there."
"You check under the hood?" Nazario said.
"Nah, but I pulled the seats out, checked the floorboards. Thought I
musta spilled something from the fast-food joint. Don't know what the
hell it is."
Nazario rolled his eyes. "Uh-oh, you think…"
"Wait till you hear what we've got on Meadows." Stone tore himself
away from the computer monitor. "Crime scene photos from all the cases…"
"Meadows?" Burch lowered his voice. "I thought you two are supposed
to be busy on Terrell, so we can get Riley off our asses."
"We're on it, Sarge," Nazario said.
"Uh-oh," Stone muttered.
Riley stood over her secretary, outside her office door. She wore a
crisp tailored shirt, fitted beige slacks, a matching jacket, and a
frown. "Would you call public works and find out what the hell is going
on in my neighborhood? Ask if there's a boil water order."
"Tap water brown again?" Emma pursed her lips and' reached for her
city phone directory.
"No, pink this time." Riley sighed. "Ran a load of wash this morning
and my sheets and underwear all came out pink."
"What color were they before?" Burch grinned.
"Pale pink or flamingo?" Nazario winked. "Inquiring minds want to
know."
Riley didn't smile back. "Step into my office, and bring the Terrell
file. Is that it? Is this all?" She plucked the folder off Nazario's
desk. "Never mind. I'll look at it myself."
She took it into her office, hung her jacket on the back of her
chair, and settled behind her desk flipping slowly through the contents.
Occasionally she raised her eyes to the framed photo atop the
bookcase next to the door. Two people aboard a boat. Blue sky above,
liquid sky below. She was wearing cut-off shorts, a bathing suit top,
and sunshine in her hair. Laughing as she held up a puny grouper.
Kendall McDonald grinned beside her. He wore a Florida Marlins cap. His
right hand rested on her shoulder. Had she ever really been that happy?
"What?" she snapped, as Emma cracked the door open.
"Public works," she said. "Red dye. They used it in routine tests,
but somehow it seeped into one of the water plants. Three-quarters of a
million households south of Okeechobee Road affected. Not harmful,
according to them."
* * *
Riley looked pale beneath her tan as she waved the detectives into
her office. Burch, with the most rank, took the only chair. Stone and
Nazario slouched against the wall near the door, arms crossed.
"We'll talk to Terrell's widow, the second wife, today and check the
neighborhood for witnesses who still live there," Stone said.
"Good." Riley toyed with a paperweight, a metal replica of a hand
grenade. Her eyes looked red.
"The guys are also making progress in Meadows."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Stone's been all over the crime scene photos." Burch cocked his
head at the lanky black detective.
"Right," Stone said. "The victims were all found in their beds.
Sheets stretched tight at the bottom, precisely folded over. All were
identically made up. The way they teach the military or hospital
workers to make beds."
Burch shrugged. "Maybe the vics were all good housekeepers following
Martha Stewart's rules."
"Stewart wasn't a household word when he started killing, Sarge. And
no senior citizen makes their bed like that. It's damn uncomfortable,
especially for the elderly. Too tight, it cramps up their feet. I used
to visit my grandfather in the hospital. He and his roommate were
always asking me to loosen up the sheets."
"It's also obvious that the guy hung around, felt at home, cleaned
up."
"You mean he washed up, took showers after the murders?" Riley
frowned.
"Maybe that, too. But I mean the scenes, the victims' bedrooms. Spit
and polish, just like the beds. The photos show the rest of the rooms,
except for the kitchens, cluttered, a little messy. Typical of older
folks. They accumulate things over the years, hate to throw anything
out, and no longer have the strength and stamina for heavy-duty
housework."
"And the kitchens?" Riley asked.
"Spotless. You could
"You check under the hood?" Nazario said.
"Nah, but I pulled the seats out, checked the floorboards. Thought I
musta spilled something from the fast-food joint. Don't know what the
hell it is."
Nazario rolled his eyes. "Uh-oh, you think…"
"Wait till you hear what we've got on Meadows." Stone tore himself
away from the computer monitor. "Crime scene photos from all the cases…"
"Meadows?" Burch lowered his voice. "I thought you two are supposed
to be busy on Terrell, so we can get Riley off our asses."
"We're on it, Sarge," Nazario said.
"Uh-oh," Stone muttered.
Riley stood over her secretary, outside her office door. She wore a
crisp tailored shirt, fitted beige slacks, a matching jacket, and a
frown. "Would you call public works and find out what the hell is going
on in my neighborhood? Ask if there's a boil water order."
"Tap water brown again?" Emma pursed her lips and' reached for her
city phone directory.
"No, pink this time." Riley sighed. "Ran a load of wash this morning
and my sheets and underwear all came out pink."
"What color were they before?" Burch grinned.
"Pale pink or flamingo?" Nazario winked. "Inquiring minds want to
know."
Riley didn't smile back. "Step into my office, and bring the Terrell
file. Is that it? Is this all?" She plucked the folder off Nazario's
desk. "Never mind. I'll look at it myself."
She took it into her office, hung her jacket on the back of her
chair, and settled behind her desk flipping slowly through the contents.
Occasionally she raised her eyes to the framed photo atop the
bookcase next to the door. Two people aboard a boat. Blue sky above,
liquid sky below. She was wearing cut-off shorts, a bathing suit top,
and sunshine in her hair. Laughing as she held up a puny grouper.
Kendall McDonald grinned beside her. He wore a Florida Marlins cap. His
right hand rested on her shoulder. Had she ever really been that happy?
"What?" she snapped, as Emma cracked the door open.
"Public works," she said. "Red dye. They used it in routine tests,
but somehow it seeped into one of the water plants. Three-quarters of a
million households south of Okeechobee Road affected. Not harmful,
according to them."
* * *
Riley looked pale beneath her tan as she waved the detectives into
her office. Burch, with the most rank, took the only chair. Stone and
Nazario slouched against the wall near the door, arms crossed.
"We'll talk to Terrell's widow, the second wife, today and check the
neighborhood for witnesses who still live there," Stone said.
"Good." Riley toyed with a paperweight, a metal replica of a hand
grenade. Her eyes looked red.
"The guys are also making progress in Meadows."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Stone's been all over the crime scene photos." Burch cocked his
head at the lanky black detective.
"Right," Stone said. "The victims were all found in their beds.
Sheets stretched tight at the bottom, precisely folded over. All were
identically made up. The way they teach the military or hospital
workers to make beds."
Burch shrugged. "Maybe the vics were all good housekeepers following
Martha Stewart's rules."
"Stewart wasn't a household word when he started killing, Sarge. And
no senior citizen makes their bed like that. It's damn uncomfortable,
especially for the elderly. Too tight, it cramps up their feet. I used
to visit my grandfather in the hospital. He and his roommate were
always asking me to loosen up the sheets."
"It's also obvious that the guy hung around, felt at home, cleaned
up."
"You mean he washed up, took showers after the murders?" Riley
frowned.
"Maybe that, too. But I mean the scenes, the victims' bedrooms. Spit
and polish, just like the beds. The photos show the rest of the rooms,
except for the kitchens, cluttered, a little messy. Typical of older
folks. They accumulate things over the years, hate to throw anything
out, and no longer have the strength and stamina for heavy-duty
housework."
"And the kitchens?" Riley asked.
"Spotless. You could
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