Garden of Evil (15 page)

Fred watched from the door of his glass office. Mark Seybold was with him. I gave them the thumbs-up.

Ojeda was already on his radio reporting the location, confirming that all systems were go. Luckily, I had a pair of jeans in my locker. I changed into them, then called Mrs. Goldstein to ask her to feed and walk Bitsy and Billy Boots because I had to work late. I told Fred I'd be back by six o'clock, seven at the latest, to write for the final. There would be more reporting to do: checking out the killer's identity and background, reactions from next of kin and other police agencies. I hoped McDonald got off to a late start. This would be a long night. I'd have to start reporting for the second-day story early in the morning. Then I would be free. We could be together. It could all work out.

As we tore out of the newsroom, my phone rang. The detectives and I stared at each other, then I dashed back to catch it. Breathless, I answered.

“Britt, thank God you're there!”

I winced. Why hadn't I been faster out the door? “Althea, I'm running out right now on a really important story.”

“They tried again! They tried to kill me!” Genuine terror shook her voice.

I sank hopelessly into my chair, shaking my head at the detectives, who had started for the earphones.

“What is it?” I said impatiently. “What happened now?”

She hesitated, probably startled by my lack of sympathy. “I—I was walking into the beauty parlor. I had just stepped off the bus. My car isn't running, something with the transmission. I haven't found a buyer for the house yet, so I have to wait to get the car fixed. So I took the bus over to the beauty school downtown, the one where you get cut-rate haircuts from students in training. I hadn't ridden a bus in years, if ever. Well, it was quite an experience. Some of the—”

“Oh, God, Althea,” I said, my head dropping to my chest. “Could you please just get to the bottom line?”

“As I walked into the beauty parlor, I dropped my magazine. As I bent to pick it up, I heard a sound….”

Why me, I mourned, forehead in my hand. Would this woman ever get to the point? Ojeda and Simmons glared, gesturing at their watches, as jittery as thoroughbreds at the starting gate. Lottie was with them, carrying her equipment bag.

“…I thought it was a car backfiring. I heard glass tinkling but thought nothing of it. Well, I walked in and thought I was all alone. It looked like the place was empty. Everybody was on the floor. The window was broken. The police said it was a drive-by. Britt, it never occurred to me that what I heard was gunfire. I never even saw the car, but I heard it speed up and turn the corner. They said the only reason I wasn't killed was that the magazine slipped out of my hands—”

“Anybody hurt?”

“No.”

“What did the police say?”

“They don't believe I was the target. Lieutenant Springer was out; I was unable to reach him. They took my name and the other case numbers and said they would check it out, but, Britt, I don't think they will. They said it was teenage gangs shooting at each other. That there have been a number of drive-by shootings in that neighborhood. But I had just gotten off the bus—”

“Oh, Althea, maybe you should believe them. Things happen.”

“But Britt, they were shooting at
me
, I know it. They were!”

“Did you talk to your family?”

“My daughter?” she said uncertainly.

“Yes. What does she say?”

“That it's my fault, that I shouldn't have been in that area in the first place.”

“She's probably right.”

“No!” Althea said abruptly. “Why won't someone listen?” She paused, as though collecting her thoughts. “They say the first half of our lives is ruined by our parents and the second by our children; what about husbands? It's Richard's fault—I know he isn't doing this, but I also know that none of it would be happening if he hadn't left, if I wasn't alone, if he hadn't just walked…” She was on the verge of hysteria. I gazed beyond the newsroom out the picture windows at blue sky, swooping gulls, and shafts of light glinting off the mirror-bright face of the bay.

“Althea, maybe being lucky three times is a sign. Maybe it's over. In any case, I don't have time to go into it with you again right now. I'm working on a really major story. I'll talk to the cops about what happened if I get the chance, but really—” Ojeda frowned and called my name. “I've got to go.” I hung up before she could protest. I could listen to her later, after this was over.

