Miami, It's Murder (18 page)

“Don't you think you have an obligation to the truth?” I demanded, as he gasped and massaged the spot between his eyebrows. “Don't you feel guilty about misleading your passengers?”

“No and no,” he said, and leaned toward me across the small table. “You know better than most of us that the truth can be too mean. Think these people spending their last buck for some fun and good memories want to hear about the rapist you're writing about? Or grim, depressing facts? Nah. They get that on the news every night back home. Money's tight, they want to play. Give 'em a break. Let 'em take home a few good stories. You're the one with the obligation to be absolutely accurate, the five W's or whatever,” he said, gesturing broadly. “Not me. I'm entertainment. These people are blowing big bucks on a vacation. My job is to make it memorable. That's my obligation.” His righteous smile melted my disapproval. Or maybe it was the daiquiri. I knew what he meant about cold, hard truth. That's why I was here. I wanted a vacation from the truth myself. But what he did was still unethical, I thought.

“You work this hard at making everything memorable?”

His piercing eyes met mine. “Character flaw. I'm a unrepentant perfectionist. What about you, Britt?”

I knew he was coming on to me, but I felt a tightness in my chest and a tingle below the waist. I sucked my upper lip and gazed into my glass to suppress a silly grin.

“You probably deserve the Academy Award,” I admitted grudgingly. “The Pelican Island story is excellent. Of course, you know there was no Capone shootout in Miami?”

He nodded. “Sure, but what's a Capone story without machine guns?”

We rode south in his convertible, top down, my hair streaming in the wind, the night soft and steamy around us. We ate dinner at a seafood restaurant in north Largo. We danced to island music with a throbbing drumbeat. Curt was built like an athlete, with narrow hips and the natural grace of a man comfortable in his own body. He had a lot more warmth and rhythm than one would expect from a Scandinavian sailor type. He held me close as we slow-danced, and I closed my eyes, blocking out every troubling thought about my job, every disturbing vision, every fear. Except for one embarrassing moment when he buried his face in my hair. “What is that?” he asked, sniffing. “Some kind of conditioner? Smells like salad dressing.”

Later he took me to my car parked back at Bayside and we necked and petted like teenagers in the vast darkness of the nearly empty parking garage. He was very warm and sexy—as far as it went. And I wanted it to go further but was suddenly startled in his embrace, certain I heard a sly footfall in the shadows around us. “What was that?” I said fearfully, eyes straining. “Somebody's out there.”

He blinked, gazing around sleepily. “Nothing,” he murmured in my ear. “You always this jumpy?” Maybe the sound was my subconscious stepping on the brakes, I thought. Caution and common sense prevailed, as I pried my body loose from his and insisted on going home. Before I did, Curt insisted that I agree to an unscheduled night cruise aboard the
Dancer
, as his only passenger. “Nothing like it,” he promised. “We can anchor out there alone in the middle of the bay, under a full moon. Wait till you see how it looks on the water.”

Sounded dangerous to me: bad, mad, and damn good.

I promised to think about it. He said he'd check to see when the next full moon was due and let me know.

I drove home as though in a drugged stupor, yearning for sleep, even if it was alone. As I dropped my clothes and slid into bed, my thoughts, strangely enough, centered around Kendall McDonald and the comfort we had found in each other's arms until our careers tore us apart.

My mini-vacation faded fast the next morning. My phone messages, some computerized and printed out, others handwritten by a city-desk clerk, were waiting. The initial flood of calls on the rapist was down to a trickle. The last pink message slip bore a cryptic note.
Caller says “Maybe a blonde next time.”
That was it, no name or number. I squinted at the words a second time as chills rippled up and down my arms. No, I thought hopefully. It can't be.

I showed it to Gloria, the city-desk clerk. “Did you take this one?”

“No.” She looked up at me, her black eyes curious.

“Who did?” Day and time had been left blank, as was the space the message taker should have initialed.

Gloria studied it. “If it came in today, it could be the new intern who sat in while I took a break, or anybody on the city desk.”

“This could be important,” I said urgently. Gloria's eyes fell again to the words on the slip of paper. I realized that the content certainly didn't make it appear important. But Gloria is a champ. She takes me at my word.

“That could be Gretchen's printing,” she said finally.

“Oh, no,” I moaned.

Gretchen peered at the message slip as though I was proffering a doggie turd. “I wouldn't know, Britt.”

“It could be important. Surely if you took such an unusual message you'd remember.” The more I sputtered toward meltdown, the more vague she became.

Her blue eyes were bland. “Maybe I did…”

“You remember what the caller sounded like? What time of the day or night it came in? Did it come in on my line or the city desk? Did the caller say anything else?”

“Britt, I have a great many responsibilities, and message taking is not one of them.” Gretchen used the tone of an exasperated parent addressing an unruly child. “If I happened to pick up the phone and take a message, as a favor to you—”

“It was a man, right?”

“Yes.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Not that I recall.” Her voice grew impatient.

