You Only Die Twice (16 page)

She looked pensive. “I don't want to be quoted.” She paused again, white teeth gnawing at her full lower lip. “He might have,” she finally said. “He was so jealous of the business. If he took the money it was because he felt they owed him. I admit, we spent a lot. He bought me presents. We took overnight trips when we could, to the islands, did some scuba-diving and gambling. We flew to Vegas a few times after they separated. Even went to the Kentucky Derby that year.”

“Was he a big loser?”

“Actually, no. R. J.'s a good gambler, won big-time. Especially at blackjack. We had fun; he was generous. I took expensive gifts, but I was beginning to realize he'd never divorce her, even though he kept saying it was inevitable. I kept hoping, but I could see he thought about her, talked about her, all the time.

“My parents were humiliated when it happened. They didn't know I'd been seeing a married man. Once she was missing and he became a suspect, the newspaper stories were horrible. I was questioned, had to tes
tify. My parents were furious. I was so ashamed. Now I'm ashamed that I testified against him. But, you see, everybody said he did it. They kept saying it until I believed it and was devastated, convinced I had unknowingly contributed to her death. Then he said all those hurtful things when he testified, that I meant nothing to him. I was a basket case. I still loved him. I was a mess.” She gave an ironic, self-deprecating laugh. “Took me years to get past it, to get myself grounded again.

“I wish him well,” she said earnestly. “I wish all the happiness in the world for him. He deserves it. He married the wrong woman, he made mistakes, but he's not a bad man.”

“Have you contacted him?” I asked, as we walked to the door.

“Of course not,” she said emphatically. “He wouldn't want to hear from me after all that happened. And I'm a happily married woman now, with children.”

“What does your husband do?” I asked.

She smiled. “He's an architect.”

Martin Kagan appeared more successful than I expected. His shiny new midnight-blue Cadillac—bearing the vanity tag
ACQUIT
—was parked in the narrow alley beside his building. His thick office carpeting looked fresh and new, and the man actually had a secretary.

Well past middle age, tall and thin, she wore a simple, inexpensive business suit and a harried expression.

“Is he in?” I asked.

Startled, she stared up, mouth half open. Fumbling with her glasses, she peered curiously at me through the thick lenses. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Is that affidavit ready yet?” a man bellowed from an inner office. “What the hell is this? I don't have all day!”

She reacted as though dodging a bullet. “Right away, sir.”

She shuffled through some papers and hurried into his office, document in hand.

The phone was ringing when she emerged. She spoke briefly to a wrong number whose Spanish she could not comprehend, then turned to me apologetically. “I'm sorry. Who shall I say is here?”

A door burst open and Martin Kagan hurtled out as though shot from a cannon.

“What the hell
is
this shit?” he demanded. Small and sallow-skinned, he had dark hair plastered so firmly in place that I doubted a hurricane-force wind could disturb it. He appeared to be wearing football shoulder pads under his expensive suit jacket.

“Can't you get anything right?” he bawled. “Doesn't that expensive machine have a goddamn spell check? Look at this! Look at this!”

He rudely pointed out a minor misspelling.

“Sorry, sir, but you were in such a hurry.” Her hands shook as she took the document back to correct.

His furtive eyes flicked my way with what appeared to be a glimmer of recognition. “Can I help you with something?” he asked, thick fingers plucking fastidiously at the cuffs of his fancy monogrammed shirt.

“Yes,” I said. “A few minutes of your time.”

He checked his gold watch. “Sure, just let me make a call first.”

He snatched the corrected page from his secretary's uncertain hand, stormed back into his lair, and slammed the door.

“Is he always that obnoxious?” I asked softly. A light flickered in the phone set on her desk as he made his call.

She nodded, eyes glistening.

“Why do you put up with it?”

“I need the job,” she whispered hopelessly.

“Right.” A younger, bilingual secretary would walk in a heartbeat, probably land a better job the same day. But this woman, with no wedding ring, in her sensible support hose and homely, low-heeled, no-nonsense shoes, had no such luxury. Jobs are scarce in Miami for self-supporting Anglo women of a certain age, no matter how impressive their résumés.

Her name was Frances Haehle. “I have to hand it to you,” I commiserated while waiting. “The stress factor must be high. You're the only one here? You do everything?”

“I'm it.” She sniffed. “I'm used to it, but these last few weeks he's been—”

Kagan's office door cracked open. “Come in, Ms. Montero.”

“I didn't think you remembered me,” I said.

“Oh, I've seen you around the justice building, seen your byline. What can I do for you?”

