no pen or pencil markings on the map.
"This kind of search doesn't mean much, Hoke," Kossowski said. "When I get it downtown and take it apart, if there's a single grain of horse I'll find it."
"Take it, then. I think Henderson's on to something."
Hoke called the American Hospital and had Henderson paged. He was in the emergency room.
"Bill," Hoke said, "the car, on a perfunctory search here, was clean. I told Kossowski to take it downtown for a vacuum job. There were no packages in the trunk. It might be a good idea for you to twist this woman's arm."
"I've been trying, but all I get is nunca, like it was the only word she knows."
"Find out what her husband and brother were doing in Miami."
"They were on vacation, she said."
"That isn't good enough."
"Martinez told me we should threaten to take her out to Krome to the alien detention camp and turn her over to the INS. She has no papers, and as an illegal alien, a few days living with those Haitian women out there might get her to talking."
"Don't just threaten her. If she won't say anything, take her out there and let the INS have her. Tell them she might harm herself, and they can slap her in solitary for a couple of days."
"As soon as we can get her out of emergency and into a private room, I'll be able to get tougher. There's no problem getting her a room--she's got nine hundred dollars in her purse. The hospital'll be glad to give her a private room until her money runs out."
"Whatever you decide, Bill, it's okay by me. Evans is taking the bodies now, and the forensic crew's almost finished. I'll wait around and seal up the townhouse, and check with the morgue later. Then I'll call you."
Two hours later, Hoke stopped at a restaurant in Kendall Lakes. He had eaten his usual diet breakfast (one poached egg, one slice of dry toast, and coffee) but nothing since. It was almost four-thirty when he looked over the menu of Roseate Spoon Bill of Fare, a popular short-order restaurant in the rambling shopping center. When it came to eating, Hoke had a major problem. He had lost weight the year before, dropping from 205 to 185 pounds, and he wanted to keep it off, but at the same time he was always hungry. He could stick to his diet for two days at most, and then he went overboard on meat and mashed potatoes. With his new teeth, he could chew almost anything.
After a prolonged study of the wide-ranging menu, he decided to compromise. He ordered a Spanish omelet with cottage cheese instead of french fries, a dish of applesauce, and told the waitress to hold the toast.
While he waited, Hoke leafed through his notebook and tried to organize his thoughts. He crossed out the name of Ronald I. France. He could do nothing to help him; the grand jury had decided to prosecute this old man for shooting and killing a twelve-year-old boy who had ripped up his flower bed. The old man was seventy-two years old, and he had cried when Hoke had taken him in for booking. According to the neighbors, he had been a nice old man, but killing a kid for ripping up a flower bed had been too drastic. It didn't help that Mr. France had claimed he only wanted to wound the kid a little with his twelve-gauge shotgun. If that had been the case, why had he loaded the gun with double-aught shells? But Hoke didn't cross out the _address_ of Mr. France. Sides had been taken in the neighborhood, and Mrs. France, also seventy-two, was going to get some harassment.
Marshall Fisher--a DOA--suicide. That was cut-and-dried, but there was going to be an inquest, and he'd have to appear. He made a check mark to watch his in box for a notice on Fisher.
There were three convenience-store killings under investigation, but no leads. Signs were posted in English and Spanish in all the convenience stares, stating that the managers were only allowed to have $35 in the cash register. But the Cuban managers were killed by Cuban gunmen for the $35. American prisons didn't frighten Marielito criminals; after Castro's,
"This kind of search doesn't mean much, Hoke," Kossowski said. "When I get it downtown and take it apart, if there's a single grain of horse I'll find it."
"Take it, then. I think Henderson's on to something."
Hoke called the American Hospital and had Henderson paged. He was in the emergency room.
"Bill," Hoke said, "the car, on a perfunctory search here, was clean. I told Kossowski to take it downtown for a vacuum job. There were no packages in the trunk. It might be a good idea for you to twist this woman's arm."
"I've been trying, but all I get is nunca, like it was the only word she knows."
"Find out what her husband and brother were doing in Miami."
"They were on vacation, she said."
"That isn't good enough."
"Martinez told me we should threaten to take her out to Krome to the alien detention camp and turn her over to the INS. She has no papers, and as an illegal alien, a few days living with those Haitian women out there might get her to talking."
"Don't just threaten her. If she won't say anything, take her out there and let the INS have her. Tell them she might harm herself, and they can slap her in solitary for a couple of days."
"As soon as we can get her out of emergency and into a private room, I'll be able to get tougher. There's no problem getting her a room--she's got nine hundred dollars in her purse. The hospital'll be glad to give her a private room until her money runs out."
"Whatever you decide, Bill, it's okay by me. Evans is taking the bodies now, and the forensic crew's almost finished. I'll wait around and seal up the townhouse, and check with the morgue later. Then I'll call you."
Two hours later, Hoke stopped at a restaurant in Kendall Lakes. He had eaten his usual diet breakfast (one poached egg, one slice of dry toast, and coffee) but nothing since. It was almost four-thirty when he looked over the menu of Roseate Spoon Bill of Fare, a popular short-order restaurant in the rambling shopping center. When it came to eating, Hoke had a major problem. He had lost weight the year before, dropping from 205 to 185 pounds, and he wanted to keep it off, but at the same time he was always hungry. He could stick to his diet for two days at most, and then he went overboard on meat and mashed potatoes. With his new teeth, he could chew almost anything.
After a prolonged study of the wide-ranging menu, he decided to compromise. He ordered a Spanish omelet with cottage cheese instead of french fries, a dish of applesauce, and told the waitress to hold the toast.
While he waited, Hoke leafed through his notebook and tried to organize his thoughts. He crossed out the name of Ronald I. France. He could do nothing to help him; the grand jury had decided to prosecute this old man for shooting and killing a twelve-year-old boy who had ripped up his flower bed. The old man was seventy-two years old, and he had cried when Hoke had taken him in for booking. According to the neighbors, he had been a nice old man, but killing a kid for ripping up a flower bed had been too drastic. It didn't help that Mr. France had claimed he only wanted to wound the kid a little with his twelve-gauge shotgun. If that had been the case, why had he loaded the gun with double-aught shells? But Hoke didn't cross out the _address_ of Mr. France. Sides had been taken in the neighborhood, and Mrs. France, also seventy-two, was going to get some harassment.
Marshall Fisher--a DOA--suicide. That was cut-and-dried, but there was going to be an inquest, and he'd have to appear. He made a check mark to watch his in box for a notice on Fisher.
There were three convenience-store killings under investigation, but no leads. Signs were posted in English and Spanish in all the convenience stares, stating that the managers were only allowed to have $35 in the cash register. But the Cuban managers were killed by Cuban gunmen for the $35. American prisons didn't frighten Marielito criminals; after Castro's,
Similar Books
