Contents Under Pressure (15 page)

“Yeah,” Flood said, snapping his gum. “You can’t do anything during the day, without catching flack. At night you can scare ‘em shitless. And perps are a helluva lot easier to catch at home at about 5
A.M
. We can just go put the grab on ‘em, snatch ‘em out of bed. We don’t have to play hide-and-seek on the street or drag them off their jobs.”

“It’s also unpredictable,” McDonald said, slowing to scrutinize a gaggle of beer drinkers outside a small, all-night grocery store. “The night has a definite mystique, the feel, the air, the lighting, the smells, the attitudes, the people. Work it awhile and it gets in your blood. You learn to expect the unexpected. It makes people behave and feel in a different way.”

“How so?” I had stopped taking notes and just sat, listening. I liked the sound of his voice and what he said, and the way he could drive, search the streets for a face, talk, and turn me on all at the same time.

“Criminals fear the police more at night, even the hard-core guys hanging out on street corners and at poolhalls. Except for really dangerous, crazed bad guys, most criminals are easier to deal with at night. They figure that we’re bound by law and order, that society’s rules keep us from doing anything crazy during the day. But at night the image people have is different, they think we’re capable of much more. The atmosphere changes, not just because it’s dark, but because the night is a whole different ballgame. We’re all alone out there. It’s just us and them.”

I remembered Francie Alexander saying the same thing.

“Maybe people have good reason to be more afraid of police on midnights,” I said. “Don’t a lot of cops get in trouble on this shift?”

Flood swung around in his seat. “You’re not quoting us?”

“Nope,” I said, “just background.”

“Some of the uniform guys shouldn’t be out here without stronger supervision,” McDonald said mildly. “They tend to act up and horse around more at night than they do in the daytime. Sometimes they badger and bait people into problems.”

“What about the Blackburns?”

Flood snorted. “Not for quote? Always said they’d wind up sharing a cell.”

“They are a couple of wild guys,” McDonald agreed.

“They get away with a lot,” Flood said, “screwing each others’ wives and girlfriends…”

“You mean their wives can’t tell them apart?”

“Maybe they don’t want to,” McDonald said.

“What about Jose Estrada and Manny Machado?”

“Steroid freaks,” McDonald said.

“They really use the stuff?” Francie was right.

“Ever notice their faces? That’s not teenage acne. You should see their backs in the gym,” he said.

“Real aggressive and real irritable,” Flood said. “They’ve got no kids and probably won’t. I hear it shrinks their nuts.”

“What about Ted Ferrell?” I asked, glad to change the subject.

“Good policeman,” McDonald said, glancing at Flood, who nodded.

“First-rate, probably wind up in the detective bureau one of these days.” Flood turned and frowned at me. “I’ll tell you one thing, Britt. I’ve got a daughter about your age. I’d never let her run around the city doing what you’re doing.”

“What do you mean? My job?”

“Damn right. Girl like you don’t belong out here on the street in the middle of the night. Running around at homicide scenes. I’ve seen you, snooping around neighborhoods where a cop ain’t safe. You oughta watch it.”

“What does she do?” I asked. He looked blank. “Your daughter, what does she do?”

He turned back around, settled in his seat, and stared at the windshield, chewing his gum in silence.

“Go ahead, Dan, tell her. You brought it up.”

“What does she do?” I coaxed.

“Tell her Dan. You know what Britt’s like, a pit bull. You’ve said it yourself, she never lets go until you tell her what she wants to know.”

“Marine,” he mumbled, looking straight ahead.

“Marine?” I said. “As in leatherneck? As in U.S.?”

He nodded. “And damn proud of it”

“But you’d never let her be a police reporter?” I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Damn straight,” he said, but didn’t bring it up again.

We stopped at an all-night gas station-convenience store. McDonald asked the proprietor if he had seen the man we were looking for, and I asked for the restroom key. “Again?” Flood said pointedly.

I ignored him. I had visited the restroom at headquarters before we left, but here I was again. I have to be a candidate for the
Guiness Book of World Records
—the world’s only woman who puts out more fluids than she takes in.

