I followed them back to their offices in West Palm, a typical bullpen with cubicles surrounded by other cubicles that had windows and doors. Those were for the commanding officers, including Drummond.
“Johnson, help him find what he’s looking for,” Drummond said. “Sorry I can’t give you the royal treatment you seem to deserve, Cross, but duty calls. I’ve got to make some phone calls, and I’ll get those murder books for you.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” I said. He disappeared into his office and shut the door behind him.
While Johnson went to get us coffee, I sat there listening to the familiar sounds of a homicide unit, detectives on the phone, others in discussion. I hadn’t been gone a week and already I missed it.
Johnson returned with two cups of decent coffee. “I can’t believe Alex Cross is sitting at my desk.”
I stood up. “Sorry.”
“What? No, sit down. It’s an honor. Now, what or who are we looking for?”
“Male. African American. Died roughly thirty-three years ago.”
Johnson turned all business, got another chair, and retrieved his laptop computer. “Name?”
“Paul Brown. Supposedly killed himself behind a church in Belle Glade.”
“I’ll look at county death records and see if he had a sheet with us.”
“You have digital back that far?”
“For all of Florida,” Johnson said as he typed. “State paid for it. Prescient, you ask me.”
I liked the young detective. He was sharp and full of energy. I didn’t know exactly what to think of Drummond other than that he had a dry wit.
“So what’s with Drummond’s scar?” I asked.
Johnson looked up. “First Gulf War. An oil well he was securing blew. Killed two of his men. Shrapnel laid his cheek open like a flap, burned and chewed it all up. Extensive nerve damage. It’s why he hardly ever has any expression. His face just sort of hangs there, right?”
“You like him?”
Johnson smiled. “Like? I don’t know yet. But I admire him. Drummond’s the real deal in my book.”
“Good enough for me,” I said.
“Paul Brown?”
“Correct.”
“And thirty-three years ago,” Johnson said, studying his screen and typing. “We’ll go plus or minus a year just to be safe. We have a date of birth?”
I told him my father’s birthday.
Johnson hit Enter. Almost immediately, he shook his head. “No match.”
“Leave the birthday blank,” I said, figuring that my father must have been smart enough to leave everything about his old identity behind.
The detective played with it and hit Enter again. “There you go. Three of them.”
“Three?” I said, getting out of my chair to look at the screen.
Sure enough, three men named Paul Brown had died in Florida around thirty-three years ago.
“Can you pull up the death certificates?” I asked.
Just then, Sergeant Drummond exited his office carrying several large black binders. “Any luck?”
“We got three Paul Browns,” Johnson said. “Is there a way to access the death certificates from vital statistics, Sarge?”
“Miami, what are you, thirty years younger than me? You’re supposed to be the technologically advanced part of the team.”
The detective shook his head. “I don’t—”
“Try clicking on the name,” Drummond said.
“Oh,” Johnson said, and he clicked the first one.
The screen jumped to a PDF image of a death certificate for Paul L. Brown of Pensacola, age twenty-two. Cause of death: blunt-force trauma.
“Too young,” I said. “Try the next one.”
Johnson clicked on it. A new death certificate popped up for Paul Brown of Fort Lauderdale, age seventy-nine. Cause of death: stroke.
“Too old,” I said, now desperately wanting to find the answer behind door number three.
The third certificate fit the profile. Paul Brown, of Pahokee, Florida, age thirty-two, indigent. Cause of death: self-inflicted gunshot wound.
“That’s him,” I said, with a sinking feeling. “Where’s Pahokee?”
Drummond said, “Fifteen miles north of Belle Glade.”
“It’s got to be him, then,” I said, studying the certificate, oddly detached. “Which means the church is probably there. Says here the body was released to Belcher Brothers Funeral Home for interment.”
“Interment?” Johnson said. “Most indigents are cremated in Florida.”
“Not this time, apparently,” I said.
The sergeant said, “I know the guys who own that funeral home. The Belchers. They run an ambulance service there too. When I was on patrol in the west part of the county, they’d show up at all the fatalities. I’ll make a call.”
“I’d appreciate that, Sergeant Drummond.”
Drummond nodded, gestured to the books. “There’s the murders we’re working on. We’d appreciate the third eyeball if you have the time.”
The sergeant returned to his office. I started scanning the files on the deaths of the socialites Lisa Martin and Ruth Abrams and their maid Francie Letourneau. Two hours later, I was almost finished and flipping my way through the appendix of reports on the cleaning woman when Drummond returned.
“Took a bit to get in touch with him, but Ramon Belcher is working night duty and he said he’d go through the files for you,” the sergeant said.
“Thanks,” I said.
Johnson returned to the cubicle with more coffee. I waved it off, said, “Any more of that without something to eat and I’ll get an ulcer.”
Drummond said, “You find anything in there?”
“I saw a few things.”
“What do you like to eat?”
“Anything. Seafood.”
The sergeant nodded. “Got just the place down in Lake Worth. Johnson, are you in? We can talk about our case over dinner.”
“Absolutely,” Johnson said. “My wife’s pregnant. Let me just call her.”
“Pregnant?” Drummond said. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“Still early, Sarge,” Johnson said, digging out his phone and walking away. “End of the first trimester. Twins.”
The sergeant frowned, looked at me. “I would have liked to have learned that sooner.”
“It matter?” I asked.
“Course it matters,” Drummond grumbled. “As it stands now, I will do everything I can to keep Detective Johnson from screwing himself into harm’s way and depriving those babies of their father.”
“You’re a man of hidden virtues, Sergeant,” I said.
He looked at me with that slack, scarred face, said, “That’s not virtue, just common sense. It’s just me and my wife, and she’s got a good job that pays better than mine. But Johnson’s got three people depending on him now. Do the math. Tell me where my priorities should be when the shit hits the fan.”
Crusty as he was, Sergeant Drummond was beginning to grow on me.