler incident seems to spook me more than it does her.”

“A tough kid, always was,” he muttered. I heard him shuffling papers. “Her name was never reported anywhere, far as I know. But you know how news travels, same way you always find out things you're not supposed to know. People at the hospital knew who she was; so did her neighbors, her relatives. The nine hundred kids in their high school hadda know she was the girl with Ricky Lee Chance when he was killed. Her dad's a prominent doctor; I'm sure his patients, employees, and associates all knew the injured girl in the case was his daughter. Then there's the boy's family. People talk.

“Here,” he finally said, “I've got it. Asked in my initial interview. She was fuzzy then, didn't remember if
her wallet and student ID card were in the little purse she carried that night. Probably were, cuz we didn't find them when we checked the house, her room, or her school locker.

“Never found her purse or Ricky's wallet. He had it when he paid for the ice cream.”

“Serial-killer types like souvenirs,” I said, thinking aloud. “But these guys probably just took out the money and tossed them, like most two-bit thieves afraid of being caught with the goods.”

He sighed. “We searched every inch of roadside, every garbage can, every Dumpster.”

“If they threw them in the water somewhere, the rain that night must have swept them away. I'll try to reach the witness who saw them with the gun later. Maybe she also saw some of the victims' belongings. I just want some assurance that none of the suspects are looking her up now. God, that would be awful.”

“Damn straight. But guys like them probably didn't care what her name was as long as they got what they wanted. It's not like she had checks or credit cards they could use.”

“What about the car Ricky drove?” I said. “It belonged to her dad and probably had papers with the owner's name in the glove compartment. Were the suspects ever inside it?”

“Not that we know. We processed it, found nothing. 'Course the outside got rained on before we found it. The only interior prints we came up with belonged to Ricky, Sunny, and her family. Nothing missing from the car. No evidence of a struggle.”

“Wonder why they didn't take it?” I said idly. “Never knew a teenage jitterbug who'd miss the chance to steal a car. What was it?”

“Five-year-old silver Volvo, nothing flashy. It was Maureen's ride, the mother's. Her husband took the
Sunshine Princess
up to the parade staging area earlier, then caught a ride back. They used the Volvo that night because it was roomy. Maybe the killers didn't see it. They saw what they wanted, and it wasn't a car.”

Sunny, I thought, with a chill.

“To them she was probably just another victim,” he said. “If they ever knew her name, they probably forgot it.”

“But what if they always knew it and just never had a reason to look her up before now? Her picture, big and in color, will be in Sunday's paper.” I told him about the story of the gallery opening and how important it was to her. “She can't hide,” I said. “It wouldn't be fair to expect her to.”

He agreed. “Those scumbags probably don't read the
News,
and if they do I'm betting it's not the section on art.”

I hoped he was right.

 

The uneasiness invaded my sleep. This time the dark cloud billowing behind the woman in the blue sweater was populated by stone figures alive and menacing. Trying to warn her, I could not make her listen. She could not, would not, hear me.

Billy Boots hurtled off the bed when the phone
rang. It seemed to be part of my troubled dream. But by the third ring, I was awake and dazed.

“Britt.” The voice sounded terrified. “Sorry to bother you this late, but I'm scared. I don't know what—”

“It's all right, Sunny,” I mumbled, legs already off the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor. The glowing numbers on my bedside clock read 3:46
A.M.

“Britt, Britt, wake up! It's Onnie. Britt?”

“Oh, right. Onnie. I was dreaming. What's wrong?”

“Edgar. He's been calling and calling. He's threatening to take Darryl.”

Edgar, her abusive ex-husband, was in state prison, serving a long term for assaulting a police officer.

“There's call waiting,” she whispered, at a series of persistent clicks. “It's him again.”

“They let him make threatening calls from prison in the middle of the night?”

“No, he's out! Here! In Miami! Why do you think I'm so upset?”

“Did he escape?” I pulled on a cotton robe and licked my dry lips.

“No. They released him.”

“How could they? That's impossible.”

“I saw him, Britt.” Her voice rang with desperation. “He was here! I called the police. I was so grateful when they came. But they checked him out and let him go! They said he's legally free. There's nothing they can do.”

A family court judge had terminated Edgar's parental rights. Onnie had divorced him, moved, left no forwarding address, and had a new unlisted telephone number. “How the heck did he find you?”

“Had to be his family.” Choked up, she stumbled over the words. “His mother, his sister. They begged to see Darryl, said he shouldn't be deprived of the grandmother who loved him. She swore on the Bible she'd never tell Edgar where we were. It had to be her.”

“Where is he now? Have you seen him since the police left?”