One reason I am not fond of small boats and planes, and hate murder sites or plane crashes in remote and inaccessible areas of the ‘Glades, is because once out there, I always have to pee. My life sometimes seems an eternal quest for a bathroom. In that respect, men and women will never be equal. Tipped in advance, I can go easy on the Cuban coffee, but breaking news has little regard for Mother Nature.

This dank, low-ceilinged, and unpleasant restroom had no ambiance at all. Not even room to turn around. How would a guy stand back and hit the mark? Some hadn’t. The comfort of a jumpsuit paled when struggling in a closet-sized space trying to keep it from dangling in unspeakable debris. I wished they had drop seats, like Dr. Denton’s.

I heard the three signal, meaning “officers need help,” through the flimsy door. Flood pounded on it until the boards rattled and I burst out, still pulling the jumpsuit up over my shoulders.

Uniforms were involved in a fight and yelling for emergency backup. We scrambled back into the unmarked Caprice. Fewer people work midnights, so there are fewer to help fellow officers in trouble. McDonald plunked his portable Kojak light, a blue strobe like the wingtip flasher on an airplane, onto the dashboard and floored it. We all flew back as though slammed against our seats by g-forces in a fighter plane. I peered over and saw the needle jump to ninety.

We seemed launched into the night, the wailing siren and blue flasher propelling us, leaving a wake of sound and light in our path. I braced at every intersection, anticipating the drunk driver who ignored stop signs and traffic lights. We roared up the feeder ramp off LeJeune to the Airport Expressway. At the curve onto Thirty-seventh Avenue, we all swayed to the right. A mile later, at Twenty-seventh Avenue, we were slung to the left. McDonald jogged over to Twenty-second, hitting the brakes to veer around a confused motorist who stopped dead in front of us instead of pulling over. My head snapped back as he floored it again, north for three blocks and then right for another two. We covered four-and-a-half miles in less than three minutes.

The address was at NW Twentieth Street and Seventh Avenue, a rundown house with a screened-in front porch. We were the first backup to arrive. Two empty patrol cars sat outside, whirling gumballs casting eerie shadows off the walls and trees.

McDonald and Flood were out and running, their doors slamming. “Stay in the car!” McDonald yelled. “And lock it.”

What sounded like a major brawl was going on inside the house. Shouts, cries, crashes. My mind raced. I had promised to follow their instructions, but waiting in the car was no way to observe what happened on the midnight shift. I watched McDonald charge through the door first. Flood followed, then was propelled off his feet, out of my sight by a blow from one side.

Three shots rang out, and I was out of the car and running toward the house without even thinking about it. Screams came from inside. I saw people moving about as I approached the front steps. A huge police officer, a gun clenched in his raised fist, stood atop a coffee table, bellowing like a bull. My eyes were lifted, looking through the window, which is why I did not see what was coming until it hit me below the knees, almost knocking me off my feet. At first I thought it was a dog, then realized it was a tiny, terrified person. A little boy about four years old.

He was sobbing, eyes wild with fear. He clutched me around the knees for a moment, then realized I was a stranger, let go with a scream, and tried to elude me. I snatched him up as he kicked and flailed, struggling in my arms. He was barefoot, in a T-shirt and underpants. His nose was running and his face was wet with tears.

“Hey, it’s all right. It’s all right.” I tried to soothe him. “You don’t want to go out there by yourself. It’s too dark.”

Another gunshot resounded inside. “Mama! Mama!” he screamed. He stopped struggling after a moment and hung on tight, wailing his heart out in open-mouthed despair. I stepped back into the shrubbery, out of the line of fire. Instinctively I rocked him while staring, trying to make out what was happening. I was afraid to let go because he might dart out into the shadows and become lost or hurt. From the shouting inside, it sounded like the cops had the upper hand and were forcing people to the floor. I turned my body so that his eyes were averted, and peered in a window.

The cops were handcuffing several black people who lay face down. One was a thin woman in a print housecoat. McDonald was bending over someone near the door. I stood on tiptoe. Oh, shit. It was Flood, still down. I watched him move slowly and painfully into a sitting position, both hands to his face.

