Chapter 4

Eric and Natalia had agreed to meet in the MDPD garage first thing in the morning. This was going to be a busy day. There was no telling how long it was going to take to interview the relatives of the two dead women or to follow up on any information they got. No doubt, by the time they returned, Ryan would have finished up finding any personal information on the two radioactive bodies he'd located so far. Then, they'd have more people to track down, to question. This was to say nothing of dealing with any physical evidence they hoped to collect from the women's homes on today's visits.

No greeting between the two was necessary, not after the history they'd shared over the previous couple of years. Both simply accepted that, since Delko had driven the day before, Natalia would take the wheel today.

Their first assignment took them west on Flagler, beyond the Florida Turnpike to the outer marsh area of the Everglades. Eventually they turned down a dirt road, long out of repair. The former home of Victoria Reeves, where her daughter still resided, had perhaps at one time been used as a hunting lodge. Like the road leading up to it, it had obviously seen better days. Apparently, it wasn't ever going to be seeing any better, at least not under the present ownership. There was no front yard to speak of, merely places that had obviously been used for parking among the vegetation. A short rutted path led to the front of the house. The quiet of the area was disturbed by the rattling hum from an ancient air condition that hung aslant out of a window on the side of the house. The broad front veranda probably hadn't been swept in several months. Leaves from many previous seasons and other bits of soggy detritus huddled in the shade against the house near the front door. The wooden porch floor and steps had been painted, once, perhaps years ago. A dirty screen door was off of the hinges and leaning against the wall next to the slightly battered front door. The sweetly dank odor of decay hung all around in the humid air. A couple of the windowpanes were broken and had newspaper taped over them.

Their knock on the door brought only a muffled, "Come in," The voice could hardly be distinguished from the sound of a television.

Hesitating only briefly, Eric pushed at the door, his other hand pulled back to a few inches from his gun.

The two weren't exactly shocked by what they saw inside. On their jobs, after what they'd seen of death, life seldom shocked them; they did swap glances that mutually said, 'it takes all kinds.' Facing them, directly across from the door, on a sagging and dilapidated couch against the wall, sat the new owner of the house.

Vicki Reeves, a late and only child of the deceased Victoria Reeves, was in her early thirties and morbidly obese. Although she didn't wheeze when she breathed, she often let out shuddering sighs, which she did as soon as she saw the two people facing her. Even though they talked as quietly, as reassuringly as they could, her voice quavered and shook throughout the entire period of the interview. A walker was parked close by.

Never once did she mention or excuse any condition she might have had in relation to the obvious difficulties. The only thing she did was to declare that though she was getting better now, her mother's illness and subsequent death had sent her into nervous fits. So much so that she had turned her mother's death affairs over to their church. She also admitted that the ladies of the Joy and Wellness Committee still helped her out now and then. They always picked her up for church services and brought her groceries, and all. It was the husband of one of these committee ladies who helped her file the wrongful death complaint, as he'd done for his own mother.

At one point, Vicki smiled weakly at Boa Vista and begged her to, 'please go get her a 'sody pop' from the 'fridge.' She'd pointed at the other half of the large room which was both living room and kitchen, combined. Then added, "The one on the left. Oh, and if you two want any, he'p yourse'f."

Natalia saw that there were indeed two refrigerators in the kitchen area. The one she opened had six twelve-packs of generic cola drink in bottom of the doublewide space. One was crudely torn open and showed two cans gone. The only other shelf of the refrigerator had two delicatessen-sized blocks of what looked to be American cheese and gigantic roll of bologna with one end showing signs of rough knife marks.

Pulling out a can Natalia looked around the kitchen. "Where are the glasses, Vicki?"

"Don't need no glass, 'less, 'course, y'all need one for yoursel'es. Those are up top in one of the cupboards. Just look, you'll find 'em."

The two again refused the offer of drink as Natalia handed the opened can to their hostess who remained seated on the sagging couch. Then Natalia asked, "I couldn't help but notice that strange jug on the counter over there. The old one? The one that's marked 'Revigorator?" She looked significantly at Eric.

After sucking greedily on the can for a moment, Vicki lowered it reluctantly to reply, "Yeah? That was for Mamma's water. I don't use it but I ain't ready to give up her stuff yet, in case you're looking to buy it."

Delko perked up and asked, "Your mother kept requesting water from her home. Is that where it came from?"

"Yeah, I guess. I don't drink water. Don't like it! No flavor! But Mamma set some store by her jug water."

"Where'd she get the jug?"

Vicki ponderously heaved her shoulders. "Dunno. Was here when I moved in to be with Mamma when she started feeling poorly."

