Read Cold Case Squad for Free Online Page B

the streets, and otherwise preserve the peace.
Instead, we are on the trail of my wacko wife.
    We check dead-end streets within a half-mile radius of the station.
On the third or fourth try, there it is, backed into a loading zone, a
ticket on the windshield and a tow truck driver about to hook it up.
    Nazario is a good man who won't blab this around the station. I owe
him.
    My new address is this stately Miami Beach mansion, Casa de Luna.
Old Spanish-style architecture, elegant and graceful, built in the
twenties. Renovated, updated, restored, and refurbished, inside and
out, no expense spared.
    Wealthy residents inclined to travel and concerned about home
security sometimes offer a policeman free lodging in servants'
quarters, a guest cottage, or garage apartment. As the old mansions
give way to high-rises, hotels, and loft apartments, such deals are
hard to find and much coveted by cops who are separated, single, or
about to be. The homeowner enjoys peace of mind and the policeman
enjoys a free pad, the key word being free because cops in my situation
are usually stone broke or about to be.
    Bullets, bribes, and brutality allegations are not the only
occupational hazards in police work. Booze, broads, and busted
marriages are just as common. I teetered at the brink a time or two but
never thought I'd fall, or that if I did I'd have the luck to land in
one of these cushy deals.
    The Blazer is emitting a peculiar odor, so I leave the windows open
a crack when I park. Probably the submarine sandwich I picked up on the
way home.
    I take a deep breath and stand in the driveway drinking in the soft
air, enjoying the salty breeze off the sea just across the Intracoastal
Waterway and Collins Avenue, and wonder what it's like to be the man of
this house.
    The owner of this multimillion-dollar chunk of real estate is W. P.
Adair. He's Wall Street rich, robust and full of life for a man in his
sixties. He stays on the go, skiing, mountain climbing, and sport
fishing. His young wife is his third or fourth, and a knockout.
    I met them the first time I came here, to ask some questions about
the murder, now solved, of an old business associate. As we talked,
Adair's tall, tanned young wife, Shelly, sauntered by in a white thong
bikini, headed for the Olympic-size pool.
    "My kids give me hell," he said, offering me a drink, "but can you
picture me with a woman my own age? I can't. They're old ladies, for
Christ's sake! They don't want to ski, sail, or go deep-sea fishing. I
don't feel a day over forty. I need somebody to raise hell with."
    We drank to that. The man likes to play. He can afford to pay. More
power to him. They left two days ago to spend the summer in Italy.
    Of course, there is no free lunch. The devil is in the details.
Strings are attached. I ride herd on the landscapes the twice-a-week
maid, the car washer, and the man in charge of keeping the
infinity-edge pool pristine. And, should a hurricane threaten, God
forbid, my job is to secure the place. All a small price to pay for
secret sanctuary from a wife gone wild.
    I climb the tiled stairs, use my key, and punch in the alarm code.
Originally built for a live-in housekeeper, my apartment is above the
four-car garage. A rear staircase connects it to the kitchen of the
main house.
    I take off my gun, stash it in the top of the closet, set the paper
bag containing my meatball sub on the table, grab a beer from the
fridge, and carry it back downstairs to give the grounds the once-over.
This place, on nearly two acres, is one of the biggest private
residences in Miami Beach, where real estate prices are in the
stratosphere. My plan is to walk Casa de Luna's north forty morning and
night to be sure nothing is amiss.
    I circle the house first. Doors and windows all secure. Night birds
sing, fountains bubble, and the pool gurgles as I walk past the
night-blooming jasmine to check out the garden. Suddenly I am startled
by a furtive move. I am not alone. Glowing eyes in the dark