Moments later they emerged, McDonald helping his partner. “Let’s go,” he snapped abruptly as they brushed by me. I hesitated; if the parents were being arrested, the cops would put the youngster in state custody. God only knew what would happen to him there.

Cops inside were bullying and shoving their handcuffed prisoners, radioing for a wagon. Neighbors began to gather outside. An older woman in a bathrobe emerged from the house next door. I made an instant judgment call and started toward her, still holding the child tight.

“Listen, sweet boy,” I whispered, my mouth close to his ear. “Everything is okay. My name is Britt.” I slipped a business card out of my pocket and pushed it into his small wet hand. “You keep this. Do you know this lady?”

He raised flooded eyes. “Miz Lucille,” he moaned.

“Does she know your mama?”

“Yes,” he said shyly.

“Okay,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Darryl,” he whispered.

“Ma’am,” I said to the woman, “can you keep Darryl for a little while?” I fished another card from the half dozen or so that I keep in my pocket. “Just ‘til his mom can pick him up.” I leaned forward and whispered, “I’d hate to see the state take him.”

“Come here, baby.” She opened her arms and he went to her.

“If there is any problem, please call me.” I handed her the card, hoping I had done the right thing, then ran for the unmarked, which was already moving. McDonald slowed down as I dove into the back, then he burned rubber.

He was cursing. At first I thought it was at me for being out of the car and getting involved. It wasn’t.

Flood sat quietly, slightly slumped. His face was already puffy and swollen. He muttered something unintelligible.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“His jaw’s broken,” McDonald said bitterly. “He got sucker-punched coming through the door. Damn. It could have, should have, been me. I was first in, never saw the son of a bitch standing on the sofa next to the door. I heard Dan hit the floor. I’ve worked with him long enough to know that he’s too tough to go down and stay down unless he’s hurt bad.

“That’s when one of the uniforms fired a couple of rounds into the ceiling to stop the whole fracas.” He glanced at Flood, who was holding his jaw with one hand and signaling that he was okay with the other. There was blood on his shirt.

“We can get him to the hospital faster than rescue could get here,” McDonald said. He radioed ahead to Cedars Medical Center that he was bringing in an injured police officer, then punched the steering wheel.

“What set it off?” I asked quietly, hoping not to infuriate him any further.

“Nothing but a goddamn domestic. Guy comes home drunk. Fights with the old lady. The rest of the goddamn family gets involved. Somebody waves a butcher knife. She calls the police, and then they all fight the cops. The usual shit.”

Flood mumbled something.

“Those goddamn muscle freaks are never happy until they wind up in a fight, busting heads. They coulda handled it better. That son of a bitch Estrada!” McDonald gave the steering wheel another bruising wallop.

“Was Estrada the one up on the coffee table?”

“You guessed it,” he swiveled his head around, taking a corner at forty-five miles an hour, blue flasher spinning.

“Will they arrest the little boy’s mother?”

“Knowing them, they’ll arrest everybody and sort it out later.”

He hit the brakes and skidded to the curb two blocks from the hospital.

“This is as far as you can go, girl. The acting lieutenant is gonna show up at the hospital. No way I can explain what you were doing there. There’s a cab stand on the corner.”

“Sure,” I said.

He turned as I climbed out of the car. “Sorry about this, Britt. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

“It’s okay,” I said, and smiled, taking in the dark, deserted intersection around me. “The story of my life.” I shrugged, then glanced at Flood. “Take care of him.”

He nodded and hit the gas. The sleepy cab driver showed no surprise when I walked up to his taxi at 3
A.M
. and asked to go to police headquarters, where my car was parked.

The next morning started out like a runaway freight train, careening downhill fast, picking up speed as it went.

Thoughts of everything that had happened kept me from sleeping. I called headquarters at 7:45
A.M
. McDonald was still there. Flood had been hospitalized after doctors wired his shattered jaw together.

“It’s broken in seven, eight places. The guy swung on a downward angle. It had to be a powerful blow with all his weight behind it.” He sounded grim.