“No,” she said, “but he's called three times. Even madder because I called the police. He was already furious about the divorce. He says we're still married, he wants his son—”

“Damn! Why do these things always happen at night when you can't call a judge and find out what the hell's going on?”

“I'm scared, Britt. He's going to do something terrible.”

“Okay.” I brushed my hair out of my face, beginning to think clearly. “Grab a few things, just toothbrushes and a change of clothes, and come here. You and Darryl can stay with me until we straighten this out. Bring your cell phone and if you even see him anywhere along the way, dial 911.”

“Thanks, Britt, but I don't know. It's almost four already. Darryl's finally asleep. I hate to wake him up to run away like thieves in the night. I can't let Edgar drive us out of our home.”

“Want me to come there?” I padded into the kitchen and began making coffee. “I can be there in twenty.”

“Seeing you could make Edgar worse,” she said uncertainly. “He blames you for helping me. You know what he's like.”

“It'll be okay.” I tried to sound confident. “If he's threatened you, we'll talk to his parole officer in the morning. They'll slam his bad ass back behind bars so fast his teeth will rattle.”

“Think so?”

“Know so. Look, don't worry. If you feel secure in your apartment, maybe it
is
better just to batten down the hatches and sit tight instead of driving over here in the dark with him on the loose.”

“I knew my life was too good to last.” She groaned. “It's been so wonderful without him.”

There was no going back to sleep.

 

At 7:30
A.M.
, Mommy-mobiles, school buses, and occasional dads were dropping the kiddies off at Banyan Elementary. Youngsters played and ran, shouted and laughed, lugged school books and lunches. Mothers were rushing after youngsters who'd forgotten their homework, snatching quick kisses on the run.

I watched morosely. Once you share a child with someone, I thought, you are irrevocably tied to that person forever, no matter what, for better or worse.

I spotted Shelby. Her little girl wore a tiny blue scarf and clung obediently to her mother's hand. She loosened up, tried to let go when she saw her friends. But Shelby walked her right to the door, then watched until the child disappeared into the building.

“Hi,” I said, and smiled.

Startled to see me, she scanned the street to see if anyone was watching. “I can't talk to you anymore,” she said quietly.

“All I wanted to ask was—”

She unlocked her car door and slid into the driver's seat.

“Wait a minute,” I said.

Her window half down, she pretended to be giving me directions, pointing somewhere off down the street. She looked scared.

“That night,” I said quickly. “Did you see a wallet or a girl's purse, anything they might have taken from someone?”

She looked terrified. “No.”

She turned the key in the ignition and the car lurched away from the curb.

And I thought she'd begun to like me.

 

I picked up a sack of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and went to Onnie's. She had just returned from taking Darryl to kindergarten and was dressed for the office.

“Think it was safe to send him today?” I asked.

“Routine is important,” she said stubbornly, pouring me a cup of coffee. “Especially to children from broken homes. I spoke to his teacher and the principal.”

I arranged the jelly doughnuts on a plate. She'd also spoken to her lawyer.

He called back as we ate.

She asked questions, took notes, then rejoined me, face drawn.

“There is no parole officer,” she said simply. “He finished his sentence and was simply released.”

“But I thought he still had a minimum of two more years to do.”

“So did I. I counted on it. The lawyer said it's some
sort of new early release program they implemented because of prison overcrowding.”

“This could be a mistake. I'll look into it,” I said. “Meanwhile, if he shows up and threatens you, call the police. He just got out of prison. I'm sure he doesn't want to go back.”

“You know what he's like, Britt.”

“Ask for a restraining order.”

“A piece of paper won't stop a bullet,” she said grimly.

We both knew she was right. I unclipped a small red leather-covered canister from inside my purse flap and handed it to her. “Here, take this for now. It's Sabre Red, the pepper spray the police use. Aim straight for the eyes,” I told her, as she gingerly examined it. “It should drop him right there. Then don't wait around. Later this afternoon we can go out to the Tamiami Range and Gun Shop. Pick out a handgun and I'll teach you how to use it. I saw a nice airweight Smith and Wesson there last week. Then we'll start the paperwork for your concealed weapons permit. The process takes several weeks. You'll have to be fingerprinted—”

“But I'd hate having a gun in the house,” she whispered. “With Darryl.”

“I know, but the cavalry doesn't always arrive in time. In real life, it almost never does. You know that. You have to protect yourself. We all have to be responsible for our own safety. Especially now. It's the American way, Onnie.”

 

I stopped at police headquarters and beat feet up to Homicide, hoping Riley wasn't in yet. Burch's expres
sion as I stepped off the elevator told me I'd miscalculated.