Miami, It's Murder (24 page)

“Look, Britt, I've been absolutely straight with you. Like always. I couldn't care more for you if you were my own kid. I know you have to do what you have to do. If our positions were reversed it would be the same thing. Do me one favor?”

“If I can.”

“Give me a week. Sit on it for one week. It won't be any less of a story.” His hands were clasped, eyes pleading.

I swallowed hard, eyes watery. “Can't do it, Daniel.”

He reached over and pushed the recorder's
STOP
button, eyes grim. “Say you've got more reporting to do. Tell your editors it'll take you longer than you thought to write. One last favor for an old friend. We go back a long time. Trust me, Britt. I'm just asking for a week.”

“I can't. My editors already know about it.”

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “You know all hell is gonna break loose when it hits the street. You always were stubborn. Always had to do things your way.”

“I'm sorry.” I held back the tears.

“You're just doing your job,” he said wanly. “That's something I always liked about you, kid. You were always pushing, looking for the truth, reaching for the light.” Slowly, he got to his feet. “More coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

He took my empty mug anyway.

He returned from the kitchen with two full mugs and set one in front of me. He lifted his to his lips. “What's the matter?” he asked, as I hesitated. “You don't trust me?”

“We've been friends too long not to trust each other,” I said, raising the cup.

The coffee was strong and good.

“You still carry your gun?” I asked.

“Nope. Only when I have to use it.”

“Where do you keep it?”

He turned in his chair, opened a drawer in the sideboard against the dining room wall, lifted out a worn leather shoulder holster, unsnapped it, and withdrew the weapon. He placed it gently on the table, gleaming dark-blue steel, a handsome well-polished weapon, a tool for those who dispense justice. I imagined how it had looked to Farrington and Creech.

I reached across the table, touching his hand. “Dan, can I take the gun with me?”

“No. But don't worry, I won't get rid of it. And I won't eat it if that's what you're afraid of.” His smile had no humor.

“Promise you won't try to hurt yourself.”

“I wouldn't do that, and I'm telling you true.” His eyes were steady.

I finished my coffee and he walked me to the door.

“So the story's gonna run Sunday?”

“As far as I know,” I said.

“I'll need a lawyer,” he said matter-of-factly. “What can they do to me? The death penalty? Sentence me to life? Nobody else sees the story till then?”

“Nobody outside of me and my editors and Mark, the paper's lawyer. I may have questions as I'm writing. Is it okay to call you?”

“Any time. I'll be here, Britt.”

We hugged. I caught my breath and stepped out into the scalding sunlight. He's not afraid, I thought. He knows his life is ending, and he doesn't care.

The news meeting took place in a conference room. Fred, several assistant city editors, the managing editor, the state editor, the photo editor, the national editor, and Mark Seybold, the paper's in-house lawyer, attended.

They were elated by Dan's staggering admissions and by the fact that the police still had no clue that two of the three deaths were murders, much less by the same man, one of their own. I didn't share their exuberance.

“Will he pose for pictures?” asked Joe Hall, the photo editor.

I hated the thought. “We have a good one taken about two years ago when he broke that murder-for-hire case,” I offered. “The one where the husband hired a hit man to kill his wife through a magazine ad.”

I liked that photo: Dan, strong and in charge at the microphone at a press conference, the chief standing behind him.

“But we should have something new. Especially since you say he looks so different now,” Hall said.

“He looks terrible,” I said. “His heart is failing.” This meeting was much more difficult than I had imagined.

“Let's get art of him at home,” Fred said decisively. “You can talk him into it, Britt.”

“Well,” I said, uncertainly. “He knows Lottie. He'd probably agree if she was the photographer.”

“Any chance he'll run or kill himself before we get into print?” the managing editor asked.

“I don't think so,” I said, exhausted. “He promised he wouldn't. Where would he go? He's been straight about everything else.”

“What if he dies?” somebody asked.

“Then we've got a deathbed confession,” Fred replied.

This whole scenario seemed unreal, in a spacious conference room, bright sky and bay dominating the picture windows, discussing Dan's life and death with strangers who didn't know him, like he was a slab of meat, simply story fodder. He would never mean more to them than a Sunday headline.

“Worse, what if he picks up the phone and confesses to his old buddies in the department? Or spills it all to some TV reporter before we run the story?” asked the news editor.

“If investigators showed up, he wouldn't lie, but he won't call them—and I'm the only reporter he talks to.” My voice sounded as weary as I felt. “He doesn't like TV.”

“What are the chances of his hurting anybody else?” asked Mark, eyes thoughtful behind the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses.

“Not when he knows we know. Besides, the guy's in bad shape,” Fred said. He turned to me for confirmation.

“His feet and ankles are so swollen he couldn't even put his shoes on today,” I said in a hushed voice. “He had to take a couple of nitro pills while I was there.”

“Think it's true he didn't kill that German guy, the first one?” The news editor's eyes were narrow and suspicious.