“Hey, it could have been worse,” I said gently. “The guy could have had a gun, or a tire iron. Thank God it was just his fist.”

“Yeah,” McDonald said wearily. “Thank God for small favors. Sorry we had to dump you off like that. Regulations. I said I’d make it up to you, Britt. How about dinner sometime? No sirens, no shootings, no busted bones.”

“Sure,” I said. “Call me.” I hung up the phone, shocked that saying yes came so easily. Where was all my firm resolve about never mixing business and pleasure? What had happened to my irrevocable decision to place work above my personal life? I had tried but found no way to juggle both. I didn’t like disappointing people or the guilt at letting someone down. I would never forget Josh’s face when he finally gave up on me and Miami, and left town for the last time.

I scooped Billy Boots into my arms and curled up, stroking his chin, to sort out my thoughts. I had never dated anyone I dealt with on the beat; I knew of other reporters who had got into real jams by becoming involved with sources. Yet, instead of considering whether it would be ethical to go out with McDonald, I found myself wondering dreamily about what to wear when I did. Billy and I were both purring and half dozing when the phone rang again.

“Britt, we messed up,” Lottie said. Though I was drowsy, the urgent sound of her voice pierced my consciousness like a dagger. “We lost Ryan.”

“What do you mean lost?” I shot upright in bed, bouncing Billy to the floor.

“We can’t find him,” she muttered. “Him and his damn raft are gone.”

She was calling from a pay phone on a dock in Marathon, and spoke in a low pitch as though trying not to be heard by anyone around her.

“You just mean you lost sight of the raft, right?” I tried not to panic, visualizing Ryan’s trusting puppy dog eyes. “I was afraid you meant he was dead, drowned or something.”

“Well, he may be as good as. He’s long gone, since midnight.”

“Shit, have you called the Coast Guard, the Army, the Marines?”

“No,” she said sharply, as though that was understood.

“Well, why the hell not?” I said. “Get the damn Coast Guard to launch a search!”

I could feel her frown. “We’re trying to hold off on that,” she muttered. “They’re not gonna be happy. Eric, the captain of the
Vagabond,
is worried, he could be in deep shit for this. I already had a huge fight with him. Britt, don’t you give me no ration of shit, I’m in no mood. I’m calling you for help. It’s been a bad night.”

“Mine was no picnic either, Lottie. My God, Ryan could be dead. What could you be thinking, not calling the Coast Guard?”

“You try explaining this stunt to them.”

“You didn’t file a float plan?”

“Heeelll no. They thought we just were taking the raft somewhere to shoot pictures in an authentic setting.”

It had not occurred to me that the plans to set Ryan adrift were never shared with the Coast Guard, but it made sense, now that she mentioned it. The Coast Guard oversaw huge numbers of drunken, amateur, and ill-equipped boaters out on the water, all emergencies waiting to happen. And then there were the rafters, and sinking sailboats loaded with Haitians. Throw in the smugglers, poachers, and pirates, and they had more than enough to handle. Gretchen’s scheme would have been officially frowned on from the start. The Coast Guard sure as hell would hate it now.

“Eric estimated the raft’s speed at about two-and-a-half knots,” Lottie was saying, “so we went up ahead and anchored, out of sight, to keep it authentic. I checked in on the radio with Ryan every hour. Reception wasn’t too good. Those things always work better when you test them on land. He was drinking beer and slurring his words a little, but he sounded fine.

“I was a little late for the midnight check with Ryan. No answer. We kept trying—nothing. So we pulled up anchor and started circling, with a searchlight. Nothing. I kept trying the radio and we kept looking. The Coast Guard doesn’t search at night, so there was no point in calling then. We thought we could spot him after daylight.”

“Christ, Lottie, you should have called last night. The Coast Guard would have had a chopper in the air at dawn. We’ve lost a lot of time.” I imagined a small raft, circled by sharks.

“We’ve been looking all over hell-and-a-half for hours, but all we found were some Coors bottles floating.”

“That’s his brand. Did you pick them up?”

“This is not the time to worry about the environment, Britt!” She spat the words out furiously.

