Garden of Evil (12 page)

“They drove to Miami, where he killed her,” the Chicago detective insisted.

Everybody agreed something should be done—by somebody else.

I wrapped the story for the early edition.

The phone man and the cops were still at work on the
system when I forwarded my calls and went home. The phone rang as I got ready for bed.

Heart pounding, I answered. “Turn on Channel Seven, right now!” Lottie said. She stayed on the line.

Waymon Andrews, in a live shot in front of the funeral parlor, was introducing this “amazing piece of tape recorded earlier, a Channel Seven exclusive!

“This was actually recorded earlier today at the casket of slain Miami Commissioner Sonny Saladrigas,” Andrews said, over footage of the mayor solemnly entering the funeral parlor. Despite the soft sweet strains of organ music and the background buzz of conversation, the mayor could clearly be heard saying, “You son of a bitch, you deserved it. Where the hell is the money?”

Lottie and I shrieked in unison. The television crew, Andrews explained, had planted a tiny mike amid the floral displays “to pick up the tears and endearments from friends and supporters bidding a final farewell to the veteran politician. As you just heard, we picked up more than we bargained for.”

They played the tape over and over, then played it again. They played it over footage of the mayor and Sonny together, over Sonny in full rant at a commission meeting, over shots of the morgue crew bouncing his covered corpse down the stairs at the Jolly Roger, and over a sentimental scene of the mayor consoling the widow and her darling fatherless babies. The mayor, according to Andrews, was refusing comment. The widow had issued a statement. The mayor must have been misunderstood, she said, the tape doctored. He and Sonny were lifelong friends, since childhood in Cuba. The tape was an obvious fraud and the work of—what else?—political enemies.

“Ain't that enough to bring a tear to a glass eye?” Lottie demanded.

I unloaded my frustration on the hapless McDonald, who called to say good night. His input was being well received at the terrorism sessions; he was learning a great
deal, forging excellent contacts, and sounded elated. He agreed that the killer had probably left town, based on her prior MO, listened to my complaints about my editors, and ordered me to bed. I needed rest, because when he arrived, he promised, we would make up for lost time. He would take me dancing and dining and walking on the beach. Even that brought little comfort.

Tape recorder in place, I willed her to call. She had moved on, I thought. It was over. The story I led the pack on had slipped through my fingers. I blew my chance.

I tried to drown my negative thoughts with a stiff drink from the Jack Daniels Black Label stashed under the sink, then went to bed.

She called at 3:48
A.M.

“H
I THERE
.” S
HE SOUNDED GENTLY AMUSED
. “Asleep at your desk, or having your calls forwarded?”

“Who is this?” I mumbled, suddenly aware of the answer, wide awake and groping blindly for the record button.

“Were you thinking 'bout me when you went to bed?” she whispered suggestively. “I was thinkin 'bout you. Read your story. That son of a bitch. Hope to hell I meet up with him.” Her smoky voice took on a hard edge. “I'd give him a few things to think about.”

“Who?”

“That prick from Chicago who got cut loose cuz nobody knows which town he was in when he killed her. In the early edition, tomorrow's news tonight. Ever notice there ain't no justice when it's a woman who gets killed?” Switching on my bedside lamp, I found and gently pressed the tape recorder button.

“What was that?”

“I turned on the light.” Is the trace working yet? I wondered frantically.

“A woman after my own heart. I don't like doin' it in the dark either.” The seductive timbre of her voice sent a peculiar thrill through my body. Billy Boots suddenly
hurtled off my bed and darted into the hall, as though sensing my fear.

“Where are you?” I asked, wishing to God that the cops were listening, knowing they were not.

She laughed softly. “The Beach. I love South Beach,” she said. “The partying never stops. My kinda town.”

“I live on the Beach,” I blurted stupidly, eager to keep her talking. If only I had some coffee.

“Maybe I could come by for coffee or a drink,” she said, as though she'd read my mind. “Just you and me.”

“We could talk,” I said, wondering wildly what to do if she agreed.

She chortled slowly. “See the TV tonight? Even the mayor spoke the truth about Sonny—'cept he didn't know anybody would eavesdrop. What a hoot.” Her voice faded as though she had turned away from the phone, attention diverted. By what? I wondered. I thought I caught a snatch of distant music in the background.

“We had that information,” I said. “Our photographer heard him say it at the funeral home, but my editors wouldn't let me use it in the story.”

“Them assholes again. Ever notice how men do not listen to you unless you got something they really want or you're jammin' the barrel of a gun up the side of their head?”

The image chilled my blood.

“Oh, they listen then. You get their absolute attention then.” She sighed, expelling a short impatient breath. “I guess you'll probably hear 'bout it soon enough.”

“What?” I scribbled in my bedside notebook in case the recorder failed.

“Somethin' that'll win you points with all your police friends.”

“They are not my friends.”