“Yes. He says Steiner's accident gave him the idea.”

“Maybe he's been doing this for years, all along, while he was still carrying a badge,” said the state editor, a man I have never liked. “Who knows how many he's killed? What about his wife? Think he killed her? What did you say she died of, Britt?”

“She collapsed and died on the street of an aneurysm. He loved her very much. He's not a monster. He was a good cop, an honest-to-God hero who worked hard all his life.”

Something in my tone of voice, or in my eyes, made him glance away and shut his mouth.

“A good cop.” Fred nodded. “That's what makes this such a great story.”

“We should call the cops for reaction,” the managing editor said.

“If we do they may move fast, to defuse the impact of the story,” Fred said.

“Right. Remember how the chief scooped us and called a press conference in the Brown case?” the news editor said. “That son of a bitch.”

Muttered resentment echoed around the table.

“We can't give him that chance,” the news editor said.

“Let's run it in the state edition, then have Britt call him for comment before the final.”

“Yeah, he can't get the jump on us once it's already in the paper,” Fred said. They all made sounds of agreement.

Fred turned to me. “Start writing, Britt. See if we can get art of the victims, Steiner as well, and set up art of Dan. We need the story as early as possible so we can look at it before leaving tonight.”

“It's gonna take some time,” I said reluctantly. “We'll need space. I want to do a sidebar on the big homicide cases Dan has solved over the years.”

“Good idea. But do the main first.”

I wanted readers to know how much more there was to the man and his life than just this summer. Reporting Dan's achievements was not only fair, it was the right thing to do.

“I'll be in promptly at ten in the morning to go over the copy,” Mark told me.

“What do you think will happen to Flood after it runs?” Fred said. The editors, scraping back their chairs, paused.

“He's stoic,” I said quietly. “Homicide will go into high gear because of the publicity. Detectives from the city and the county will surely meet with the state attorney and the medical examiner on Monday. They'll probably bring Dan in for questioning by Tuesday, Wednesday at the latest. I guess he'll be arrested and charged with murder…” My voice trailed off. Fred's sharp glance forced me to continue. “They'll book him, but they won't put him in general population because as a cop he'd be in danger. It'll probably be a single safety cell near the nurse, where he can be watched because of his health.”

I felt a catch in my throat. Saying it aloud made Dan's future real and imminent. It was impossible to envision him behind bars like the criminals he had put away for years. “Maybe his doctor will get involved,” I said, “and they'll put him in the hospital. If his lawyer creates enough delays he'll never stand trial because of his physical condition. His life is over either way.”

The room was silent.

“That's why he did it,” somebody said. “A last hurrah.”

“Hell of a story,” somebody else muttered.

“I'm glad it's ours,” Fred said. “Nice work, Britt.”

I forced a smile.

Heavyhearted, I returned to my desk and reread all the old clips on Dan, the clips on all the cases, and my own notes before beginning. A rough version of the story was in the system by 6
P
.
M
. and the sidebar by 7:30.

I thought about calling Dan to set up his picture but put it off. Onnie found mug shots that had run when Dieter Steiner and Benjamin Farrington were arrested. She also came up with a more recent likeness of Farrington, lifted from a group shot that had appeared in the business section.

We needed one of Creech, but I couldn't reach Ruby by phone and wondered if she had already left town. Onnie pulled the picture file of Darlene Fiskus, the murdered niece, and hit pay dirt: a news photo of the victim's family, shot near the site where her body was found. The mother was weeping, face in her hands, her husband's arms around her. Uncle Dirty, wearing a plaid shirt and a baseball cap, face averted from their pain, seemed to be gazing into the distance. He looked guilty as hell in retrospect.

I would go home, I decided, get some rest, and come in early to reread the story with fresh eyes before Mark arrived at 10
A
.
M
. Then I would call Dan to ask any final questions and set up his appointment with Lottie for about eleven. I knew he would want to shave and dress for the picture. Any photo Lottie took would be less demeaning for later use than a police mug shot with a number under his chin.

Lottie and I talked about it back in photo, before I went home.

“Damn it to hell, Britt, you were right. A-course, they probably should pin a medal on the man. Betcha somebody starts a Dan Flood Defense Fund.”

“A lot of people will feel that way,” I said bitterly. “We all want to rid the world of scumbags. Why didn't he just deny everything or refuse to talk to me?”

“Time's running out on him,” she said. “Instead of just sitting home and waiting to die alone, he did something he thought he had to do and he's man enough to own up to it. Now he'll be back in the system, on the other side. But at least the system is something he knows. The devil you know is better than the devil you don't know.”

I sighed, wondering where it would end. “I'll call him in the morning to say you're coming over.”

“Sure, long as we do it by two o'clock or so, no problem.”

At home, I took Bitsy out for a while, then took a long walk alone on the boardwalk, watching the light fade. Later I busied myself with a load of laundry and mindless household chores, trying not to think.

