Cut and Run (21 page)

Calleigh did so. “Nothing's coming up, H.”

“So the gun's clean. I'm still sure Mister Bolivar is not.”

“Something doesn't add up, Horatio.” Calleigh shook her head. “If Timothy Breakwash was hunting for Rodriguo's treasure, the only reason for anyone to murder him is because he found it, and somebody wanted it all for themselves. But if that were the case, why would Fredo Bolivar torture Randilyn Breakwash? That tells us that Fredo doesn't know where the treasure is.”

“And if he doesn't know, he wouldn't risk killing Timothy. So either Fredo didn't kill Timothy, or Fredo didn't torture Randilyn. Right now, we don't know which of those statements is true…but we do know one thing for sure. Someone is convinced that Randilyn Breakwash knows more than she's letting on.”

Calleigh nodded. “Maybe she does. She didn't tell us about her husband's treasure hunt the first time we talked to her. You think maybe she wasn't entirely forthcoming the last time, either?”

“Maybe not with us. But considering what her interrogator put her through, I'm betting she was considerably more honest with him.”

“So the question is: Exactly how much does Randilyn Breakwash know?”

“I think,” said Horatio, “that it's time to find that out.”

“T
WO MORE SUSPECTS
left to go,” said Tripp. “Who do you want to look at next?”

Natalia studied the screen of her laptop, shifting her position in the passenger seat to minimize the glare coming in through the Hummer's windshield. “I thought we'd take a crack at Adano Bermudez.”

“The carjacker? Like to live dangerously, huh?” Tripp grinned.

Natalia grinned back. “Oh, I think we'll be okay. We might have to bring along a bottle of No-Doz, though.”

Adano Bermudez had had his fifteen minutes of fame in Miami a few years ago. He and a friend had tired of watching the endless parade of tourists through the city, especially when it seemed that each and every visitor had far more money than he or she actually needed—and
definitely
more money than either of them. Adano's friend—Natalia couldn't recall his name—had claimed to be somewhat experienced in relieving tourists of such financial burdens, and offered to share his expertise with Adano. Adano, though initially reluctant, had agreed. He was a new resident of Miami, having just moved from Georgia, and didn't know many people. As it turned out, he didn't know his new friend very well, either.

The plan—such as it was—was simple. They picked an intersection close enough to Ocean Drive that it was sure to attract potential targets, but also near enough to the freeway that they could make a quick getaway. When their victim was stopped at the intersection's traffic light, they would jump into the car. A toy gun, waved in the motorist's face, would be all they needed to ensure compliance. They would pick a car with only one person in it and the windows rolled down.

Everything went fine at first. They watched and waited for just the right opportunity, scrutinizing every passing vehicle carefully. Finally, they saw what seemed to be the perfect target: a woman in her fifties, alone, driving a convertible.

When she stopped at the red light, they ran over and jumped in—Adano in back, his friend in front. The woman, according to Adano, “made a sound like a chicken having a heart attack.” This sound—no doubt coupled with the stress of the situation—produced a burst of inappropriate laughter from both of them.

The woman, however, proved to be tougher than she sounded. She gave up her purse easily enough, but refused to part with the car. Adano's partner, unable to intimidate the driver, decided to cut his losses and run. He jumped out of the car and took off, expecting Adano to follow suit.

Adano didn't. He was slumped in the backseat, fast asleep.

“The narcoleptic carjacker,” said Tripp. “Man, I wouldn't have liked to be that guy in prison. A cross-dressing ex-cop would have gotten more respect.”

The victim, with Adano peacefully snoring behind her, had driven to the nearest police station. She'd double-parked and run inside to report what had happened to her, and when an officer had followed her outside to verify her statement, Adano was still in dreamland. He was snoring, his mouth open, and drooling ever so slightly.

The officer had gone back inside and gotten a camera.

“Every cop I know had that picture pinned up somewhere,” said Tripp. “Talk about a relaxed approach to crime.”

“He didn't fall asleep because he was relaxed,” said Natalia. “Narcolepsy is a sleep disorder with a specific set of triggers. Laughter is one of them.”

