eat off the floor. Most seniors, especially the
women, focus more on the living room once they're frail. They like to
keep that nice, in case company comes."
"True." Nazario nodded. "You see that on so many DOA scenes."
"He might even have cooked a meal. In the last several cases, where
the garbage hadn't been collected yet, there were fresh eggshells."
Riley looked impressed. "So, in addition to wiping down whatever he
touches, he may cook and clean house?"
"Looks possible."
"When you find him, bring him over to my place before you book him,"
she said. "My terrazzo floors are a bitch to polish."
"Sure," Burch said, "but the deal is, he has to kill you first."
"Nice try, but I'm not his type. Not on Medicare yet. Good work. But
make Terrell top priority," she added, "until we know what we have
there."
"But if this guy is repeating his pattern," Stone protested, "he
might be back. He could be in Miami now."
"Pure speculation on your part. Humor me," Riley said.
Nazario left with Stone, still smoldering but silent.
Burch remained seated.
"How's it going on the home front?" Riley asked.
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "It's not, at the moment."
"Too bad. Guess it's an occupational hazard." She tried to muster up
an encouraging smile but failed. "Hope you work it out."
"Me, too. You okay?"
"Sure."
"Through with that?"
She gave him the Terrell file without meeting his eyes.
* * *
The temperature was ninety-six degrees as Nazario gingerly lifted
the hood of Burch's Chevy Blazer. "Well, there's your problem, Sarge."
"What the hell is that shit?"
The aroma from a gooey, molten mass atop the engine made them step
back.
"I'd say Limburger." Nazario crossed his arms. "Sarge," he said
after a long pause, "it's none of my business, but you gotta make
things right with the little woman."
* * *
The new city directory listed the Walkers, who first called 911 in
the Terrell case, still at the same address on Mariposa Lane. A
surprise in Miami, where the wandering population moves on the average
of once every three years.
Nazario squinted across shaded Mariposa Lane at a towering behemoth
of a house painted in the latest decorator color, a distressed mustard
yellow. "That's gotta be the Terrell house, but it doesn't look right."
Burch agreed. "It's nothing like the crime scene photos. Where the
hell's the garage? Should be right there, where those two thick columns
are. Sure we got the right address?"
"Probably remodeled after the fire," Stone said.
They rang the Walkers' bell. A yapping Jack Russell terrier bounced
as though on a trampoline around the feet of the fortyish woman who
answered the door. Of course she remembered that day.
"Who could forget it?" she said cheerfully, and let them in. She
expertly caught the Jack Russell on a particularly high bounce and
tucked him under her arm. "I'll call my husband."
She pressed a button on a wall-mounted intercom. "I told you I was
busy, I have to finish this today," an edgy voice responded.
"But the police are here, sweetheart. Detectives."
She flipped off the switch and smiled at the detectives. "Betcha
that got his attention."
It did. Stan Walker bounded into the room moments later. He'd been
working on an annual report from his home office at the back of the
house, he said.
"Detectives?" He looked concerned. "What's wrong? Where are the
kids?"
"Fine. Vanessa is at Gillian's. I think Ryan's in his room."
Burch explained.
"Is that the Terrell house across the street?" Nazario asked. "It
doesn't look the same."
"Don't get us started on that," Stan said in disgust. "Just look at
that eyesore."
"Natasha had the place repaired after the fire," Joan said. "But I
don't think she ever spent another night there. Who could blame her?
She—"
"—rented it out," Stan said. "It wasn't so bad at first. A young
couple, good tenants. They took care of the place, but then he got
transferred back to—"
"—California, I think," Joan said. "It was an absolute
women, focus more on the living room once they're frail. They like to
keep that nice, in case company comes."
"True." Nazario nodded. "You see that on so many DOA scenes."
"He might even have cooked a meal. In the last several cases, where
the garbage hadn't been collected yet, there were fresh eggshells."
Riley looked impressed. "So, in addition to wiping down whatever he
touches, he may cook and clean house?"
"Looks possible."
"When you find him, bring him over to my place before you book him,"
she said. "My terrazzo floors are a bitch to polish."
"Sure," Burch said, "but the deal is, he has to kill you first."
"Nice try, but I'm not his type. Not on Medicare yet. Good work. But
make Terrell top priority," she added, "until we know what we have
there."
"But if this guy is repeating his pattern," Stone protested, "he
might be back. He could be in Miami now."
"Pure speculation on your part. Humor me," Riley said.
Nazario left with Stone, still smoldering but silent.
Burch remained seated.
"How's it going on the home front?" Riley asked.
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "It's not, at the moment."
"Too bad. Guess it's an occupational hazard." She tried to muster up
an encouraging smile but failed. "Hope you work it out."
"Me, too. You okay?"
"Sure."
"Through with that?"
She gave him the Terrell file without meeting his eyes.
* * *
The temperature was ninety-six degrees as Nazario gingerly lifted
the hood of Burch's Chevy Blazer. "Well, there's your problem, Sarge."
"What the hell is that shit?"
The aroma from a gooey, molten mass atop the engine made them step
back.
"I'd say Limburger." Nazario crossed his arms. "Sarge," he said
after a long pause, "it's none of my business, but you gotta make
things right with the little woman."
* * *
The new city directory listed the Walkers, who first called 911 in
the Terrell case, still at the same address on Mariposa Lane. A
surprise in Miami, where the wandering population moves on the average
of once every three years.
Nazario squinted across shaded Mariposa Lane at a towering behemoth
of a house painted in the latest decorator color, a distressed mustard
yellow. "That's gotta be the Terrell house, but it doesn't look right."
Burch agreed. "It's nothing like the crime scene photos. Where the
hell's the garage? Should be right there, where those two thick columns
are. Sure we got the right address?"
"Probably remodeled after the fire," Stone said.
They rang the Walkers' bell. A yapping Jack Russell terrier bounced
as though on a trampoline around the feet of the fortyish woman who
answered the door. Of course she remembered that day.
"Who could forget it?" she said cheerfully, and let them in. She
expertly caught the Jack Russell on a particularly high bounce and
tucked him under her arm. "I'll call my husband."
She pressed a button on a wall-mounted intercom. "I told you I was
busy, I have to finish this today," an edgy voice responded.
"But the police are here, sweetheart. Detectives."
She flipped off the switch and smiled at the detectives. "Betcha
that got his attention."
It did. Stan Walker bounded into the room moments later. He'd been
working on an annual report from his home office at the back of the
house, he said.
"Detectives?" He looked concerned. "What's wrong? Where are the
kids?"
"Fine. Vanessa is at Gillian's. I think Ryan's in his room."
Burch explained.
"Is that the Terrell house across the street?" Nazario asked. "It
doesn't look the same."
"Don't get us started on that," Stan said in disgust. "Just look at
that eyesore."
"Natasha had the place repaired after the fire," Joan said. "But I
don't think she ever spent another night there. Who could blame her?
She—"
"—rented it out," Stan said. "It wasn't so bad at first. A young
couple, good tenants. They took care of the place, but then he got
transferred back to—"
"—California, I think," Joan said. "It was an absolute
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