Finishing her drink, she stuck the empty can out at Natalia and smiled, "When you get me another, would you take one for yourse'f? You'll like it!"

Nodding slightly at the look Natalia gave him, Eric rose and took the can. "Here, let me get it for you." He tried not to rush over to the kitchen to look at the stoneware jug.

Twenty minutes later, stepping outside to the much warmer but fresher air, Delko called Horatio and explained the situation. "No, I didn't touch it, H."

He nodded. "Yeah, it could be the source of the radiation that killed Ms Reeves so I didn't get too close to it. One close encounter with radioactivity will do me just fine, thanks. We'll have to bring someone from HazMat out here to collect it."

He held a hand to his other ear, trying to block out the sounds of the bugs and birds in the area. "Yeah, we already explained the necessity for removal to Vicki."

He nodded again. "Okay, I'll tell her. Next, we're going to Nancy Broward's home. It's about fifteen miles south of here. We also got a name and phone for the person who helped Vicki file the wrongful death suit. Then we're going to meet the son of one the other victims that Nurse Nancy told us about."

Listening, getting a whiff of swamp, Eric wondered if perhaps part of the soggy smell in the house more than the ancient air conditioner. "William Williams is this son's name."

He smiled. "Yeah, I know. Hopefully, there's a lead someplace." Agreeing to call Horatio from Broward's home, Eric snapped the phone shut.

After informing the hazmat team of the pickup job at young Vicki Reeves home and her address, Horatio almost put his phone away. Before he could do so, it chirped in his hand. The small screen showed it was Ryan.

Adjusting his stance as he changed mental gears to another part of the case, he quietly answered, "Horatio."

He knew that, first thing in the morning, Ryan Wolfe had arranged for the exhumation of the two bodies showing radioactivity that he'd found the day before. Seeing that process started, Horatio heard that he'd finished the search on this cemetery without finding any more evidence of radioactivity.

"Yes, Mr. Wolfe, I'd say move on to the next cemetery on the list. The one you're at now had the most recent burials and the next one has only a day's variance of burial time. However, unless you find something in the second, come on in. You'll need to follow up on the two others you've found so far."

Pocketing the phone as he stood in the lab's central hallway, Horatio's attention was again diverted. His original plan of the day was to pick up Frank and see what more they could find out about Marky Samson. Eric's call, then Ryan's, had stopped him before reaching the elevator and now something new drew him out of his path again. Ordinarily, seeing Calleigh interviewing someone wasn't remarkable, but in this case, it was. Instead of her usual observant detachment, Horatio saw that she was fully engaged by the man sitting across the table from her. Both were leaning towards each other, not in a physically attracted manner, but rather as if the subject at hand was drawing them together. More interesting, the man had all the familiar earmarks of someone who had just spent the night in jail. His clothing looked slept in and his jaw looked unshaven. All of these signs were very unusual, considering that Calleigh seldom looked so unprofessional as she did now. Not sure of what was going on, Horatio found he was drawn the thirty feet or so down the hall, to stand outside the room. Even more intriguing, when Calleigh spotted Horatio, instead of letting her eyes merely pass over him to return to the interviewee, she waved at him, motioning him to join her.

"I'm glad you're here, Horatio. This is Simon Harrison who's here from Oklahoma. Simon, this is my supervisor, Lieutenant Horatio Caine. Horatio, he's a private investigator acting as a bounty hunter here in Miami."

Harrison rose to shake Horatio's hand while Calleigh explained, "He's just been telling me that one reason he got into detective work is because one ancestor of his was an Indian who was renowned for his talent at tracking and another was the first black man to join the Oklahoma City Police Department."

Simon's face showed his part Choctaw heritage in the high, broad cheekbones under unusually dark eyes. Aside from that, his ebony skin, his shiny, wavy hair, his lank arms, and thick torso showed his varied African lineages. His accent was pure Oklahoman, bringing to mind the twang sported by Will Rogers. Not bothering to rise but turning in his seat to greet the now wary redhead, the man interjected without preamble, "Well, trying to act as bounty hunter, anyway." He stuck out his hand.

To Calleigh's mystification, after briefly taking Simon's hand, her boss stood back with hands on his hips. When she'd finished the introduction he pronounced, "You may have some trouble retrieving an unregistered gun, you know."

"Aw! It was registered alright, just not with the county I'm currently in. I'll be picking it up before I leave the building. You see, I recently moved to Ponca City from Oklahoma City. That's a different county…"

"So, you are licensed to work as a private investigator?" Years of hearing lame excuses sometimes made Horatio impatient.