“I'll remember not to tell any jokes while we're talking to him.”

Tripp pulled over and parked. Adano Bermudez had done two years for his role in the crime, and since he'd gotten out he'd kept a low profile. He was working at a shoe store in North Miami, and hadn't been arrested since; Natalia had tracked him down with the help of his parole officer.

The shoe store specialized in high-end sneakers, the kind with designer labels and a pricetag to match. Tripp and Natalia walked in the front door and looked around. The store was a long rectangle, shoes displayed on either wall all the way to the back, where a small counter with a till on it blocked access to the stockroom. Back-to-back yellow leather couches ran down the center of the store, with a young woman in a tank top and miniskirt perched in the middle of one with her shoes off.

“Check this out,” said Tripp. He picked up a shoe colored electric blue, with a translucent orange plastic heel. “When I was a kid they called 'em runners, because that's what you did in them. This one looks like it belongs on an astronaut.”

“Style never sleeps,” said Natalia. She eyed Tripp's suit and smiled. “Though in some cases, it has been known to hibernate.”

A black man in his twenties came out of the back with a shoebox in his hands. He was dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt with the store's logo on the breast, black pants, and a pair of bright white sneakers he had probably gotten at a store discount. He'd grown a mustache and his hair was in dreads, but it was definitely Adano Bermudez.

Bermudez walked up to the young woman and opened the box. “Try these,” he said. He sounded less than enthusiastic.

“Hey, Adano,” said Tripp. “Miami PD. Got a minute?”

Adano looked at Tripp with dull eyes. “I'm with a customer.”

“Not anymore,” said Natalia. She pulled out her ID. “Now you're talking with us.”

Adano nodded. “Sure. Excuse me, Miss.” He led them to the back and leaned up against the counter with his arms crossed. “So. What can I do for you?” He didn't sound angry, just resigned.

“We'd like to talk to you about Hiram Davey,” said Natalia. “We understand he interviewed you?”

“Davey?
That
jerk? Look, there was no interview. I don't care what he said, I didn't agree he could put me in his book.”

“But you did talk?” asked Natalia.

“Well, yeah. But what he put in his column, that wasn't true. I mean, okay, I said those things, but not the
way
he said I did. And all that stuff about sleep-whacking was just made up.”

“Sleep-whacking?” Natalia raised an eyebrow.

“One of the columns Davey did,” said Tripp. “Right after Adano was sentenced. Sort of riffed on the idea of Adano developing a career as a hitman. Suggested using a pillow as his signature weapon.”

“Sorry I missed that,” said Natalia. “I'm not talking about back then, Adano. I mean recently, since you've been out of jail.”

“Yeah, I talked to him. He called me up last week, wanted to talk to me about this book he was writing. He said it was going to be based on real life. Thought I would make an interesting character.”

“And you agreed to that?” asked Natalia. “Even after what he said about you in the paper?”

Adano shook his head. “I thought he was going to write about the real me, not the made-up stuff in his column. Give me a chance to explain my side of the story. But that wasn't it at all.”

“How so?” asked Tripp.

“He just wanted to make more jokes. It wasn't a real-life story, it was some kind of mash-up of real and pretend. He called it a Roman cliff or something.”

“Roman à clef,”
said Natalia. “It means a story based on actual people and events, but the names and some of the details have been fictionalized.”

“Whatever. He was going to call my character Sleepy Bermuda, and have him fall asleep in all kinds of stupid places—on the toilet, in court, in the middle of having sex—and I told him no. No way. Maybe I nodded off in court that one time, but I wasn't on the witness stand like he said. And I ain't
never
fallen asleep while having sex.”

“I'm sure all your fans will be happy to know that,” said Tripp. “Did you meet with Davey, or just talk on the phone?”

“We talked first, then I went over to his house.”

Natalia frowned. “Why? If you told him you weren't interested, why would you go over to his house?”

“It wasn't like that. He was real friendly on the phone, and I thought maybe his book would help me get some dignity back. He didn't tell me what he was really going to do.”

