The Shadow Man by John Katzenbach Read Free Book Online Page A

to die.
    Robinson, aged less by years than a steady dosage of street cynicism, twenty credits shy of a law degree which he thought was his ticket out of police work, drove fast through the pale yellow sodium vapor lights that gave the city its otherworldly nighttime glow. Although he did not think of himself as a native Miamian - that was a category reserved for slow-drawling crackers and rednecks from the southern part of Dade County - he had been born and
    raised in Coconut Grove, the son of an elementary school teacher.
    His middle name was Birmingham, though he never used it. It was too difficult to explain to the primarily white and Hispanic membership of the Beach force why he had been named, at least in part, after a city. His mother was a distant cousin to one of the children killed in the Birmingham church bombing in 1963, so, when he was born shortly thereafter, she had vented some of her frustration by naming him after the Alabama city, giving him a reminder, she often informed him, so that he would not forget where he had come from.
    Forgetting where he had come from, however, did not seem such a terrible thing to Walter Robinson. He had never been to his namesake in Alabama, and didn’t particularly like returning to the part of the city where he’d grown up. The Grove is a curious section of Miami. By accident of time and development, one of the city’s worst slums butted directly up against one of its most affluent areas, creating a constant ebb and flow of fear, anger, and envy. Robinson had lived with all those sensations, and didn’t particularly enjoy reminding himself of them.
    And, despite eight years in the Miami Beach department, first in uniform and then three with a gold shield, he didn’t consider that home either. He thought his rootless-ness unusual, was slightly bothered by it and generally tried to ignore it.
    He pulled down Thirteenth Court and spotted the cruisers parked outside the Sunshine Arms. He was pleased to discover that uniformed officers had already stripped ubiquitous yellow police-line tape around much of the area. He got out of his unmarked car and walked past a small group of elderly people gathered into a corner of the courtyard. A patrol sergeant greeted him by name
    as he approached the apartment building, and he nodded his response:
    ‘So, what have we got?’
    ‘Elderly victim, in the bedroom. Signs of forced entry in back. A patio door, you know one of those sliding ones that my six-year-old could break in …”
    ‘I know the type. Signs of struggle?’
    ‘Not too much. But looks like the perp grabbed everything he could before the neighbors got there. He must have run when he heard them come poking around. One of them, a Mr Henry Kadosh, upstairs apartment, chased the perp out to the alley, got a pretty fair look. His wife called 911.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Black male. Late teenage to mid-twenties. Five feet ten to six feet. Slight build, maybe 175 pounds. Wearing high-top sneakers and a dark T-shirt.’
    ‘Sounds like me,’ Walter Robinson said. ‘I know somebody’s gonna say “But they all look so much alike” before I clear this scene.’ He imitated an elderly person’s voice as he spoke.
    The patrol sergeant grinned. ‘When you walk over there, someone’s gonna yell: “There he is!”’
    Robinson laughed. ‘Probably. Wouldn’t be the first time.’
    The patrol sergeant continued. ‘I put out a BOLO. Maybe we’ll get lucky.’
    ‘You’re the second person to say that to me in the last half hour. I don’t feel lucky tonight.’
    The patrol sergeant shrugged. ‘I guess she didn’t either.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the apartment.
    ‘You think the witness could work with an Identikit technician?’
    ‘He said he got a good look. Maybe. But, hey, after he
    said that, his wife handed him his eyeglasses.’
    ‘Great. They over in that bunch?’ Robinson pointed at the collection of elderly people.
    ‘Right in front.’
    ‘All