My impressions of Kagan, as he darted from courtroom to courtroom, had been that of a man who embarrassed other lawyers. Never ready to proceed, never ready for trial, always unprepared, his defense weapon fired blanks. When he represented a client, everybody knew a guilty plea would follow. But today he appeared supremely confident as he motioned me to a leather chair.

“I'm sure you've heard about the Jordan case.”

“Sure, who hasn't? Hell of a thing.”

“Was Kaithlin Jordan your client?”

“No, no,” he said vigorously, then cocked his head, as though puzzled. His sharp chin and bright dark eyes gave him a cunning ferretlike look. “You know, some detectives stopped by here the other day and asked the same question. I'll tell you exactly what I told them. Never met the woman. Never heard from her. My secretary will tell you the same thing.” He picked up a file, dismissing me.

I remained seated. “Perhaps you met before her supposed murder ten years ago.”

Leaning back in his shiny leather chair, he looked down his nose as though I was something nasty he had stepped in.

“Perhaps in school,” I suggested. “You both grew up here. Maybe you knew her as Kaithlin Warren. Her mother's first name was Reva.”

“Sorry.” He shook his head. “I saw the pictures in the paper. Her picture. I'da remembered that.”

“Your father would have loved this case,” I continued. “It's right up his alley. An innocent man on death row.”

Kagan's ferret eyes darted around the room.

“Too bad he wasn't here for it,” I said.

He consulted his gold Rolex. “I hafta be in court in ten minutes,” he said abruptly. “Sorry I can't help you.” On his feet, suddenly a man in a hurry, he snatched his leather briefcase as he ushered me out.

“If you remember anything,” I said, “please call me.” I tried to hand him my business card.

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved it off impatiently. “Leave it with my secretary on your way out.”

Frances was on the phone as I left, but I saw the other button light up. I parked down the block in the T-Bird, sat, and watched for forty-five minutes. The man in a hurry never left his office. He didn't go to court.

So I did. I went to the fifth-floor clerk's office. Each lawyer has an identification number. Using that number you can pull up every case assigned to any particular attorney in Miami-Dade. Kagan was attorney of record for defendants charged with robbery, possession of stolen property, lewd behavior, and resisting arrest. That charming clientele failed to reflect any sudden surge in business, nothing to account for his recent prosperity, new car, new suit, new carpet. Even his fine leather briefcase looked brand-new.

I called Onnie. “Anything?”

“Naw.” She sounded dispirited. “Thought I nailed her first thing this morning. Successful real estate woman, right age, physical description, turned up missing at the right time, out of Baja California. Thought for sure it was her.”

“Maybe it is,” I said quickly.

“Nope. They found this one, in a shallow grave in the desert.”

“Jeez,” I said, disappointed. “What a shame.”

“The shallow grave, or her not being Kaithlin Jordan?”

“Both.”

“Yeah,” she said bleakly. “I'm still on it.”

 

I called Frances, Kagan's secretary. She said he was out. “Good,” I said. “Let's have lunch. We can go somewhere close by.”

“I can't leave the phones, I'm the only one here.”

“Put them on service,” I coaxed. “You'll be back in an hour.”

“I really can't,” she said regretfully.

“Okay,” I said. “I'll bring lunch to you. We can eat at your desk.”

“I don't think that would be wise,” she said carefully.

“He wouldn't be happy to come back and find me there?”

“You've got that right.”

“He was upset by my visit this morning?”

“Off the wall,” she said.

“Well, you have to eat lunch sometime.”

“I brought something. Some yogurt.”

I sighed. “I just thought maybe we could talk, confidentially, about a story I'm working on.”

“I have to go over to the justice building later, to file some motions for him,” she offered hesitantly. “I could meet you for a quick cup of coffee.”

 

Ten floors of misery, the Dade County Jail stands directly across the street from the justice building. A covered walkway links them four stories above traffic, so prisoners are protected from the temptations of fresh air, open sky, and outside influences as they are marched to court.

Frances completed her work at the clerk's office, called me, and walked to the far side of the jail, where I
swooped by in my T-Bird to scoop her off the street corner. She scanned the block to see if anyone was watching before ducking into my car, as though we were engaged in some clandestine operation.

The first-floor coffee shop at Cedars of Lebanon Hospital several blocks away wasn't crowded. Frances leaned back, eyes roving the room with interest, as though it had been some time since she had sat in public with someone over a snack.

“The story you came to see my boss about,” she said, after we ordered tea and pastries. “It's the Jordan case, isn't it?”

I nodded.

“I've been reading about it,” she said, eyes downcast.