The black man dipped his head in embarrassment, "I got so het up about getting here, I forgot to pack the actual license. I had my badge, but that's what got me into trouble in the first place." He looked at Calleigh for help but saw only vacant wonder on her face so he finished, trailing off with, "That was straightened out too."

Continuing his 'policeman's attitude' stance, Horatio found he was enjoying the game. "May I see the badge please?"

Reaching into his outside jacket pocket, Simon pulled out a wad of hastily folded release forms. Clumsily holding them all in one hand, muttering quietly, he went through the sheets until he found, buried within, a small shield. With an air of importance, he held it, face out, showing it to his interrogator.

In spite of years of practice at maintaining a professional deadpan, Horatio's eye's crinkled; his cheeks dimpling, he almost laughed. Taking the shield, he walked over to Calleigh's side of the table and showed it to her. Cupped in his hand was plastic thing that read U.S. in large letters on the front. Around the edge, it read, US Special Police Force. Most noticeable to the two was that it vaguely resembled a Federal Agent badge.

Suddenly Calleigh's face changed from wide-eyed wonder at Horatio to wide-eyed questioning at Simon. "You've been using this as your ID in your profession?"

It took Simon five minutes to explain how he'd never been sure he was going to make a 'go' of being a PI, how it had always been a hand-to-mouth existence. He'd gotten the badge originally from a costume shop at Halloween from when he'd dressed as Wil Smith from the 'Men in Black' movie. After getting out of the Air Force where he'd been in the Air Police, an AP, it just seemed natural to take up some sort of security or police work. For the first six months, he hadn't even known he'd had to be licensed to do the work at all. Then he'd gotten a gun after a 'tussle' with an unhappy cheating husband he'd been following. By the time the private investigator finished, it was fairly obvious that a large part of the reason he'd made only a meager living was that he simply had no head for the business end of the profession. He ended with, "But you know what? I like what I do. I like finding out when a guy is doing something wrong and taking him in to the law."

Calleigh, feeling the need to take charge of the situation again, answered, "We like doing that too, Simon. Don't we Horatio?"

Handing the badge across the table, Horatio said, "Indeed we do, Calleigh."

Simon had no idea how rare it was to have both criminalists beaming at the same time.

"Which brings us to why he's here in Miami, Horatio! In a way, his twenty-four hours in lockup was serendipitous. While there, he overheard an officer on the phone talking about an assignment to accompany a CSI to a cemetery."

"I believe that might have been Officer Bradley talking with Ryan." Horatio's voice had dropped to a comfortable whispering quality he only used with friends.

"Apparently there was some mention of the expansion of the overdose victims case. Correct?"

Simon chimed in, "I'd noticed, when I'd come in to register my intent to act as a bounty hunter in Miami-Dade County, that this was also the building that housed your labs. When I heard that stuff about overdose with CSI, I knew I had to talk to you guys, 'cause that's why I'm here in Miami."

Horatio, had been leaning against a frame of one of the windows. Behind him was the greenery of the park-like surrounds of the building and a busy walkway. He'd occasionally glanced out while listening to Simon. Now, he was on full alert. He stood up straight. "Oh?"

Letting Calleigh continue with Simon and his information, Horatio had made two phone calls on his way down to the Hummer. First, he'd talked with Mrs. Samson who agreed to meet him at her job. Then he called Frank who was out in the field wrapping up an investigation. It turned out Frank was closer to Mrs. Samson than he was. They agreed to meet outside of her office.

Frank beat Horatio to the parking lot at the side of the storefront office only by about ten minutes. The painted sign on the side of the cinderblock building read, 'R&L Mortgage' in black outlined in brilliant green.

Heading to the front with Horatio, Frank quipped, "Wanna bet she's not busy? I'm surprised any of these places are still in business."

Before he opened the glass-front door, Horatio answered, "Mortgage companies don't just handle loans, Frank."

Lucy's practiced smile faded when she recognized who it was. She was sitting alone at a clean desk. The room was furnished with two empty desks besides hers, and a small area in front with a couch and two chairs. The only illumination for the room came from the large window front. The overhead lights were turned off.

A man appeared at the doorway to an inner office.

Lucy called out with no small amount of pity in her voice, "These men are here to talk to me, Jake."

The man seemed to wilt and turned without saying a word. They saw him sit at a desk piled haphazardly with papers and folders. Horatio thought he looked like the poster boy for an advertisement of desperation.