My phone rang again as we left. I didn't look back.

“That former Orange Bowl queen, the one whose husband dumped her, says somebody tried to kill her again today,” I explained on the elevator. “She was nearly caught in a drive-by downtown.”

“She's sure living the perils of Pauline,” Lottie drawled.

“Ain't we all,” Ojeda said.

 

Lottie and I took our own cars, met the detectives in the lobby at headquarters, and were whisked to a war room I didn't know existed, adjacent to the fifth-floor detective bureau.

“We have an alternative,” the homicide lieutenant said in greeting. “A policewoman who resembles you from a distance can drive your car.”

“No way!” I blurted. “I set it up, made the contact. If I can get one good quote from her before you guys drag
her away in handcuffs, I want that chance.” Secretly, I hungered for more, but that was probably the best I could hope for.

“We're not in the business of catering to the newspaper's desires,” the detective commander said coldly. “We don't need your cooperation at this point. We can use any white T-Bird and do this without you.”

“Sure. What if she knows what I look like? What if she knows my tag number? What if this is a test and she calls me at the Garden? Why take a chance on spoiling it now? Let's just do it as planned. I'm the one she's talked to; she knows my voice. We made a deal. I've had detectives in my living room—”

“It's your safety and the safety of the entire operation that we're concerned about,” the commander said.

“There'd
be
no operation if it wasn't for me, and I'm following the plan to the letter,” I said.

“Right. Under no circumstances do you get creative and start improvising,” the lieutenant warned. “You absolutely do not go anywhere or get into a vehicle with her. You're covered from the moment you leave here, and we're with you, even if you don't see us. Should she approach you prematurely, before you enter, you push your hair back with your right hand, like this.” He demonstrated. “We move in the moment she identifies herself. Otherwise, you walk in, sit at a table close to the door, and order a Coke. When she approaches and identifies herself, you make the same hand signal. The cashier, the waitress, and most of the customers will be cops.”

“But she's been there and knows the place.”

“She won't have time to notice any big difference. Now, if civilians who might be endangered are present, our people might wait until it's safe or until you exit together. That'll be our judgment call. But if that happens, we take her down before you approach your car, her car, whatever. Be assured, you will never be out of our sight.”

I nodded. “Okay, but remember, the detectives talk to
me exclusively, referring the rest of the media to PIO until morning.” That was their sole concession, that others in the press would receive only a brief release while we had all the color and details.

They went over and over every last item, to the point of tedium. Using a laser pointer and a map of the neighborhood, the lieutenant indicated the positions of the
SWAT
van, the mobile command post, and a vacant lot where the bird could land if necessary. Lottie would ride with the
SWAT
commander to shoot the capture. I would wear a body bug to record any possible admissions the killer might make to me. A global positioning device would be installed so my car could be tracked by computer. Nothing was left to chance. Another uniform entered the room almost unnoticed and listened from the back. I did a double take: McDonald.

Tall, long-legged…
guapismo!
I caught my breath and wanted to go to him, touch his face, hold him. This was our time. The place was all wrong. Our glances caught. He did not smile.

“I'm aware I'm in the minority,” he said, when the captain called for comments. “But as you already know, I don't like it.”

“Your objections are noted,” the commander said.

I greeted him as the meeting broke, trying not to be conspicuous. “Didn't know you were in town,” I said.

“Just rolled in a short time ago,” he said. “See you in my office?”

I sat on a hard wooden chair in front of his desk. The familiar smell of his soap and shaving lotion left me lightheaded. He leaned forward, speaking softly. “Don't do this, Britt. It's too risky. It's not worth it.”

“I didn't know you were back.”

“I came in early, to surprise you.”

“I didn't mention this to you, because it was uncertain and I didn't want you to worry. I didn't think it would really happen.”

“It
is
happening. No story is worth dying over.”