“It's a fascinating story,” I said.

“I was sure that's why you came. Did you know the police came to ask him about it too?”

“Yes,” I said. “That would be Detective Rychek.”

“Right. How did they make the connection to him?” she asked, her expression intent.

“Kaithlin Jordan's hotel bill reflected phone calls to your office.”

“Ah.” She nodded slowly. “So that was it.”

“But he denies they ever spoke. Said you'd confirm that.”

“That's what he told me to tell the detective.”

“Is it true?”

Her pale fingers toyed with her napkin. The nails were blunt, without polish. “I can't be quoted,” she blurted out. “Whatever I tell you is background and you can't divulge the source. Is that agreed?”

I did so reluctantly, after trying without success to persuade her to talk on the record.

“Did she call him?”

“Many times. I could lose my job over this.” She leaned forward, lips tight. “I'm in trouble if I lose this job, but I don't want to go to jail.”

“If your boss did something wrong, why should you be implicated? You're just an innocent bystander, working for an honest living in a town where it isn't easy.”

“I've never been in trouble,” she said, “not even a jaywalking ticket.” She used her napkin to blot away a tear with a quick embarrassed motion.

“I'm sure,” I said. “How did he know Kaithlin?”

“She was the mystery woman,” she whispered. “The one I was never supposed to see.”

“But you did see her?”

“Once.”

“What happened?”

“When she called, it was always a major occasion. I've never seen him as excited about a client. He even called in the Digger.”

“The Digger?”

“You know, that private detective. Dan Rothman. Everybody calls him the Digger. He's the one my boss always uses when he has to hire an investigator.”

The mystery woman first called Kagan nearly eight months earlier, Frances said. She left no name or number, but twenty-four hours later a manila envelope arrived, no return address. Kagan's new prosperity arrived with it, flourishing as more envelopes followed.

“He bought a new Cadillac, new suits, began to update the office equipment,” she said.

“So he did some legal work for her?”

Frances shook her head. “Not that I saw. No legal documents were ever drawn up, no letters dictated, no official file opened. I don't think he knew exactly who or where she was. He kept urging me to try to get her name or number, but she always refused to leave it. Caller ID only indicated that her calls were from out of the area. Call return was blocked. Eventually he called in the Digger. But everything was secret. They'd stop talking when I walked in.”

“Did they seem worried or apprehensive?”

“Quite the contrary.” She gave a little laugh. “A couple of months ago, they were absolutely giddy, celebrating and high-fiving.”

“There have to be records.”

“There is something”—she lowered her voice—“a fat folder. I saw it open on his desk one day after the Digger came in. But he never sent it out to be filed. He keeps it locked in his desk.”

The mystery woman often called Kagan for lengthy conversations. Envelopes arrived about once a month. Several weeks ago, Frances said, the routine suddenly changed. The mystery woman called and, for the first time, left a number, insisting he contact her at once. The number was local.

Startled, the lawyer canceled all other appointments and hastily summoned the Digger to a private conference. When the woman called again, a face-to-face meeting was arranged.

“So, that's when you saw her?”

“I wasn't supposed to. My boss sent me home early, something he never does. He insisted, practically shoved me out the door. I suspected something shady or a sexual liaison. That's happened before. But he usually doesn't care if I'm there. He just says he doesn't want to be disturbed. After I left, I stopped at the post office and then, on my way to the Metro Mover, a storm began to blow up all of a sudden. The sky was getting dark. I have a long walk to make my connection and he'd rushed me out in such a hurry I forgot my umbrella, a little collapsible one that I keep in my desk. So I went back to get it, let myself in with my key, and heard them in his office. She was already there.”

“What did you hear?”

“Quarreling; they were threatening each other. It was frightening, as though they might come to blows.”

“What were they saying?”

“I didn't hear it all. But she was upset about something she'd seen on television. Called him a liar and a thief, said he could be disbarred or go to jail. He laughed, called her names, and said she was the one who stood to lose everything, not him. They accused each other of all sorts of things, extortion, blackmail, lying, stealing. It was horrible. I slipped out the door before they heard me.

“It was already raining. I was under the awning of the building next door, opening my umbrella, when she came out. She was upset, her face red, crying. She walked right past me, to a cabstand. She was putting on big sunglasses and a scarf, but I got a good look at her face first.

“A day or two later, they spoke on the phone again. I
only heard snatches of what was said, but it sounded as though they'd calmed down and reached some sort of agreement. She refused to come to the office again; I heard that. He said he would see her, go to meet her, that evening. She never called again.”