Free The Shadow Man by John Katzenbach Page A

the newscast–-You hear
    what I’m saying?’
    ‘You think—’
    ‘I think you’ve got race and murder, and that’s a cocktail that don’t mix too good in this county, Miss Martinez.’
    This was standard police procedure in Dade County: invoke the riots of the 1980s, and instantly obtain people’s attention. There was a momentary silence on the line before the woman’s voice, considerably more alert, answered:
    ‘I hear you loud and clear, Detective. I’ll be right over and we can wave the flag together.’
    ‘Sounds like fun.’
    He hung up the phone, grinning. Occasionally waking up hotshot young prosecutors was one of the homicide detectives’ job perquisites. He figured at least a half hour before she arrived and got tossed in front of the press. He decided he could wait while inspecting the progress of the
    search team working the alley behind the Sunshine Arms. Maybe they’ve found something, he thought. The jewelry box. It had to be close by. The perp probably threw it in the first trash can he could, after conveniently covering it with fingerprints and the unmistakable scent of panic.
    Esperanza Martinez went by the nickname of Espy to her friends, which were few. She dressed swiftly in the semidarkness of her bedroom, first pulling on jeans, then discarding them in favor of a more fashionable loose-fitting dress, when she considered she might have to face a camera crew. Although she was alone in her apartment, she was careful to be quiet; she lived in a duplex, half of which was occupied by her parents, and her mother was uncannily sensitive to her daughter’s movements, and was probably, despite the wallboard, wooden frame, and insulation material that separated them, lying awake in bed, listening.
    She double-checked her appearance in a small mirror that hung next to a crucifix by the front door. She made certain that she had her State Attorney’s Office badge and a small .25 caliber automatic pistol in her pocketbook, and exited into the sticky nighttime. When she started the engine on the modest, nondescript compact car, she glanced up and saw the light flick on in her parents’ half of the house. She put the car in gear and maneuvered quickly out into the street.
    Late at night in Miami in the summer, it seems as if the day’s heat leaves a residual glow, like the musty warmth that rises from a recently extinguished fire. The huge office towers and skyscrapers that dominate the downtown remain lit, shedding darkness like it was so many droplets of black. But for all its tropical smoothness, the city has an unsettling pulse, as if, when one slides down from the
    brightly illuminated highways that crisscross the county, one descends into a basement. Or perhaps a crypt.
    Espy Martinez feared the night.
    She drove rapidly, slipping from quiet suburban streets onto Bird Road, then up Dixie Highway, heading fast toward Miami Beach. There was little traffic, but just as she maneuvered onto the four lanes of Route 95, a red Porsche with ink-black tinted windows flew past her, screaming by in excess of a hundred miles per hour. The velocity of the sports car seemed to suck her along, as if she’d been buffeted from behind by a sudden strong gust of wind. ‘Jesus Christ!’ she swore out loud - and felt fear sear through her for just one nasty instant, then flee as she watched the car rapidly disappear, momentarily glistening in the yellow-tinted sodium vapor lights of the highway before being enveloped by the night. A quick glance into the rearview mirror warned her of the state trooper’s car coming up equally fast behind her. The trooper was traveling without lights or siren, trying to close on his quarry before the speeder knew he was there. She understood this went against established procedure, and she guessed the trooper would lie about it in a court hearing, if he got asked. But she also knew it was the only way he could hope to catch the Porsche, which was faster and more maneuverable, so,