Act of Betrayal (25 page)

The doorbell rang. The doorman. “I have to go now,” she said briskly. “I'll call you later, dear.”

“No,” I said, opening the door. I smiled at the middle-aged man in uniform. “Sorry. She doesn't need you now. I'll help her downstairs with her things.” I closed the door before either of them could object.

“Because you refuse to help me and keep playing games,” I told her, my rage mounting, “I wound up nearly deafened, within an inch of being arrested or killed, running around with Jorge Bravo, trailing after Juan Carlos Reyes, finding a dead body, and being humiliated in front of cops I have to deal with every day, and even fading into the arms of a man I scarcely know—all because of you!”

Her expression softened. “There's a new man in your life?”

“That is not what this is about.” My voice shook. “If you ever want to see me again, you'd better start answering some questions!”

“Ask!” Her eyes glittered with anger.

“What the hell was your relationship with Reyes?”

“How dare you pry into my personal life!”

“And what's the story on the earrings?”

She jerked her chin up stubbornly. “They were a gift-”

“I gathered that. From whom?”

“I don't know.” Her eyes searched the room, as if for a means of escape. “Reyes gave them to me, saying they were from your father. Supposedly Tony slipped them to him in Cuba, asking him to deliver them to me if he didn't get out. I never believed it for a moment.”

“Why?”

She raised her neatly penciled eyebrows. “For one thing, they're for pierced ears. Tony knew my ears aren't pierced—and that they were not the sort of thing I would ever wear.” Her classic nose wrinkled delicately.

Typical, I thought. I loved them.

“I just assumed that Reyes felt sorry for an abandoned widow with a child and was being kind, or trying to ingratiate himself for some other reason, such as seduction. You know how men move in on women who seem vulnerable. And why would Tony Montero send a gift to a woman he had left?”

“Perhaps because he intended to come back,” I said quietly.

“That's the sort of naive remark that turns my stomach! Why do you keep making me miserable by dredging up the unhappy past?” she lashed out furiously. “I'm out of here.” She swung the garment bag back over her shoulder.

“Did you have an affair with Reyes?”

She glared at me. “We had dinner a few times. Danced. I was young, lonely. No.”

“Did my father work for the CIA?”

She looked startled, then shrugged. “Not that I know of, but of course I was the last to ever know anything.”

“Winslow was an agent. When was the last rime you saw him?”

“Thirty years or so ago,” she snapped. “I really have to leave now.” She took a step toward the door that I still blocked.

“Did you ever see or hear from him again after my fathers death?”

She thought for a moment, then erupted as though agitated by whatever she remembered. “No, I don't think so, but I don't care! I don't give a shit about any of this. Your father was a bastard and it's a pity you take after him. I'm out of here! You can stay if you like! Just lock the door when you leave.”

She pushed by me, red in the face. I didn't try to stop her. I didn't help with her luggage either. She picked up the suitcase and left, dragging the garment bag behind her.

She didn't even say good-bye.

When I was sure she was gone, I turned the deadbolt, checked her address book, and rummaged through her neatly kept desk. Then I checked her bedroom closets. Nothing from the past. The gold earrings were in a junk jewelry box on her dresser. I scooped them up and slipped them into my pocket. They were mine. My eighteenth-birthday gift. I wanted to call Hal or Kendall McDonald, or somebody, for a kind word. Instead I drove back to the paper.

The newsroom was hectic for this time of the day. Stalled over the straits and fueled by the warm water, the storm had built and was now a category five and on the move, according to the latest advisory. Barreling north, with winds exceeding 155 miles an hour, it was skirting the coast and bypassing the Keys, which were being hit by outer edge gales, rain bands, and tornadoes. The big news was that the storm was traveling at nearly twenty miles an hour, twice the normal speed of a storm that size, and was accelerating.

The hurricane watch had been hurriedly upgraded to a hurricane warning, meaning that a storm is expected within the next twenty-four hours.