Tripp gave him a hard stare. “Then how'd you find out?”

“He was working on his laptop. When he got up to go to the kitchen for something, I took a look at his notes.”

“Bet you weren't too happy, huh?”

Adano looked away. “No. He wanted to make me look like an even bigger fool. I told him he could forget it.”

“That all you told him?” asked Natalia. “You tell him what would happen if he went ahead and did it anyway?”

Adano shook his head. “Is that what Davey said? Okay, so we argued. I was upset. But I didn't touch him, and I didn't make no threats. I'm still on probation—I'm not stupid, no matter what Davey says. Not my fault I got this damn disease.”

“No,” said Tripp, “But it
was
your fault you tried to terrorize and rob an old lady. People laughing at you is the least you deserve.”

“I have to get back to work.”

“Really?” Natalia looked around. The customer Adano had been talking to when they arrived had left, and no one else was in the store. “You don't look too busy to me. Tell me, Adano, where were you yesterday morning, between five and six
A.M.
?”

“Asleep at home.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

“No. I was alone. Why?”

“Because that's when Hiram Davey was murdered,” said Tripp.

Adano's eyes widened. “What? Hey, I didn't have nothing to do with that. I didn't even know.”

“Doesn't look good, Adano,” said Tripp. “You've got a motive, a criminal record, and no alibi.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“We're just gathering information,” said Natalia. “I wouldn't lose any sleep over it.”

 

“Mrs. Breakwash,” said Horatio softly. “Randilyn?”

The woman in the hospital bed opened her eyes slowly. The painkillers she'd been given for her burns had finally caught up with her, and now she looked barely conscious. “Mister…Lieutenant,” she said, her voice thick and heavy. She coughed, raising a hand to her mouth and wincing at the movement of her injured arm.

“Horatio. I'm sorry to bother you again so soon, Mrs. Breakwash, but there's a few more things we need to go over.”

“My—my head's all muzzy, Horatio. Can't we do it later?”

“No, Mrs. Breakwash, we can't. We need to talk about Timothy.”

“Tim.” Randilyn's eyes filled with tears. “Tim's dead.”

“Yes. I'm sorry about that. He was a real dreamer, wasn't he?”

“Uh-huh. Head in the clouds.”

“But you stood by him. You believed in him. And he believed in you. He was a romantic, and even though you sometimes found that infuriating, it's the reason you stayed with him.”

“Tim. My Tim.”

“I understand the kind of man he was, Mrs. Breakwash. And after all those years of failure, the one thing I
can't
believe…is that he wouldn't share his biggest triumph with his wife.”

Horatio put his hands on his hips and waited.

“Okay,” said Randilyn softly. “It's true. I thought the whole thing was just a waste of time, at first. Another crazy dream. But then he found it…he really did.”

“Where, Mrs. Breakwash?”

“No,” she said, her voice stronger. “You think I'll tell you, just like that? I didn't tell the person who did
this
”—she said, holding out her arms—”you think I'll tell
you
?”

Horatio studied her face for a moment before replying. “No, Mrs. Breakwash, I don't think that. Because you can't
tell
what you don't
know
.”

The look in her eyes was all the confirmation he needed. “Your husband had a partner. Someone he needed but didn't trust—so he kept you in the dark for your own protection.”

“Some protection,” she whispered. “Look at me. I loved him, but he never thought anything through. Never thought what he might be putting
me
through—not ever.”

“What did you tell the man who assaulted you, Mrs. Breakwash?”

“The only thing I knew. That Tim made a map, but I don't know where he hid it.” She closed her eyes. “Now, please. I want to be alone.”

 

“Down to the final suspect,” said Tripp. “Any special reason you saved this one for last?”

“Honestly?” said Natalia. “I sort of hoped we'd have someone locked up by now. If this suspect is anything like the character Davey described in his book, she's definitely a long shot.”

“If she's anything like the character in Davey's book, she's a looney tune.”

“Let's not make any judgments just yet, okay?”