“No, dammit, maybe there was a message inside,” I said impatiently. “That’s the sort of thing Ryan would do. You know he’s a romantic. He might have left his course, or a message on what went wrong.”

“How the hell would he know his course? He had no idea where he was. Eric thinks he was swept north by the Gulfstream.”

“God,” I said. “Where would that take him?”

“Palm Beach, I guess. New England, Newfoundland eventually.”

“Jesus.” The operator interrupted for coins, and I told her to charge it to my number.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. A headache was beginning to throb behind my eyes. I couldn’t resist being a bitch, though I knew it would piss her off. “You were partying,” I accused.

“What was I supposed to do, sit there and stare at the water? One of the crew plays guitar, so we were singing and had us some wine.”

“Okay, okay. We have to find him. Have you called Gretchen?”

“Heeelll no. Why don’t we just call Fred Douglas? He’s the news editor.”

“This whole fiasco was her idea, she’s Ryan’s editor on the project. Why should we be the only ones in a panic? Call the Coast Guard now,” I said, trying to sound logical and in control. “I’ll call Gretchen in half an hour. If we talk to her first, she might tell us to wait. Once they launch a search, there’s no way to keep this quiet. It could embarrass the paper. But we don’t care, right? Finding him is what counts.”

“Right. I’ll feel like a fool if we spot him five minutes after the Coast Guard launches ships and planes.” Lottie paused. “But I’ll feel worse if we don’t. Damn, Britt, what if we don’t find him at all?”

“Lots of Cubans float around out there for days and make it,” I said unconvincingly.

“Yeah, and a lot of them don’t. And Ryan ain’t Cuban.”

“Ryan is no commando, but he’s smart.” A pang of fear clutched at my gut, and my eyes blurred for a moment. Ryan. Alone at sea. Oh God.

“If he dies, Britt, I’ll feel like shit. Has he got somebody we should call?”

I thought for a moment. “His latest crush is that new intern in the arts department, the pretty one who writes movie reviews. But she didn’t come to see him off, so I guess it’s not serious. His parents live in Ohio someplace. I could get their number, but I think it’s too early to scare them.”

“Well, I’m sure scared. If he’s dead, we’re in trouble.”

I wanted to say “What do you mean,
we,
kimosabe?” but decided against it. “Think positively. He’ll really have an authentic story now,” I said with a sinking heart.

“Let’s pray he’s alive to write it.”

I needed something strong, so I filled my two-cup Cuban coffeepot with water and took a can of Bustelo and a jar of sugar from a cabinet shelf. Maybe he drank too much, rolled off the raft, and the sharks got him, I thought, spooning coffee into the pot. The strong aroma of the boiling brew soon enveloped my small kitchen. I drank half a glass of cold water first, then filled my pint-sized coffee cup, savoring its rich, black contents as I tried to scan the morning paper. How long before you die of exposure? I wondered. The coffee cleared my head. My heart beat faster as I reached for the phone to call Gretchen at home. I wasn’t sure if it was the caffeine rush or my fears for Ryan.

Gretchen sounded perky and in command, even before reaching the office. I hate consistently cheerful, perky people. People who are bouncy and perky all the time obviously don’t have the faintest idea what is really going on.

“There’s a problem,” I told her.

She sounded patronizing and pleased, as though I was calling to say I was in jail. “What’s wrong now, Britt?”

“Ryan’s lost at sea.”

She sounded less pleased on hearing that her front page weekend project might be sleeping with the fishes.

“What went wrong? Have Lottie call me, at once!”

“She’s too busy with the Coast Guard search.”

“The Coast Guard has been informed? What the hell did you do that for?”

“That’s what you do when someone is lost at sea and in life-threatening danger.” I emphasized the last three words.

“Of course,” she said, most of the perk gone out of her voice. “I just thought that it might be premature to call them in at this point.”

“It’s too dangerous not to,” I said, then tried to sound breezy. “Just thought I’d let you know since you are his editor and this is
your
project.” She didn’t sound worried enough. What was Ryan to her? Just another reporter to step on as she clawed her way up the ladder.

“I just hope the Coast Guard doesn’t file charges,” I added.