“If you have to, go secure your homes and your families, then get back in here as quick as you can,” Fred told the staff in a hasty newsroom meeting. “I'll be calling in everybody who's off. This thing could reach here a lot sooner than anybody expected.”

I had no messages from Farmer or the detectives. I called the FBI office. Farmer was in.

“Hey,” I said, “find out anything?”

He sounded harried and in a hurry. “Good news and bad news,” he said. “The good news is, I found Winslow.”

My heart beat faster. He had to talk to me.

“The bad news is, he's dead.”

“What happened?”

“Retired early, apparently an alcohol problem he couldn't control. Five years ago he was coming out of a bar in Alexandria, Virginia, and was shot to death. Apparently a robbery. Never solved. His daughter still lives up there.”

“What's her name?”

There were noises and voices in the background. He seemed distracted. “You need that?”

I said I did. “What's going on there?”

“A storm's on the way,” he said irritably. “We're trying to secure this place and move all the files to upper floors.”

“The daughter's name?”

“Okay, don't tell her where you got it. Meredith Jessup, at, uh … Sorry, I tossed it. She's listed under her husband's name. Simon. A Worthington Avenue address.”

I tried the detectives again, without any luck.

“You still here?” Fred said, pacing by my desk and looking impatiently at his watch.

The usual drive home took forty minutes instead of ten. Bridges were opening, bringing road traffic to a standstill in order to let high-masted boats through. The roads were becoming a nightmare, and it had only just begun.

I thought of my hurricane supplies, left untouched from year to year, bottled water and a few outdated cans of tuna. I had plenty of pet food but needed to stock up on candles, batteries, bread, and ice. The Publix parking lot was full but I found a space on the street nearby when another car pulled out.

I walked into my supermarket and stood still in shock.

Bedlam reigned. Most counters were already empty. The bread was gone, the bottled water and batteries were gone. They were already out of ice. Frantic shoppers, panic buyers, carts piled high with anything and everything, were rushing through the store, several fighting bitterly over the last few cans of soft drinks. I wanted to grab half a dozen ten-pound sacks of Kitty Litter to sandbag my front door just in case, but it was too chaotic I'd never get out of there.

I turned and walked out with nothing. Car horns blared, tempers flared, and there were two fender benders in the parking lot. Several drivers were jockeying for my space as I pulled out. I didn't stay to referee.

Mr. Goldstein and Seth had nearly all the hurricane shutters in place. Seth was practically giddy with excitement.

“It's really coming, Britt!”

“Not necessarily,” I said calmly. “It could still veer off and bypass us altogether.

“Are you going to evacuate?” I asked his grandfather. Miami Beach, a narrow island, has no storm shelters. One must go to the mainland and then rely on the “authorities” to decide when and if you can return home. That might be days, if the storm did hit.

He nodded. “If the next advisory doesn't show some big change. My wife is packing up some things now. What are you going do about Bitsy and Billy Boots?” he said.

Shelters do not admit pets.

“I don't know.” If there was a crisis, I wanted the animals with me.

“We're not going to a public shelter,” Mr. Goldstein offered. “We have a niece at Country Walk, in the southwest section. That's pretty far inland, a relatively new development. It should be safe. We can take them with us.”

I hated to send them, but as he had said, it didn't hurt to be prepared. “I'll put their carriers by the door along with their food,” I said gratefully.

I did so, adding Billy's new catnip toy and a chew bone for Bitsy. I still believed it would not happen, that this was all a drill like every other hurricane season in my memory. South Florida would breathe a sigh of relief at the next advisory and then go on as before, except that the people who sell batteries and bottled water would be a bit richer.

I filled the bathtub and some water jugs, set the freezer and fridge at their coldest levels, and unplugged all the other appliances. I tossed my flashlight, portable radio, the few batteries I could find, my toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, deodorant, a change of underwear, a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, socks, and a granola bar in a canvas bag. My fire department boots and another pair of Reeboks were already in the trunk of the T-Bird. Bitsy watched, subdued, from beneath a chair but Billy Boots was pacing, agitated and meowing.