“When did it come in?”

“Britt.” She looked amused and slightly annoyed. “I am much too busy for this.”

“Gretchen, who do you think this was?”

She blinked and shrugged. “Some friend of yours.”

“No, Gretchen. The Downtown Rapist.”

She reacted with a slight start, but her voice was patronizing. “Why ever would you think that, Britt?”

I inhaled a deep breath, fighting frustration. “He has written to us, remember? And you do recall our last story? On his most recent victim?” Still no comprehension. “The
dark-haired
computer expert?”

Gretchen scrutinized the message again. I read it aloud. “
Maybe a blonde next time
.” I watched the light bulb flick on. “That's right, Gretchen. You're a blonde, I'm a blonde.”

I took it to Fred's office. “Think we should report this to the police?” he asked, perplexed.

“I don't know. What do we tell them? If Gretchen had at least bothered to note the exact date and time of the call,” I said sullenly, “or if she could remember anything distinctive about him or his voice. But this,” I said, displaying the note, “gives them nothing more to go on, nothing new. It could be anybody trying to be funny or playing a sick joke. Wish I'd been here when the call came in, then we'd know. Somebody should teach that woman how to take a proper message.”

Fred waved off my pout. “That's not her job. More important, Britt, do you think it could be a personal threat against you?”

“Probably not.” There in the light of day beneath fluorescent bulbs, high on the fifth floor in the busy newsroom with headline writers to the left, sports department jocks to the right, and security manning the lobby, this anonymous message was nothing more sinister than a scrap of paper. Although some still, small voice inside me wondered how I would feel about it when I was home alone at midnight.

But I had some pride and certainly didn't want to acquire a crybaby reputation. I still remembered the jokes and derision directed at a reporter for the Spanish edition after he received what he thought was a telephoned threat. He had insisted that the paper send him to lie low in Puerto Rico for a few weeks and demanded Wackenhut bodyguards for a month after his return.

I still stuck to the theory that people who call are only trying to scare you. Succumb, and you have played into their hands. There are still people at the
News
who swear it's a mistake to put a woman on the police beat. No point playing into their hands either.

“No big deal,” I said jauntily, and turned back toward the newsroom.

“Well, watch yourself.”

“For sure,” I said, and smiled reassuringly. But who, I wondered, is watching the rapist?

I called Harry, who had news from the crime lab. No surprise, the preliminary DNA tests on the envelope indicated that the rapist wrote the letter. Harry wasn't enthusiastic about Marianne Rhodes going public either. “But it's her choice,” he said grimly.

For a moment, I felt tempted to tell him about the telephone message Gretchen took, but to what point? If the same man called again and convinced me he was the rapist and not simply a crank, then I would report it.

Ryan went to the cafeteria for a snack, and I persuaded him to bring me back coffee. When he leaned over to place it on my desk, he stopped and sniffed loudly. Then he did it again.

“What's that in your hair, Britt?”

“Never mind.”

“You been out on a raid with the cops again?”

I turned to look at him. “No, why?”

“Smells like marijuana,” he said softly, closing his eyes, leaning into my hair, and inhaling deeply.

“Oh, Ryan,” I snapped, pushing him away.

“No offense.” He smiled, backing off. “I like it.”

I drank my coffee and dialed Detective Orestes Diaz at the county for the results of Farrington's postmortem. After whacking concrete with little hammers for hours, doctors had found that, like his wife eighteen years earlier, Farrington was shot in the head before being encased in cement. His death had been ruled a homicide.

The body slid down between the pillar's steel reinforcing rods after he fell or was pushed from the catwalk. He would have remained dead center, at the heart of the column, but the rush and weight of flowing concrete had forced him between the rods and up against the inside edge of the plywood form. The detective had been right. Farrington might easily have remained missing forever.

“Sure it wasn't suicide?”

“No gun, and believe me we looked. And he was popped in the back of the skull, just like his wife. I got a copy of the old file from the city. Detective over there did a helluva job back then. Sketches, diagrams, everything. This case was a carbon copy.”

“Think it was a coincidence, that maybe the killer wasn't even aware of the first murder?”

“There are no coincidences in homicide cases.”

“Then you think it's retaliation, some kind of street justice? You looking at the dead woman's family? But why would they wait so long to take revenge? And then make it so obvious? They could have shot him on the street and made it look like a robbery.” I was puzzled, thinking aloud.

“You forget, Britt, he wasn't supposed to be found. Only Farrington and his killer were supposed to know.”

“What caliber was the bullet?”

“We want to withhold that information,” Diaz said.

“Why?” I said impatiently.

“Because if the killer reads it in the newspaper he might dispose of the gun, and we want to catch him with it.”

I sighed. Made no sense to me. Killers all watch television, and they all know about ballistics. If the murderer intended to dispose of the weapon he had already done so. Other criminals develop an attachment for certain guns and will keep them no matter what. But we had fought this argument before, in other cases, and Diaz remained adamant.