“Oh, sissy, don't gimme that. Think I'm stupid? When you're sleeping with the captain, the one that's out of town? Hell, I know all about it. Chapter and verse.”

“About what?” My mind reeled. What was she saying? Was
she
tapping
my
phone?

“Never mind, sweet sister. I'm watching you. Just remember, I know a whole lot more than you think.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded. “How did you…?”

“Like that sporty little T-Bird you drive?” she said. “And don't git me started on Lance Westfell, the big movie star you dated when he was makin' a flick down here. Now tell me, what is that man like in bed? We got to have a heart-to-heart, a blow-by-blow, pardon the expression, 'bout that sometime.”

“How…?” I gasped, speechless.

“Tol' ya, sugar. Where you think I'm calling from? Know that pay phone down the street? I can almost see your front door from here.”

Pulse pounding, I swallowed hard. I knew the phone. If she was there, I could see her from outside. My eyes darted toward the door. Perhaps police were listening, they don't always follow the rules. Maybe…if only…

She sighed, the long-drawn-out sound of a much maligned woman, overworked and misunderstood. “I met another asshole tonight.” She sounded exasperated. “Yep, this town is full of 'em. They're everywhere.”

“What happened?” I asked. Ojeda had said to relate on a personal level. Hell, this was entirely too personal already. “Are you all right?”

“Why, thank you, Britt, for askin'. Nobody ever does. The son of a bitch tried to slip drugs in my drink, Blue Nitro. You know, the one that's like Ecstasy, but you come down faster. That stuff's dangerous. Makes you warm and tingly all over at first; then it heightens your sexual response, then you could die: I caught him, a-course. Shoulda known better. I mean, he's 'sposed to be a big hotshot sophisticate, one of South Beach's suave and urban beautiful people.”

“You get around,” I said. “Didn't take you long to learn the lay of the land.”

“Sure. Oh, yeah. Don't take me long to settle in, feel at home, get to meet and greet, find out people's stories.”

“So how did this date go?” I stared at the door, knowing what was out there.

“The son of a bitch was like a dog after a piece a meat. Once he got the scent he was all over me. You know how they get. Pawing at your nipples, sucking on your neck.”

“How is he?” My voice was thin and uncertain.

She made a derisive little sound. “Well, his pulse is a damn sight slower.” She paused. “His pulse rate is like”—she stopped to think, then, and erupted with a gurgling laugh at her own joke—“maybe, zero.”

“But why…?” I whispered, stomach churning.

“He deserved it.”

“Did the others deserve it too?”

“They had their problems.”

“Do you?”

“Don't we all?”

“God didn't intend this for you,” I said quietly. “You're somebody's child; you must be breaking your mother's heart.”

“Don't you bring up God to me—or my mother—ever!” Her voice rose. “You got no business…. Why, I worshiped that woman. When she walked out of a room, the light went with her. She's dead. My life woulda been a whole lot different if she hadn't been taken from me when I was just a little kid.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “It must have been rough on you.”

“Happened a long time ago. I was just a little kid. Anyhow”—she sniffed impatiently—“you want the scoop on this asshole tonight or not?”

“Tell me,” I said.

“Well,” she began casually, “if you wanna eyeball this dude 'fore the circus starts, he's right where I left 'im at, far as I know. If the tide ain't washed him out while we
been chit-chattin' here. Hell.” She laughed, slow and relaxed. “He could be halfway to Cuba by now. And he ain't swimming, either.”

“Who is he?” I whispered, eyes closed.

“Nobody now. See, met him at this South Beach club. I'm already talking to somebody, but he muscles in, gets pushy. Tries doping my drink, then wants me to walk down the beach with him in the moonlight. Only he ain't much on walking and there ain't no moon, 'cept for his own fat ass. Wants to stop and get it on at one-a the cabanas at the Sea Sprite.

“We got what we wanted. Him first. Then it's my turn. He seen the gun—you ever see a fat man run? Really comical. Arms swinging back and forth like he's running fast but his legs and ass ain't keeping up?”

“Nobody heard you?”

“If they did, they didn't check it out. Everybody's inside, air conditioners blastin' this time-a year, I guess. He was huffing and puffing too much to do a lotta yelling, and we wuz down by the water where the breakers boom. God, I love the ocean,” she said dreamily. “Shot 'im through a cushion from one-a the lounges. Muffled the noise some. I have to say, despite the conditions, I'm a helluva shot. So that's it. There's your story. Gotta go now. Places to go, people to see.”

“Wait! When can I interview you?”

She paused. “I may be a fool for askin', but ain't that what we just done?”

“No, I want your story. You, your background, what you're thinking, how this all began and why. Your side.”

“Maybe later. Gotta go. Why don'chu head on down to the beach by the Sea Sprite and check 'im out?”

She hung up. I scrambled from my bed and dashed barefoot to the door. Stepping gingerly into the jasmine-scented night I stared out into the darkness, then trotted toward the street, straining to see. Nobody at the pay
phone on the corner, no car leaving, no footsteps retreating.