How annoying this whole damn thing was. The timing couldn't be worse. I wondered about Winslow, the only person who could have filled in the gaps, who could tell me what I wanted to know. Damn, why did he have to be an alcoholic?

I kissed the Goldsteins, fought off Seth, who begged to go with me, and tossed the bag in my car. This didn't seem real. I detoured to South Beach for a look at the ocean, as though it could tell me what Mother Nature planned. Perfectly peaceful and placid. As beautiful as always. People were playing Frisbee on the sand as usual. The bearded street preacher ranted on a street corner, arms outstretched. Nothing seemed different or ominous in any way except that something didn't seem quite right. Something missing. I stood next to my car, squinting in the sun. What was wrong with this postcard-perfect picture? The usual afternoon thunder squalls, a line of low dark gray clouds, lay offshore, to the east, instead of over the Everglades, to the west. Then I saw what was missing. No sea birds, no birds at all. Not a gull in sight. They had all gone.

The damn thing is really coming, I thought in awe. Shit!

Reality suddenly sank in. I started the car, made a sharp U-turn, then switched my police scanner to the weather channel. The storm had gained speed and strength in its northward sweep. Drawn by a low-pressure area, it had changed course, veering to the northwest, on a relentless course for Miami. At five, the most deadly category, it was currently 185 miles offshore, with wind speeds clocked at 160 miles an hour and gusts approaching 200.

Not now, I thought. Dammit. I'm not ready for this.

Bridges would no longer be raised for boat traffic. Women in the final trimester of pregnancy were being urged to go to the nearest hospital because the extreme low pressure of a hurricane induces labor. Family members, however, could not accompany them because the hospitals were already overcrowded with heart patients and diabetics. Forecasters were voicing concerns about the residents of coastal counties. Ninety percent had never experienced a major hurricane. The last one was in 1965. We were way overdue. Exactly what Lottie had been saying. Shit.

My assignment was to spend the hurricane at the Dade County Medical Examiner's office. My job would be to provide the paper with an accurate casualty count. I was issued a cell phone by the city desk and told to tally the storm victims as they arrived. Not as bad a job as some. The brick budding is solid, secure, and elevated, adjacent to the county hospital, directly across the street from the trauma center, and equipped with emergency generators. The morgue can hold 350 bodies and is the last place county officials would allow to go without power. Before leaving the office, I called Alexandria, Virginia.

Meredith Jessup answered.

“You don't know me,” I began, introducing myself. “I'm calling about your father.”

“You know he's dead,” she quickly responded.

“Yes, that's why I'm calling you.”

“Finally,” she breathed. “You've learned something?”

“No,” I answered, puzzled. “I wanted to ask you about his work, in Miami, with Cuban exiles, the freedom fighters, thirty years ago.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “I really didn't know him that well. He was never around, always away on assignment, when I was growing up. Florida, Haiti, Central America, Mérida in Mexico. He and my mom got divorced.” She sighed. “I was just beginning to get to know him when he was murdered. That's what I thought you were calling about. You're a reporter, so I thought…”

“What?”

“His murder. I never believed it was a robbery. Just a fantasy of mine, I guess. I thought maybe you'd uncovered something.”

A kindred spirit, I thought. Another woman caught up in the mysteries of her father's past. “What happened?”

“He moved back up here after he reared. My mother had died. I was getting married and asked him to give me away. He did, and we really hit it off. He had a drinking problem but he stopped. He was getting his life together. He had a lot of regrets. You know, about his work You're not writing about any of this, are you?”

“No, I'm trying to find out what happened to my own father. They knew each other. My father was killed when I was three.''

There was a moment of silence.

“The past is always with you,” she said wistfully.

“No way to shake it,” I agreed.

“He had a lot to live with, from his work over the years. I'm sure I don't know the half of it. He had to do things in the line of duty that haunted him later. Contributed to his drinking problem, I'm sure.”

“Do you know much about what happened in Miami?”