Ten minutes of coaxing Lucy to remember more of her boy's activities brought her to recall the mention of 'the Sarge.' "I never paid no attention to Marky's ramblings." She lowered her head with the smallest hint of a smile. "That boy could talk! Used to think bad of myself for not having paid attention but after years of talking with other parents of dead kids, I found out none of us did."

The two men listened intelligently to what they'd heard hundreds of times before.

"He was sixteen! If I hadn't done my job by then, it couldn't get done!"

Trying to redirect her thoughts, the redhead leaned toward her, putting his elbows on his knees, and stared into her welling eyes. "Was this 'Sarge' someone from school, do you think? Anything you can remember about this person or anything at all about his behavior, perhaps would be a help."

Her tears drying, hiding a grin behind pursed lips, Ms Samson recognized what the handsome gentleman in front of her was trying to do. Obviously enjoying those pretty blues in that freckly-pale face, the bereaved mother said, "I just don't know, Lieutenant Caine…wait! You know what? About then, he was also, like, practicing good behavior on me, saying ma'am to me and sometimes even stood at attention when I was trying to tell him about how full the trash should be to get dumped. Silly stuff. He'd say he was practicing discipline. Course, then, five minutes later, he was bouncing that ball of his against the wall in his bedroom, driving the next-door neighbors crazy."

Ten minutes later, she'd declared for the fifth time that there was nothing more she could remember. She assured them she'd call if she could think of anything. Thanking her, the two men left the deadly quiet office.

Outside, looking over the top of his car, Frank said, "Back to the Youth center?" To Horatio's nodded acknowledgment, he double knocked his knuckles against the roof and folded his body into the car.

Basket's eyes wandered over the top of the kids playing the indoor court. Outside, another of the increasing afternoon rain showers was thundering its quick way across that section of the city. Standing on the second tier of the wooden pullout seating, he shook his head "Nope, don't think there was anyone ever named Sarge back then. Lots of Sergios, of course, but no Sarge comes to mind." He went on to say that, on occasion a volunteer would try to get strict with the boys, maybe yell like a drill sergeant, but that only drove the kids away. When that happened, he said the guy would quit coming. Of course, volunteers came and went, all the time, anyway. Most didn't last more than a month, tops.

The entire time, Basket constantly interrupted himself with quick answers to kids that ran up and back like yo-yos, or with quick blasts on his whistle, a raised hand, and a stern word. "Only one that went for any length of time was a custodian a few years back. Worked all day cleaning up after these rug rats and then stayed on for an hour or so afterwards. I think he just liked playing basketball. He moved on though; haven't seen him since. Don't blame him; it's a wonder I've lasted twenty years! It sure ain't because of the pay!"

Having thanked the coach, the men were glad to get out of the noisy building. Frank dug the tip of his pinky finger into one ear as he remarked, "Lasted twenty years? That man lives for those kids!"

Horatio opened the door to the Hummer and held it while he said, "He lives for them to the exclusion of everyone else around, Frank. There's something really crucial he isn't remembering. However, I think we've followed this one into the ground for now."

"Two strikes out of two. Hey! How about we go back and I buy you some bad coffee in the MDPD break room?" He winked quickly. "That stuff will show you how good the day's been."

Knowing he had business to attend to in that department anyway, Horatio agreed to the offer.

Later, before entering the Department Psychologist's door, Horatio briefly wondered what Stetler would think if he'd seen him doing this. Realizing he didn't care what the Internal Affairs Bureau snoop thought, he forgot about it and walked in.

Not quite getting inside, he was greeted with a sharp look he usually only encountered from suspects pretending to be insulted they were being accused of a crime. Sally was standing behind the small desk opposite the door, a cell phone to her ear. The desk chair had been shoved to one side. Several folders were opened on the desk under the glare of a small desk lamp. The folder in front of her had several sheets fanned out from it and she had her finger in the middle of one. She'd stopped talking, her pale eyes wide with consternation.

Today, dressed in another a-line skirt, this one in denim, she also wore a scoop neck, short-sleeved jersey shirt. The pale blue of the shirt did nothing for her coloring. "Hold on a sec, Jimmy." Not saying more, she added to the pointed look by raising one eyebrow.

Not used to 'attitude' from a coworker, Horatio wasn't sure what to say next. At her continued silence, he decided not to make it a standoff. "I thought, since the door was open…"

She glanced resolutely down at the desk before glaring back up at him. Her brows became almost as straight as the very determined line of her mouth.

Taking the hint, Horatio gave her a half smile and said, "Call me when you have a moment."

As he stepped into the hallway, he would have laughed out loud if he'd encountered Stetler.

TBC

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