An electric current of fear surged through me as some small nocturnal creature skittered through the cherry hedge. I backed toward my door. I hadn't noticed before that the streetlight at the curb was out, plunging the block even deeper into darkness on this moonless night.

I retreated inside and bolted the door. Call return said only that the killer had called me from a “private number.”

I punched in the number for Miami dispatch.

“Patch me through to Detective Ojeda!” I told the operator, breathless. “This is an emergency!”

“Your IBM number?”

“I'm not a police officer. This is Britt Montero from the
Miami News.”

She paused. “He's not on duty. You have to talk to PIO.”

“No, no, PIO is closed at this hour. Don't—” She had transferred the call. It rang in an empty office.

The Sea Sprite was only a few minutes away, at Collins and the ocean. I pulled on shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers, snatched up my notebook, and ran for the car. Bitsy, still a police dog at heart, squeezed out the door with me, scrambling into the front seat, eager for action, her exhilaration in stark contrast to the dread in my belly.

Fumbling with the phone, I dialed 911.

“Miami Beach Police. What is your emergency?”

“There's been a homicide!”

“What is your location?”

“I'm in my car, on the way to the Sea Sprite Hotel.”

“Your name?”

“Britt Montero, from the
Miami News.
”

“The media?” She sounded dubious.

“Somebody's been shot! Send a car.”

“What is the location?”

“Somewhere on the beach near the Sea Sprite.”

“What makes you think there's been a shooting?”

“I got a call. Just send a car!”

“Did you see a victim?”

“No,” I said. “Send a car! Send homicide!”

“You heard gunshots?”

“No.”

“What is that location?”

“He could still be alive, for God's sake!” I hung up, frustrated. Yet as I raced toward the recently refurbished Sea Sprite Hotel, I also felt a guilty sense of relief. This was still my story. I still led the pack.

I checked the glove compartment at the next stoplight. My gun was still there. I left it unlocked, floored the gas pedal, and ran the red light.

I parked at the foot of the street, as close as possible to the sandy beach. No police. Few people in sight, only a city street-sweeping machine grinding its way slowly up Collins Avenue. A strolling couple, arms intertwined, meandered at a distance. Overhead, a giant jet rumbled out of sight. It was impossible to see where black sea ended and fathomless sky began. A single light blinked in the distance, a freighter far out at sea.

If no dead man was here, this was a trick to lure me out alone. I took the gun with me, its dead weight uncomfortable in my waistband. “Come on, Bits,” I said, comforted by the sound of my own voice and her company.

We trotted up the stairs to the boardwalk, paused to scan the beach, then jogged down the other side. I moved quickly toward the water, eyes straining, relying on Bitsy to bark if someone was waiting.

In the dunes, I nearly stumbled over lovers on a blanket, in lusty flagrante delicto, naked bodies glistening in the dim light from the hotels and condos behind them. The one on top cursed. The other man gave a small startled yelp.

“Sorry,” I said, and kept moving.

I spotted the lounge cushion first, discarded in a patch of sea oats, burn marks radiating from a jagged hole in
the center. Then, at the edge of the surf, where breaking waves foamed across hard packed sand, I saw a smooth curve of pale skin, like the carcass of a beached sea creature tossed earthward by the sea. The man's trousers, attached to only one ankle, were already afloat, swept back and forth by the action of the waves. The incoming tide had cleansed the blood from his head wound, which now resembled a grotesque third eye in the center of his forehead. Bitsy stopped two feet from the corpse. Daintily avoiding getting her paws wet, she watched me over her shoulder, waiting expectantly.

I used the cell phone, scooped up my dog, and ran back the way we came.

“You should get dressed,” I told the lovers. “The police are coming.”

 

Ojeda, Simmons, and two burly task-force detectives were furious. Not only was I already at the scene, but so was Lottie and the Miami Beach police, who had also called in the FBI, even though the feds had not assumed jurisdiction. The victim, and possible clues important to the case, were saved from the tide, but not from the first two cops to arrive. Tracking through existing footprints, they caught the dead man's ankles and dragged him halfway up the beach. One picked up the lounge cushion I had been careful not to touch, handed it to another, who lobbed it to a third, who tossed it to the newly arrived sergeant, who stashed it in the trunk of his cruiser.

Lottie had appeared, hair wild, sans makeup, minutes after I called her. I shivered in the T-Bird, despite the 94-degree predawn temperature, replaying in my mind what the killer said about McDonald, Lance Westfell, and me. Only the detectives would hear the tapes tonight, but transcripts would be made and circulated through that rumor mill of a department. Copies would go to other law enforcement agencies, including the Beach. They would become part of police, prosecution, and state court records,
accessible to other reporters. The transcript could be published nationwide. I thought about McDonald, returning from D.C., hoping to be appointed major. I thought about his career and mine, and our reputations.