When I finally slept, I dreamed in headlines and bad news-speak: predawn fires, shark-infested waters, steamy tropical jungles, the solid south, mean streets, and densely wooded areas, populated by the ever-present lone gunman, fiery Cuban, deranged Vietnam veteran, Panamanian strongman, fugitive financier, bearded dictator, slain civil rights leader, grieving widow, struggling quarterback, cocaine kingpin, drug lord, troubled youth, and embattled mayor totally destroyed by Miami-based, bullet-riddled, high-speed chases, uncertain futures, and deepening political crises sparked by massive blasts, brutal murders, badly decomposed, benign neglect, and blunt trauma. I woke up nursing a dull headache and swallowed two aspirins before brushing my teeth.

While dressing, I stared in the mirror and slowly removed my necklace of red and white beads. About time you grew up, I told myself, and dropped it onto my dresser, where it lay coiled like a snake. I put the
resguardo
in a drawer and slammed it shut. On second thought, I reopened it, took the talisman out, and dropped it in the garbage, enjoying a sense of power over my own destiny. The danger from strangers is over, I thought. The people who can hurt you most are the ones you care about.

The radio broadcast sinister storm warnings and a tornado watch up and down the coast as I drove to the office, but the sky over Miami was hot, muggy, and clear as a bell.

I took a Danish and Cuban coffee to my desk and scrolled through the story several times, making minor fixes. At about nine, I dialed Dan's number. He usually answered quickly, but not this time. I dialed again, letting it ring, nine, ten, eleven times. No answer. He might be in the shower or out in the yard. He could have gone out for breakfast, I thought, or to the store.

I dialed back in twenty minutes. Then again at ten o'clock. Other reporters, editors, library staffers, and the city-desk clerk were drifting into the newsroom. As I read through the sidebar, my phone rang. Lottie wanted to know if I had made the assignment yet.

“He's not answering his phone. I'm worried.”

“Keep trying,” she said. “Maybe he turned it off and slept in. He could have gone to his doctor. He could be anywhere.”

“Yeah, like on his floor unconscious. He told me he'd be there,” I said anxiously. “Maybe he—” I didn't say the words aloud.

“Don't box shadows,” Lottie said. “I have to head over to the Seaquarium to shoot the new baby manatee twins. Be back in an hour.”

I printed out the stories for Mark. Dan still didn't answer. I checked with the police desk reporter, who said there had been no rescue or police calls at Dan's address.

Ryan had come in and appeared to be quarreling with Gretchen up at the city desk; unusual since the two had been on such good terms lately. Striding back in a snit, he flung what looked like a press packet onto his desk. “Why me?” he said. “I hate this damn stuff!”

“What?” I casually swiveled in my chair.

“Politics. I'm not a political writer and I hate this stuff. Here I am, assigned to this stupid—”

“What?” It made me smile to see normally sweet, gentle Ryan as mad as hell.

“The campaign for governor,” he said, pouting. “Eric Fielding's here on a campaign swing, and I have to cover his damn speech.” He shoved a notebook into his back pocket.

I was on my feet, gripped by a feeling of dread.

“Fielding in Miami? Where?”

I snatched the packet from his hand. He misunderstood my interest.

“Want to do it, Britt? You can take it. I hate politics.”

“Where is he? When?”

“Here, at the Hilton. I have to get over there right now, if I'm going.” He checked his watch. “He's speaking at a luncheon, the Biscayne Bay Club.”

Hands shaking, I dialed Dan's number again. No answer.

“Do you want to take it or not?” Ryan looked impatient. I shook my head and he stomped toward the elevator.

Trying to stay calm, I dialed the number again, praying, letting it ring, whispering his name, willing him to answer. When I knew he wasn't going to, I panicked.

Mark was reading the printouts in Fred's office. I stuck my head in the door. “I have to go out for a while. I'll be back.”

He smiled and nodded, thumbs up, indicating that what he'd read so far was okay.

I ran down the fire stairs, berating myself for not being smarter. When he asked for another week I had assumed it was to clear up his personal affairs before all hell broke loose. What if he wanted the time to seek street justice for the murder of Mary Beth Rafferty? Hers was the open case that troubled him most over the years. How could I be so blind?

He had told me himself that he couldn't stand to see Fielding become governor.

Breathless by the time I got to my car, I burned rubber leaving the parking lot. The T-Bird ate up the miles between the
News
and Dan's house as I cursed traffic and hapless weekend drivers. Please be there, Dan, I prayed.

The Buick was gone, the driveway empty. I knocked anyway, first with my fist, then with my heavy key ring. Peering in a living room window, I saw no one, then ran around and pounded on the back door. He could be inside. A mechanic might be working on his car. Maybe someone had borrowed it. I felt along the top of the doorframe and looked beneath the mat. People who live alone often hide spare keys in case they lock themselves out.