I leaned back in my chair, crossed my legs, and wished I was wearing something more glam than old blue jeans. “You have no idea what Miami has been like with her here. The Beach is in an uproar. The whole mess with Sonny has turned the city upside down. The prosecutor's office is subpoenaing the mayor's funeral-parlor tape—”

“I tried to call you.” His eyes said more than his words.

“It was hectic. I left the office in a hurry. I'm sorry. Look, it's going down in broad daylight with every piece of hardware and backup the department can muster. The chief guaranteed my bosses that every precaution is being taken—and believe it or not, the killer likes me. She's never harmed a woman.”

“We don't know that,” he said, his hands on the desk in front of him.

“Evidently, she hates men. Probably for good reason,” I said, hoping to lighten up the conversation. “You know I can handle myself,” I said persuasively. “Your chief and my editors agreed.”

“They're fools. She's homicidal, a totally unknown quantity. Your editors and the chief don't feel the way I do.”

I knew the longing in his silvery blue eyes was mirrored in my own.

“I can't tell you how many operations we've had, where every possible precaution was taken,” he said, “and things went terribly wrong. These operations, no matter how well planned, can turn to shit in a heartbeat. You know that. Hell, you've written about some of them. There's always that unpredictable human factor. And she has nothing to lose.”

I shifted impatiently in my chair. “She targets men, not women. She relates to me. Wants me to write her story.” Why couldn't we talk about what was really important? I wondered. Us.

“Even if that's all true, and we don't know for a fact
that it is, she's more unpredictable than most serial killers. The men have been studied up, down, and inside out, giving us lots of resource material. But this female is rare, we don't know enough—”

“Which is why we need to find out. Shrinks are lining up to pick her brain. I'm as eager as they are. How many reporters ever get this sort of chance? And it's the right thing. Even the chief said there's nothing more they can do until she makes a mistake. How many more victims will die?”

“Leave it to us, Britt. We'll send in a professional. I don't want you involved.”

Why was he being so difficult? Was it my safety he was concerned about, or his ego, because I didn't tell him?

“If you had the opportunity to bring in this killer, or any other notorious fugitive,” I said, “and you were the only one who could do it, would you pass on it because I said it was too risky, that something might go wrong? No way.”

His head snapped back, as though he'd been slapped. “That makes no sense, Britt. That's my job, what I'm trained to do. You're comparing apples and oranges. This is dead serious.”

“Oh.” My voice sounded stone cold. “And my chance at a once-in-a-lifetime story is not?”

He paused, studying my face intently. “For weeks,” he said slowly, “I've wanted to be close to you.”

I thought of the champagne and how long I had waited for those words. “Tonight,” I said, yearning to reach out to him. “Later. After deadline.” Why did fate and timing always conspire against us?

“I can't dictate what you do,” he said. “I can only ask.” He watched me.

“We would have been together already,” I said, “but you stayed longer in Washington because it was important to your career. Well, what about mine? Is this how it will be, yours always more important than mine?”

I knew at once I had gone too far. I had seen this look in his eyes before, when he found me in the chaos after the hurricane—with someone else. The rival this time was a stranger.

“I can't stop you.” He rolled his chair back abruptly, as if to distance himself from me.

“I'm glad you're back. See you later?” My words sounded as shaky and as uncertain as I felt. I thought of the lacy lavender nightgown.

He blinked, then shrugged.

Sudden panic seized me as I stood up to leave. Can I live without him? I wondered. Will I have to?

“For God's sake, Britt, be careful,” he said, as I reached for the door.

“Sure,” I said, almost flippantly. “You too.”

For a moment outside his office, I hesitated, bewildered. Where was the intimacy we had shared long-distance for weeks? What was I doing? I turned to go back, but Ojeda and Simmons hailed me from across the detective bureau, their faces expectant.

“Britt, it's getting late! We gotta get it together!” They were eager to test the body bug and needed my car keys in order to plant the tracking device. There was no time to dwell on personal matters. I had an important assignment, the most important of my career.