“Did he have any other injuries? What was in his pockets? Was he robbed? Had he been drinking? Think they might have met in a bar? Did you check the construction crew to see if somebody who worked with him might—”

“Britt, you're getting way ahead of me and I got to go,” Diaz said impatiently. “He still had his wallet and ID, some cash, was wearing a Rolex. Other injuries were minor, probably from when he went from the catwalk down into the form. That's all I can tell you now. Later.” And he hung up.

I went to the library for the Farrington file, which I had returned after the initial story. Onnie was relieved to see me. She looked perky in a smart sand-color slack set, her dusky makeup flawless, small gold hoops in her ears.

She was humming and seemed happy. I found her cheerfulness annoying but kept it to myself. The Farrington clips had been refiled, and she used a stepstool to reach up into the
F
's. As she stepped down in the close quarters between the shelves and handed me the envelope, she sniffed several times and looked puzzled. “What kind of shampoo you using, Britt?”

“It's not shampoo,” I said. Hell, it was only thirty-six hours, still thirty-six to go.

“Hairspray?”

“Don't ask. It's a long story.”

“Smells like salad or soup seasoning.” She shrugged and hummed some upbeat Tina Turner song. I wondered why I don't confide more in friends. The only person I spill everything to is Lottie, and that is only because she either guesses without my telling or torments me until I do. I wondered how Onnie would react if I told her about the herbs in my hair or the
resguardo
dangling from my underwear at that very moment.

I wrote the Farrington follow-up, focusing on the eerie resemblance between his death and the murder police had accused him of eighteen years earlier.

I transmitted the story, printed out a hard copy for my own files, and stuffed it into the bottom drawer of my desk where I keep my printouts and notes. My system is simple. When the drawer is too full to close, I sort and file the contents in a squat two-drawer cabinet file next to my desk.

Tired and edgy, I had slept little the night before and wanted only to escape the office before somebody out there somewhere started shooting at something or somebody and I wound up working all night.

The phone rang and I snatched it up with a feeling of foreboding. The strange voice was male and angry.

“This is Ronald DeAngelo.”

It took a moment to compute that he was the man now married to Mary Berh's mother. The man who operated the fluorescent bulb factory in Hialeah. “Yes, Mr. DeAngelo.”

“I have just become aware that you have been out here harassing my wife.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. “I don't think harassment is the word, Mr. DeAngelo.”

“It's also been brought to my attention that you are attempting to discredit our candidate for governor, Mr. Fielding, an old friend of the family.”

“I'm afraid you have the wrong impression—”

“I'm putting you on notice that I consider this a threat to the safety and well-being of my family. My attorney has advised me that this is a gross invasion of privacy.” His voice grew more heated.

“It involves an unsolved murder,” I said calmly.

“To bring up painful history and use it against innocent people is an invasion of our privacy. I warn you, I will take any steps necessary to protect my family.”

I wanted to ask if his wife had remembered the name of the only witness, Mary Beth's playmate, but this did not seem like the right moment. It was too late anyway; he had hung up.

I reached for the phone to call him back, to assure him that the last thing I intended to do was to cause his family pain, and then remembered that the number was unlisted.

As I stood to leave, the night city-desk clerk handed me a message that had come in while I was on the phone. Marianne Rhodes had left word that it was urgent.

I sighed and dialed the number. Three times, it was busy. On the fourth try she answered immediately, her words loud and slurred.

“Do you know anything, Britt? The police aren't telling me a thing,” she pleaded. “Detective Arroyo isn't even returning my calls.”

“He's probably out in the field,” I said gently. “I'm sure he'll let you know right away if there are any developments.”

“Those bastards aren't doing anything! They've botched the investigation. They're going to let him get away with it.” She sounded fragile, about to shatter.

“They've got lots of manpower on it,” I assured her. “They're working the case really hard.”

“Not from what I hear! And you, you didn't even have a story today.” Her voice was accusatory.

“Because there were no new developments. Have you had any rest?”

“Can't sleep,” she muttered.

“Did the doctor give you anything?”

“I hate taking pills. A friend of mine heard that one of the other victims has been on all kinds of medication since it happened and is walking around like a zombie.”

“You have to get some sleep,” I told her, thinking I could use some myself.

“I've been drinking too much,” she acknowledged remorsefully. “It's the only thing that helps.”

“You have to go on, get on with your life.”

“What life? What life?” The words were a sob of anguish. “I can't go back to my job, which was the best one I ever had. I drove away the only man who ever loved me.” I heard ice tinkling as she paused to gulp from a glass.

“Ben? Your fiancé?”

“That's right, that son of a bitch. He couldn't take it. Who could? I have to keep going back for exams of my throat and my private parts to see if he gave me VD.”

I winced. “Do your parents live here?”

“Yeah, Cutler Ridge.”

“Why don't you stay with them for a while?”

“I can't stand being around them. All they do is look at me and cry.”