“Charges against whom?” Gretchen said warily.

“The paper, I guess, and the person responsible for sending him out there. I think there are both civil and criminal penalties, and if the captain loses his charter license—he’ll surely sue us because we hired him.”

“Penalties?” Her voice faltered for the first time.

“Sure, as well as assessing us the cost of the Coast Guard search, tens of thousands of dollars a day. You know what it costs to operate a helicopter? The search planes, cutters, rescue boats and their crews? It’s against federal law to deliberately endanger a life on the high seas. The searchers themselves could wind up in jeopardy out there. Anything can happen. You better get on the horn with Holland, Douglas, and the paper’s attorneys.”

I hate lying, but when I do it, I am creative. All that kept me from loving this was that Ryan was really missing.

For a day I took part in the search, flying with a photographer in a Chalk’s seaplane, skimming in ever-widening circles over the Great Bahama Bank, eyes straining, squinting into blinding sunlight reflected off the sea, scanning green water and the Gulfstream, that swift blue river that flows through it. Under other circumstances, I would have thrilled to the endless rhythm of the ocean and the beauty of the limitless horizon, but not when searching for a tiny speck it seemed to have swallowed up.

No luck. Ryan was gone.

I was ordered back to the newsroom the next day. Stories still had to be written and deadlines met. Lottie stayed out with the
Vagabond
, an assignment I did not envy. Over ship-to-shore radio I discerned that although she and the skipper had been hitting it off until Ryan vanished, now they were furious at each other. Only Ryan’s speedy return in good health and good spirits could save that foundered flirtation.

An endless parade of gray suits marched somberly through the newsroom;
Miami Daily News
executives and lawyers, gathering for meetings in the big glass-enclosed office of managing editor John Murphy. The Coast Guard district commander arrived for some sessions. Gretchen, attired in a navy blue power suit with a little tie, sat in on all of them, trying hard to look innocent, her darting eyes giving her away.

Fred Douglas, the news editor, stopped and parked his lanky body on the corner of my desk for small talk and a few questions. He was casual, but I sensed that my answers would go directly back to a meeting.

He wondered aloud if Ryan had volunteered, and if the rafting story was his idea.

“No way,” I said. “Like any good reporter he followed orders when Gretchen gave him the assignment, but he dreaded it. He wanted to stay here and work on his conservation series.” Douglas looked thoughtful, his eyes serious. God knows what Gretchen was saying in there, trying to cover her ass.

By day three, updated notices were still being posted on the newsroom bulletin board every few hours. They detailed the progress of the search—basically, none. There were a few flurries of excitement; the Coast Guard and the brothers spotted two Cuban rafts and a Haitian boat—but no trace of Ryan. The Cubans were rescued and greeted like heroes. The Haitians, poor souls, were interdicted and sent back to Port au Prince, and who knows what fate.

I was troubled by thoughts of more than Ryan and D. Wayne Hudson during my first full day back at work. Something drew me back to the house at NW Twentieth Street and Seventh Avenue. With its peeling green paint and sagging porch, it looked different, more innocent, by day. Darryl was playing out front.

He looked up as I approached, his mouth dropped open, and he scrambled to his feet. He wore brown shorts, sandals, and a yellow T-shirt with turtles on it.

“Remember me?” I didn’t want to mention the night that must have traumatized his little heart. He nodded shyly and ran inside, then stood behind the screen door holding it open. I knocked, then followed him into the room. The furniture looked scarred, as though from more than one all-out family brawl, and was covered with a pale powdery dust, which I realized came from the bullet holes in the ceiling plaster.

Darryl’s dad, cousin, and uncles, one of whom had landed the bone-crunching blow to Dan Flood’s jaw, were still in jail, charged with resisting arrest and aggravated assault on police officers. His mama, Onnie Gilmore, had been released by a judge at a bond hearing. She was in the kitchen, a tall, angular woman, all cheekbones, sharp elbows, knobby knees, and collarbones like bird wings. She looked to be in her late thirties, though the arrest reports I had seen revealed her age as twenty-nine. Seated on the only undamaged chair, she regarded me with suspicion.