The old, two-story Spanish-style house sat back away from the street, nestled behind lush tropical foliage and towering palms. Halloween decorations dotted a manicured lawn, where a six-foot, hooded Grim Reaper waited menacingly to scare trick-or-treaters from a flowerbed filled with impatiens. Homemade ghosts with Magic-Markered black eyes dangled from the branches of an oak, twisting in the gusty breeze that had come in overnight, courtesy of an early-season cold front. In the moonlight they glowed an odd, bright white. Somewhere up the block a dog barked as night yawned toward morning.
The short whoop of a police siren broke the sleepy quiet as the car turned onto Sorolla Avenue from Grenada. Rookie Coral Gables PO Pete Colonna ignored the long cobblestone driveway and pulled the cruiser over at the curb. Stepping out of the car, he surveyed the house for a moment and then made his way up the winding brick walkway to the front door. When he spotted the abandoned tricycle with silver racing stripes, he moved a little faster. He rang the bell and pounded on an impressive mahogany front door. Obviously a bigmoney house, he thought as he knocked. He could hear the loud chimes inside, but no one answered.
“8362, Gables,” Pete said into his shoulder mike.
“Go ahead, 8362.”
“10-97 at 9-8-5 Sorolla. There’s no response.”
“Stand by, 8362.” After a moment the dispatcher with the Coral Gables PD came back on. “BellSouth’s checked the line. It’s open, but there’s no convo. They’re not getting an answer.”
“I don’t hear any ringing inside,” Pete said, putting his head close to the door. “I’m not hearing nothing in there.”
The voice of his sergeant crackled to life on the radio pack. “8362, this is 998. Go to channel 2.”
Channel 2 was the talk-around channel, where you could speak without going through dispatch. Pete switched over. “G’ahead, Sarge.”
“What’ve ya got?” asked his sergeant, Ralph Demos.
“I’m checking the residence,” Pete said as he moved off the porch and about the front yard, parting the elephant ears and traveling palms that hid too many French windows from sight. “There’s no evidence of a break-in that I can see, nothing broken, but . . .” He hesitated.
“Yeah?”
“Something don’t feel right, Sarge.”
“What was the call?”
“Burglary in progress.”
There was a pause. “All right. Trust your gut. I’ll come now, then.”
“I’m gonna take the door.”
“The hell you are. Stand down. Wait for me,” his sergeant said sternly.
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